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maryaandmorevna · 2 days ago

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A Song of Swan and Dragons VII.

VII. Sīkuda (ao3 link)

Summary: Arianne's offer of truce is rebuffed, war is declared, and Aemond reaches a conclusion after a sleepless night.

Tw: There is explicit content in this chapter in Aemond's POV.

Words:88,263

Links to previous chapters: I., II., III., IV., V., VI.

Tagging @kyonkyon69, who is my most wonderful beta, and @lacebvnny, who got me into Aemond haha.

Love and war are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other. - Miguel de Cervantes.

(Arianne)

Her face was burning.

Arianne dug her heels into the dirt, solidly on the ground at last. She breathed a sigh of relief before realizing one very problematic thing.

Her fingers were still clutching his tunic.

Aemond's hands were still on her waist.

Their warmth permeated through her silks, sending peculiar frissons up her ribs.

Frowning, she quickly let go of him, cradling her arms to herself. Aemond had seemingly watched her for a few seconds before tilting his head and sneering.

"You are the clumsiest woman I have ever met."

Arianne blinked, unable to ascribe any importance to the insult because he still held her, gods — and grasped his left wrist.

It was...utterly improper, touching his bare, warm skin. Yet, she had no choice, because he'd either forgotten to release her or did not want to.

She tugged on the sinewy thing to peel it away from herself.

His jaw tensed, and that sole, blue eye of his dragged down to where his hands were.

Abruptly, Aemond pulled back, as if astounded by his lack of decorum, setting her free from his hold.

For several moments, they just stared at each other, and her embarrassment finally caught up with her. Arianne straightened her spine and wiped her awfully clammy palms against her skirts.

She could not think about who saw her almost tumbling down like a sack of turnips, and she refused to admit Aemond Targaryen saved her from a rather humiliating experience. No, not because it had been Aemond, the insufferable boor, but because he could've released her immediately, as the propriety demanded!

He did not need to...hold her.

What if someone saw it as more than what it was? Arianne could not afford such a scandal. The facetious slander was one thing, but being seen so close to a man was another thing entirely.

She needed to be above suspicion.

Was he trying to ruin her life again?

Her eyes darted toward the dusty ground. The pebbles scattered around the courtyard mocked her — silent, impassive, but still somehow complicit in her humiliation.

Arianne crossed her arms.

"I merely...I would've found my footing. The ground was uneven." Her lips pressed into a tight pout as she pointedly avoided Aemond's gaze.

He hummed, the sound reverberating low from his throat.

"You could try swinging a sword at it, little swan. Teach it a lesson."

She narrowed her eyes.

Was he making a jab at her attempt to strike him or at her stumble?

Yet, there was something off about his voice; it was brittle, almost as if he too was struggling to keep composure. Arianne dug her fingers into the sleeves, trying to suppress the annoying buzzing beneath her skin.

The sickening flush encasing her neck.

Mother above! He IS a Stygian monster to make me ill with fever!

"I told you not to call me that! Have the common decency to respect it, Your Grace." She hissed.

Aemond was quick to respond. Almost as if he were glad she attacked him, rather than thanking him demurely.

"My lack of common decency is nothing compared to the treason that spills so freely from your lovely lips. I assure you, you'd not fare well down in the black cells, little swan." His shapely mouth twisted with scorn.

"Treason?!"

"Is it not treason to insult the honor of the King's son? To call a Prince, how was it?" He tapped his right temple with a long index finger, as if recalling a fine verse.

"—a vile liar,"

Arianne swallowed. Now, wait a moment!

"—a malevolent arse,"

Paled.

"—a prejudiced twat."

She shook her head. Not because the words were wrong, but because she’d said them aloud. And worse, he remembered.

All of it.

Arianne stared at him, utterly horrified because even a fool knew the mortal danger they would find themselves in should a Targaryen prince insist they were prancing around tossing insults his way. Her stomach dropped like a stone in water.

Aemond blinked, predatorily still.

His mouth curved at the right edge as if he were wholly amused at her dawning dread. She counted thirty pulses while he seemed to pore over her expression, savoring it.

Drawing out her loss like a fine wine.

Vintage Arbor gold.

"Some might find it a jest. Alas, I am a wretched, stodgy bore, am I not?" He finally asked, almost gently.

The sound made her shudder.

"Those were—" she began, but halted abruptly. Those were not insults, but descriptions, sounded like something treasonous too.

Arianne wanted to yank at her hair. Why was he so —

Why was he so unfair?

"I was defending myself! It is not as if I deliberately... You always start first! I was practically forced to behave in such a manner."

His brow arched.

"I forced you to insult me?"

"I merely responded in kind —"

"Oh, so now you appeal to reciprocity?" His tone was dry as old parchment.

Arianne grasped at her skirts, her heart drumming like a downpour.

"Offense begets defense. The first blow thus invokes the law of return. D-did you never read Thyrne?" She stammered, surprised that she even thought of that.

Something tumultuous flashed inside Aemond's sole eye.

His brief silence spurred Arianne to continue, as nervousness always made an expert blabberer of her.

"N-no? Well, tit for tat principle is older than the Hightower, or even the Old Pyramid of Ghis. It explains the behavior of men quite accurately, I'd say. He who strikes first, which would be you, my Prince, teaches his foe to sharpen their sword. I don't have a sword, but well, one must use what they have — and why should I suffer your cruel jabs like a castle under siege, and not fire back? The law of equivalent retaliation grants me the right to be as rude as you are. "

"Citing An Inquiry into Retribution grants you nothing!" Aemond snapped, appearing more offended than usual.

Arianne pursed her lips.

Oh, so he did read it. Was there anything he did not read?

Her fingers curled into her fists, nails digging into the softness of her palms.

"So, now you dispute —"

"Thyrne wrote about duels, matters between men." He stated levelly, much to her growing irritation. Her cheeks were burning, both from anger and something else that remained on her skin from when he'd caught her.

She should get away from him, lest she truly end up in the sickbed with butterfly fever. Mayhap, Aemond was not a demon at all, but some form of Naathi butterfly, spreading illness while appearing so...so wrongly handsome.

"Fine." Arianne bit out, loathing him with the might of a thousand storms.

"Do you want me to apologize? I am truly sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, my prince."

She held his icy stare for several seconds.

“Mhm,” he hummed again, unimpressed. “Somehow, I find myself not believing you, Lady Arianne.”

Aemond brought his arm to rest idly on the pommel of a dagger sheathed at his side.

"Believe what you want." She hissed, squeezing her fists at her sides. "I have better things to do than converse with you. Go away."

He blinked.

Then again.

Her gaffe would not go unnoticed.

"You want me to vacate my own yard for your sake?" The condescension in his tone was laid so thick, he might as well called her a simpleton.

"No." Arianne shook her head. The command had slipped out from sheer frustration, not from any foolish hope that he would ever do the gallant thing and deprive her of his company.

"No, I will leave, of course."

She dipped into a low curtsy and headed towards the stone stairway. Well, this morning had been a colossal waste of time.

A thought struck her, as sudden and annoying as the man behind her.

Arianne could not possibly continue wasting so much time arguing with him when there were so many vital matters to attend to, including preparing Rhaenyra's banquet for Rhaenys, reading through scrolls on fund management Ser Tyland recommended, and, most importantly, making Jace jealous.

That required better planning, clearly, as Jace was nowhere to be seen, and she was stuck under the scorching sun with his malicious uncle.

Again.

If she were to avoid the training courtyard and Rhaenyra's drawing rooms, of course, she'd have to consider some different approach.

Maiden Day's ball, then. Just what on earth was she going to wear? And worse, she could not go with Myles Motoon, now that he had fled from her, so her options were either faking an illness or finding someone else. It was going to be a disappointment either way. In Stonehelm, she was always among the selected few ladies who recited the prayers and sang the hymns, preening in the centre of the castle's grand hall of white and black stone.

Rhaena also mentioned something about the newest lady Wylde organizing a cyvasse tournament together with her husband, Master of Laws, which was something Arianne was most excited about.

She could not afford more social blunders, more failures, just because Aemond Targaryen had a penchant for targeting her! Not to mention the most important woman in the Realm just happened to be his mother, unfortunately, and it was the Queen's whim that decided one's standing with the Court.

More so for a young, unwed lady.

Especially so, for those who wished to marry someone from the royal family.

It would be prudent to settle this...this pointless animosity, because somehow the One-eyed Prince's mere presence kept ruining her carefully concocted schemes.

She pivoted abruptly, purposefully — her crimson skirts swishing around her.

"I propose a bargain."

Arianne declared, resolved to end this. End him — not literally, of course, though the thought was tempting.

Aemond, still lingering by the wooden rack, merely lifted one silvery brow.

"I will stay away from your precious courtyard." She offered, voice sugar-laced spite. His lack of reaction would not daunt her this time.

“No more… nefarious schemes, as you so charmingly put it.” Her hand gestured to herself with a mock flourish.

“I vow never to insult you again. In fact, I will do my utmost to avoid you altogether.”

Arianne inhaled, trying to read anything off the steely edges that made his face.

"In return, you'll leave me be. We needn't ever speak again."

The One-eyed Prince cocked his head, like one might when considering things, before he clicked his tongue.

"Daor." (No.)

She was already halfway to a nod, expecting a curt fine.

No!?

“B-but—” Arianne sputtered, irritation bubbling up her throat. “It would be a mutually beneficial agreement. You find me contemptible! You can even draw up a list of places I must avoid for your sacred peace!”

“A list?” Aemond drawled, lazily intrigued.

“Of places? Like my Keep?”

“It is the King’s Keep! Must you be so needlessly aggravating—?”

That damned smirk tugged at his mouth. Vain and wicked both, a testament to his enjoyment of her frustration.

She scowled.

“Why in the Seven Hells would you not accept a simple truce?” Arianne demanded, her voice rising an entire octave.

“Why indeed?” The One-eyed Targaryen gazed somewhere far off, a painting of genuine wonder.

“Is it because dragons don’t make bargains with songbirds?” His baritone dipped low.

“Or is it because you amuse me, Lady Arianne?”

Her nostrils flared.

"So, you'd scorn my peace offering and rather be my enemy?!"

Embers shimmered inside his sole eye.

“Your enemy,” Aemond echoed, rolling the word over his tongue, tasting it.

“And how do you plan to end me? Will you take up swordsmanship to challenge me in a single combat?”

He took three slow, deliberate steps toward her, each one heavier than the last.

“Or command armies from your solar? You have enough witless admirers for a battalion, I’ll give you that.”

Arianne had to tip her chin to meet his gaze now. Gods, he was tall.

Unfairly, so.

"Princess Nymeria commanded her army even if she never lifted a sword herself. It is a matter of strategy and tactics, not of brute strength."

“Nymeria,” Aemond scoffed. “A coward who fled and lost half her people during voyages.”

“Retreat is not cowardice!” she shouted, fire finally flaring.

“Am I to assume you’d have stayed and let yourself be scorched alive?”

He grinned, cocksure and a tad self-indulgent.

"Why, lady Swann, I'd be on the back of a dragon, doing the scorching."

Of course. Of course, he would be. How utterly foolish of her to ask.

"Charming..." Arianne muttered with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "But since I don't have a dragon, my solar will do just fine."

"War is not your domain," Aemond remarked flatly, gesturing to the toppled shield rack she'd stumbled into as if it proved something.

She stiffened.

"You are meant for comfort. For adorning a hall. For bearing sons. You've read Thyrne, so what was it that he wrote of your kind?"

Her jaw locked.

"Unlike you, I think for myself, so I do not agree with everything he wrote." Arianne recited frostily.

He didn’t even flinch at the insult — callowly pressing on.

“I agree with nothing that old fool wrote. Thyrne was a Septon who never fought, never bled. Nine scrolls on combat, not one scratch earned. Yet, you are the one who cited him, Lady Arianne.”

"What is your point?"

"That if you intend to use his words to defend your schemes, then I will use them to remind you of your place. As per Thyrne, you, my lady Swann, are in the wrong." Aemond was practically purring from satisfaction that he'd outmaneuvered her with this.

"It does not matter if you're as comely as Maris the Maid or as clever as Alysanne, because you are just a lord's spoiled daughter with a sly mouth and too many ideas above your station. And frankly," he drawled, glancing deliberately to the hem of her crimson skirts before slowly dragging his gaze back to her face.

"Why are you even reading so much? Thyrne would chastise you for it, you know."

Arianne’s mouth opened, stunned, ready to lash back, but he continued before she could inhale fully.

"He'd say you were made to be looked at, not argued with." Aemond added, deceptively mellow.

Wait a moment!

She squinted.

Arianne had read that particular scroll thrice, as Thyrne hailed from a village near Blackhaven, so her grandsire on her mother's side had all of his works. “The gods gifted beauty that it might be admired, not questioned. A woman’s loveliness is her highest art.”

Well, that did not make any sense; it didn't even sound like an insult or critique. It sounded...

She scrutinized the marble-like plains of his face for a sign of an incoming rude jape. Did he...did he just imply that she was beautiful? HIM?!

Arianne’s mouth went dry. Her palms itched, damp with rising heat.

"Forget the bloody Thyrne." She bit out.

"As I've said, that law is older than anything. I read because it is useful to know things, and it is expected that one should know plenty if they find themselves serving on the Council —"

"You are a woman, no such thing is expected of you." Aemond interrupted, voice cold like the winter night.

"Nothing is, except to be a docile broodmare for your husband."

Arianne's eyes widened, his words landing like a strike. Worse. Like a lashing with a birch branch over her palms, which her Septa employed often while she was younger. It was an insult. It was dismissal.

"I do not expect you to know every single sigil of noble houses. Robb must, but you need not."

"Question me again, father, I know them now. Truly! Better than Robb."

Lord Donnel sighed.

A searing, hollow ache bloomed in her chest, pulsating in time with her rabbity heartbeat. How could he know? The secret grudges and pains she'd kept close.

Her lungs seized, a hot flash of humiliation laving her throat.

A docile broodmare?!

Arianne slammed her palm against the wooden rack beside her, fingers grazing the hilt of a nearby blade.

"Nothing is expected of you either." She bellowed, fury scorching her vocal cords like wildfire.

"It does not matter if you're The Perfect Knight come again, or as accomplished as Aegon the Conqueror, because you are just a spare. You will never inherit. You will never rule!"

The last sentence tumbled from her full lips with mundane cruelty.

He would strike her for this, she was certain, but found herself not caring because at least his reputation would be in tatters as well.

Aemond’s eye darkened — iris shifting from pale cerulean into Cape Wrath.

Storm-surge grey, violent, and vast.

His hand fell upon hers, caging it against the wood.

The callouses decorating his palm, warm and firm and unyielding, scraped the thin skin over her knuckles.

Aemond flexed his fingers — it sent disconcerting tingling up her arm, like the stabbing of pins and needles from a sewing cushion.

He'd done it almost eerily calm, a gesture of restraint rather than aggression.

Unmistakably deliberate.

The closeness of him reminded her of her stumble earlier. Right into his arms.

Arianne's face reddened to her hair, because the truth of the matter was very troubling. He'd touched her more than any man ever did.

Brushed his thumb over her knuckles while speaking of Lorath in flawless Valyrian, and that was...she'd explained it by some odd courtliness, but then he'd seized her wrist like it belonged to him, and just minutes ago held her waist, and now...

And now, this. This.

How was it that he, the haughtiest, most infuriating creature the gods had ever allowed to exist, was the one she engaged in this strange skinship with? Did he think himself above the rules and laws of propriety?!

No, no, the only gossip she'd heard about the Queen's middle son was that he was boringly committed to rules and duties. A voice from the sunken gorge in the back of her mind taunted her with utter nonsense — he wanted to touch her more than he cared for propriety.

Arianne fought the urge to yank her hand away and run. Something in his darkened gaze told her that he would enjoy it.

That if she ran, he would follow.

And worse still, that he would catch her.

So she bit into the inside of her cheek and willed her hand to remain where it was. Trapped underneath his larger one.

Willed her thoughts into order, and willed her feverish skin into forgetting how he'd held her earlier.

This was —had to be — some contest of will. She could not lose. How could she hope to rule a court if she allowed herself to be cowed by Aemond Targaryen?

He made her cry several times, but Arianne would be damned if she was going to let him do it again! So she merely batted her lashes and stared at him.

At last, Aemond spoke, his tone thrumming with warning.

"Thread carefully, my lady." He leaned down until she felt his breath graze her cheeks.

"You cannot win a quarrel with me."

The words slithered down her ribs, soft, because no, Aemond had not raised his voice at all.

She did not...She did not want to quarrel with him in the first place!

"I do not need to." Arianne replied tightly, following the deep scar splitting his left cheek. "As you've poetically put it, I am only expected to marry a man who will."

She felt silly for vocalizing it, because now he had another thing to humiliate her with. Her affection for Jace. But something else passed over his sharp face.

A surprise, perhaps.

Aemond released a low, dry laugh.

"There is no such man for you."

His brief stupefaction morphed into reverence.

"I am a Targaryen." He murmured, filled with ancestral vanity. "We are closer to gods than men, little swan."

Arianne spoke before she could think it through.

"There is." Her voice rang clear, all righteous fury. She could no longer control the torrent pressing against her teeth.

"It is you who should take care to treat me kindly, because I will outrank you one day."

That jolted him.

His shoulders went rigid, and Aemond's infuriating little lip tilt vanished, mere inches from her face.

She lifted her chin, pressing the momentary advantage of his surprise.

"When Princess Rhaenyra is Queen, Jace will be Prince of Dragonstone, and I will marry him." Her blood was boiling, thundering through her vessels like it wanted to erupt out of her skin. She could not... could not stop, even if his unnatural stillness prompted the cautious voice inside her mind into urging her to retreat and run far and wide.

Arianne stood on her tiptoes instead, so enjoying the tensing of his jaw and the way his pale eye widened. The way something brackish and furious was sizzling beneath his skin.

His hand was still wrapped around hers, a furnace of flesh.

"So that day, when he is King and I his Queen," She spat, reckless and heedless of the darkening grimace on Aemond's terribly close face.

If she moved any closer, she'd hit his nose with her own.

"— will come, and you’ll regret all this. I’ll have you exiled to Mossovy! To Cannibal Sands!"

Aemond did not move, but his fingers tightened, their shared warmth burgeoning between them.

It thrilled her that, for once, he was at a loss for words. If only she could think of how to utter it in the High Valyrian he cherished so — What’s the matter, Prince Aemond? Nothing to say?

The chink in his armor now crystallized in her mind, a path that led under his steel skin, just how his scathing comments always burrowed under hers, a tit for tat.

He clearly loathed being reminded of his unfortunate birth order. Behind Rhaenyra, behind Aegon. Not even second, because even his sister came before him, and all of her children...

Suddenly, Arianne had all these new ideas wanting to tear from her throat.

"And I will give him sons." She sang, swearing it like an oath.

"Many, many sons. And if you're still here, you can watch how my brood sits on the Iron Throne before you ever do."

Aemond blinked, just once, but his countenance altered subtly, horribly.

Suddenly, it was as if every ounce of vitriol from moments before was flushed away, carried by the violent stream of her declaration, to be replaced by equal parts astonishment and fascination.

His single eye widened almost imperceptibly, something volcanic shifting behind it. Something endless and consuming, permeating his gaze and burning through her heavy silks to settle low in her abdomen.

He looked at her as if he had never truly seen her before.

As if only now did her shape make sense to him.

Arianne shivered, waiting for the rude retort she had expected — venom, a sneer, the insufferable boor's usual arsenal of weaponized wit.

Yet, Aemond seemed engrossed in the movement of her face, like one might be in reading a fine scroll. Like her mouth was a particularly interesting paragraph. Like she was a riddle to be unraveled, made specifically for him.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

Then, he somehow drew even closer, sending her heart into a frenzied spiral.

Her breath slammed against her sternum.

Surely not—he wouldn’t dare touch her like that—!

Unbidden, the idea that he truly would kiss her took sudden, tyrannical root, like weeds in her skull.

A treasonous thrill cascaded down her spine.

She squashed the errant thought like an irritating bug.

He hated her. He'd never.

Such perfectly shaped lips wasted on Aemond Targaryen, she mused wildly, stupidly, blasphemously — a soft lower lip, a parabolic curve of the upper bow.

Swallowing, Arianne lifted her gaze.

A mistake.

His eye gleamed like wildfire hidden behind glass.

"No. Bargain." Aemond hissed flatly, the words reverberating inside her skull.

Silence fell, and the air congealed between them. She could see the pulse in his neck thrashing vehemently, leashed underneath the ivory skin.

Then, so painstakingly slowly, Aemond pulled away.

His hand lifted, and the warmth vanished.

He glared at her for a moment longer before turning and heading towards the stone staircase, his long, silver hair snapping behind him like a war banner.

Arianne swallowed again, felt the strain in her throat.

Flushed and breathless and stunned, she realized one horrible truth:

She made a colossal, disastrous mistake.

A blunder of match-ending proportions.

She'd just set herself, a lone elephant, against the opposing dragon.

Aemond Targaryen now knew of her dream, of her wicked, covetous heart, and he would not let her be.

Arianne marched straight to her chambers from the yard, just so she could scream while holding a pillow over her face.

“Wretch!” she seethed into the feathers.

“Horrid, despicable dragon—”

She kicked her legs against the bedding like an angry child, the silks tangling around her ankles.

Aemond Targaryen accused her of scheming, and she told him...

How could she have told him those things?! Gone so close to his sharp, cold face, too close, improper, improper, contemptible — and told him she would be Queen one day. It was...unseemly.

He provoked her into behaving unbefitting of her station.

Seven take him!

What if he tells? It was enough that cruel tongues lashed at her about Saera Targaryen and Johanna Swann, now they would gossip about her complete lack of scruples and denounce her as a profligate grasper from the Marches.

The bed was too soft.

Too stifling. She threw herself off it and seized a chair with a sharp scrape across the stone floor, the sound grating in her ears.

Aemond Targaryen was going to kill her.

Or worse.

Her chest rose and fell in unsteady bursts.

He held her. Gods, he held her, like he had the right.

The heat suffused her face just remembering it, not just from humiliation, but from something molten, muddled, unwelcome.

Arianne furiously opened the scrolls on the variable tax that Ser Tyland Lannister lent her. Something, anything, to banish the image of him. Numbers and footnotes.

Structure.

Order.

Aemond Targaryen, with his insufferably fast reflexes. With those unbearably corded forearms that flexed every time he handled a blade...or her...

She scowled at the parchment.

How dare he?! State all those awful things and use Thyrne against her!

That old Septon might’ve been daft and entirely mistaken about some matters, but he was hers — a fool of the Red Mountains! Blackhaven’s library held his original texts. Her grandfather brimmed with pride when her mother brought her there to be presented to him, just shy of her fifth birthday and already reading! Of course, she was not reading An Inquiry into Retribution back then.

Some coddled princeling could not have outargued her like that!

Establishing regular markets increases trade, and once prosperous, the lord might levy fees on the passing traders. Stall rents are usually set from 2 to 20 percent, though gate fees could be used instead...

Despite the sheer amount of work she had to plow through, it was impossible to quiet her mind. It buzzed like a hive, stuffed full of wasps and that voice of his.

Arianne had to read the same line three times.

Her vision blurred, not from tears, but from rage.

You told that Stygian fiend that you would be Queen, what if he —

Arianne shoved the scrolls to the side and glared at the notes about market tolls she had made from them, a judgmental chorus of 'stupid, stupid, foolish girl' ringing behind her eyes.

Stonehelm sorely lacks markets. Also, legal protections for smallfolk should be placed in case of overzealous tax collectors.

She yanked at her hair.

How could she trip right in front of him?!

Seven, the indignity.

She’d touched his chest, she remembered, all lean muscle and heat beneath that black tunic, and now that knowledge lived inside her, terrible and permanent.

Arianne leapt to her feet again.

Her skin prickled. It felt too tight. Too small. Like it didn’t fit her anymore.

She couldn’t get comfortable inside herself.

The air was irritatingly warm. It was unbearable all around her, and even worse, she'd felt something shift underneath her ribs. The entire day it had simmered, pooling low in her spine.

Now it fluttered, sharp and aching, like the unfurling of wings.

Ever since she watched those damned duels. Watched him move in equal parts violence and grace. Observed how he carved through men, trained and twice her size, with the almost bored precision. War lived in Aemond's limbs.

And in the way he looked at her.

Arianne bit the flesh around her thumbnail, remembering the press of a calloused palm against her knuckles. Not gentle. Not overly firm. Just...there, claiming.

She loathed it, how he only flexed his fingers, and her entire body shuddered.

He could've easily hurt her.

She thought he had wanted to. But he only hovered too near, his heated breath ghosting across her cheek like a caress.

Her words rattled him; she saw it in the tensing of his jaw, in the tick of his cheek, in the whirlpool of his eye.

After several unsuccessful attempts, she managed to undo the lacing at her back, shimmying out of the constricting silk.

Why had she even worn it? Jace clearly cared not if she wore fine red gowns or the simplest woolen frock. Why hadn't he done what Aunt Johanna wrote about?

Why had Aemond done it?

Did he really have to hold her like that, long enough to be gossiped about?!

He was her enemy now; that much had become evident.

Arianne sat on the edge of her bed and pressed her hands to her cheeks.

She flinched.

Her face was hypersensitive, like it was sunburnt.

It had to be some kind of illness.

A food poisoning or a late summer's fever.

She plopped down, ignoring how even her shift and smallclothes felt off, and drew her legs to her belly. Her thighs squeezed together unwittingly, wishing for some elusive pressure.

Arianne thought again of Aemond's hand, the weight of it, the intent of it, how it steadied her, how —

The audacity! How dare he touch her and insult her!

Her pulse fluttered wildly, pounding all the way to the tips of her ears. Her chest ached.

Speak to her of the vilest things!

He'd said men imagined undressing her. Deflowering her.

Gods.

The words were like teeth at her throat. Aemond was a man, wasn't he? Did he —?

Arianne gulped in air, horrified at the thought. Horrified at herself.

What was wrong with her?

She shifted restlessly, one thigh crossing over the other, then uncrossing, then crossing again, as if there were an itch she couldn't quite scratch.

How dare he catch her like a chivalrous knight from a story, then lean so improperly close...as if, as if...

Her fingers splayed wide across her belly in an attempt to press the strange sensation down, to tame it into stillness.

Yet, her skin did not wish for stillness, no, it thrummed like it couldn't wait to chase after something.

Was she ill?

Or—

Arianne whimpered in horror.

Was it a sin?!

The one her Septa screeched about, a sin beautiful men inspire in maidens who aren't careful and pure of thought. The one that led Saera astray. The sin of wantonness.

No.

No, no, gods no.

She needed to be above such vile matters if she were to become Queen one day.

Arianne had done everything that was required and expected of her. She might have skipped a prayer here or there, but she went to the Sept regularly, feted every Holy Day of the Seven, she obeyed her parents and did her needlework, even if it was poor and ugly.

She prayed for a husband and spent no time entertaining debaucheries. Her refuge from idleness had always been books and games, cyvasse most often, but sometimes tiles and dice too. Though she disliked dice, her brother's favorite, as it was horribly unpredictable.

How did this illness come her way?!

She was overwrought. Delirious. Her shift stuck to her back from the sweat.

It was Aemond's work.

She should notify Her Grace Alicent Hightower that her son was spreading illness around the Keep. Perhaps she would send him away to be purified.

He was something sinful, of the valyrian variety — long limbed, and sharp-tongued sin, with tresses of moondust silver and hands as splendid and beautiful as the marble ones on the statue of a Warrior in the Royal Sept.

Or maybe he poisoned her?

Enchanted her?

There were some weird tomes she found in the library on Dragonstone, and it was a commonly told legend that Queen Visenya dabbled in dark rites and sorcery.

Prince Aemond had her dragon.

Maybe he had her potions too.

Arianne swallowed and attempted to pray, but her hands wandered without asking for permission — over her thin shift, down the slope of her stomach, pausing just at the edge of the shameful, tingling place.

A small sound escaped her throat when her fingers darted too low.

What in the Seven...?

She moved again. Slower. Curious.

It was...pleasant.

Arianne mused about being held, the heat on the small of her back, just above the lacing, what if Aemond had...?

He had looked at her like that, with that sole eye, that bottomless, tumultuous piece of the Sunset Sea — like she was a woman, something alive and volitant that might disappear if he didn't grasp firmly.

Like he was plagued by the same, dark reveries, he accused Myles Motoon of.

The suggestion was preposterous, and dangerous, and disgusting, and Aemond loathed her.

Yet, it thrilled her.

Would he kneel like bodies woven into those tapestries, if she let him undress her? Would he kiss her? He said that she was made to be looked at, so would he look? She imagined his shapely mouth would hiss and denounce her as a shameless courtesan, even as his gaze drank every bared inch. So, who would really be without shame, her, or the prideful prince on his knees?

Arianne bit into her plump lower lip.

Would he curve those long, shapely fingers around the line of her waist to steady her? Would he kiss her...there? Like the kneeling man in the tapestry...

Would he be gentle? Or would he devour her whole like that ravenous glimmer in his eye promised?

She pressed the heel of her hand between her legs. And gasped, actually gasped, as a pulse bloomed there, white-hot and maddening.

Arianne bolted upright like a flame had licked her.

Gods.

She couldn't —

It was a sin.

A maiden must be clean of mind and body. Chaste in thought and conduct.

At first, she debated whether she ought to find a branch and whip her own palms, but then Arianne hurried to find something to wear, one of the simple, woolen dresses she could put on herself without Miriam's help.

Honest work is the best way to keep demons at bay, or so her Septa would say.

Her ankles were tangling more than usual.

She felt...ductile.

Unsteady.

Like a fawn learning to walk.

"Or is it because you amuse me?"

Hadn't Johanna mentioned in her letter that —

No.

She gritted her teeth.

She would forget it happened at all. From now on, she would avoid Aemond Targaryen at all costs.

Arianne was in far better spirits now.

She'd found the seneschal presiding over the kitchens and, after some careful haggling, secured the exact meats, sauces, and dishes she wanted for Rhaenyra's banquet with Princess Rhaenys.

She had brought her coin pouch, of course, as she did not have much faith in her charms. Gold was a universal charmer, however.

So was competency.

Perhaps that was why she was so thoroughly, so foolishly infatuated with Jace — handsome, yes, and second in line to the throne, but above all capable. When Rhaenyra had tasked him to resolve a squabble between two stubborn tavern owners in the village below Dragonmont, he’d done it in a single day.

Aemond —

No! Don't even think it!

He...

He read, almost as much as she did, he spoke High Valyrian effortlessly, and he moved so gracefully, tunics clinging to the broad shoulders and narrow waist, that unfair body she’d only accidentally touched for a second...

Prince Aemond fought so well. But only...only because he cheated! In a way... His mentor was of the Marches, and only marchers fought like that.

Scowling at herself, Arianne pushed the thought aside and hurried to not miss the evening meal. She had successfully bribed the seneschal, though she loathed to use that word.

Bribery was a sin, of course. She'd never do it, and the seneschal agreed her gift was most welcome.

For all the hard effort.

If he just happened to serve Rhaenyra's banquet hall with the suckling pig Lady Baela supposedly enjoyed, well so be it. It was not a feast by any means, no, of course not, they couldn't be hosted in the Keep, without the Queen's leave, under her nose.

The princess, and heir to the Iron Throne, Arianne insisted, was great with child and simply ravenous for meat, even though the Queen wanted poultry served for the days preceding the Maiden's Day, as it was the custom.

Rosey helped her, vouching that the lady was kind and discreet, truly! Of course, when someone helps you, you ought to help them back, so Arianne pressed two silver stags into her hand. She added a few copper groats once the woman mentioned her children had outgrown their clothes.

Absently, she wondered if she could bribe someone from the kitchens to serve Aemond a tray of strawberry tarts...laced with just a whisper of greycap. Enough to tie him to his privy for three miserable days. Nothing serious. She did, after all, like having her head firmly attached to her shoulders.

Grand Maester Aethelmure states the poisoner is beneath contempt, though.

The One-eyed twat had declared war upon her! What courtesy did he deserve?! The problem was that him being a member of the royal family meant she could not do anything to him.

Gods, she could not do away with him on her own!

She thought about telling Jace what had happened.

Decided against it a moment later, because Jace was already overwhelmed with reading on the previous inheritance disputes and perusing his family tree for dark hair.

As if hair were enough to declare someone baseborn!

Swanns were known for their green eyes and nigh-raven hair, which, she supposed, was how Johanna got the moniker — the black swan of Lys, for her dark curls, yet one Saera Targaryen was enough to ruin that. Her father was pale-haired, and though her mother had thick, dark auburn tresses, both Arianne and Robb ended somewhere in between.

All her cousins appeared more Swann than her.

For one madcap moment, she thought her father had liked Jace because their children could be born dark-haired and green-eyed, not like Targaryens at all, but perfect, little Swanns.

But, if Jace were truly... no, no she would not dare think that. Bastards were a treacherous lot, sired in sin. Jace was nothing like that.

Arianne shook her head, focusing on the problem at hand. She could not tell Jace, because there was nothing to tell, really. How would it even sound?

"Save me, my prince, from your loathsome uncle who thinks me a scheming tart?"

And anyway...What was Jace doing this morning? Why hadn't he approached her?

She had wanted him to interrupt her idle flirtation with Myles Motoon and...

Gods be good, why did Aemond?

It should have been Jace who pulled her aside, who glowered and chastised and looked at her like she mattered. Not his uncle.

If he held such a low opinion of her, why did he not just accept her bargain?

Arianne hated not knowing, hated all the little gnawing questions that wormed into her mind. So instead of forgetting, she tucked the matter away, neatly boxed and shelved for another day. As well as one other thing Aemond had mentioned that bothered her, concerning her grandmother.

She had to report to Rhaenyra about her success. Truly, the most wonderful of duties, Arianne thought morosely while crossing the drawbridge to the Holdfast, ensuring that Lady Baela feels comfortable while she flies off with my prince into the happily ever after.

"It would solve everything!" Arianne heard Prince Daemon shout before she even entered the solar. Rhaenyra touched his shoulder and hissed something quietly.

Arianne made herself useful, helping Lady Mathilda herd the younger children to table.

"Are they arguing?" she whispered, glancing sidelong as Rhaenyra swept after Daemon to the adjacent chambers, her skirts twinkling from all the rubies sewn into them.

Mathilda Strong shrugged.

"Prince Daemon wants to fly to Driftmark and behead Ser Vaemond before he can open his mouth in Court."

Arianne blinked.

That would be... unlawful?

"Oh, he also wants to behead the Hand after that." Mathilda added, tone laced with grim amusement.

Arianne, trying not to look as horrified as she felt, sat stiffly beside little Aegon and began cutting his honeyed turkey into neat, manageable bites.

She'd heard that Prince Daemon and Ser Otto Hightower were bitter rivals while they both served Viserys, but the Hand speaks with the King's voice and builds what the King dreams. Surely, the King does not want his grandson to be disinherited?

"Do you know...if the King has an opinion on all this?" Arianne asked carefully. "The Queen was presiding over the Council when they decided to hear Ser Vaemond's petition."

Mathilda shook her head.

"I don't. The princess thinks to bring Maester Gerardys here to help him...she does not trust the Hightowers. Or their maester."

Arianne was exerting considerable effort not to glance up as soon as she heard Jace and Luke arrive, Rhaena with her two ladies in tow. Tonight, she concluded irately, I am writing to Johanna and begging for some other advice. This ignoring thing is driving me mad!

Rhaenyra and Daemon had not returned, so she tried to nod along to Rhaena's excited monologue about seeing her sister after three whole months.

But her eyes followed how Jace cut into his venison — too tightly, his knuckles white. Those thick, inky curls were in disarray, one grazing his left cheekbone.

"You’re very daft sometimes," He snapped after Luke suggested they race their dragons against Baela above King’s Landing, and Rhaena's happy disposition melted away.

Oh.

How terrible that must be, to be the only one without a dragon.

"You’re just sour because you ended up wet earlier," Luke said cheerfully.

The girls looked up in confusion.

"A page tripped in the yard," He explained, grinning.

"Spilled a bucket of water right over him."

Arianne blanched.

Mathilda Strong giggled into her hand.

So that was why he hadn’t come to her.

Some clumsy boy, some fool boy with a sloshing pail, had ruined everything she had so carefully laid out.

Was it a jest from the gods? As a flash of animosity passed through her chest, she almost asked if the page had been punished for his stupidity.

Yet, there was something incredibly funny about Jace now, pouting and glaring at his younger brother.

Arianne met Jace's long-lashed, brown eyes and fought a girlish laughter on the brink of her throat. He was so princely handsome, even when seething.

She turned to Rhaena instead, inquiring about the writings of Elysar, who had been the Conciliator's Grand Maester. More importantly, he wrote a detailed account of her grandmother's scandal.

A topic always forbidden in her household, and Arianne had always respected that and her father's rules, but...something that Aemond had said tormented her, like a minuscule itch behind her ear.

"... everyone knows what happened the last time a Swann, a Motoon, and Saera played their games in Court."

No, that had to have been a deliberate slander on his part, because her grandfather was not at Court during that time! Her father might have been strict and hard to please, but he was no liar. He'd always insisted her grandmother was the corrupting, nefarious blight forced upon their family, a testament to the depravity and arrogance of the dragons.

Well, not that Arianne could blame him for hating her, she'd abandoned him before he could walk.

Her grandfather was an honorable man, a true Marcher, made of steel, stone, and war, and...

"I must know, Rhaena." She muttered, glancing at Jace, who was already staring at them.

Did he hear her?

"Perhaps you should ask Myles." Her prince declared acidly.

Rhaena blinked, and Arianne flushed.

Jace stood, plucking a goblet from the table, and lifted it in a mocking salute, his eyes trained on her.

"But I'd wager he can't even read."

(Aemond)

Aemond had returned to the Holdfast perfectly composed. His gait had been measured, his mind numbed from how wonderfully calm he had been, his breathing even.

He had answered a letter from Daeron, musing on how rare their correspondence had become. More strangers than brothers.

He had gone to check on Helaena after, and got roped by the twins into playing monsters-and-maidens with them. Even Aegon, bleary-eyed and reeking faintly of wine, had participated, tottering about the Queen's Ballroom as a shrieking maiden while Jaehaerys chased him.

His sister laughed at them, embroidering large, fat, black spiders. One of her ladies bounced little Maelor on her knee.

It had been a pleasant afternoon, in the way afternoons could sometimes be.

Aemond had had enough once he was relegated to playing monster five times in a row.

It suited him, perhaps. He was neither kind nor charming, and after that bastard had a go at his face, he thought he could no longer be called handsome either. Without all those blessings working in his favor, it was rather obvious why any courtly lady would chase after him.

Ambition.

Which she seemed to have in spades.

That sinful, dark glint in her eyes when she declared that she'd have sons — many, many sons — and sit them on the Iron Throne before he ever climbed there ignited something terrible and ruinous in his lower back.

He should have struck her for it.

He wanted to strike something for it.

Aemond grimaced.

But it had been a pleasant afternoon nonetheless because he was calm, and his mind was clear, and he did not have unwelcome thoughts about Arianne Swann, the sort that rarely plagued him.

Once he had returned to his chambers, he unbuckled his sword belt haphazardly, letting it hit the floor with a resounding clang.

So now that he was alone, lying on the chaise and perusing The Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood, Aemond was focused and did not abandon the book five pages in, because he realized he had no clue what he'd just read.

How dare she say those words to him!

He paced his chambers in agitated circles.

Poured himself a cup of dry Arbor red and didn't drink it.

He should've let her tumble. Let her scrape her elbows bloody. Let her crack her obstinate, unreasonable skull.

Let her split open her pretty lip or muddy her ornate silks.

Instead, she fell into his arms — soft, warm, delicate — and he held her. Steadied her. Felt her waist, the fine edge of her corseted spine, the heat of her breath on his neck.

The distractingly decadent scent that clung to her, jasmine or something else so flowery, something like woods after rain, when everything is wildly, unapologetically green. Yet, there was warmth underneath it that was obnoxiously soothing and made him want to bury his nose into her neck. Her hair.

He shouldn't have ever tread so close to feel any of those.

Now he was tormented by imaginings that should've forced him into prayer, had he found solace in the gods like his mother did.

Aemond was not calm, and he could not tear the memory of her nearness from his mind, no matter how savagely he tried.

It clung like barnacles down in the Blackwater Bay. It festered.

Sickening sweet and vile.

"...when he is King and I, his Queen."

Aemond ceased his relentless pacing and slumped into the chaise. The table before him was filled with books, scrolls, and a half-empty inkpot from his earlier correspondence.

At least it made sense. She made sense now. It was not some fleeting infatuation that fixed her so firmly to the eldest bastard's side, it was determination. Hunger.

Aemond realized why his japes struck so deeply. He'd told her the court would never accept her and Jacaerys as rulers when they conversed during the second banquet for his whore of a half-sister, and she practically trembled. Now it was clear, she took it personally.

It finally dawned on him why Arianne had lashed at him, even at the cost of her own lady's manners.

Not that she had any, he corrected himself.

She did not want comfort, docility, song, and dance — good for her, truly, since she was completely left-footed and clumsy as Seven Hells.

Seemingly, she did not even wish to pretend at swordsmanship, or play at some woman-warrior tripe, or freedom, or a grand, law-defying affair, or any such thing ill-behaved women often sought.

No.

Aemond exhaled through his nose.

She wanted queenship.

She wanted legacy.

Perhaps, lady Arianne was much more astute than he gave her credit for.

She was driven, like him.

There was something irresistible in her spirit, something that called to the black-blooded part of him, the dragon in his marrow.

She wanted power. He needed it.

She meant to rise. He would.

Perhaps she was like him. Not!

He hated the thought. Refused it.

A Queen.

She dared to say it out loud, without so much as a tremble in her voice. The audacity struck him like an open palm to the cheek. She stood on her fucking tiptoes to spit it at his face. Infuriating little wench.

Aemond removed the eyepatch, twirling the leather between his hands.

Did she plan to kiss him?! To ensnare him, rope him in with her considerable wiles so that he too, was her ally while she climbed. A co-conspirator of her ambition?

He tossed it onto the table.

The idea was preposterous, yet he found it easier to stomach than the alternative—that she completely dismissed him and did not look at him the way women looked at men when they wanted something.

The spare.

That she was mocking his forever-crownless brow.

Second son.

Gods, how he loathed her!

Aemond wanted to grab her shoulders and give her a good shake.

There was the third alternative, more preferable than the second. Less than first.

She saw him as a threat. He supposed that was fine, he was a threat to his half-sister and her brood of bastards.

Aemond's fingers drummed against the wood, restless and agitated.

"Many, many sons."

She'd spoken as if they were already nestled in her womb. It positively angered him. Because...she was right. Shall his half-sister be crowned, Jacaerys Strong-Targaryen would be King after her, and then those sons. Her sons.

Bastard's little bastards to steal the Iron Throne from the King's trueborn sons and grandsons. Aegon. Jaehaerys. Maelor. HIM. Daeron.

Him most of all.

Because he was deserving of it!

He should've laughed and told her to keep dreaming. He should've seized that insolent, lovely curl that always fell out of her braid and given it a good yank.

Or he should've turned away. A small, buried part of him almost wanted to tell her to be careful with her words and bold, little statements like the one she'd just thrown at him, because someone was going to do away with her. If not his Hightower grandsire, then his uncle.

No, Daemon fucking Targaryen would absolutely not stand for his wife passing the throne to her Strong whelp and Saera's granddaugher.

So, there had been plenty of responses Aemond could've used to take her down a peg.

But in that damned, cursed, utterly despicable moment, he just stood like a complete, horsebrained fool, positively riveted.

Thinking that she'd look even more defiant with his son inside her.

More queenly.

Beautiful while she writhes and moans underneath him, and parts her thighs for him.

His eye stung, pinpricks burrowing through his left temple.

Her sharp little mouth, tamed by pleasure.

His left hand had ached from restraint. From not crushing her bones underneath it.

His cock — Seven Hells — had throbbed like it had a mind of its own.

Aemond had to leave and extricate himself from that humiliating experience. It was disappointing that the best he could come up with was that he'd not give her that silly bargain she concocted. There was nothing in it for him.

His fingers stilled.

What had he done to deserve this torment?!

Aemond's jaw clicked. He bit into his lower lip until he tasted copper.

There was an illness in him, he thought. Some acrid, festering wound between his ribs that always opened, craving for what eluded him.

That inconsequential, infuriating lady Swann meant to provoke him — oh, and she had. Just not in the way she had expected.

Aemond cursed low in his throat, dragging a hand through his hair, tugging on it until his scalp prickled. He untied the ribbon at the back of his head and let it fall loosely, haloing his face.

He could now see her.

Proud, venomous, clever. And ripe.

He could imagine her fat with child. His child.

There was something so deliciously perverse in the idea. Corrupting her plans, taking what she meant for another, and making it his. Twisting her ambition until it was coiled around his.

Him.

Arianne Swann hated him, or at least she claimed so. It would be a challenge. Aemond enjoyed challenges like one does a fine plate of snails in honey and garlic. Harsh ones, painful ones, difficult ones, grueling practice, and endless studying...and the greatest challenge of them all, approaching the largest dragon in the world in the middle of the night.

The adversity only made the triumph sweeter.

He gave up reading on the struggles plaguing Western Essos after the Doom and smoothed his palm over the cover of the book once more, tracing the title absentmindedly.

Aemond groaned irritably, the events from earlier playing in his mind over and over in seemingly an endless loop. He would have been pleased to say that it was her declaration of war he was lingering on, dissecting and scheming on how to best deal with her, insignificant as she was.

The truth was far, far worse.

His empty hands curled into fists. Then uncurled.

It was the sight of her lying helplessly in his arms that kept harassing his mind. Full, heart-shaped lips slightly parted, soft cheeks rosy, green, green, the greenest eyes wide and resplendent.

That daringly low neckline revealed the elegant line of her collarbones and the shallow hollow between them, a space just begging to be kissed. And lower...The valley of her breasts peeked above the dip in the center of her bodice. Pert and infuriatingly perfect, and, gods, he fought men with less effort than it took to keep his gaze from slipping below her throat.

The delightful curve of her lower back he'd touched.

The soft curve of her arse he hadn't touched.

The lissom curve of her waist she intended to ruin with bastard's whelps.

I should...I should kill her, Aemond nodded to no one in particular.

I should have her.

He tore at the clasps of his tight-laced leather doublet, yanking it off with far less decorum than he usually allowed himself. His tunic and breeches soon followed, as did his smallclothes, and Aemond found himself bare.

Kill her.

He threw himself onto the cool sheets, willing them to douse the surge through him. But his hips twitched of their own will. His cock ached, insistent and shameless.

His skin burned, even in the comfort of his bed.

Have her.

His good eye snapped shut.

No, it would be best if he could just ignore her entire existence.

Aemond rolled onto his stomach, wondering if he could just smother his arousal into the mattress.

He needed sleep.

Unfortunately, the One-eyed Prince had woken several times throughout the night and all of his attempts to discipline his body into obedience fell through, his cock throbbing harder and making it clear he would need to address the...issue the next time he woke.

He never had much qualm with pleasuring himself. It was perfunctory and kept him focused and away from female snare. Until now.

His...carnal musings had never been fixated on someone, but now this bastard-loving, whore-serving annoyance named Arianne Swann violently inserted herself into them.

He should really kill her.

It was not the first time he'd found release with her image in mind. He'd done it after that infernal dream in which they played cyvasse, on his bed, and lacking any form of clothing.

At the hour of the wolf, Aemond gave up and rolled onto his back. He glared at the canopy while concentrating on the lines the pads of his fingers left on his skin while they slid down his abdomen. His hand hesitated once he felt the sparse, pale curls.

Shutting his sole eye, Aemond felt the last shreds of his resolve vanish into thin air. What did it matter, truly? It was just mundane physicality.

His cock was terribly warm when he gripped himself, rubbing over the tip to spread the dampness around his length.

He thought about her full, bottom lip quivering with fury before she slammed her small hand onto the wooden rack. He thought of preventing her from ever opening her mouth to call him a spare, by kissing her.

Not gently.

But she'd like it.

Aemond moved along his length in firm, languid strokes, musing on how wroth and flushed she might've been then. She'd accuse him of stealing her first kiss with that shrill voice of hers, but they'd both know she would've been lying.

Because she wanted him to dare.

She was practically baiting him with that damned curl-twirl around her index finger. It was a simple law of reciprocity, which Arianne seemed to enjoy using to her advantage.

Then he'd dare more.

Until he had her bent over the wood, flipping those ridiculously heavy skirts up.

He'd remove her undergarments without much effort and hear her whine as the cold air tickled her bare skin. What a lovely sound that would be.

Perhaps he'd yank her stockings down and grip those shapely hips of hers. Perhaps he'd leave fingertip-shaped bruises, so she'd remember him whenever she dressed.

Aemond bit his lower lip as his pulse quickened, his breaths growing more shallow.

He would not take her immediately. During those few times, years ago, when Aegon pressured him to copulate with whores, he'd learned it was much better if a woman was wet. Sometimes, he loathed Aegon for that because he could scarcely recall a more humiliating moment than one of those visits.

Sometimes, he wondered if Aegon had truly thought he was doing him a favor, because he had called it a gift. A rite of passage. Laughing even as some unnamed woman, old enough to have birthed both of them, attempted to make him stiff with her hand. It would've been easier if his brother hadn't been right there, downing wine and attempting to cheer him on.

Horrendous.

At least he left knowing how cunts looked like and how it felt to fuck one. Warm and wet, and he wished to fuck one right now.

Not some paid whore's.

Hers.

Aemond bucked slightly into his hand, exchanging full strokes for shorter, firmer touches around his tip.

Arianne would shiver once he rubbed his clothed groin over her womanly flower, letting her feel everything that she was going to take. He would use his hands, too, if he felt generous.

And then —

Once his breeches were damp with her arousal, a darkened, wet spot right above the outline of his hardened cock she rutted against, he'd pull them down and —

Inch by agonizing inch he'd split her tight cunt open.

Perhaps she'd cry out and whine so sweetly, and shiver from being ruined so vulgarly.

Her precious maidenhead, taken by the second son.

Perhaps she'd curse him, Aemond, Aemond, Aemond you vile twat!

But he'd scarcely care. He tightened his grip, imagining how her untouched cunt would clamp around his cock.

Perhaps she'd ask him for more.

Aemond moaned, seeing one of his hands grasping at her hair, his fingers finding purchase in those thick, wild locks, the other digging into the soft, plush thigh to keep her in place.

The pinpricks of pleasure, molten, scorching, began to tighten the muscles in his legs, his abdomen, his loins.

Perhaps, she'd beg him for mercy.

Just a sliver of mercy for the undeserving, grasping girl from her dragon prince. She'd finally realize her place and beseech him while he tasted the creamy skin beneath her ear as he thrust into her.

"Kostilus, ñuhys zaldrīzes." (Please, my dragon.) Aemond almost, almost, wished he could imagine himself saying yes, why, when she begged so sweetly in his native tongue.

When he coaxed such exquisite, breathless whines from her obstinate mouth.

But no —

No, he'd conclude darkly as he ravished her. She was the offender, the uninvited scoundrel, she deserved no salvation from what she brought upon herself.

But he'd be kind. Kinder than he's ever been.

He'd give her his precious seed, every last drop of it, until it trickled out of her full, bruised cunny.

Aemond's lips parted as the pumping rhythm he'd set deteriorated. His hips stuttered, quick, jolting thrusts into his calloused palm.

Then, she'd turn around, glaring at him with those large, thick-lashed eyes, brimming with tears — from pleasure and desperation both, and admit he'd won.

His head snapped to his right, and the One-eyed Prince bit into his pillow to prevent guttural, completely crude sounds from escaping his throat. The near-constant pressure that was building up as he stroked himself erratically capped, and the rolling, violent waves of spasms crashed through his groin and thighs.

Aemond spent himself immensely all along the back of his hand and across his abdomen.

His cock pulsed for an embarrassingly long time and the tingles he felt all the way down to his feet.

He opened his eye, breath still shuddering.

For a few silent moments, he wallowed in self-loathing and the puddle of his own sweat and seed.

Aemond gritted his teeth and profaned all of the Seven and all of the Valyrian deities he knew for forcing this weakness of flesh onto him.

Then he cleaned himself and slammed the door to his chambers open, barking at a frightened guard to have someone fetch him water for the bath. The coldest water they could find.

"Yes, now!" The prince shouted. Must he truly repeat himself just because it was the middle of the night?!

Aemond felt much better today.

He'd never gone back to sleep after his bath, so he was up at the hour of the nightingale, striding out of the Holdfast to complete his drills.

At last, his mind was clear. It seemed all he needed was to release the pent-up frustration.

Yes, yes, obviously, now he was safe from Arianne Swann's nefarious designs.

Immaculate.

All focus and precise strikes as he parried.

"You're doing well, my Prince." Ser Criston nodded as he observed him.

"How did your sparring yesterday go?" The older man inquired, and Aemond muttered a response. He couldn't say much because Criston would notice. The man knew him better than his own father.

He was the only fixed male presence in his life, though the One-eyed Prince did not complain much about that. Criston Cole was the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms and fiercely loyal to his mother and family.

Aemond adjusted his stance and motioned for squires to change. He'd tired out this one, he could tell by the boy's profuse sweating. A shield was up again for him to strike.

"So, a lady did not fall into your arms as I've heard the first thing in the morning?"

Aemond blanched.

His grip faltered, and he missed the target completely.

Single cerulean eye snapping to Cole, he scowled.

"You are the last person I'd expect to gossip like a fishwife." His lips peeled back from his teeth.

Ser Criston merely observed him, arms crossed underneath his padded gambeson.

Gossip. Gossip! He loathed gossip, and now that wicked little swan had made him the victim of it.

"Easy, Aemond." The tone of the older man's voice was not judgmental, at least, which helped his temper.

"It is a good thing, helping a damsel in distress. The Seven encourage us to protect the weak. The celebration for the Maiden's Day is approaching, and she looks favorably upon those who offer protection."

Aemond was not sure Criston was mocking him, unlikely though as Criston was as much of a bore as he apparently was, or was he simply spending too much time with his mother to spring into the sermon whenever it was needed?

He even considered, very briefly though, asking Cole to give him advice on how to deal with Arianne Swann. It had been Cole who took him in after the loss of his eye. Cole, who hadn't given up on him and who trained him despite his glaring weakness.

When he ran to the Keep, crying, after that horrifying night on his thirteenth name day, it had been Cole who had found him slumped outside the empty council chamber, curled in on himself like a child. The whore, or another one, had taken his eyepatch. His cheeks were raw with shame and anger, like someone had welted him across them.

Cole, who never murmured useless comforts or pretended his half-sister and Daemon weren't coming for their heads. Aemond trusted him in a way he trusted few others, but asking him about Arianne felt like breaching some sacred line.

Cole would tell him to stay away from her altogether.

Or worse —

To be honest, decent, pious, and a load of other useless things.

If he were honest, Arianne would have won.

She asked him whom she had seduced, with that defiantly raised chin, and honesty would've forced Aemond to name himself.

Then she'd laugh at him, all the while twirling that infuriating curl.

No.

Absolutely not.

He must prevail over everything.

"Mother." Aemond's voice carried into the drawing room just after the midday meal. Alicent Hightower was perched on a comfortable oval settee, an array of tomes scattered on the low table in front of her.

She seemed deep in thought, glancing alarmingly up at the intrusion.

"Aemond. Have you eaten?" The Queen closed the Great Code of Septon Barth, which she had been scrtutinizing.

He furrowed his brow.

Amongst the tomes, he recognized several books of law and legal commentaries, The Seven-pointed Star, The Book of Holy Prayer, and a few crisp scrolls that smelled faintly of fresh ink and Oldtown.

"Yes." He answered, sitting across her.

"What is all this?" Aemond asked, gesturing toward the mess. Alicent released a sigh so tired it worried him.

Now that he truly looked, his mother did seem paler than usual.

She must've been exhausted and restless this past week. It had to be the presence of that cantankerous whore of his half-sister.

"Just...I need to be certain that I am doing the right thing. The just thing." He heard a mild tremble of vacillation in her tone.

What?

"Mother, are you referring to the petition for the Driftwood Throne?" He asked, incredulous. Aemond had assumed everything was set up to strip Rhaenyra's bastard of it.

Alicent nodded slowly, reaching for the scroll closest to her.

"Lord Corlys may still recover, and if he does..."

"Then the truth remains unchanged. Rhaenyra's sons are bastards." Aemond snapped, much harsher than he had intended.

"It is not the truth that disturbs me, it is the punishments for treason." She explained, her large, light-brown eyes scanning the parchment she had just unrolled.

Aemond leaned back in his chair, frowning. Those who committed the crime should think about the repercussions. Not his gentle mother. Hadn't she suffered enough already?

"You haven't slept." He observed flatly.

Alicent waved the comment away.

"Mercy is the highest form of virtue. Would the gods want us to condemn Rhaenyra's children to exile or worse?"

"The gods are cruel," Aemond responded, thinking of his eye he lost, the scorn he bore.

"I thought that to be a requirement of godhood."

Alicent gave him a look that denoted she did not wish to debate the nature of divinity with him.

He bit the inside of his cheek before continuing.

"Besides, do we truly want a child loyal to my uncle at the command of the greatest fleet in Westeros?"

Alicent smiled wryly.

"Ser Tyland and Lord Wylde have already voiced such concerns. And your grandsire, too." She returned to her reading, and Aemond idly reached for the Great Code, flipping through its pages.

His thoughts, unwittingly, came back to Lady Swann and her irritating arguments. Perhaps he should write her a detailed refutation explaining why she was the offending party, and why, then, the law of equivalent retaliation did not apply.

She was utterly ludicrous if she thought to best him with shallow snippets of child-level philosophy. He was not some barely literate nonentity from Maidenpool.

Like the Motoon squire she touched and laughed with.

Aemond scoffed under his breath.

He hated that he stewed while watching them talk, his fingers gripping the balustrade. He hated that her little declaration affected him and that he'd spilled in his hand with her name in his throat.

"Why are you scowling so much?" His mother interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Alicent had lowered her scrolls, studying him now with narrowed eyes.

Aemond blinked, clearing his mind.

"Because I loathe to see you losing sleep over them." He stated, smoothing his expression into one of dutiful concern.

Our enemies.

Aemond was furious.

After leaving the Holdfast, he was inspired to find a solution for his Arianne Swann problem. He debated visiting Septon Eustace, his mother's confessor, and baring his soul to the gods. He had plenty to complain about.

Perhaps, he could find a refuge in the Seven. Perhaps, there were things the Hightowers did better than the blood of the dragon.

Because his Targaryen blood surged through his veins, thick and sizzling and frenetic.

Arianne.

He hated her name. It sounded a lot like Alysanne, and it only brought back her bold declaration to the front of his mind.

Aemond wondered if she felt as fevered as he was, because they did share blood. Exactly through their great-grandmother, The Good Queen.

Or if she was as cold, calculating, and smug as he imagined.

He realized that if the Great Council his great-grandfather assembled had somehow decided on her father, as Saera's child, not that it ever could've happened as he was from the female and youngest line both, Arianne would've been a princess.

Aemond also remembered that she mentioned a brother who got bored with trying to destroy her defensive cyvasse formation. Tough luck, he grinned, there goes your crown, little swan.

Unless she wed her brother and bore him many, many sons —

Why did she sound as if she imagined spending days in his bastard nephew's bed?

The One-eyed Prince scowled.

Enough.

He was becoming vexingly fixated.

Aemond had long been obsessive. He was aware of it.

As a child, he could not stop himself from attempting to claim a dragon. Even Dreamfyre, who had already been bonded with his sister. Rationally, he knew it was futile, but Helaena flew less than Aegon, and she was perfectly happy while collecting bugs.

He was miserable on the ground.

Aemond crossed the yard toward the tall, round building. The Royal Sept was notably smaller than the Grand Sept atop Visenya's Hill.

He had forgotten how crowded it would become now that the Maiden's Day was almost here. Dozens of women had begun to visit for daily prayers, carrying candles and flowers for the offering.

Then, the worst thing that could have happened, happened.

There, among two dark-haired women who held more resemblance to his nephews than Velaryons, walked the object of his ire, dressed in a simple, gray frock, carrying a white candle.

Aemond stilled.

Her hair was down.

Unadorned.

She giggled at something one of the women had said and plucked a flower from the other's basket to add it to her candle.

It was a pretty, girlish sound.

Aemond had quite the mortifying awakening — He wanted her. Even when she was dressed modestly, and when she did the most mundane thing in the world, like laughing.

And he didn't know how to stop.

It was not even her beauty, though she was truly lovely. The court was filled with comely maids. Perhaps it was not even her clever mouth, though he quite enjoyed that too.

It was her raw, brazen desire to matter.

Once he was at the threshold of the Sept, he realized he was irreparably fucked.

Arianne was kneeling before the altar of the Maiden, head bowed low, arms raised in prayer. He couldn't hear her over the many others, but it was evident she knew it well.

She appeared...prim and proper.

Pious, little offering.

He couldn't find anything to criticize.

Aemond turned on his heel and left before someone questioned him being there.

There goes that, he concluded irritably, he couldn't even have the gods because she got to them first.

He didn't need gods.

There was no conclusive proof of their interference on anyone's behalf, and besides...Aemond was no craven to seek refuge from anything.

Retreat was cowardice.

Losing was unacceptable.

And he would have her.

*For my show-only readers: Blackhaven is the seat of House Dondarrion, so Arianne's mother is a Dondarrion. They are also from the marches, and funny thing, Criston Cole's father is/was a steward for House Dondarrion.

Maelor is Helaena and Aegon's younger son. For some reason, he doesn't exist in the show.

**just to answer one of the prior questions: Arianne calls Johanna "aunt", but Johanna is not her aunt, as her father is an only child. Johanna in canon was a niece of Lord Swann when she was enslaved. That Lord Swann in this story is Arianne's now deceased grandfather, so Johanna is more like...her second aunt/grand-aunt?. I do not want to get too verbose with describing Arianne's family tree, but her grandfather had brothers/sisters, so she has Swann cousins.

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