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therogueflame · 23 days ago

Text

The Favorite

hello slutty little angels,

here is this request that i LOST but then the loml found it for me and i was like ??? i already wrote it WHERE IS IT okay anyway here is this request goodness me goodbye. its like sadder than i intended but oh well.

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Summary: You learned a long time ago how to survive the men who come and go — but he stays too long, asks for too much, and leaves you with something you never meant to carry.

WC: 4.8k

Warnings: 18+, prostitution, angst/hurt/comfort, emotional manipulation, unrequited feelings (bc its certainly not love)

Aegon II Targaryen x BrothelWorker!Reader

MDNI!

You’ve seen men like him before. They come through the doors every night, some cloaked in silk and noble blood, others in sweat and arrogance, all of them thinking themselves untouchable the moment they cross the threshold. They speak too loudly, drink too quickly, drop coin like it weighs too much in their pockets. They want to be worshipped. Seen. Forgotten. Some try to play at gentleness, others at cruelty. Most of them don’t care who you are so long as you let them believe they matter. You learned a long time ago how to give them just enough to keep them quiet—your hands where they want them, your voice soft, your eyes lowered, your smile practiced. A performance. A shield. A means to an end. It’s never personal.

Aegon Targaryen was no different at first.

He arrived already half-drunk the first time, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled, mouth moving faster than his thoughts. He stumbled in with the swagger of someone who’d never been told no, laughing too loud at his own jokes, brushing past the girls in the front like he expected them to part for him. He called the madam “darling” and reached for the wine tray before anyone offered. His eyes were restless, searching the room like he was bored already. Spoiled, you thought. Sloppy. The kind of man who wouldn’t last long before burning out.

Then he asked for you.

Not by name. Not directly. Just a quiet, almost offhand, “Is she free?” spoken while pretending not to look at you. As if it didn’t matter. As if he wasn’t choosing. The madam raised a brow at the vagueness of it, but you knew. You saw the flicker of recognition in his expression when your eyes met. You said nothing. Just nodded and took his hand and led him upstairs. Another client. Another coin. Another night.

But then he came back. Again and again. Always the same question. “Is she free?” Like it was an accident, like he couldn’t remember your name, like he hadn’t asked for you the last three times too. The madam didn’t press him. She never pressed the highborn ones. You didn’t either. It didn’t matter why he kept asking. What mattered was that he paid, that he behaved, that he didn’t bleed or scream or demand more than you were willing to give.

The first few nights, he tried to impress you. Talked about his dragon, his brother, the tournament he almost won. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly, but there was a sharpness to him—restless, bitter, like every word out of his mouth was meant to wound something even when he laughed. You didn’t encourage it. You poured his wine, untied the laces at his throat, let him press against you and murmur things you didn’t want to hear. You let him touch, but not take. You kept a careful distance even when his hands wandered too far. And when he finally fell asleep, sprawled across the bed with his mouth slack and his hair stuck to his damp forehead, you slipped out from under him and closed the door behind you before he could wake.

It became a pattern. He’d arrive unannounced, drunk or on the verge of it, eyes half-lidded, voice too loud. He’d ask for you like he didn’t care, like it wasn’t a choice he was making. You’d lead him upstairs without speaking, help him out of his layers while he filled the space with nonsense. Sometimes he tried to kiss you. Sometimes he didn’t even undress. There were nights when he just laid beside you, face buried in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. He never said thank you. Never asked how you were. But he always stayed longer than the others. Sometimes he fell asleep with his hand curled around your wrist. Sometimes with his head in your lap like a child. You never asked what he wanted from you. You never offered anything more than what was expected.

He was a prince. That alone made him dangerous. But he never hurt you. Never raised his voice, never left bruises. He never asked for anything you wouldn’t give. And you never gave him what he truly wanted—not because he asked, but because he didn’t know how to.

You wondered, sometimes, if he came because it was easier to be wanted by someone who would never love him. Someone paid to stay. Someone who would leave when the hour was up. Maybe that was the appeal. Maybe that’s why he kept returning. Maybe that’s why his fingers trembled when they curled around your hip.

The last time he came, he didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you for a long moment before reaching into his cloak for the coin. His eyes were bloodshot, his mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line. When the madam asked who he wanted, he didn’t pretend this time.

“Her,” he said.

Like it was a truth he’d always known. Like he couldn’t lie about it anymore.

After that, it becomes routine.

It happens on a night like any other. The air in the brothel is thick with perfume and smoke, laughter curling through the halls, soft music drifting up from the parlor. You’ve just finished with a client—a man from the Crownlands with ink on his fingers and guilt in his eyes—when the madam taps lightly at your door. “Another request,” she says. “He’s asked for you.” And you assume it’s him, of course you do, because who else does she mean anymore? You tie your robe, smooth your hair, open the door.

But it isn’t Aegon.

It’s someone else. Someone tall, older, not unkind. You recognize him. A knight. A friend of the prince, maybe. He smiles when you enter the room, slow and tired, like he knows exactly what he’s here for and doesn’t intend to make it difficult. He asks your name. He tells you his. He doesn’t try to impress you, doesn’t try to take too much. He’s gentler than most, quieter. He thanks you when it’s over. You’re laughing at something he said—something simple, something warm—as you walk him to the door, fingers brushing briefly, easy and unthinking.

That’s when you see him.

Aegon stands at the bottom of the stairs, halfway to the landing, his hand resting on the bannister like he’s forgotten why he came. His eyes are locked on yours. On the curve of your smile. On the way you tilt your head as the knight leans in to murmur something low and fond into your ear. You don’t hear what he says. You barely feel it. Your focus shifts instantly to the prince, and there’s something in his face you’ve never seen before. It’s not anger. Not yet. It’s something older. Something more dangerous.

You open your mouth to speak, but he turns before the words come, disappears into the shadows of the staircase without waiting for you to follow.

He doesn’t come back for three nights.

It doesn’t bother you. Not really. You’ve gone longer without seeing him before. You have other clients. Other things to worry about. But you notice it—the absence, the silence. You notice the way the madam looks at you when another noble walks through the door and doesn’t ask for you by name. You notice how quiet your room feels when no one is waiting in it. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. And maybe it doesn’t.

Still, the nights feel longer.

And then he returns.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t ask for permission. Just pushes open the door like it’s his, like you belong to him, like nothing’s changed and no one else has touched you since. His eyes are glassy, his skin flushed. He reeks of wine and frustration, something bitter curling behind his teeth when he looks at you.

You don’t ask where he’s been. You ask if he’s all right.

He laughs at that. Sharp. Cold. Not amused.

“You didn’t wait long,” he says, stepping closer. “Didn’t even take a night off.”

You don’t rise to it. “You’re not my husband, Aegon.”

“No,” he says, and it’s not quite agreement. Not quite anything. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

He sits at the edge of the bed without waiting to be invited, eyes following your movements as you cross the room, gathering the scattered remains of the hour before. You don’t explain yourself. He hasn’t earned that. You pour him a cup of wine instead, set it on the table beside him, and let the silence stretch between you.

“You laughed,” he says finally, voice low. “With him. At something he said.”

You pause. You look at him. “It’s my job.”

His hands flex against his knees. He doesn’t touch the wine.

“Do you laugh like that with all of them?”

You could lie. You don’t.

“I laugh when I feel like it.”

He looks away. His jaw tightens. There’s something unsteady in the air now, something sharp and hot and clumsy. It’s not jealousy, not really. It’s something worse. Something neither of you has the words for.

He doesn’t ask for anything that night. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch you. He just sits there for a while, staring at the floor like he’s trying to piece something back together. Like he doesn’t know why it fell apart in the first place.

When he finally stands to leave, you don’t stop him. You don’t say goodbye. You don’t offer comfort.

You just watch him go, and try not to think about the way his voice sounded when he said your laugh wasn’t meant for someone else.

The room feels different after that. Still. Dim. Like something’s been taken out of it and nothing’s come to fill the space. The days pass slowly. You work. You sleep. You forget, or try to. But it lingers anyway—in the quiet, in the hours between clients, in the echo of his words when you catch yourself smiling without meaning to.

He doesn’t come back for a week.

And when he does, he doesn’t speak as he crosses the threshold. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t smirk. He just walks in like he never left and sits in the chair by the window, the one none of the others ever use, and watches you without saying a word. His hair is tied back. His tunic is buttoned to the collar. No wine stains, no lazy grin, no hands reaching for your waist. The door clicks shut behind him and the air stills, and you know before he opens his mouth that something’s shifted. That something’s cracked open and he’s trying to pretend it hasn’t. You’ve seen this version of him before—tight-shouldered and quiet, too sober to be charming and too proud to be honest—but never for this long. Never so heavy in his silences.

You pour the wine anyway, because it’s habit now, because it gives your hands something to do, because if you stand still too long the quiet might start saying things neither of you are ready to hear. He doesn’t take the cup. He doesn’t move at all. Just sits there, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes following your every breath like he’s waiting for you to prove something.

When he finally speaks, it lands without warning. “Do you treat them all like that?”

You don’t turn. You don’t ask him what he means. You know. Of course you do. You think of the knight’s hands on your waist, the way you laughed when he tripped over his own boots, the way Aegon’s face twisted when he saw it. You think of the door slamming shut and the echo of his absence for seven straight nights. You think of the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s owed something. Like you gave it to someone else.

You shrug. “It’s a job, Your Grace.”

He scoffs. Not a real laugh, not amused. Just bitter and sharp like a blade dragged across stone. “Right. Of course. Just a job.”

You turn then, meet his gaze fully, and you don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You don’t soften.

He opens his mouth like he might say something else but doesn’t. He swallows whatever it is, like it tastes wrong on his tongue.

“What was I, then?” he asks finally. And he tries to keep his voice even but it cracks a little at the end, just enough to reveal the edge beneath it, the raw thing he’s trying to bury under all that silk and steel. “To you.”

You could lie. You could fold. You could take pity on him. But you don’t. You smile instead, just the ghost of it, not cruel, not kind, just enough to sting.

“A client who thinks he’s not one.”

The silence that follows is thick and strange and brittle. His fingers curl around the arm of the chair, knuckles pale, mouth tight. He looks away. He doesn’t argue.

Because he knows you’re right. Because that’s what’s eating him alive.

A client who thinks he’s not one.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just sits there with his jaw set and his gaze fixed somewhere near your shoulder, like if he looks too closely he’ll shatter whatever’s holding him together. You watch the muscle tick in his temple, the way his chest rises just a little too fast, like breathing around what you said costs him something. You don’t take it back. You don’t soften the blow.

He finally speaks, quieter now. “That’s all this was, then?”

You cross your arms, tilt your head. “You paid for my time.”

His eyes flick to yours and hold. “It didn’t feel like I had to.”

You raise a brow. “But you did.”

He shifts in the chair like it suddenly doesn’t fit him right. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers tight, jaw clenched like he’s biting back a hundred things at once. “You could’ve said no.”

“I never say no to princes,” you say evenly. “It tends to end badly.”

He laughs, but it’s a hollow, bitter thing. “You really think I’d hurt you?”

You don’t answer that. You don’t need to. He’s not asking to know—he’s asking to be told he’s better than the rest, that he matters more than the lords who come in with rings on their fingers and guilt in their throats. He’s asking to be spared from the truth.

Instead, you walk past him, slow, deliberate. You pour a second cup of wine and set it on the table without meeting his eyes.

“You came here like all the others,” you say softly. “You pay like all the others. You leave like all the others. What would you call that, Aegon, if not a client?”

He stands so suddenly the chair scrapes against the stone floor. The sound is loud in the small room, startling, but you don’t flinch. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way his breath stirs the loose strands of your hair. His hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“You smiled for him,” he says, almost a whisper. “I never saw you smile like that for me.”

You tilt your chin up, meet his gaze. “You weren’t looking.”

“I was,” he says, and it sounds like a confession.

You let that hang there between you, heavy and sharp, and for a moment neither of you moves.

Then you say, low and even, “It wouldn’t have mattered if you were.”

His mouth parts, just slightly, like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he knows it’s true. And that’s what makes it hurt.

After that, something in him goes still.

It isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t happen all at once. It settles in slowly, like a fog in the bones. The brat prince charm dulls. The sharp wit turns inward. The wine sits untouched more often than not. He still comes—still walks through the doors with his hood pulled low and his shoulders hunched like someone might recognize the shape of him even in shadow—but the fire is gone from his eyes, replaced by something colder, something harder, something that looks too much like hunger and not enough like power.

He stops pretending it’s coincidence. He stops asking “is she free?” Now he just says your name. Low. Final. Like no one else ever existed. He pays double without blinking. Once he paid triple and the madam tried to thank him and he barely looked at her. Just pressed the coin into her hand and walked up the stairs like the place offended him.

He stays longer now. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t touch you the way he used to. Sometimes he doesn’t even ask for anything. Just sits by the fire with his legs stretched out and his arms folded and watches you, quiet, unmoving, like he’s waiting for something to happen. Like if he stays still enough, long enough, you’ll give him something that can’t be bought. There are nights where he talks. Low voice, slurred sometimes, bitter always. He complains about the court. About his mother. About how everyone waits for him to fail. How it would be easier if he just did. He talks about dragons and war and the kind of king he’ll never be. Sometimes he talks about nothing at all. Just rambles, voice fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

He tells you he hates the Keep. That he hates the godswood. That the air in the Red Keep feels like poison and he can’t breathe in it. He doesn’t ask you anything in return. Doesn’t want your stories. Just your silence. Your presence. The way you look at him without flinching. The way you speak to him like he’s not a prince and never will be. And sometimes, when he forgets himself, the way your hand brushes his shoulder when you pass. The way your mouth softens when you think he isn’t looking.

You never stay past dawn. But sometimes you leave slower. Sometimes you close the door gently behind you instead of locking it fast. And he notices. Of course he does.

One night, he doesn’t sit. He stands at the window, back to you, spine tense, hands clasped behind him like he’s trying to hold something down. The fire crackles behind you. The wine sits untouched on the table. You wait, arms crossed, patient. He’s never been good at silence but tonight he wears it like a cloak. When he speaks, it’s quieter than usual. Careful. Like he’s afraid the wrong word will ruin everything. “What would it take,” he asks, “for you to leave this place?”

You blink. The question floats there between you for a long moment, hanging just above the heat. You walk to the table, pour yourself a cup, take a slow sip before answering. “Why?” you say. “You looking to save me?”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance over your shoulder and he’s still staring out the window, profile sharp in the firelight, jaw set, mouth flat. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move. Just waits, as if silence might convince you where his voice can’t. As if the weight of the question is enough to bind you to him.

You take another sip. “You can’t afford me,” you say, not unkind. His mouth twitches at that. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. You set the cup down gently. “You’re a prince,” you say. “But that doesn’t mean you get to keep what you want.”

He turns then. Slowly. Eyes locked on yours. And there’s something hollow in his gaze, something desperate, something lost. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks. “Trying to keep you?”

You say nothing. You don’t need to. Because that’s exactly what he’s doing. He steps forward once, then stops. Like he’s afraid of what might happen if he gets too close. Like he knows he’ll shatter if he touches you. Like he already has.

You tilt your head. “You can’t lock me in a tower, Aegon. You don’t get to turn me into something soft and safe and yours. I’m not your bird. I’m not your wife. I’m not your escape.”

“I know,” he says. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit it.

You walk past him, slow, and stop just beside his shoulder. You don’t touch him. But you let your voice brush close.

“Then stop asking questions you don’t want the answers to.”

He closes his eyes.You leave before he opens them again.

After that, he doesn’t come for a few nights. Not long, not unusual. But something feels different. There’s a stillness in the air now, like your absence has shape, like it means something he can’t put down.

Then he sees you.

Not in silk. Not in the hush of a room meant for forgetting. He sees you in the street and it ruins him. You’re not dressed for coin tonight, not painted in perfume or candlelight, not wrapped in artifice. You’re just walking, breathing, existing in daylight, sunlight on your hair, your mouth curved around a laugh that doesn’t belong to him.

There’s a man beside you, taller than you by a head, plain-faced and unremarkable, but your hand rests easy on his arm as you lean in and say something that makes him smile and Aegon watches from the shadow of a stone archway like he’s been struck across the face. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t call your name. Just stares. Watches the way you look up at this stranger, the way your shoulders relax, the way you smile without thinking. It’s not what you’re doing. It’s what you’re not. You’re not looking for him. You’re not waiting. You’re not his. And the ache it stirs in him is deep and sudden and stupid, because it’s not supposed to matter and it never has before and it shouldn’t now. But it does. And when you brush your hand over the man’s arm in farewell, when you step into the crowd without glancing back, it feels like a cut.

He’s waiting for you when you return. You know he will be. The air in the room is thick the moment you open the door. It clings to the walls, sticks to the back of your throat. You close it quietly behind you and don’t bother to ask why he’s here. He’s pacing, restless, his hands clenched at his sides, his face already tense and twisted like the words are fighting to get out. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, just spits it toward the floor like it’s an answer to a question he never meant to ask.

“You’re mine.”

You don’t blink. You don’t take a step forward or back. You just breathe in slow and let the words hang there between you for a moment, heavy and familiar and wrong. Then you say it. Calm. Final.

“No. I never was.”

The silence after that feels different. It isn’t cold. It isn’t loud. It just settles in the space between your bodies like ash. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick up to meet yours and he looks at you like he’s trying not to fall apart. There’s something ugly in his stare now, something raw, the beginnings of something that might break if he doesn’t hold it down.

“Why does it feel like you are?”

You don’t answer. You don’t speak at all. You just look at him and let the weight of the question settle in his chest like a stone. Let him carry it. Let him sit in the truth that he made this mess and now he wants you to tell him it means more than it does. Because he’s the one who came back. He’s the one who started asking by name. He’s the one who lingered too long and stared too hard and started treating you like a secret he didn’t want to admit to keeping. And now that he’s ruined himself with want, now that he’s seen you out in the world where he doesn’t own you, now he wants to rewrite the rules.

You just keep looking at him. And say nothing.

He sways where he stands like he might reach for you, like his hands are still trying to decide if they want to hold or destroy, but they stay at his sides. His mouth opens again, closes.” I would’ve,” he says. “If I had—if I could—”

You cut him off without raising your voice.

“You didn’t.”

He flinches like the words hit. Like he was hoping you’d be softer than that. You’re not.

And that’s where it ends.

Because he has no claim. Because wanting has never been enough.

You don’t see him for days after that. You don’t expect to. Some men leave angry. Some leave ashamed. He left with nothing at all. No closing words. No promises. Just silence, and the weight of all the things he never said when it would’ve mattered.

But then, one night, he comes again.

This time it’s different. No bravado. No wine on his breath. No coin pressed into the madam’s hand. He doesn’t ask for you by name. Doesn’t ask for anything at all. He just walks through the door like someone who’s wandered too far and doesn’t know where else to go. His eyes are quieter now. Dim. Like he burned through the last of his fire somewhere on the way here and all that’s left is smoke.

You’re alone in your room, the hearth burning low, the sheets still warm from someone else’s weight. He steps inside without knocking. Closes the door gently behind him. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

You just watch as he crosses the room like he’s unsure whether you’ll stop him, unsure whether you should. He sits in the chair by the window, the one he used to lean back in like a prince pretending he wasn’t, but this time he doesn’t touch the arms, doesn’t lean. Just sits with his hands in his lap, his shoulders folded inward, his eyes on the floor.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t ask what he wants.

You just sit too.

The silence stretches. Not sharp like it used to be. Not heavy. Just still. He breathes like it hurts to do it. Like every breath is a question he’s still trying to answer. It’s a long time before he speaks.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he says. “But it does.”

His voice is low. Raw around the edges. Like the words have been waiting in his chest for longer than he’s willing to admit. You don’t ask what he means. You already know. You don’t give him the comfort of saying it aloud.

Instead, you shift beside him, just enough to reach, and brush a lock of hair from his face, gentle and slow and unremarkable. His breath stutters.

“That’s not love, Aegon,” you say. “That’s wanting something you can’t keep.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to make it more than it is. He just nods, barely, eyes fixed on the dying fire like he’s watching something disappear.

You don’t touch again.You don’t speak.

You both sit in silence until the light begins to shift at the edge of the curtains. He stands before the sun has fully crested the sky. He doesn’t look at you when he leaves. Doesn’t say goodbye. Just pulls the door open like it weighs more than it should and walks out into the quiet.

You don’t follow. You don’t expect him back. He doesn’t come.

Days pass. Quiet ones. The room feels the same but lighter somehow, as if his absence left something behind even when he took nothing with him. You don’t ask about him. You don’t look for him. You keep the windows open more often. You stop pouring a second cup of wine.

And then, one morning, you find it.

You don’t hear the door open. Don’t feel a shift in the air. If he came, he didn’t stay long. The bed is untouched, the fire burned out, the scent of the room unchanged. But there it is, resting on the pillow like it had always belonged—one gold dragon, gleaming in the morning light, warm from the sun.

Not payment. Not really. You haven’t taken his coin in days. Haven’t let him buy what he never knew how to hold.

You sit at the edge of the bed and stare at it for a long time. You think about what it means. What it doesn’t. What it never was.

Then you pick it up, curl your fingers around the weight of it, and tuck it into your pocket.

You don’t ask the madam if he left it.

You don’t ask if he’s been back since.

And you don’t wait for him anymore.

87 notes · View notes

cosmitton · 9 months ago

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benjicot blackwood enemies/rival to lovers (?) with bracken!reader headcanons

A/N: I originally started writing this the day after the episode with “Benji” came out and never finished it until today, lol, so it’s not a very original idea. Sorry lol.

I know that he might not be Benji and that the show called him Davos, but idc idc idc. I think he fits as an aged-up Benji so that’s what he’ll be to me lol. Maybe if they give us actual Benji later in the show, I’ll come back to edit this to Davos. You can think of this as either Benji or Davos, it’s up to you but I’m referring to him as Benji.

Also, I can’t believe that the first thing I’m writing for HOTD is just because of this rabid squirrel that was on screen for maybe 5mins LMAO

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!F!Reader

Enemies/Rivals to Lovers(?)

Warnings: nsfw (not full-on smut, just a bit I think), a little violence, Benji being a little shit lol, reader is easily irritated oop-

As with pretty much everyone in House Bracken, you were raised to hate the Blackwoods

Regardless of whether or not anyone even remembered why at this point

As a woman, naturally there were a lot of people that opposed to you learning how to fight or participating in battle

No matter how hard you fought for it, it wasn’t your place

But you weren’t the type to just accept being pushed aside so easily

And, oddly enough, Benji was different from the other men you knew

He didn’t seem to care very much that you were a woman fighting, he just wanted someone to talk shit to

He cared more that you were a Bracken, and, even more than that, you were fun to fight and mess with

At this point, you couldn’t remember when or how this started, but it was a relatively regular occurrence for the two of you to butt heads

Occasionally coming to physical blows

Like right now

Benji really needed to learn how to shut up if he didn’t want to get punched in the face

Though he would probably say the same about you

Despite the fact that you both had swords you could’ve used, you both have a tendency to use fists with each other

“Here you spend all your time trying to prove yourself a fighter and that’s the best you can do? What a shame, Bracken.”

“Fuck yourself, Blackwood. You can prattle all you want but you have yet to draw blood when I have.”

Benji laughs, not even bothering to wipe that blood from his mouth

You try to ignore what the sight of him bloody does to you

“I’m merely being kind. We both know how much you enjoy having your hands on me. Who am I to deprive you?”

You can feel the heat creeping up your neck and into your face, but before you can respond, Benji is suddenly much closer to you

You didn’t realize how fast he could be

“Although, I’m sure we could figure out a much better way to have your hands on me if you’re so desperate.”

You’re stubbornly trying to ignore the feelings his deeper, raspy voice inspires in your belly

Instead you focus on the rage that hits you immediately

You’re both long past decorum at this point, so you don’t think twice before rushing him to tackle him to the ground

Benji’s still laughing, seeming to think this is all a game

You’re rolling around on the grass now, both of you trying to gain the upper hand on the other

For a moment, Benji uses his weight to pin you down

“I knew you couldn’t resist rolling around with me. We could find some place more comfortable-”

You bite his hand that’s pinning your shoulder

When he pulls away with a sound that’s halfway between amused and surprised, you throw your weight to roll him over

“Give up now, Blackwood, and I won’t cave your skull in.”

“You’d never harm my face, you enjoy it too much.”

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, would that you could back it up.”

“Oh, you like my mouth, don’t you, Bracken? Don’t worry, I could show you just how talented it is if you’re so interested.”

You go to punch him before you come to a realization

Benji’s just laying there

He isn’t even trying to get up or throw you off

“What are you doing?”

“What?”

“You’re not even attempting to push me off.”

Benji grins and you immediately regret asking in the first place

“Why would I? I can get on board with you being on top if you so wish to be.”

You’re exasperated, what did you expect

You roll your eyes, frustrated that you’re not getting anywhere with this

Ignoring that you’re also frustrated because of the images his words conjure and, he’s right, you wouldn’t mind being on top either

“You’re a fool.”

You get up to walk away from him

You should’ve expected that Benjicot Blackwood wouldn’t give up so easily

He scrambles to tackle you by the knees and you catch yourself before you faceplant into the ground

Benji’s weight lands against your back and presses your chest down, your arms folded between the grass and your body

“Blackwood! Get the fuck off of me!”

His laugh is right next to your ear now and you hate the way it sends a thrill down your spine

“Come now, little spitfire, you’re running already?”

“I’d never run from a craven like you! I’ve just decided you’re not worth my time.”

You’re trying to wriggle out from underneath him, embarrassed by the way the warmth of his body encompasses yours

“Careful, you might hurt my feelings.”

“I’ll hurt you in much worse ways than that if you don’t get up immediately.”

You try to push yourself up by your arms, but that just presses you against him even more

And he makes a noise that’s like a sigh and a groan

Gods

That noise should not make your face warm and your thighs tingle the way it does

You’re both frozen now, unsure what to do with that new development

He drops his head so that it’s pressed against your neck and shoulder now

“…Ben?”

“I told you to be careful…” his voice is much deeper now, and you can feel it rumble from his chest and through your back

You could also feel something pressed against your ass

“What are you doing?” You ask again, because you don’t know what else to say

“Nothing.” He replies, but you can feel his hands on your waist now

You refuse to acknowledge the fact that you’re not trying to get away from him anymore

His hands start to move slowly up toward your chest, as if giving you a chance to tell him to back off

You don’t

You can feel his breath against your skin from where his face is tucked against your neck still

You’re breathing hard by the time his hands reach your chest

You know he can feel it because you can feel his smile against you

But he’s breathing hard too

Still, the idea that he’s affecting you more than you’re affecting him annoys you so you press yourself back against him harder

You’re rewarded with the same low noise he made earlier and you feel the same tingles between your thighs

He must take this as a challenge, too, because one of his hands moves to your thigh and squeezes

“Must I warn you yet again to be careful?” Benji breathes

“You may as many times as you wish, however I may not listen.”

He laughs breathlessly and presses himself harder against you, pushing you against the ground

In response, you press back again

And you two continue like that, pushing and pulling like the ocean, rhythmic

His hand moves further up your thigh, pressing between them

Your legs part further without thought

You’re not thinking of much but Benji anymore

The movements of his hips are getting more frantic, his breathing heavier

His hand finally slips down the trousers you’re wearing to touch your skin directly

And you learn that Benjicot Blackwood doesn’t know how to shut up even now

“Gods, I always wondered how soft you’d be.”

“I knew you’d be so warm, I dreamt about it.”

“I bet you’re so beautiful, too. Pretty little princess.”

“So wet, gods, have you thought about this as much as I have?”

You wondered if he even knew what he was saying at this point, considering it all just sounded like rambling now

But you also couldn’t deny it, you had thought about this multiple times – even in your dreams

You have no awareness of how quiet or loud the noises you’re making might be right now

Probably for the best, though – you’d most likely be embarrassed

Either way, you know Benji can still hear you because he won’t stop smiling

If you weren’t so distracted by his fingers right now, you’d punch his smug face again

He’s lucky his hands make up for his personality

You’re almost nervous by the feeling that’s quickly creeping up on you right now – having never experienced it before and unsure of what exactly will happen

He must notice by the way that you’re squirming, almost trying to get away

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, “I’ve got you. I’m here, relax.”

You figure he must know more about it than you, which isn’t exactly surprising from what you’ve heard about what boys his age typically get up to at night

So you relax and give into the feelings he conjures in you with his fingers

He must be feeling similar things by the low moan-breaths he’s making and the quickening of his hips

You gasp, pressing your mouth against the back of your hand that grips the grass underneath you, when that building pressure finally snaps

Your thighs, almost on instinct, start to close around his hand that doesn’t stop moving between them

But his other hand moves to squeeze at your hip when his finally still, pressing his open mouth against your neck as he gasps lowly

His hips finally slow, seeming to come back to the world as you do

He’s still softly touching you, until you start to feel a bit too sensitive and squirm away

You’re both silent for a moment, aside from your harsh breaths

And now that you’re back to reality – you’re faced with one question more important than the others

Where do you two go from here?

#benjicot blackwood #benjicot blackwood x reader #davos blackwood #davos blackwood x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon imagine #hotd imagine #house of the dragon imagines #hotd imagines #my writing

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mermaidslabyrinth · 5 months ago

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I would LOVE to hear about your lil guys

Thank you for taking interest in something that I have cared for and put so much thought into for almost a good year.

Right now I have one (1) guy I am beyond obsessed with. I honestly could write/talk about everything about my HotD OMC. At the same time I really don’t know how to. Bc ever since I created my first OCs (like age 12) I’ve kept them to myself. So knowing that other ppl want to hear about them is foreign to me. But at the same time so validating and nice. It’s just scary to put oneself out there with someone/thing they cherish. Especially my guy bc…one of his relationships is one I honestly have not seen yet. And I can only put forth Targaryen incest and it’s fiction as a reason to a point. But I love it so and I love writing them.

His story came to me as all good stories do: lying in bed with no access to a computer. The phrase “He has a rage in his heart.” Came to my mind and here I am about 10 1/2 months later.

So, under the cut I will finally feel brave enough to talk a little about him.

The story takes place between 115 AC up to my character’s death. I’ve changed some birth dates, Viserys stays healthy longer, there is no Dance of Dragons. Most of my writing has been centered around 131 AC-146ish AC. That’s where the juiciest parts happen.

Daemon had a brief marriage between Rhea Royce and Laena Velaryon (less than a year). My OMC came from that short time.

Anyway…

My HotD OMC’s name is:

Rhagerys {Rage-air-es} ‘Rhage’ Targaryen. (His mother thought she was naming him the way of the Targaryen family does. Daemon wanted/was going to change it but tragedy happened and Daemon kept the name to honor Rhagerys’s mother).

Looks:

His left eye is green. His right eye is brown. Platinum white-blond hair. From age 15 on he always has a braid or braids in his hair in some way.

(The two ages listed are what I think the most when I picture him)

Age 15-16: He has just below shoulder length hair. He stands 6’4”. Delicate features.

Age 18 (and onward): His hair is just above hip length. He stands at 6’6” (but he definitely doesn’t act it. Especially around his father). His features are a bit sharper but softer than his father’s.

Personality (a small taste):

His personality is a mess. He can be calm one moment, full of rage the next. He's snide, sarcastic, and spiteful to a lot of people (he gets his sharp tongue from his father). But gentle and patient with children and some women. He has taught himself to act as if nothing bothers him. To look stoic in front of others.

It stems from his father, Daemon.

Daemon was able to get his heir and he was going to make sure his son was everything he wanted him to be. Everything he made him to be. But Rhagerys does have a fun, kind, protective side. Just only for people he has deemed ‘worthy’ of that side.

I don’t have a true pinpoint of Rhagerys’s sexuality. I feel it’s something in that time where it wouldn’t be thought on much. If asked Rhagerys would just shrug his shoulders and walk away or ignore the person.

His mother/her House:

I chose to have his mother, Igreyn Belmore (I created), be from/heir to House Belmore of the Vale. Not too much is known about that House so I ran with it. The only thing I that I made up about them was that their men are never shorter than 6’2” and their women are rarely shorter than 5’8”.

Rhagerys is also related to Rhaenyra through his maternal side. Rhagerys’s great grandsire was the third son (I created) of Rodrik Arryn. So the third Arryn boy was Aemma’s older half brother. Making Rhagerys and Rhaenyra double cousins.

Dragon:

He has a female dragon that is black/blue/purple named Starsong. She hatched the same day he was born. (There’s some sort of blood magic surrounding her. She grows quicker than a normal dragon [I needed her to for my story])

Plot Snippets (The bare bones):

Rhagerys had a normal/average childhood. He was very chivalrous and kind. Then his little family (Daemon, Rhaena, and himself [Baela is at Driftmark]) moved to Dragonstone when Daemon married Rhaenyra. Rhagerys was 12 (I bumped up/moved ages of the younger generation around).

From ages 13-15 Rhagerys was sent on progress to certain places in Westeros, see the realm that his ancestors conquered (He was sent away at the suggestion of Rhaenyra. They have a strained but amicable relationship).

He came back at age 15 changed, physically (he was around 5’0” at age 12 and when he returned to Dragonstone he was 6’4”) and mentally.

Daemon found out something about his son he did not care for (Rhagerys’s slight aversion/indifference to sex) and took matters into his own hands. Because Daemon was not going to let his heir, heir to Strongsong of House Belmore in the Vale, reject sex.

(If I was to describe Rhagerys’s view of sex it would be along the lines of: I don’t care. I just want the other person to be happy.)

~This is where it turns dark (Daemon is very manipulative and wicked at times in my story)~

Daemon teaches Rhagerys about sex. Hands on (won’t go fully into it). So, from ages 15-(I won’t give it away), father and son have a very secret/hidden sexual relationship. Rhagerys doesn’t hate it (most of the time), welcomes it at times. He sees it as a way to keep his father’s love and attention for him. If he pushes back, he gets set ‘right’ real quick. During those years Daemon manipulates and emotionally/mentally/physically beats Rhagerys down until he is what Daemon wants him to be. His. Daemon’s creation of the perfect Targaryen.

Then in the late spring of 134 AC the family from Dragonstone goes to King’s Landing (to put a stop Vaemond’s claim). Celebrate the defeat of the Triarchy in the Stepstones. Stay for three months.

There Rhagerys meets Aemond after 6 years. Both most definitely changed from when they were 12. A lot happens. Rhagerys finds a new purpose in life. Aemond. Doing anything and everything for Aemond.

The two of them become unhealthily committed to each other. Rhagerys will burn the world to the ground if Aemond deemed it so. While Aemond tries to cultivate, project himself upon how he sees/thinks Rhagerys is. How Rhagerys would want him (Rhagerys does the same).

At the same time Rhagerys has to balance his relationship with Daemon.

And that’s where I’ll stop with the plot points. I have more but I don’t want to give too much away or lay it all bare. I’ve written/created so much more. So much more happens before/in between/after. But I’m still trying to fully write those points. I have entire timelines for each decade/family trees/future generation planned/created and ready to go.

Right now I write mostly about Rhagerys between the ages 15-20. That time period has captured my attention for a while now.

So, that’s the basics of my HotD OMC. I will at some point around the new year (fingers crossed) have a pinned post about him. A little layout of who he is. With links to Pinterest/music list of my story.

I'll be real, idk if I’ll ever put the story on the internet, in any form, but to be able to talk about him, put him out into the world. By making tags, Pinterest boards, and writing for myself has really brought me such joy.

I apologize if this was too long. But it’s been marinating in my mind for a long time. Thank you, again, for asking me a question I thought I’d never be asked. 🌈 @emilykaldwen you are too kind to ask. I do hope it wasn't too long winded or too much.

#I am nervous but grateful #I have been on this website for over 11 years (lurked for a good year before I joined)#And this is the first time I have felt part of tumblr #The HotD fandom for all its flaws has given me an opportunity to feel accepted #So many great ppl are here and I have followed (been followed back [to my surprise] by such wondrous ppl)#So many ppl I have interacted with are so kind and really caring #I may sound a bit sappy but I never had this kind of community growing up. No one I was friends with was into anything I was #And I was beyond shy to reach out to others via the internet. But now I’ve grown (mentally/emotionally) and realized I have to take chances #And it’s all thanks to the HotD fandom #It’s all thanks to Ewan Mitchell and how he portrayed Aemond Targaryen that I know so many ppl that I will remember for years to come #Aemond Targaryen my little war criminal #Daemon Targaryen certified war criminal #HotD #My HotD OMC #Fandoms #Happy Moments #Sweet Moments #My HotD OMC Basics

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feyhunter78 · 2 years ago

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20 Fanfic Questions

Thank you for the tag @cchickki this was so fun!!!!

1.) How many works do you have in AO3?

I have 22!

2.) What's your total AO3 words count?

My total is 509,650 words

3.) What fandoms do you write for?

You can find the link here!!!

4.) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

In order, it is 1.) Pink Pastels 2.) The Dowager Queen 3.) Orange Blossoms 4.) Among the Sun 5.) Trials of Tributes

5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes!!! I love getting comments, they literally make my day, encourage me, and one or two have almost made me cry from how sweet they were🥺

6.) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

It would be my only angst fic, But Darling (I’d Still Die For You)

7.) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oooooo so this is a tie between Moonflowers and the ending I’m thinking about for Pink Pastels

8.) Do you get hate on fics?

I have before, usually it’s super dumb, and I screenshot it and send it to @celestialsolstice, so we can tear it apart together

9.) Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Y’all know I dooooo, but I write sweet smut! Nothing too harsh, no degradation or violence, just two people who care about each other

10.) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I do not and have not

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge, but I live in constant fear that someone has put Pink Pastels in an AI somewhere

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?

In the very beginning when my only fic was Poisoned Tears and Scorched Tongues someone asked if they could, but I was super new to AO3 and thought it was a scam, so I never responded💀

13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Lollll nothing that’s been published, but back in the day me and @celestialsolstice started writing a “sister of Markiplier” fic. It was not that good for what I remember, we’re both much better writers now😂

14.) What's your all-time favourite ship?

Honestly it used to be Nalu, but now it’s Dani x Pelle from Midsommer every fic I’ve read about them is a fucking masterpiece😭

15.) What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Definitely Hold My Heart (Between Your Teeth), and Turn of the Tide, Call of the Sea. They both had such a good premises, but I just lost their plots entirely and cannot muster up the energy to finish them

16.) What are your writing strengths?

I think it’s my prose, and my ability to switch between writing styles, aka modern for Pink Pastels and “old English” for HOTD and Among the Sun. People compliment me on the flow and word usage in my writing, which always make so, so happy!!!!

17.) What are your writing weaknesses?

I don’t plan and if I do, it’s so messy, I just sit and write. Also, thigh riding, dirty talk from reader’s perspective (IMO) and descriptions of objects and/or places. I’m not good at describing settings, y’all😭

18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

For Spanish, I use Spanish Dictionary, my shitty public school Spanish education and my readers. I double-check the translation by running it through twice and sometimes breaking the sentence down to make sure I’m using the right word😂

19.) First fandom you wrote for?

First one I put something out publicly for was HOTD, first fic I ever wrote was for DC Legends of Tomorrow

20.) Favorite fic you've ever written?

Honestly as chaotic as it was Targaryen Inc was so much fun to write, it was off the rails batshit crazy, but I loved it

I’ll no pressure tag @celestialsolstice, @dilf-superiority and @dapper-zappa

#meg talks #tag game!!!#the amount of words I had on AO3 SHOCKED ME

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redahlia-writes · 2 years ago

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dark sonnet. (part two) | aemond targaryen

part 1

Abstract: During his studies, Aemond had come across countless stories of love and passion, both salvation and ruin of men and women and empires as well. He’d never paid it too much mind, never really cared because he’d never known what it meant. And then he’d realised - it meant don’t leave me alone.

Words: 9.5K

Content: f!reader (can be read as oc, no use of y/n / her hair is dyed red, no mentions of natural hair colour); canon typical everything - allusions to rape and an abusive family, hands, a lot of imagery and flowery language, scars, characters are aged up, smut, canon? we don’t know her, blood ritual, some odd family dynamics but it’s hotd so what can you do

A/N: i will admit i feel like there’s a lot more i could write about these two, some situations left unanswered and incomplete that just won’t fit in the narrative - i doubt i’ll turn this into a series (life is a bitch and i have so little time) but i am always willing to talk about my darlings. loosely based on neil gaiman’s poem dark sonnet. translation for high valyrian will be at the end

also on AO3 - masterlist

feedback is always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

He began dreaming of roses.

When she was in his bed - trapped by his arms, no matter her weak protests and reprimands - he buried his nose in her hair, or the crook of her neck; when she managed to escape him, or convinced him Helaena would call - she always did, he wasn’t sure how she knew with absolute certainty - her scent lingered on his covers. His beautiful rose, he said - ñuha gevie rēko, whispered on her skin, murmured between her thighs.

So he began dreaming of roses, and seek her out in his sleep, too, because in those moments she was his and his only, and she wouldn’t worry as much if it was just the two of them in his room. Outside those walls, she was Helaena’s - outside, they lived of stolen moments, nights tucked away.

“Do you believe Helaena would not understand?” the Weirwood tree was their only shelter when the sun was still out, sitting side by side with the Gods watching their backs. She was always more guarded than him, more careful and aware of their surroundings, and though their hands would touch at times - a brush, a stroke, locking fingers before parting again - she mostly kept hers into her lap. He watched her pick at her fingers nervously whenever someone walked by, even though they were hidden enough, and he was never able to stop himself from reaching over, taking her hand in his. “That she would not like this?”

“This?” she smiled almost slyly, though her eyes darted past his shoulder, past her shoulder. “Do not tease,” he warned quietly, bringing her hand up to his mouth - that was when her gaze lingered, enraptured by the movement, the softness of it.

“I was led to believe you liked when I teased, my prince,” always my prince when out of the shelter of his room - never his name. He longed to hear it all day long, waited for the safety of the night to draw it out of her, over and over and over.

“Not when I cannot have you, no,” he hummed, turning her arm to kiss her wrist, right underneath where her sleeve ended. She sighed, eyes fluttering shut at the warmth of his lips. “Do you truly wish to hear me say it?” he shifted closer, trailing kisses up her arm from above her dress. He did not wait for an answer, reaching up her shoulder to whisper close to her ear, “Would my sister not like knowing I desire no other person but you?”

“My prince,” she warned, her voice a little breathy, struggling to open her eyes again. “We’re outside - anyone could walk by.” “Let them,” he shrugged, and before she could protest again he’d kissed her.

Her body betrayed her, softening beneath his touch, mellowing at his kiss - she sighed against his lips, the hand she’d been keeping in her lap moving up towards his face. She cupped his cheek, a gentle caress across his jaw as he pushed himself closer, so close their thighs were pressed together, his torso twisted to an almost uncomfortable degree.

Uncaring, he prodded her mouth with the tip of his tongue, tasting sugar on her lips - from the cakes Helaena had shared with her, he knew - before she parted them, relenting. As he deepened the kiss, he let his hand fall to her leg, kneading the flesh of her thigh when she locked her knees together.

“Don’t,” she murmured against his mouth, hand on his shoulder as if to push him back but not quite. With a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, he slid his fingers between her legs, the skirt of her dress wrinkling under his touch. “Not here.”

“Why not?” he pulled away from the kiss fully, glanced down at her reddened lips. He remained close enough the tip of her nose brushed his, still letting his hand travel up to her core, even through her layers of clothing. “I could take you in front of the entire court,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Claim you as my own - let every person know who you belong to.”

“Claim me?” she scoffed, though it came out a little breathless, shifting beneath his touch as her cheeks grew bright with colour. “Have you mistaken me for one of your dragons, my prince?” she sighed when he curled his fingers into the folds of her skirt, applying pressure to her centre, tipping her head back as her eyes fluttered shut.

“My jorrāeliarza,” he uttered the words, lips finding home on her neck, over the sweet spot that made her heart race.”My beloved, for all to witness, to know.”

She guarded his name like a secret, had never dared saying it out loud around others ever since their first night together - it carried too much, tasted too sweet on the tip of her tongue. So she kept it tucked away, a pocket of her heart only he could reach for, every night, drawing it out of her like a God with his prayers.

“Aemond,” no one had ever said his name so softly, never had it carried such tenderness.

It was not his voice that responded, calling out for her from the other side of the tree, but Helaena’s. She gasped, the spell broken, eyes widening as the prince reluctantly pulled back, quick to get on his feet and put some distance between the two of them - if he remained too close, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to not reach for her again. Just as she smoothed her skirt down, the princess came up from behind the tree, and took in her brother with a surprised look in her eyes.

“There you are, sister,” he forced himself to not look down towards her, focusing only on Helaena. “I was wondering where you’d gone, leaving your companion behind on such a lovely day.”

“I was with mother,” he knew, had watched her walk into the queen’s room and reached the gardens immediately, knowing he’d find the other woman there. “And she is not a pet, I am not leaving her,” those were the few times the princess would get defensive - he had seen her silence lords, ladies, Aegon himself, just for an unfavourable word said against her friend.

“Princess, it’s all right,” she said, her voice still a little breathy. Helaena turned her gaze to her and frowned slightly, getting closer and crouching down.

“Your face is burning,” she commented quietly, reaching for her cheek with the back of her hand. “Have you stayed in the sun for too long?” Aemond was quick to mask his snort with a cough, clearing his throat right after. “I must have, surely,” she shook her head lightly, then smiled up at her. “I’m fine, Helaena, just a little flushed.”

“Hm,” she said, a proper imitation of her brother - her brother, still standing a few steps behind. He understood why she was so worried of Helaena finding them out - why she would sacrifice them if it meant not losing the princess, and he couldn’t fault her for it. “Let’s get you inside then, it is too warm for me in any case.”

He watched her get up, brushing her skirt with one hand while with the other she helped Helaena - never touching her first, always waiting for the princess to do it on her own accord, to initiate it. She was so preoccupied with her, she did not even notice the spider crawling up her side, onto her hand and arm.

“You have a -” he took a step in her direction, then thought better of it, and when she turned her head to look at him, a perplexed look in her eyes, he gestured to her arm, the animal still making its way across her dress.

“Oh,” she disentangled herself from Helaena, moving her hand in front of the creature - it crawled on her hand, back to palm and back again, past her fingertips and down again before she moved it in the princess’ direction, unfazed as it crawled onto the other’s awaiting palm. “Shall we?” enthralled by the spider, Helaena only nodded, turning in Aemond’s direction.

“Mind the fall with her,” she said, to no one in particular, and then began walking in the direction she’d come from, back towards the entrance. Aemond’s mouth parted to say goodbye, but cut himself off when she met his gaze one last time, already walking away as well.

A look - it was all they needed, all they’d learned to need. A glance, eyes meeting across a room for the briefest of moments to convey a message of a thousand words. The hint of a smile, perhaps, never too much, never too obvious, always easy to mask. One look to say it all, one look to say things they would never be able to express out loud. They didn’t need to.

During his studies, Aemond had come across countless stories of love and passion, both salvation and ruin of men and women and empires as well. He’d never paid it too much mind, never really cared because he’d never known what it meant. And then he’d realised - it meant don’t leave me alone.

Worse than the nights he had to spend alone were the days with her just out of reach - always there, always so close but never enough. He would try to make the most of the nights they did spend together, holding her always a little tighter, but it never felt enough. Not when she bowed her head each time he walked by and everybody else was around. Not when he noticed Aegon’s gaze wandering - a remark when it was just the four of them, rage flickering in her eyes even though she did not reply. He wished to be the one comforting her, not see Helaena be the one.

At night he would try to soothe the anger still coursing through her veins - she always kissed him back with a little more intensity on those nights, tried to burn the feeling away, tried to lose herself in him instead. He could only love her a little harder then, hold her a little tighter. She would not let him pity her, had made that abundantly clear. She would not let his brother come between them, nor ruin the perfect moments they cut out for themselves.

Aemond couldn’t bear it - that feeling of helplessness whenever her jaw locked, her gaze lowered. He wanted to walk around court and see her keep her head up, that defiant look in her eyes he’d been met with over and over, the same look he’d fallen for.

Fallen for her, his fearless goddess with flaming hair.

“Marry me,” he whispered into the crook of her neck as he held her close, arms caging her frame on top of him. She stilled with a gasp, fingers digging a little harder in his shoulders as she steadied herself after stopping the rocking of her hips.

“What?” she was panting a little, pulling her head back to look down at him. Her walls fluttered around his length when he shifted a little, a throaty sound stuck in her chest.

“Marry me,” he repeated, bringing one hand up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear - a gentle touch only she had known. A touch he wished for no one else to know. “Be my lady wife - aren’t you tired of sneaking around?”

“I am,” she seemed surprised by her own answer, and her gaze flickered away from him. Any other time it would’ve felt ironic - him, buried deep inside her and her not being able to hold his gaze. This time, however, Aemond’s heart stuttered. “But I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” can’t he thought, not don’t want to - could he cling to hope, he wondered? Could he be a fool for a while longer?

“I have no name, Aemond,” she said his name with tenderness, one hand moving to the back of his head, a soothing, gentle touch. “It is one thing for me to be Helaena’s companion, another to spend the nights with you - she chose me, and -”

She was cut off by his arms locking around her again, flipping them over - the motion made her eyes flutter shut as a heavy sigh fell from her lips. He pushed her with her back fully against the bed, canting his hips into hers.

“I choose you,” he retorted, one arm at the side of her head to hold himself slightly lifted. “I don’t want just nights with you - and I don’t care about your name, or titles, ot whatever the fuck people might think or say.” “I know you don’t,” she brushed her hand through his unbound hair, slow and gentle and still soothing. “But you’re still a prince - you can’t marry someone like me.”

“You’re right, I am a prince,” he bowed his head to kiss her jaw, shifting his hips again flush against hers - she held back a cry, head tipped back. “Which means I can do what I want,” another thrust, another kiss to her throat. “Marry whomever I wish to marry.”

“Aemond,” she heaved, nails scratching his scalp, lingering on the strap of his eyepatch. They’d fallen into each other so quickly that night he hadn’t even stopped to take it off as he’d grown used to when in her presence.

“Say you don’t want to marry me, and I’ll understand,” he let his hand move down her side, a butterfly touch that almost tickled her, down to her thigh, hitching her leg against his side. With the motion, he pushed himself deeper, and she stuttered a moan - the beginning of his name as he rocked into her, slow and deep. “I’ll keep you like this, or let you go completely, whatever it is you desire,” she arched up to meet him. “Just say the word.”

“I can’t,” her breath caught as he snapped his hips back into hers. “I can’t say that. I can’t say I don’t want to,” it felt easier to admit her desires with her eyes closed, arm locking behind his shoulders as his head fell back to the crook of her neck, lips brushing her pulse. “But it’s a fantasy, my love.”

Had she ever said it before? My love. Had she ever said it out loud? Love - what an odd concept for the reality they lived in. And yet, how else to describe the aching in his ribs when he could not touch her, hold her, kiss her as the sun kissed her, too? How else to justify the strength it took her to keep her eyes down, keep herself quiet, never reach for him when she needed him the most?

“’Tis not,” he argued, fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh - there’d be marks later, there always were, carefully hidden in places where his sister or mother would not see, and it would drive him insane, not being able to show it off. He looked up to her, her eyes still closed, and shifting most of his weight on his elbow he brushed the side of her jaw. “Not if you tell me you want it, too. Because I do - so desperately.”

“Aemond,” her whisper turned into a cry, head tilting to lean into his touch.

“I want you to be my wife,” he went on, each sentence a roll of his hips against hers, a pressure so blissful it made her legs lock at his sides. “I want everyone to know whom I belong to. To have you by my side, always, and be able to touch you whenever I wish to,” she shuddered underneath him, biting her lip to keep the noises at bay. “If you want to, say it. Just say it. Please.”

“I do,” she opened her eyes, rapidly blinking as she slipped one finger underneath the strap of his eyepatch. “Seven Hells - you won’t even let me catch my breath?” the prince grinned, shaking his head a little, kissing her with the smile still on his lips - sloppy, all teeth and tongue as he thrust into her again, a little stronger than before.

She moaned into his mouth, arching up to meet him as she slipped the eyepatch from his head, letting it fall at their side before burying her hand back into his hair, pulling on his roots as he rocked into her again, and again, and again. She gasped when he pulled away from her lips, latching onto her neck right away, lips pressed to her pulse. Always so careful to hide his signs on her body, her words pushed him over the line he had not crossed yet, sucking onto the soft skin - harsh, until he knew a purple mark would stick, where it could not be hidden.

“Ñuhon,” whispered, over and over again through quick pecks down her throat, her chest as she cried out again, gripping him tightly and holding him close, riding her high with trembling thighs until she went limp beneath him, still panting. Mine, mine, mine as he came after her with a groan of his own.

“How am I supposed to explain this to your mother?” there was a hazy look in her eyes when she tilted her head to expose her neck, the skin raw and red, bruise already blossoming beneath. Aemond chuckled, the vibration travelling down her body where they were still locked together, making her hiss softly.

Holding himself over her with one arm, purposefully canting his hips into her, still sensitive, she clenched around him, and he took hold of her chin, turning her head until she was looking up at him again with her eyes wide open, that wild look in her eye that always got him reeling. He brought his thumb to her bottom lip, dragging it down a little.

“I will speak to her first thing in the morning,” her breath fanned hot across the pad of his finger, a quiet exhale at his words. “Tell her you will be my wife,” he brushed his thumb from one corner of her mouth to the other as he slipped out of her. Her lips parted furthermore at the movement, the friction making her groan softly. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys.”

“Aemond, you’re -” “Yours,” he moved his hand from her face, down her neck, chest, between the valley of her breasts, touches that made goosebumps raise across her skin, her legs falling at each of her sides. “You worry too much, jorrāeliarza,” he said then, shifting to her side.

She followed him, turning to face him, one hand falling to his chest and curling above his heart while the other reached up to his face, her ring finger brushing the edge of his scar lightly as he rubbed her side, the sore spots on her hips.

“And you, not enough,” she retorted, her voice soft. “It is all nice in theory, but your mother might not like the idea - it is very likely she will not,” he turned his head, kissing her wrist. “And what about Helaena? What if she -” her words were muffled by his mouth pressing on hers again. “No, do not try to fuck me out of thinking -” he kissed her again, a little chuckle against her lips before pulling back, grinning at her glare.

“Do you wish to marry me?” she went to reply right away, and he was quick to put his hand over her mouth, gaining another annoyed look. “Yes or no, I won’t hear anything else,” he warned, slowly moving his fingers from her lips.

“Yes,” she said quietly, and he smiled, bowing his head towards hers. “But -” “Enough fussing, litse mēre,” he kissed her shoulder, quickly glancing at the mark getting darker on her neck with a self-satisfied grin. “I have something for you.”

“What?” she frowned, watching him get up from her side. She reached for the covers, pulling them up to her chest as she sat on the edge of the bed with a little groan, the soreness spreading to her limbs. She rolled her shoulders, her neck, still keeping an eye on him.

Aemond had reached the table by the fireplace, usually occupied with books, and was already making his way back with his hands behind his back - she tilted her head, curiosity shimmering in her eyes. He kept his gaze on her as he moved back in front of her, then knelt by the bed, movements graceful before placing himself between her knees covered by the sheets. Her eyes danced from his shoulder - still attempting to get a peek - to his face, expectantly.

“Give me your hand,” he said softly, moving just one hand from behind his back, palm facing up towards the ceiling. She frowned at him again, and his smile only widened, amused. “You trusted me with Vhagar, have a little faith now, will you?”

“A dragon is less unpredictable than you are,” she scoffed, but rested her hand on his, palm against palm, her skin already colder than his. He snorted, bowing his head to kiss her ring finger before producing, from behind his back, a circlet.

He felt her hold her breath as he slowly put it on her, the thin band fitting smoothly past her knuckles, shining brightly against her skin. Her eyes were fixed on it, fingers flexing lightly over his palm and making the light hit the small violet and blue stones with each movement.

“It’s Valyrian steel,” he spoke in a low voice, thumb brushing her fingertips as silence enveloped them. She hadn’t as much as breathed again, gaze unwavering on their joined hands. “You know I am partial to sapphires, but you mentioned amethysts that first night, and I thought -” he shrugged lightly, running his thumb quickly over the ring, making it twist a little around her finger. Still, she remained silent, and the prince sighed. “Do not leave me in agony - say something.”

“You have actually thought about this,” her voice was unbelievably small, and she let her gaze flicker up, then back down to her hand. “You - have you truly been thinking about marriage?” she sounded baffled, and Aemond arched his eyebrows a little.

“Of course,” he reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, head tilting slightly to the side. “Haven’t you?” she leaned into his touch, a motion so familiar to him.

“I never dared,” her confession held a note of sadness that he wished to wipe away desperately, his hand cradling her cheek as she kept her gaze low. “Had I allowed myself to entertain the thought, it would’ve destroyed me, and I couldn’t -” she shook her head, bringing the un-ringed hand over his on her face. “You think me unafraid for facing a dragon, for looking at you when no one else would - but this terrifies me. Desiring you was bold enough, but to be your wife?” she lingered on the word, eyes widening as it turned in her mouth, unfamiliar yet warm. “The mere thought makes me ache.”

“You told me there’s more to me - to us - than blood and bone. More than mere physical needs, and I -” his pinky brushed the side of her neck, tracing the edge of the bruise in the shape of his lips, words sitting on the tip of his tongue. “You were meant for more than the shadows, and I want to give you that. Not as my paramour, but as my bride,” he brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing where the ring sat with a whisper. “Ñuha ābrazȳrys.”

“You want an awful lot, my prince,” a timid smile made its way across her lips, and he did not even try to hold back his. He let go of his hand to wrap his arm around her, pulling her closer to the edge of the bed - she let both her arms fall to his shoulders, head slightly bowed to look at him. “My love,” whispered, as her fingers ran through the tips of his hair.

“Say you do,” a kiss to her chest, covers falling from her body. “Say you will,” a kiss to her shoulder, head tilting back to meet her eyes. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I do,” she didn’t hesitate again, though her heart stuttered with fear and excitement alike. “I will marry you.”

Alicent knew her son - for years, the closest relationship she’d had was with Aemond.

He was far from being an open book to her, she could rarely tell what he thought or felt. But she knew when he was mulling over something, could see it on his face, playing out as silence enveloped them - it wasn’t bothersome, wasn’t resentful, but it carried a weight that could linger only so much before starting to feel too much.

“Alright,” she sighed, leaning towards him, breaking the quiet. “Out with it, what is it?” he looked at her, and for the first time he seemed worried - immediately, it started gnawing at Alicent’s insides, the absence of reply from her son only worsening the feeling. “Aemond?”

“It’s about Helaena’s companion,” he kept his voice low and even, hand wrapping around the armrest of the chair once, twice, a drumming as he said her name, voice so soft Alicent had to sit back with a frown across her brow.

“Alright,” she repeated, tone measured. “What happened?” “Well, we - I -” he exhaled, turning his head a little and drumming his fingers again. She watched him carefully - Aemond had never stuttered, never hesitated with his speech, Gods knew his bluntness had caused enough problems.

“Is she alright?” Alicent asked, the nail of her middle finger digging into the pad of her thumb before she got up. “I won’t send her away, Aemond. She’s been too precious for us, for Helaena, I cannot -” she moved towards the door, back towards him, to the door again. “If anything happened, just -”

“No, mother, it’s not like that,” he said suddenly, urgently, and a flicker of panic crossed his face as he stood as well. Alicent brought one hand to her chest, relieved and regretful equally - because she’d grown too used to think the worst of every situation, yet whatever it was still weighed on Aemond, so much so he could not look at her. “I -” he stood in front of her, his head slightly lowered as he hesitated again. “I love her.”

The words were odd and heavy in his mouth, as realisation that that was the first time he said it out loud settled on him, and the truth of it made his shoulders sag, even as his mother stared up at him, wide eyes unblinking with stupor.

“I have no intention of making her a side figure in my life,” he went on. “Nor to hide her.”

“What are you saying?” she shook herself a little, though the sentence alone was enough to ricochet through her bones for days to come. Such sincerity, such feeling she’d never heard him - or anyone else, for the matter - express.

“I intend to marry her - with or without your blessing,” he said, more like the usual Aemond, chin raised and back straight, as if taking pride in his statement - all the while, his gaze softened. “Though I would very much prefer it if you did approve.”

“You -” Alicent arched her eyebrows, stepping back towards her chair with hesitant steps. “Oh, dear,” she sat down, leaning back and lifting her hand to her head, as if to hold it up.

“We have been otherwise intertwined for the past few months,” his mother scrunched up her nose at his words, pressing her middle finger between her eyebrows with a sigh.

“I know, you needn’t say more about that,” she waved her hand as if dismissively, and it was the prince’s turn to frown. “You know?”

“I am not blind, Aemond. And I’m your mother,” she dropped both hands in her lap, tilting her head to look up at him. “I knew there was something between the two of you already. I just did not expect it’d come to marriage,” she almost muttered the last phrase, turning her head a little before her face lit up again with worry. “Does she know you’re asking this?”

“She does,” that seemed to relieve the queen a little, shoulders sagging with her exhale. “But you knew? And you said nothing?”

“She came to me once - very early on her days here, terrified, because -” Aemond sat down slowly, and she followed the movement of his hands wrapping around the armrests, knuckles turning white. “Aegon had ripped part of her dress trying to grab her, and she’d hit him back,” surprisingly, a little smile caught on his mother’s lips, though she was quick to mask it. “She wanted to apologise for doing so, said she’d understand if we’d send her away, or anything else that might come her way.”

“I don’t understand where -” she lifted her hand to quieten him, Aemond sealing his lips shut.

“She was not afraid of Aegon’s reaction, nor mine - she did not want to leave Helaena alone,” at that, Alicent lowered her gaze, twisting her hands a little. “At first I let her stay because Helaena adored her. And then because it was nice having someone to talk to, and I like her. And I know Aegon hasn’t let go of it.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you knew, mother,” he pointed out, carefully, keeping his anger in check. Alicent’s eyes were on his hands, still tightly holding the armrests.

“I know because I know you,” she said softly, giving him a tentative smile. “You haven’t been subtle, Aemond, not with the way you look at her,” his lips parted, as if to argue, but when he met his mother’s gaze he bit his tongue. “She hasn’t said a single ill word about you - she’s kept you like a secret, just as you have tried. But marriage? How did it get to this?”

Suddenly, Aemond was a child again, unsure of what was the right thing to say - he shrugged lightly, tapping his fingers. He wasn’t sure he could explain it, that that was the only thing that had made sense in a few months; that had she refused him he would’ve understood, but wouldn’t have known how to move on; that he wanted it so much it was burning him from inside out.

“I feel about her the same way I felt after claiming Vhagar,” he said carefully, and the smile on Alicent’s lips widened a bit. “This constant euphoria that makes my heart race. But at the same time,” he tilted his head a little, fingers curling, “as if I can just be.”

His mother did not reply - she leaned over the armrest of her chair, reaching for him with her eyes shimmering slightly. It was a look he thought he’d never seen on her face, and it puzzled him as she took his hand and squeezed, hard, her ring pushing into his knuckles.

“I’m happy for you, my darling,” her voice was gentle, head slightly tilted. Aemond did not remember the last time his mother had looked serene, if ever. He watched her prepare to speak again, only to be interrupted by a knocking on the door - she frowned, ever so lightly, and pulled her hand back from him. He knew she’d done it for his sake, wished she hadn’t as she called, “Come on in.”

She stepped inside, hair unbound except for two small braids connected at the back of her head, the neckline of her dress high - to which Aemond grinned, thinking about her fussing over the mark on her neck in the morning in front of his mirror, sending him a glare when he’d said how much it suited her. Her gaze was lowered to a bundle of letters in her hands.

“My queen, I was -” she looked up, temporarily triumphant with the paper she intended to find in her hand, only for her gaze to settle on Aemond - a split second, nothing longer, then back to the queen, then down again. “Apologies, your highness, I shall come back later.”

“Jorrāeliarza,” Aemond called, unable to keep the amusement in his voice. There was a softness to the word which told Alicent more than what knowing the meaning of it would’ve - he watched them look at each other a moment too long, Aemond with glee, the woman with a hint of worry. “I told her.”

“You -” she stammered, eyes widening a little. He watched her pick at her fingers, just as Alicent watched the new ring on her, eyebrows arching a little. She rocked a little side to side, flinching when she pulled too hard on the skin and drew blood around her fingernail, just as she met the queen’s gaze. “Oh.”

“Come sit,” Alicent told her softly, and before she could gesture to the empty chair, Aemond had gotten up, leaving the spot for her. She hesitated for a moment, then reached the chair with a single glance in the prince’s direction - his expression had softened as he followed her with his gaze, standing by the chair. “You have nothing to worry about, darling girl. I don’t think I could oppose your union even if I wanted to,” she smiled as she said it.

“Then there is something I must tell you, my queen,” she said slowly, her hands clasped on her lap, thumb pushing and turning the ring on her finger. “Though I do hope my past insincerity won’t change your judgement as it is now.”

Alicent’s eyes flickered to Aemond - but he was only looking at her, eye locked on the side of her face. He kept one arm behind his back, while slowly, ever so carefully, reaching for her shoulder with his other one. She leaned towards his touch, so rapidly and on instinct the queen believed she did not even realise, though some tension seemed to leave her posture.

“Alright, then,” she nodded in encouragement, brow pinched.

And she told her everything - her family, her betrothal, her almost wedding, the man’s illness, the beatings, the abuse, the scars, all the reasons why she’d reacted the way she had at Aegon’s touch, at his insistence. As she spoke, Aemond’s hand travelled upwards, caressing the back of her neck, brushing her hair gently, soothingly. He’d heard it all before, scattered through sleepless nights and stolen moments of the days, had wished to hunt down all the people that had touched her, hurt her, wronged her. Alicent saw it all on his face, a lingering rage brought forth by nothing but the affections he had for the girl.

By the time she was done, she’d leaned almost fully into Aemond’s support, his body standing straight at the side of the chair, his hand now resting on her opposite shoulder, holding her to him in a half hug. As Alicent got up, she wondered if they even realised they’d been seeking each other out for consolation. The queen crouched in front of her, watched her eyes widen slightly as she took her hands gently.

“I have always thought you were an extraordinary woman,” she told her, thumbs tracing her maimed fingertips. “I’m glad my Aemond has found you - but this won’t be easy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be,” she replied right away, Aemond’s grip tightening for a moment. “Good,” she nodded, just once, squeezing her hands before standing. “You’ve been at court long enough to know you’ll be watched, and studied - don’t let them win.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, a little tearful, the queen’s touch lingering on her skin. “I have just one request,” she said after a moment, looking first at her, then turning to Aemond - a request for them both. Frowning a little, he nodded, and watched as her hand rose to his, gently brushing the tip of her fingers to his knuckles. “Could I be the one to tell Helaena? Alone? I believe she’s expecting me.”

“Are you -” Alicent began to ask, but noticed the determination in her eyes right away - so similar to Aemond’s, two flames from the same fire, burning brighter together. She sighed, nodded again. “Of course.”

She stood at last, gratefulness in her eyes as she held the queen’s hands again - just a moment, a silent thank you that words could not express. Aemond’s touch lingered on her, an odd sense of peace settling in his bones. Even as he watched her turn her head towards him, say nothing else, escape his touch; even as he watched the door close behind her; even as he wished he’d held her a while longer. She was no longer his secret, he was no longer hers.

“She has quick steps,” Alicent said, bringing his attention to her. “What?” he frowned, unsure he’d heard her correctly.

“She walks fast - she’ll be to Helaena’s room quickly, and who knows when they’ll come out,” the queen shrugged, her son still looking at her perplexed - she sighed, shaking her head a little. Young love, she thought, how she wished she’d known it properly. “Go on then, go after her,” she waved her hand with a scoff.

Aemond grinned, wide and unabashed, unrestrained joy that shimmered in his eye and made Alicent’s heart swell. How could he ever think he’d deny him this? He moved towards the door, long and quick steps to reach it hurriedly, but stopped midway - turned, moved back to his mother with the same haste. He kissed her cheek, hands on her elbows, so abruptly she yelped in surprise - before she could say more he was outside, the silent thanking like a mark on the woman’s face.

Uncaring of questions or raised brows, he ran after her, cutting a corridor or two to get to Helaena’s rooms faster - he expected to catch her on the last step, have to argue with her about getting just one kiss in broad daylight now that his mother knew. Instead, she stood perfectly still in front of the door, and the tension in her shoulders told him of her hesitancy.

“I do hope you’re not having second thoughts now,” he called, softly enough she did not startle, reaching her side. His hand found the small of her back, head tilting to look at her expression - while she twisted her hands again, her brow was pinched, cheeks hollowed. “I believe my mother is already planning the event. I would tell her to keep it small, but I doubt that’d be of any use,” he smiled, hand travelling up to in between her shoulders, rubbing soothing circles on her tense muscles. When she didn’t reply, he stepped a little closer, pressing against her side. “What is it, litse mēre?”

“What if Helaena isn’t happy?” she blurted out, fingers flexing in front of her, taking half a step back and bumping into him, then immediately forward, face falling in defeat. “What if she doesn’t like the idea of us being together? Of us being married? What if -” she groaned a little, frustrated, lowering her gaze to her hands.

With his free hand, Aemond hooked his finger under her chin, tilting her head back enough that she was looking up at him, her nostrils flaring, eyelids trembling. He leaned in a little, waited for her to pull back - when she did not move, the prince kissed her softly, just once, then rested his forehead against hers.

“She’ll understand,” he reassured in a whisper, and the woman sighed, eyes screwed shut. “I just don’t want her to be unhappy,” she admitted, hand finding purchase on Aemond’s arm, tucking it against her chest. “I don’t think I could bear it.”

For a moment, Aemond found it almost funny that she feared the princess’ reaction more than she’d feared the queen’s judgement. He thought about what she’d told him - I have no title, all my possessions come from my work. From Helaena. - yet knew that was not the reason: she adored the princess deeply, and it was not gratitude that moved her and kept her at her side. It was love, profound and somewhat both different and the same to the one they shared in quiet.

“I keep thinking you’d give up life itself if it meant not having Helaena come in harm’s way,” he murmured, dropping a kiss to the bridge of her nose. She scoffed a little, shaking her head before he cupped her cheeks with both hands, gazes unfaltering. “She’ll understand,” he repeated, “she adores you - and if not for your sake, then definitely for mine,” he said with a grin, to which she responded with a pout. “Nothing has ever made me as happy as this.”

“This?” the teasing fell from her lips on instinct, making the prince chuckle. He kissed her again, a little rougher than the previous time, and her hand clasped tightly around his wrist - more and stop equal commands in her touch. When he pulled back, he saw her gaze flicker to the door and he laughed again.

“I’ll be waiting for you here,” she seemed about to argue, but stopped herself as her lips moved, biting down on her lip before nodding, squeezing his wrist just once before he let her go. She didn’t look back after knocking, Helaena’s voice beckoning her forward, but felt the back of her neck burn under the prince’s gaze.

“Helaena?” she called softly, the door closing behind her back. The princess sat with her embroidery on her lap, the beginning of a new spider on the piece of fabric - she smiled at her friend as she came in, scooting a little to the side as she always did. “May we speak for a moment?” there was no point stalling, no point hesitating.

“Of course,” she nodded, putting the embroidery aside and looking up at her as she approached. “Are you not hot in that dress? Is everything alright?”

She reached at the neckline of her neck, the small ruffles tickling underneath her jaw - in truth, it was a dress made for the snowy months, when the air was cold and cruel. It was also the only thing that could cover Aemond’s work on her neck for the time being. She then touched her cheeks with the back of her hand, still warm from the prince’s kiss and his words.

“Everything’s fine,” she said, shaking her head rapidly as she approached the couch, sitting by her. “Do you remember the ball thrown by the king a few months back? Lord Jason Lannister got too drunk, Ser Criston almost got punched when trying to escort him out,” Helaena’s smile flashed amused, nodding.

“I remember Aemond, too,” she replied, making the other woman inhale sharply - of course she’d remember. “He’d been looking at you the whole night - I believe he really did want to dance with you, not me.”

“I think so, too,” the prince had admitted it, one night in his rooms as she tried to get him to dance - she’d been the one leading that time, too, though he hadn’t minded, not if it meant getting more and more of her laughter. “That night, the prince and I talked - he brought me to the dragon pit, showed me Vhagar,” surprise registered on Helaena’s face, piecing together her friend’s words. “It - I don’t know how to describe it, nor how it made me feel, and he -” she closed her eyes, because it was always easier to voice her feelings when the world was dark, it kept the fears at bay. “He’s been so gentle with me, and lately - a few months, actually - when I wasn’t with you I ended up spending some time with him,” she dug her nails into the palm of her hands, fists held so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Some nights, too. Mostly nights, really.”

She cursed herself for babbling on, nerves on edge that made her forget the whole speech she had prepared in her head - she should’ve practised it, thought about it longer, made sure she began talking and not linger on sentences for too long, let the princess know how things were and apologise for not telling her. But truly, how to say it properly?

The prince has asked me to marry him, which sounds insane to me, too - what’s even more absurd is that I said yes, even though I’m terrified, even though anything could go wrong, even though I am scared you might despise the idea and not want to have anything to do with me anymore, and that would break my heart.

“Does he love you?” the question caught her so by surprise her eyes shot open as a little hiccup trapped in her throat. When she looked at the princess, Helaena wasn’t looking at her but at her hands, still fisted tightly, almost numb. Not her hands, she thought, the ring.

“I -” she frowned, almost tucking the ring away to not let her see but thinking better of it. “I think so? Hope so,” she scoffed lightly, shaking her head.

Love was not a thing that Aemond said, yet she realised she’d never doubted the truth of his affections. He’d shown her, time and time again, holding her at night and searching for her during the day, with kisses and glances, soft reassurances while hidden underneath his covers and quiet promises by the Weirwood tree. He’d shown her with trust, given and gained. He’d shown her with the night sky, and arms securely wrapped around her.

“He does,” she said then, surprising herself with a smile blossoming on her face.

Helaena brought her hand over her friend’s lap, brushing the tip of her fingers to her knuckles - she eased her fists right away, the soothing touch so similar to the one she’d done countless times on herself, on the princess, too. She picked her hand up, palm against palm, and craned her neck a little to study the ring, sapphires and amethyst shimmering.

“I told him to mind the fall,” the princess pointed out, voice a little distant, still drawing circles across the back of her hand with her other one as she frowned - words she remembered her saying twice, mind the fall, mind the fall with her. “Has he asked you to marry him, then?” she nodded slowly, glad it had been her saying the words.

“He has,” she said, and Helaena took her hand, squeezing it gently. “Good,” was her only reply, and she glanced up at her with eyes open wide, lips parted, startled. At her silence, Helaena too looked up, tilting her head to the other side.

“You’re not… cross?” she asked quietly, limbs so heavy she didn’t think she’d be able to pick them up again. It was the princess’ turn to frown. “Why would I be?” she asked, face softening in a smile as she leaned forward. “You’ll be my sister then.”

Relief washed over her so abruptly she could not help the sob escaping her, frame bending forward as she reached for Helaena. She wrapped both her arms around her, the princess remaining tense for just a moment before returning the hug, a tangle of arms and skirts as they held onto the other tightly. She thought she was crying as she buried her head against Helaena’s shoulder, but the princess just kept rubbing her back - how often she’d done the same at night, soothing her from dreams she did not like.

“I must tell Aemond to not steal you away from me too often, even if you are to be his wife,” Helaena murmured and, unable to help herself, she laughed.

“You mustn’t worry about that, princess,” she sniffled, pulling back from the hug - there was a rosy hue to Helaena’s cheeks, and she brushed it quickly with her thumb, as if taking it away. “I have no intention of letting my affections for him get in the way of us.”

“Perhaps then you’ll sneak out of his rooms to get to mine instead,” Helaena grinned and, leaving her to her bafflement, returned to her embroidery.

The crowd made her dizzy - she could not remember the last time so many eyes were on her, and though years had passed from her previous life, there was a constant, terrifying alarm in her head. If someone recognised her, it might be over, not even Queen Alicent could help her. The cloak felt heavy on her shoulders, the colours not belonging to her family - anonymous, unworthy of notice. That would’ve been, if not for the fact she was marrying a prince.

The godswood was silent as she walked along the path, blissful quiet interrupted only by her steps, and Helaena’s behind her. She wasn’t sure she still believed the Gods, old or new, but she could trust the sense of safety that enveloped her as she made her way towards the prince, waiting for her by the Weirwood tree. The white and red robes wrapped around her were comfortable, warm, safe - to see Aemond don the same colours, so different from his usual black attire, made her smile. The headpiece carefully balanced on top of her braided hair chimed with her steps, like a song welcoming her home.

Their eyes were burning the back of her head - the queen and princess stood by her, no man accompanying her towards the septon, but her protectors during her new life, leading her to the man that had set her free. She forced herself to focus on that, gaze fixed on the one-eyed prince - not the King, who hadn’t said a single word about the whole ordeal, uncaring; not the older prince, his head slightly bowed. Her attention was for Aemond only - it had to. And in return, he smiled.

The flames kissed the planes of Aemond’s face, lights dancing around him from candles lit precariously close to the trees - it didn’t seem to matter, not with the way the prince smiled, not with the thundering of her own heart trapped behind her ribcage louder and louder with each step. That was the moment, she thought, the moment everything would change: it didn’t matter that the people would witness a ceremony the following day, it didn’t matter that the King and Queen would see them, two people getting married in the eyes of the Seven, too.

It was Helaena removing the cloak from her shoulders - passing from a sister to a brother, the closest thing to tradition the situation would allow. If anyone had had anything to say on the matter, they’d either kept it for themselves or had been silenced - she couldn’t find it in her to care. It was all a show, for the people to know it had happened. They were bound already, even before he wrapped his cloak on her shoulders, hands lingering about her throat, gaze cast towards the binding around the palm of his left hand, matching her own.

“Blood of two joined as one,” Helaena recited as she closed her eyes, offering her mouth to the small weapon in Aemond’s grip. “Ghostly flame and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires,” she didn’t flinch when he cut her, instead fixed her gaze on him, lingering on the missing eyepatch that had left a red mark on his temple. “A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.”

“We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife,” the septon began wrapping the ribbon around their uncut hands, slowly binding them to the other, “one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

The dragonglass was cold in the palm of her hand, her grip temporarily unsure as she held it to Aemond’s lip. The sapphire shimmered when he shifted, eyelids trembling slightly.

“Not having second thoughts now, are you?” it was meant jokingly, an amused whisper between the two of them, even with Helaena still present, their only witness besides the Gods.

“No,” was her quick reply, gaze flickering towards his. “Of course not,” she cupped her free hand to his cheek. “It’ll scar,” she said then, softer. Unable to help himself, he chuckled, brushing the pad of his thumb to her bottom lip.

She licked her bottom lip, the fresh, linear cut left uncovered still visible, the taste of blood still lingering. Already bound by fire and blood, they stood before the Seven with their hands joined as the septon began the prayer, leading the people with them, their heads bowed accompanied by stolen glances.

Her blood smudged on his thumb, a sharp hiss leaving her when he pressed the thumb gently into the fresh cut on her lip, her eyes shimmering making him grin.

“It will,” he replied, and his smile widened, euphoria overtaking them both as her lips parted with a light hiss. “I don’t care - it’ll be a reminder of you, of us,” the tip of her tongue darted out, tasting herself on her mouth, on his finger as he leaned his head closer. “Of this.”

“I believe sneaking out in the middle of the night to perform a secret wedding is quite worthy of remembrance in and of itself, my love,” she whispered, and before he could reply she cut his lip, pain setting his eye ablaze.

The ribbon was soft, a strand of silk singing with the intertwining movements, one turn around the hands over the other.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words:”

He traced the symbol on her forehead slowly, blood warm and thick running over her skin - Fire, burning bright like the red of her hair still capturing the flames. She did the same with the symbol they’d taught her just mere minutes before - Blood, dark and shimmering on his pale skin.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” they spoke in unison, looking at each other, and she couldn’t help the smile on her mouth, making her lip tingle with the movement, the threat of the wound reopening sending shivers down her spine.

“I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days,” Aemond said, each word clear, audible, echoing throughout the full Sept, echoing in her own words -

“I am his and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

“It’ll scar,” he said, a little amused, cutting his palm above the cup she was holding, letting it drip into it for one, two, three, seven seconds before Helaena wrapped his palm for him, quiet and with eyes filled with mirth. “Do you want me to do it?” he asked softly, holding his hand slightly up. She shook her head, handing him the goblet instead and taking the dragonglass from him. She was resolute, decided, the cut firm, red dripping down the tip of her fingers right away for one, two, three -

Aemond, fingers wrapped around hers to tighten the binding, leaned in slowly. “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he announced, keeping his voice just a little lower - my love, words spoken in the middle of the night they held onto desperately, almost fearful they would disappear, almost afraid it would be but a dream.

The dream did not end, but bled into their first public kiss, with cheers she stopped caring whether they were truthful or not.

As Helaena wrapped her hand as well, she met Aemond’s eye, lifting the cup to her own lips, bloods dark and showing the reflection of the creature she’d become - something unnatural, someone he could love, someone who loved him just as fiercely, forged in dragonfire, made of the same substance. She drank almost greedily, the tip of his fingers guiding the goblet, hungry gaze watching her, the bob of her throat and, when they moved it back, the smear of blood across her mouth - he fought the urge to lean in and drink from her instead, taste their union directly from her lips, take it all and more.

The kiss stung, skin pulling and burning as she squeezed his hand within the bindings, letting her eyes flutter shut fully so the rest of the world could vanish and, even there, even then, it could be just them, their union all that mattered, foregoing titles and roles until all was left was the taste of copper and the feeling of the prince’s body closing the gap. When Aemond pulled back - only partially concerned with propriety as his arm slid about her waist underneath his own cloak - his lips were stained red, pulled in a smirk, and she could feel the single drop of blood falling slowly towards her chin.

“Old Gods, New Gods, Fire and Blood,” she whispered, only faintly aware of the crowd awaiting them. “You’re stuck with me now, my prince, in the eyes of them all.”

He emptied the cup, and she smiled. She smiled and smiled and then leaned in to kiss him at last, sealing the whole ordeal, ending the ceremony with that immortal bond on the tip of their tongues - blood and blood, fire and fire, within and outside, two people made one.

“Good,” he replied, kissing the wound one last time before turning her towards the people. Their new princess, his bride, his love.

A goddess made of fire, forged in blood.

jorrāeliarza - dear/beloved ñuha gevie rēko - my beautiful rose ñuhon - mine ñuha ābrazȳrys - my wife

#dark sonnet #redahlia #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen #aemond x original character #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x original character #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond fanfiction

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kazz-brekker · 3 years ago

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hotd episode 8 thoughts

boy! this family really never can have a funky good time together without something happening, can they? (i say as a distraction from my immense emotional pain)

rhaenys you may never have been queen of westeros but you are queen to ME.

really liked the bits of daemon and rhaenyra’s life married that we got to see and how comfortable they were with each other. hbo, i’m just saying, but it’s not too late to abandon this whole “adapting the dance of the dragons” idea and just do a 5 season sitcom about the dragonstone household.

wow alicent really has become the westerosi equivalent of a christian housewife but also with girlboss ambitions.

the scenes with the dying viserys made me so sad. rhaenyra trying to talk to her father but he’s too incoherent to understand … introducing him to the grandkids … daemon helping him climb the iron throne … god it really got to me see how much they care about him and how much he was hurting :(

baby aegon iii and viserys ii were really cute though!

no … alicent … please don’t uphold the patriarchy and become complicity in the oppression of women … don’t continue the cycle of abuse begun by others that you now perpetuate…

i am impressed by how quickly this show made my opinion on aegon ii go from “annoying yet entertaining” to “die in a hole you rat bastard.”

congrats to daemon and rhaenyra (and rhaenys!) for raising some much better-adjusted teenagers, definitely liked what we saw of the older versions of the kids.

adult aemond is an absolute menace and i am going to enjoy every single second of his screen time.

jesus christ rhaenyra it’s been SIX YEARS and you still haven’t told rhaenys and corlys their son isn’t dead? please get on that! did love that those two had another scene together at last, though.

the scene where viserys dragged himself to court to sit judgement over the inheritance case was pretty powerful.

damn vaemond velaryon was kind of an ambitious asshole but he really didn’t deserve to die like that. kind of love that daemon was like “talk shit about my wife and you get a sword to the face” though, very in character.

those 30 seconds at the dinner party where everyone was getting along were so bittersweet, it did such a good job of establishing that the whole impending tragedy COULD have been averted if things went differently.

viserys really did need to put his foot down more often and be a stronger king, but it’s also so sad that he just wants his family to get along and love each other and it’s just not going to happen.

helaena honey i am going to rescue you and your ominous prophecies from your terrible husband, you deserve so much better.

the fact that viserys left the room and things immediately went to shit and the younger generation got into a fistfight was peak black comedy, not gonna lie.

the dramatic pause before aemond finished his “strong boys” toast … yeah i love him.

mentally chanting kiss! kiss! kiss! at rhaenyra and alicent as if this could someone how avert all the impending doom.

god, that last scene with alicent and viserys was so good and i am obsessed with how viserys’s obsession with prophecy and the future of his house is actually what dooms it.

PEAK asoiaf vibes to have the prophecy that was supposed to be the duty of the house instead lead to its downfall!

i’m really going to miss paddy considine as viserys, he brought so much depth and complexity to a character who was pretty flat in the book.

i know this whole show has been building up to the dance of the dragons but ohhhhh man am i not ready to see things actually begin in earnest now that the king is dead.

if anyone needs me i will be sitting here trying to process the hour of television i just watched!

#pie says stuff #pie watches hotd #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd spoilers #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #viserys targaryen #alicent hightower #aegon ii targaryen #aemond targaryen #rhaenys targaryen #vaemond velaryon #helaena targaryen

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horizon-verizon · 2 years ago

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Aemond is a child. Alicent did plant the seeds of hatred for his sister Rhaenyra and her children, but Rhaenyra didn’t exactly do anything to stop it from growing. Aemond may be smart but he is still a child and thus impressionable. If Rhaenyra had tried to build a relationship with her siblings, they likely wouldn’t believe what Alicent says. Aegon in particular actually seemed to like his nephews. Rhaenyra may not have ever shown hostility towards her siblings, but she never showed that she cared for them either.

When Aemond lost his eye, her reaction to it told him that he could not trust the Blacks. She showed that she would gladly throw him, her brother, under the bus for her children. Before that incident, the Black and Green children used to play together. After the eye incident, that is when the line is really drawn officially between the Blacks and the Greens. Rhaenyra as the adult and the eldest should have approached her siblings and spent time with them. But she just let those seeds of hatred and paranoia grow in her siblings.

So were Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Rhaena, and Baela. All younger than Aemond.

Anon is referring to my thoughts HERE. Yet I suspect anon didn’t read my post carefully, or knew it even existed.

I don’t know, anon, if you read Fire and Blood either, or just its section on the Dance. It seems like you you just watched the show. And because both HotD and F&B still tell of the rivalry between Rhaenyra and Alicent, what I point out about the book's account of what Alicent did ro Rhaenyra concerning her children still applies.

When Viserys refuses and even dismisses Otto for talking against his decision, Alicent immediately begins to antagonize and plot against Rhaenyra:

Why does Rhaenyra have to be the one to sacrifice her own childhood--whatever is left of it by being a princess mosly alone (emotionally) at court--and some of her adulthood, to devote herself to a fruitless endeavour? Why does she have to be the one to give up her time away from her own life and bridge the gap between her and her siblings, when Alicent is the one responsible for that gap and is higher authority here? In both book and show?

You know who else was a child, anon? Book!Rhaenyra.

In the book, by canon AsoIaF lore/history, Rhaenyra is 9 years old when Alicent marries Viserys. Alicent is 18. A year later, Alicent gives birth to Aegon, and she immediately expects Viserys to appoint Aegon as his heir and replace Rhaenyra, who at this point is 9-10.

Still, questions persisted, not the least from Queen Alicent herself. Loudest amongst her supporters was her father, Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King. Pushed too far on the matter, in 109 AC Viserys stripped Ser Otto of his chain of office and named in his place the taciturn Lord of Harrenhal, Lyonel Strong. “This Hand will not hector me,” His Grace proclaimed.

Even after Ser Otto had returned to Oldtown, a “queen’s party” still existed at court; a group of powerful lords friendly to Queen Alicent and supportive of the rights of her sons. Against them was pitted the “party of the princess.”

(Fire and Blood; A Question of Succession)

Alicent also has much more authority over her own kids than Rhaenyra because she is their mother, the Queen Consort, and a full grown adult. And in HotD, Alicent is still their mother and Queen Consort. In episode 6, we see how she outright refuses to marry Helaena to Jacaerys, showing that she has and uses much more power over her children and Rhaenyra.

18 is an adult by both our modern Western (U.S.) standards and these feudal, Westerosi noblepeople. Rhaenyra, while being the heir apparent, is a child of 9-10. Alicent also has more family members (not Otto, her brother was part of the City Watch) to plot with at court.

I want you to imagine the events at court in the book/canon history, but also those in HotD. Especially HotD where the writer didn't bother to show us how these people interacted between episode 5 & 6.

Alicent can’t openly say that her kids can’t hang out with Rhaenyra, especially in front of Viserys. So how does she stop Rhaenyra from interacting with her kids? She subtly sends them to bed early, she tells them behind the closed door of her apartments that they should stay with their nurses or Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting more than they should Rhaenyra, she distracts them from possible conversations with Rhaenyra, etc. She may interrupt Rhaenyra’s talking in ways that seem like they could just be accidents but are actually contrived. She’d seat them as far away from Rhaenyra as much as possible.

From all of these moments, her own kids pick up that Rhaenyra is not a person worth their attention, even someone to be wary of, even if she is their sister.

For the book, what power does a 9 or 10 year old Rhaenyra have in the face of all of that? Years of social separating? Please tell me anon, would you have that sort of miraculous patience, attention span, or complex thought/long term/years-ahead planning at 9?

By the time book!Rhaenyra was considered an adult by Westerosi standards (14-15)--which is 4-5 years later--the 24-25 year old Alicent garnered a lot of power. Alicent was definitely not going to encourage much interaction between her kids and Rhaenyra, because she has been against Rhaenyra and is plotting her deposing since she birthed Aegon.

So, there was little to no real hope for a relationship between siblings, anon. Alicent made certain of that. And book!her will continue to do so, making sure that her kids do not see Rhaenyra as a real sister but an enemy and an inferior human. Show!her is trying after how many years later, when the damage is irrevocably done? Show!Alicent is a different type of delusional, the type without a brain or any cunning. But she is still the real person responsible for her kids emotionally separated from Rhaenyra and willing to fight openly with Rhaenyra's kids.

Teen/adult Rhaenyra sees and feels this and she knows that even if she tried, Alicent has her claws in. There’s no point. Who would these kids listen to, anyway? Their mom or their sister? Why do you think that a sister’s authority would trump a mother’s, anon? A EU/Westerosi Queen Consort vs an heir?