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jaimeslanisters · 2 months

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the pawn in every lover's game (part fifteen)

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

When you’re ten, your father sends you to King’s Landing to befriend a princess and woo a prince. A lioness growing up amongst dragons is a dangerous thing indeed.

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 10k notes: spite is genuinely the greatest motivator. i had plans to make this longer but i genuinely felt i would die if i didn't post right now so! enjoy (:

The dance ends all too soon. You wish it had lasted longer. You wish it had never started to begin with. You hate every passing second and you can’t pull yourself away. There’s an ache, deep in your chest, as you watch Aegon and Helaena finish. There’s a final note that the bards play, one final mournful strum of the harp, and the two of them unfurl from one another, the space growing between the two of them as they pull away. At the last moment, Aegon captures Helaena’s hand, bowing his head as he brings it to his lips. Helaena closes her eyes, her free hand coming up to clutch at her chest, and, in the multicolor glow of the candles, it looks like a hazy memory, like something you’ve dreamed of and have only just remembered.

It looks like a song.

Next to you, Floris sucks in air sharply, completely enraptured by the show in front of her, and you’re struck with the memory of your cousins whispering and giggling about their dance during the opening feast. The Targaryens are beautiful - you know this as surely as you know that you are a Lannister with all that that entails - but their allure goes beyond that. It’s intoxicating. It’s overwhelming.

There’s almost a sense of relief in knowing that you aren’t the only one to be pulled in by them.

Aegon releases Helaena from his hold and, together, the two of them walk back to the royal table, a careful space between the two of them. As they pass, all the nobles rise to their feet and you join them, your hand shooting out to support Floris as she stumbles slightly on her way up. She tilts into you, seemingly content with you supporting her weight, but you don’t pay her any mind, your gaze locked onto the newlyweds.

Aegon looks straight ahead, fixated, but Helaena spares you a glance and she smiles, her whole visage melting into something softer and sweeter. You smile back even though it feels wrong on your face, your smile stretched out too thin, but she doesn’t begrudge you for it. You wish she would. You wish she would push back at you for your inability to swallow this pain easily because that would mean that she was pushing back on something. You could bear that burden - you could bear anything for her - but she would never. She doesn’t need it regardless. You need it. You crave her anger at you like you crave absolution.

The two of them walk together to the dais at the front and, once they reach the shadow of the Iron Throne, they turn to each other. Aegon bows low at the waist while Helaena curtseys, nearly brushing the stone floor with her knees, officially signaling the end of the first dance and opening the floor for everyone else. A cheer breaks from the waiting nobles and, when the pair of them rise again, the waiting crowd breaks and moves to a dance floor, a moving wave that’s unstoppable. At your side, the silent Baela breaks away from you, pushing through the crowd toward where you last saw one of her Valeryon cousins. A part of you wants to follow behind her, see if you can’t coax her into speaking again, but the rest of you just wants to find Helaena and Aemond.

You turn to look up at the dais, in time to see Aemond rise from his seat, his eyes locked on you and you heave a sigh of relief as he nods when he notices his gaze, motioning for you to stay still so he can come find you.

Floris teeters closer to you, reaching up on her tiptoes to speak in your ear, stumbling closer by mistake so that her lips brush your earlobe in a move that has you shivering. She wobbles dangerously and your arm shoots out to gently grab her around the waist so she has some semblance of support. You belatedly realize that this is the closest you’ve ever been with someone who wasn’t a member of your family or Helaena and Aemond. “Is your prince coming to dance?” She aims to whisper but instead she practically yells in your ear, oblivious to your open wince.

You pull away from her, smiling in spite of your discomfort. “Are your sisters nearby?” You ask in lieu of responding, hoping that you could dump her on one of the other Four Storms and make her someone else’s problem. You’d feel bad about pushing her away except it’s hard to even conjure up the desire to. You want to spend the night in the company of Aemond and Helaena, not minding a girl you’ve just met - a girl who is seemingly completely uninterested in detaching herself from you.

She straightens up, craning her neck to try and scan the audience. She suddenly points in excitement, shouting “Maris!” in absolute glee, and you follow her pointing finger only to teeter back in shock.

Maris Baratheon is a tall, skinny girl with pale skin and a sea of freckles across her face. Her pitch-black hair is pulled tight against her scalp and, where Floris is soft and sweet, she is severe and sharp. She looks like a storm personified, thunderous and bold, a Baratheon through and through.

And she’s standing right in front of you, frowning at her youngest sister wagging her finger just in front of her nose.

“My lady,” you rush out, your curtsey coming out more like a short bob with the way that Floris leans her entire weight on you. “My apologies for not noticing you. I wa-”

“Have you no shame?” Maris hisses, plainly ignoring you in favor of narrowing her stormy blue eyes at her younger sister. “Mother didn’t let you come just for you to embarrass yourself in front of the royal family.”

Floris frowns tempestuously and it slowly dawns on you that, in spite of appearances, she may be just as stormy as her sisters. “I don’t see the princes or the princesses around.”

“Aye and what is she?” Maris shoots back and you startle to realize that she’s turned her dark gaze on you. You open your mouth to insist that you are no princess or anything resembling royalty but the elder Baratheon girl doesn’t even offer you the chance to. “You should have minded yourself. Controlled yourself.”

Floris turns her nose up, rolling her eyes. “Lady Lannister wasn’t bothered.”

Maris huffs. “You idiot. You essentially held her hostage. She couldn’t escape you!”

“Maybe it’s hard for you but I can manage to befriend people without offending them at every step!”

“This isn’t about me! This is about yo-”

“Oh is it? Are you s-”

“Yes! For Gods’ sake, you always d-”

The two Baratheons start screeching at each other, their words overlapping until you’re sure they��re speaking as one, leaning closer and closer in until you’re trapped between the two of them, pressed tight in the middle, and you start to wonder if storm is too small of a word to describe the pair of them. They’re hissing and vicious and you know they must be seconds away from throwing punches and trying to land blows and you start to pray that you’ll be able to slip away in the chaos when an all too familiar voice cuts through the din.

“If I could,” Aemond starts, hands tucked behind his back as he stares down at the trio of you with barely concealed amusement. “I’d like to steal away Lady Lannister if she’s available.”

There’s a beat of silence where you try to express your gratitude with your eyes and Floris begins making a sound like a captured mouse before Maris snorts, distinctly unladylike even as she bows her head in greeting. “I’m surprised you’re asking, my prince. I doubt you offered Victor Florent the same choice.”

You laugh, startled and too caught off guard to keep it in, while Floris’s squeaks take a particularly high pitch. Aemond’s smile turns sharp and he hums noncommittally, tilting his head as he peers down at Maris Baratheon. To her credit, the lady doesn’t quail or shrink away, merely turning her nose up.

“This is why Mother wants to send her to the Silent Sisters,” Floris hisses to you, her voice, again, far too loud to be counted as a whisper.

At that, Maris visibly flinches and her face flashes with annoyance - whether it’s at herself, her mother, or Floris you’re not sure - but she backs down, bowing her head once more. It’s unfitting for her, you think. Self-pity doesn’t suit her - it sits wrong on her features - and you feel a quick flash of pity. The Silent Sisters was a harsh punishment - only the Night’s Watch could compare and even then, at least those men were permitted to talk and had more than enough freedom to break their other vows up in the frigid North, far from even the Starks’ eyes.

You glance at Aemond and, when he notices your watchful gaze, he flicks his eyes upward in exasperation before fixing his stare back on Maris. “The Lady Lannister was offered no choice when Victor Florent presented her with his crown. I simply returned the favor.”

Maris doesn’t respond, simply nodding her head in agreement, her expression the same smooth mask, but Floris lets out a soft ‘oh!’, sounding as delighted as if Aemond had just personally handed her a bouquet of the prettiest flowers. You flick your gaze up towards her and she’s gazing at him, starry-eyed and flushed, and you feel a sharp lance of annoyance shoot through you.

Has she forgotten you’re the one thing keeping her standing?

“Well,” you trill as pleasantly as you can, straightening up and tightening your hold on her waist to hoist her up with you. She moves readily enough, making no complaint when you squeeze her, and you find with no small degree of displeasure that she’s taller than you, tall enough that she’s level with Aemond’s eye. “I really must accompany the prince. I-”

“Oh,” Floris chirps, grinning widely when you look up at her. “I’m sure you’re eagerly awaiting the first dance!”

You’re most definitely not. Aemond has not danced since before Driftmark, back when he and Aegon had been your and Helaena’s partners in your dancing lessons. He’d never been fond of it though he had never complained - not like Aegon who seemingly could not whine enough about being forced into lessons even if he had enjoyed more than Helaena and nearly more than you. You’re not planning on telling the Baratheon girls that but, before you get the chance to come up with some excuse for not joining in on the imminent first dance, Aemond steps forward, grabbing hold of your elbow and gently pulling you from Floris’s grasp. Maris moves up to steady her, swearing at her sister as she does, utterly immune to the way Floris flops on her affectionately like a dog cuddling up to its master.

“The first dance is starting soon,” Aemond says in lieu of explaining and you hide a smile as you tuck his hand close to you, curling your arm around his.

Maris hums, clearly disinterested in your reasons for leaving and also clearly pinching her sister with one of her hands hidden from view if the way Floris twists away from her is any indicator. “I thank you for watching my wayward sister, my lady.”

You nod, flashing her a pleasant smile. “It was no problem.” It had been. “It was a pleasure to meet your sister.” It hadn’t been. Not towards the end, at least. Not with the annoyance and jealousy coiling in your chest like a snake preparing to strike out and bite.

Floris leans out of her sister’s grasp, beaming up at you and Aemond. She hasn’t even approached sobering up - the longer she’s been without her drink, the more her last drink seems to sink into her. “I hope to speak to you soon, Lady Lannister. It’s been so lovely speaking with you,” she grins toothily, looking more girly than ever, and you force a smile, bowing your head in gratitude.

She turns her pretty smile on Aemond, her flushed cheeks turning even more pink to your watching eyes. “Prince Aemond,” she breathes out, her big gray eyes wide. She looks starstruck and sweet, a perfect gentle lady. “If you’re not too tired after your dance… No one has claimed any dances from me…” Her hand reaches up, hesitantly and slowly, as if she’s going to reach over and grab his sleeve and your vision flashes red.

You sharply exhale, all eyes snapping to you. “My lady,” you say, letting concern seep into your voice. “Would you be alright on the dance floor? I would hate for your sister to have to hold you up during a dance with the prince.”

Floris blinks at you, her cheeks burning an even brighter red.

Aemond hums next to you and you can feel the rumble of his chest against your arm, his amusement nearly radiating off of him.

You reach out to her, keeping your arm looped around Aemond’s but using your free hand to brush her own arm that’s wrapped around her sister’s. “Perhaps some water would suit you well, my lady, rather than a dance.”

Maris laughs, the sound more like a bark than anything, and she eyes you, defensiveness sharpening her gaze. “You’re rather bold in your assessment, my lady.”

You smile, squeezing Floris’s bicep before letting go. “If I am in the presence of storms, I must be bold to weather it. It’s just friendly advice, Lady Maris. I’d hate for your sister to shame herself.” More than she already has, at least.

The elder Baratheon girl gives you a tight smile. She knows you’re right and that she can’t refute it. Be it Storm’s End or King’s Landing, the rules are all the same. Ladies do not ask for dances from Targaryen princes. Ladies do not cling to strangers they’ve just met, let alone hang on them through a royal feast. Ladies do not drink themselves to the point of being unable to stand unassisted.

A harsher person would point this out in front of a bigger crowd than just her sister. A cruel person would spread it. You’re being helpful. You’re being generous.

Even Floris’s wounded deer performance can’t sway you to more than mild pity.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd until you find your target. Your cousin, predictably, is surrounded by fawning ladies and laughing lords, his grin wide and endlessly charming. “Once you’ve found your legs, I’ll see if I can’t persuade my cousin, Ser Tygett, to come and offer you your first dance. He would be honored to be dancing on the arm of a beautiful maiden such as yourself.” You smile at her as gently as possible.

“He won the archery event,” Floris says after a moment, her voice soft. She doesn’t look at you, eyes glued to her feet. She wobbles damningly and Maris makes an annoyed noise. “I-I… You’re right, my lady. Thank you for… for saving me from embarrassment.”

You nod. “Of course. The capital can be hazardous for young ladies unused to such a large court. I only aim to help you, Lady Floris.”

Floris nods again and Maris scoffs lightly. Your eyes snap to her and you half expect her to be glaring at you. You’ve embarrassed her sister - in front of royalty nonetheless. You’d be fuming if anyone had mocked your sisters in front of you like you had her. But she’s not looking at you at all.

“Seems I’ll have company with me when mother ships me off to the Silent Sisters,” Maris says, not even bothering to drop her voice to a whisper as she stares down at her sister. Floris flinches and looks up, her gray eyes blazing, and you know you’re seconds away from witnessing another row.

Aemond, once again, saves you from that particular indignity. “Enjoy the feast, my ladies.”

He pulls you away and you give them a final smile, one that you’re sure they won’t see - not with the way they’re glaring at each other.

Aemond leads you around the edges of the floor, carefully skirting the groups of noblemen cloistered together, all of them eagerly gossiping and debating each other about the merits of the ladies. Most of the floor is already occupied by couples standing across from each other in two neat rows, ladies separated from the lords, all in preparation for the first dance. Aemond stops just short of entering the actual floor and he looks down at you, a question plain on his face.

“First the tourney and now dancing,” you muse out loud, smiling when he looks skyward. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to ask Ser Criston to knight you as well. I’m not sure I’d be prepared for your family’s reaction.”

Aemond hums in agreement. “I had planned to have this first dance with you, my lady, but it is a mixer dance. I’m not sure I can guarantee the safety of any partners I’d have after you.”

You sniff. “I’m perfectly civil. Your partners would remain untouched.”

He laughs out loud, quick and sharp, and you huff. “I must admit, I’m rather tempted to walk right back and ask Lady Floris for a dance if only to see how you’d tear into her.”

“I’m afraid Floris Baratheon would not be my only victim if you did that,” you say, frowning up at him.

His eye flashes, a distinct hunger sneaking into his features. “Would you sink your teeth into me, my lady? Would you dig your nails in and tear me apart?”

You want to, consequences damned. You imagine biting him, scratching him, burrowing as deep into him as he had into you. You want it all. You want to possess him completely. You are his and he is yours. He had torn his mangled scar up and put your sapphire in it, had filled it with you. What else would he let you take? What else would he let you claim?

You wonder how people can bear this desire - surely you’re not the only one. It’s more than carnal. It’s all-consuming. It’s absolution. It creeps around constantly, haunting every thought. Surely you can’t be the only one who has ever felt this complete burning.

“Perhaps I will, my prince,” you murmur, meeting his eye, wishing he didn’t have the eyepatch on so you could see him completely. “I may not be a dragon but a lion still has claws.”

He smiles, a sharp edge to his expression. He’s hungry. He’s starving. “I’ve known that truth about you since I first met you. Only being a Targaryen saved me from your wrath when you spilled that water over yourself.

The memory flashes in your mind and you think you can almost feel the phantom pain of the needle going through your finger, feel the cool water soaking the front of your gown. You had snarled at him. Briefly but it had been there. The moment had passed so fast that even you had barely registered it. Anyone else would have let the moment pass, counted it as a quick flash of emotion that meant nothing else.

Not Aemond.

He had seen the truth of it. Try as you might, pretend all you will, but there’s no hiding the truth of it - you’re a Lannister. You’re a Lannister to your bones with all the ambition, all the cunning, all the greed that it entails. You’re a lady, yes. Gods know that you’ve dedicated yourself to your etiquettes, to your embroidery and your songs. You did it not just because you had to but because you wanted to. You were a lady but it did not mean that that blunted your edges. It did not make you soft or gentle.

You had told him that truth in his bedroom in Driftmart, in a whispered promise over a gift, but he had already known. He had known from the very first moment he had seen you.

A slow grin spreads on your face. “It saved you the initial moment,” you reply. “Then it was because it was you. Do you remember when you snapped at me after the Dragonpit? I asked you a silly question about the Baratheons and you had just come back from the Dragonpit, from Prince Aegon and the Str… and your nephews.”

Not even your treasonous near mishap stops the downward curling of Aemond’s mouth. “I wasn’t at my… best after the Dragonpit in those days.”

You laugh, more cheery about it now than you had been back then. “I can recall, my prince. You called me a nosy bitch. I wanted to strike you across the face for it. I nearly did too.”

“I apologized,” Aemond grouses, sounding like a little boy again in his annoyance and embarrassment. It’s a far cry from the starved man he had just been and you laugh for the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“I know,” you reply, smiling. “That’s what I was trying to say; I was prepared to apologize to you. Not because you were a Targaryen but because you were Aemond. I didn’t care that you were a prince in that moment. I just cared that you were my friend and I didn’t want to hurt you like you had me.”

Aemond stays silent for a moment, studying you closely. His eye trails across your face, searching deep into you. He’s looking for any sign of deception, any tiny crack in your honesty, but he won’t find it. Not with you. Not with him.

Eventually, he sighs, looking away. “I was terrified I had pushed you away that day,” he murmurs, softly as if he doesn’t mean for you to hear. “I was convinced you were about to demand your return to Casterly Rock and it would have been all my fault. Helaena would hate me for losing her her closest companion. My mother would skin me for losing Lannister support.”

“Were alliances the only thing that kept you in check?” You ask, tilting your head at him, exaggerating a confused expression.

He scoffs lightly, more out of exasperation than annoyance. “No. I didn’t care that you were a lady of House Lannister in that moment. I cared that you were you. My… My friend.”

Distantly, you register the first dance beginning and a small part of you regrets that the two of you hadn’t gotten to join, even if it had meant that you would have had to watch him with other ladies of the court. The rest of you, however, is focused on Aemond, on his words.

You laugh after a second, softly. “So we both spent that night thinking the same thing. Capable of hurting most everyone except each other.”

Aemond hums. “You were the first person I had ever apologized to - outside of the apologies my mother would drag out of me whenever my brothers and I fought or on the rare occasions Helaena and I would argue. The only person I ever apologized to because I wanted to.”

“Don’t worry, it came out very naturally. Not practiced or rehearsed at all,” you reply, grinning when he shoots you a droll look, only the tiniest of movements at the corner of his mouth letting you know he’s amused by your teasing. “Come. I’m sure Floris is beyond herself now that she’s realized we didn’t leave her to go dance the first dance. Let’s find Helaena before she can come to demand her turn.”

“You’ll have to find your cousin as well,” he reminds, following easily enough when you tug on his arm to lead him up to the raised dais where his sister stands, pressed up arm to arm with Aegon, as their mother speaks to the pair of them. “I may have escaped a turn with that particular storm but you did sacrifice Ser Tygett in my place.”

You wince. “He’s not going to want her to be his first dance in case she thinks this is a show of his interest. I’ll have to dance with him for that particular favor,” you say, slightly wishing you hadn’t made that promise. You enjoy dancing but you find you have little interest in it if your partner isn’t the man you’re leading through the crowd right now.

He glances down at you. “I’d ask to have your first dance then, my lady, before you ask him.”

A surprised smile breaks through as you look up at him. “You meant it then? You do mean to dance tonight?”

He nods, looking as serious as he had when he entered the tourney grounds, as if he hasn’t spent this week turning all the expectations you had of him on his head. “Perhaps not a mixer dance so we can ensure that every lady wakes up in the capital tomorrow with their hands still attached but I do intend to have your first dance if you mean to take a turn with other partners.”

“Other partners?” You ask, blinking, realizing belatedly that dancing with him would open you up to dancing requests from men who weren’t him. “So the ladies of King’s Landing can keep their hands but the lords will get to have breakfast with Victor Florent tomorrow?”

He snorts softly. “More that the men of King’s Landing are at least aware of what could happen and will endeavor to make sure the same does not happen to them. I’m afraid the ladies are, as of now at least, ignorant of the true danger.”

“The true danger?” You ask, laughingly, as the two of you reach the foot of the throne, right before the steps of the dais. “I can’t swing a sword, my prince, nor do I have a dragon to send after my enemies.”

“Don’t you?” He tilts his head, smiling when your cheeks flare with heat, as you join the small circle of his family.

Helaena notices you first, always attuned to you, and she smiles at you brightly when she sees that you’re still arm-in-arm with Aemond. Aegon, predictably, already has a goblet of wine in his hand and, judging from the way that he’s downing it as quickly as possible, deaf to his mother’s scolding, he’s not planning on leaving this wedding feast close to anything resembling sobriety.

“I’ve done my part Mother,” Aegon grumbles, his lips stained a deep red from his drink. “You can’t ask for more from me. Not tonight.”

Alicent sighs, wringing her hands together. She seems blind to you, completely oblivious to your presence. She’s focused on Aegon for now. “I just ask you don’t shame yourself. Please just control your habits for this feast at least.”

“I’ve already done what you asked,” he grumbles before he spots you. His eyes brighten and he gets that all too familiar grin on his face, the one that promises trouble. “Here’s your true crowning achievement in your matchmaking skills. Perhaps you should concern yourself about Aemond’s marriage bed instead of mine.”

You don’t react, simply meeting his gaze steadily, but Aemond tenses next to you.

“Enough,” Aemond rumbles and Aegon barks out a laugh.

“Enough? Enough?” He hisses. “It isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for Mother.”

“Aegon,” Alicent hisses, her eyes flashing with an anger you’re unused to seeing on the Queen. It makes her look so much younger. A sister arguing with her brother than a mother of four. “Finish your drink then. Drink your heart out. Do as you always have for tonight then. But you will do what you must tomorrow. For the rest of your life, you will do your duty.”

“And what is that Mother?” Aegon says, his voice soft.

She looks at him, disappointment warring with grief on her face. “What is necessary, Aegon.”

There is a moment suspended, where they stare at each other, blind to the rest of the room. The music fades, the chatter of the room ceases. All that matters is the two of them.

You think Alicent wants to say more. You think Aegon wants to fight. They’re both hurting for it. They both want to make the other bend to their will, make the other understand, but there’s an insurmountable chasm separating the two of them. Nothing could bridge it - not unless one of them caves to the other and that could never happen. You think neither of them would even want it.

Alicent breaks first, sighing as she looks down at her hands, her fingers clasped tightly, her thumb digging into the cuticle of her other thumb. “Enjoy the feast. All of you.” Her voice fades slightly, cracking on the final word.

You bow your head, murmuring your thanks, but your voice is the only one that answers. When you straighten up, Helaena is looking down at the floor, looking lost in her own mind, while Aemond watches his mother. She gives him a wan smile before she brushes past, her perfumed scent lingering in the air as she moves into the crowd, melting into it.

There’s silence. Even in the loud, busy room, there’s silence in the shadow of the Iron Throne.

Then Aegon scoffs. “Of course. Of course.”

He sounds angry and you look up, your hackles rising as you want to snap back in defense of Alicent.

But he has tears in his eyes. He’s angry. He’s spitting. If you spoke, he’d find a target for his rage, someone to pin all of this anger and rage on. He’d say unspeakably cruel things.

But he has tears in his eyes.

Your fury dies in your throat.

It feels pointless.

He doesn’t linger. He leaves quickly, pushing through the crowd, the crowd parting around like a ship through water. All of you watch him go, the air thick with unspoken grief.

Helaena breaks the quiet first. “The broken emerald ring,” she murmurs. “The ruby shattered.”

You look over at her but she’s already shaking her head, knocking her head clear of the words she had just said. She meets your gaze and smiles. “The feast went well.”

You pause for a moment, registering her words, before nodding, trying your best to smile. “Your announcement went perfectly. I’m sure there’s already smallfolk singing your praises outside the keep.”

She makes a face and your smile turns more genuine. “I mean it Helaena.” You slip from Aemond’s grasp to get closer to her, wishing that you could reach out to her to pull her close. “How are you feeling?”

Helaena doesn’t say anything for a while, looking down at her fidgeting hands before looking up and meeting your eyes. She doesn’t smile but she nods her head. “I feel the same. Things have changed but… Not everything has.”

You nod. “You’ll remain here at least. With your brothers and your mother.”

“With you too,” She reminds, a smile finally flickering on her face.

You nod again, stronger, confident. “With me too.”

She gives you a final fond look before she turns her attention to Aemond. She looks at him, her eyes openly roving over his face and body. She’s looking for something, you think, but you don’t know what. You know Helaena as well as you know yourself. She’s so tied up into your own sense of self that you don’t think that, if you ever felt even the slightest desire to, you could ever cut her away from you. Her roots are deep in you, curling tight around your heart and soul.

But her mind can be as secretive as her prophecies.

“The iron crown,” Helaena says as she looks at her brother, her eyes bright. “The throneless king.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything but when you look over at him, he’s tilted his head up, gazing down at his sister with satisfaction glowing in his eyes.

He covets the crown. How could he not? He could have listened to his father and gone to Dragonstone to try for one of Syrax’s hatchlings or taken one of her eggs. Instead, he had claimed the largest dragon in the world - the Queen of All Dragons. He had lost his eye for that prize, had forever damaged his standing in the view of his father. His ambition knew no bounds and could not be satisfied in remaining as only a second son. Only his love for his family, the loyalty to his brother, kept his fanged desire caged behind his teeth. But he couldn’t keep it down. Not forever. Not in moments like this. It would always bubble to the surface, always threaten to break free.

You watch him, tracing the proud jut of his chin, the tilt of his head, and his overconfident pride.

He should wear a crown. He suits one - far more than Aegon.

You suit a crown. If you were born less than two centuries earlier, you would have had one. If Aemond had been born first, perhaps you would have still gotten one.

You quash the desire as soon as it rises up in you. If Aemond had been born first, he would have married Helaena more likely than not. Even now, if something were to happen to Aegon, the question of what to do with Helaena’s marriage would arise. If they were to have children, the matter would only complicate.

You were willing to do a lot of things. You were willing to bloody your hands, willing to burn bridges and move your family about like they were nothing more than pawns in this game you were playing. You were willing to do much.

But you’re not willing to sacrifice Helaena. You’re not willing to risk anything that would bring her harm.

There’s no use wishing and longing for a crown that just wasn’t your’s. That could never be yours. Perhaps if you played your cards right, a daughter of yours could one day grow to wear one on her head. Your grandson could one day sit the Iron Throne.

But not you. Not if there was Helaena and if you had it your way, you’d rip your plans to absolute shreds if you could ensure that she would remain safe through it all.

You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. Even the thought feels treasonous, feels like a betrayal.

The soft call of your name pulls you out of your thoughts and when you look up, both Targaryen siblings are looking at you, their eyes both gleaming in the same way underneath the multicolored candlelight. An apology bubbles up in your throat and it’s only at the last second that you remember to apologize for what would make sense rather than what you really want to apologize for.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing slightly. “My mind left me. What were we discussing?”

Helaena is gracious even if Aemond narrows his eye. “I was asking if the two of you really mean to go dance or if you’re going to spend all night hiding with me.”

You frown slightly. “If you want me to hide with you.”

She snorts, so unladylike that you can’t help but to smile. “Absolutely not. If you hide with me, Mother will notice that you haven’t taken to the floor with Aemond which means she’ll notice I haven’t taken to the floor and she’ll make it her mission to make sure I dance with at least a few lords.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t force you,” you try to defend her, your resolve weaker than it would have been before - now that you’ve witnessed her demands of Aegon. Still, it seems impossible that she would ever ask the same out of Helaena. Helaena was her only daughter, her only girl. She was sweeter and softer with Helaena.

Helaena nods her head, his smile only flickering a little. “Still, I wouldn’t want to push my chances.”

You watch for a beat longer, wishing that there was something you could say or do to make it easier, but eventually, you heave a sigh and nod.

“You needn’t look like you’re marching to your doom,” Aemond murmurs under his breath as he comes to stand next to you, offering you his arm once more.

You ignore him for a moment, giving Helaena one final look, letting her know that if she needs you, she need only call and you’ll come to her side but she waves you off. You focus your attention back on Aemond only to see him eying you with a small smirk.

“I should refuse you the dance,” you warn. “You only asked so you could beat my cousin to my first dance.”

He laughs. “Would it please you if I declared my intentions again - In front of all? What prize would you like this time? Another crown?”

“Perhaps the head of another Florent,” you reply, catching sight of the familiar shade of blue on the other side of the crowd, only visible as the two of you still stand on the dais. Erren Florent stands alone once more, dark and moody around the edges of the room. His son and good daughter stand by his side, subdued but preoccupied in speaking to well wishers as they approach. He speaks to no one, choosing to only stare at the pair of you.

Aemond hums. “My mother was almost a Florent. She told me earlier this week that the Hightowers once debated betrothing Grandfather to a Florent lady. They eventually decided on Lady Alerie Redwyne and she was convinced that was why the Florents chose to insult us by their repeated badgering of you and their less than subtle animosity towards us.”

You blink, letting the information settle in, before peering up at him. “So in another life, Victor Florent may have been a cousin or something of sorts. You’d have been a kinslayer.”

“There’s one in every line,” he replies, his eye glinting knowingly. He’s referencing the library, your debate about King Brandon and the night’s king all those years ago, but your mind races to the carriage ride here with your father and uncle and what you had said about his own uncle and sister. There were kinslayers in every line.

What would one more be?

You smile at him, suddenly pleased by the turn of his conversation. “The next dance will be a waltz,” you remind him. “It’d be terribly bold if our first dance was a waltz.”

“Bolder than crowning you?” He asks and your smile only grows.

“No,” you agree. “Not bolder than that.”

He begins leading you down to the dance floor and, when the two of you arrive, the mixer dance ends. Some of the floor dissipates but the majority of the crowd stays, people finding their partners and a free space for the two of them to claim on the borders of the floor. Some people slink on, grabbing partners as they go, and you and Aemond do as well, heading for a spot close to the center.

People greet the two of you as you pass and you smile and greet them all back, playing the kindly lady to Aemond’s aloof prince. You spot your father in the crowd, Lady Tyrell on his arm. You can spot Ser Edwyn Sand, a charming smile locked on his face as he leads a blushing lady of House Crakehall onto the floor. You can even see Baela towards the back of the room, laughing with someone who can only be one of her Velaryon cousins.

The two of you slow to a stop, settling in a spot next to an unsmiling Stormlands lord and his quiet wife. You turn to face Aemond, him copying your movements, and two of you wait for the rest of the room for the bards to begin their songs.

It takes a moment or two, most of it filled with the soft sounds of people chattering or the repetitive click-clack of peoples’ heels on the smooth stone floor.

But then the soft twang of the harp filters through the air, over the low brass of the pipes, and you curtsey deep to the ground, in unison with the other ladies in the room, as Aemond bows in response.

He reaches for you first and you respond in kind, lifting your arm high to settle on his shoulder while he grips your waist tight. The two of you spin slowly, the skirt of your dress flaring through the air, but the dance picks up, your feet never once taking a pause as the memories of your old lessons start reawakening.

At first, no one in the room speaks, as if there’s a spell cast over all demanding silence, but eventually the splatters of the conversations break out in the watching audience, spreading slowly and surely to the dancers in motion.

“You’ll have to forgive me, my prince, if I miss a few steps. It’s been years since I’ve actually studied the dances,” you start, more to open conversation than to actually apologize.

Aemond snorts. “I’m sure you danced your fair share back in Casterly Rock during the feasts for your brother’s birth.”

You immediately shake your head. “The feasts were a mite different there than they’ve been here. Tyshara and I mostly preoccupied ourselves with ensuring everything was going smoothly as our mother entered her confinement. I didn’t have much time for dancing. More to the point, I think the lords were rather scared to approach me after a time.”

He looks down at you as he dips you low and your heart flutters a bit in your chest without your permission. When he pulls you up, he pulls you closer than he ought but you don’t have it in you to push him away. “How so? Had they heard there was a Targaryen awaiting your return in King’s Landing?”

“I doubt it though I’m sure some suspected,” you reply, holding down a laugh. “No, they were all rather put off by me after I castigated two lordlings from House Clegane and Tarbeck for mocking my sister.”

“They mocked her?” He asks, raising an elegant brow. “Were they allowed to leave with their tongues?”

“I��m not your kingly father,” you mockingly scold. “I’m a Lannister. I wanted to toss them in with the lions my family keeps in the bowels of the Rock so they could see if they found their joke as funny as they did.”

“What was the joke?” He asks as he spins you out.

When he pulls you back, you take a half moment to catch your breath again, suddenly gratefully that Aemond was meant to be leading this dance since you’ve forgotten how you’re supposed to move relative to the rest of the floor. Thankfully, he has not or, more likely, all his years in the yard have taught how to read his opponents’ body language and he was just naturally inclined to move in response.

“They called her Cerelle the Almost Heir,” you say once the pair of you have settled in the new movement of the crowd. “I’d applaud the rhyme if it wasn’t for the fact that that name was meant to hide the fact that any of their houses would count themselves lucky to have Cerelle as their heir. She spent her entire life preparing for that possibility. Every waking moment was spent getting ready for the chance that she might become Lady of the Rock. Little Loren kept her from that but, if she was to be Lady Lannister, the true Lady Lannister, she would have been the fiercest in our history.”

“Did she want to be the Lady of the Rock?” Aemond asks after a moment and your eyes dart up to his. “Does she regret having it taken away from her?”

You know what he really wants to ask.

Does your sister sympathize with Rhaenyra Targaryen? Does she, like the Princess, resent the younger brother born to take it all away from her?

You had asked yourself that very question in the lead up to your brother’s birth. When the two of you, along with all your sisters, would make the trek to the golden sept in your home and kneel on the floor, letting the incense burn your noses and eyes, as you had all prayed fervently for a boy to be born, did a part of her pray for another little sister?

When she had cried in the birthing chamber, when she had whispered to you about buying a thick cloak for her journey north, were her tears ones of joy or loss?

How would you feel, you had dared wonder in the sanctity of your mind, if what had been yours was ripped from your hands by a mere babe? A baby that you had in equal parts prayed for and dreaded?

How would you feel if you were the Almost Heir?

You release a sigh, faintly aware of Aemond awaiting your response, faintly aware of the music reaching its crescendo. “She knew what would happen to us if Loren had been a girl,” you say in lieu of answering his question. “Our bannermen were already lying in wait to push their sons onto Cerelle in hopes that their boys would get to be the next Lord of the Rock, Warden of the West. House Lannister survived it once in our history, when Queen Leila was the only child born to King Gerold III. Our vassals’ hunger has only grown in size and ambition since.”

Aemond hums in response. “As hungry as they may be, their ambition is outpaced by the one inherent in Lannisters. Your sister herself recovered the title lost. She might not be Lady of the Rock but she is Lady of Winterfell now.”

It’ll sound natural eventually, you reason to yourself. Soon, the name Cerelle Stark will be as familiar to you as Cerelle Lannister is. Decades in the future, she will have spent more time with her married name than she ever had with her maiden one.

But it is not now and, in this moment with only Aemond patiently waiting for you, you do not have to pretend.

“I should have been there,” you murmur, voice soft as to not be overhead though you doubt anyone is listening and, if they are, they can hardly hear you over the constant hum of the crowd. “It was my idea. My plan. And I sent her there alone.”

“You were that invested in a trade contract with the Starks?” Aemond asks, with only the faintest hint of humor in his tone telling you that he knows damn well that the earlier lie that you maintained, the current lie you’re maintaining in the court, was just that. A lie.

A lie you want to dispel - at least with him.

“I was that invested in soldiers,” you reply softly. “In blood alliances. In oaths. Lord Cregan Stark is my good brother now. He has a line to the Lannisters as steady as the Rock. Which means he has a line to the Targaryens. He has an investment.”

The humor leaves Aemond’s face quickly and he looks at you as seriously as he had in the sanctified Dragonpit. “There’s never been a Stark who has forgotten a vow,” he murmurs, a hint of warning entering his voice. Not a warning of anger or rage but rather a reminder. It was for naught, he tries to remind you. You’ve lost your sister for no prize at all.

You smile again, confidence laced through it. “What’s an old vow to a wife’s warm embrace? What’s an old promise to a blood tie to the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms? Lord Cregan is loyal, yes, but he’s pragmatic. He understands that for his people to survive, he needs to do what he must. His father’s vow was to the princess but he swore no vow. His vow is to the rightful heir and the rightful heir is supported by the house that helped him to his claim, the house that his lady wife is of.”

Aemond doesn’t say anything, looking at you over, only leading you through the dance out of sheer memory.

“You said earlier that you couldn’t swing a sword,” Aemond finally says as the dance slows to a stop, as he bows to you again and you curtsey in response. This time, his voice is firm and loud, loud enough for people to overhear. He wants them to hear this. “A sword would not be a strong enough weapon for you, my lady. You yourself are fiercer than any knight, more dangerous than any battalion.”

You don’t have time to bask in his compliment - not when another voice chimes in.

“Yes, the Lady Lannister is fierce. Fiercer than most know,” Erren Florent says, a cold smile plastered onto his face when your eyes jump to his.

Aemond and you rise up, the prince stepping in front of you slightly so you’re tucked behind his body, but Erren Florent’s smile does not flicker.

If you thought his soft countenance was a cover before, it is a grotesque death mask now. His gray eyes are bright but empty, utterly soulless as he keeps his smile firmly on his face. His skin stretches tight around his skull, as pale as any corpse now. If you hadn’t met him before his son’s death, you would swear that he was no human. No, you’d say, no human can look like that - as if they’ve peeled someone else’s face off and are wearing it as a mask, as if their own body is not your own.

Aemond is tense but he can afford to be tense. His weapon is a sword. His weapon is the largest dragon alive.

The only tool you have at your disposal now is your courtesy.

You smile brightly at him, as sweet as any lady could ever be, pushing down Aemond’s arm slightly so you can peer around him more easily. “My lord,” you greet, bowing your head, keeping your grip on the Targaryen firm. You’re here, you’re safe, you want to remind but you can’t, not with Lord Florent watching you with his dead eyes, waiting for any chink in your armor. “I meant to meet with you but time got away from me. As the Maiden in the wedding party, I was kept well occupied until this feast. I wish to pass along House Lannister’s, as well as my own, condolences. The loss of Ser Victor was a tragic one, one that will be surely felt in the City Watch for years to come.”

Erren bows his head, keeping his head down even as Aemond echoes your words, passing along the Crown’s sympathies. When he looks up, the first hint of emotion has broken through his closed expression.

Cold rage dances in his eyes.

“It’s a loss I will feel until the Stranger comes to claim me,” he says, his voice soft like a whisper. “A loss that will haunt my every waking moment.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. No words you could conjure that would make that blow any easier, would make him hate you any less.

You don’t want to. You don’t want to soften the blow. You want him to feel every moment of his grief. You hope that the pain of his loss will remind him of what his son had forgotten.

You are a Lannister, a daughter of the Rock. Your blood is old, the blood of kings. Even without Aemond, you are above a Florent even if their line stretches back as far as your own. A lion could not be caged by a fox, no matter how hard it might try. A lion could be caged by no one.

Not even a dragon.

“I pray you will find comfort, my lord,” you finally say, stepping out from behind Aemond, walking closer to Erren Florent. The old lord does not step back to accommodate you, letting you get within arm's length of you.

If he wanted to, he could reach out and strangle you here. He could pull a knife out and push it deep in your heart and not even Aemond would be able to stop it. If he wished it, Erren Florent could kill you as easily as you draw breath and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

But he can’t and that pain must be equal to the loss of the son. To have the reason for Victor's death, the true reason and not just the means through which it was delivered, so close at hand and being unable and unwilling to do anything.

How hateful a scene. How horrid.

You step closer, a smile dancing on your lips.

“May you find peace, my lord,” you murmur, your words intended for only you and him.

“May I find justice,” he snarls back, his mask slipping even further, his face twisting in his vengeance. His hot breath washes over your face, burning and awful, and you can taste the sharp smell of wine on your tongue.

Aemond steps closer, his chest pressing against your back, but you don’t move, not even to accommodate his touch. You stand in front of Erren Florent, smiling as innocent as a lamb.

“Justice, my lord? You found it. Your son earned it. The debt is paid,” you say, voice serene and calm. “But if you wish to seek further satisfaction, you are welcome to it. I could hardly deny it.”

You step closer, your expression never slipping.

Your smile grows, hunger sharpens it. “I pray you do, in fact. I pray you aim for more than your station affords you, just as your son did.”

“Why? So your prince might drive a sword through my throat?” Erren growls, all pretense of civility gone from his face.

You lean closer. “So that I might.”

There’s a moment where the two of you stare each other down, when the rest of the room including Aemond fades and it's just the two of you in the room together.

All he wants is to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He wants to break your neck. He wants to smash your head against the stone floor, crack it open like an egg and spill your brains out for all to gawk at.

Try it, you want to whisper. Try it and let me loose the hounds of war. Let me rip your house out by root and stem and seed. Let me wear your carnage and gore as a crown. Let no one utter the name Florent as anything but a warning. Try it and let me pay the debt.

The moment passes. The opportunity fades.

His anger festers. Your hunger grows.

He steps back, his mask sliding back into face.

“My lady,” Erren says, bowing his head.

“My lord,” you reply, dropping into a curtsey.

He leaves as quickly as he had come. You watch him go, slithering through the crowd towards the large doors of the throne room.

“I was his purpose,” you say softly but Aemond is close enough that he hears you.

“You are his purpose,” his voice is low and harsh and fierce and you turn to look at him, your skirt moving around you in a flurry. His eye is locked on you, concern sharpening his features into a fury. “He only lives now to seek his satisfaction. He won’t rest until he has your head mounted on his wall. ”

“It is a nice head, I’ll grant him that,” you laugh, your heart still pounding fast in your chest. “But it is mine and I have never been one to share.”

Aemond takes in a sharp breath, closing his eye. When he opens it, his worry is tempered by growing anger.

“You should carry a dagger,” he murmurs, his voice low, his tone leaving no space for disagreement. “I am your sword, I will always rise to defend you, but I cannot be everywhere at once. There are places that I cannot follow, places he will go to seek his vengeance.”

Your smile drops slightly. “I don’t know how to wield one. I’m more likely to stab myself than do anyone any real harm.”

His hand reaches out to touch your face, only pausing in mid air when he remembers himself. He drops his hand, clenching it into a fist at his side.

He’s angry, his brow furrowed tight with an anxiety you haven’t seen since Driftmark, since he was helpless and defenseless.

Your hands itch with the desire to smooth out the tightness in his face and you wish you were alone with a fierceness that threatens to tear you in half.

“I’ll show you,” he insists, his eye flickering all over you as if he’s already imagining what you would look like if Erren Florent had his way with you, as if he can already see imaginary wounds littering your body and even the mere thought of them is too much for him to bear. “I will show you and you will keep yourself safe when I cannot. You say you’re not one to share - I’m not either. I won’t be forced to suffer the loss of you. I’ve killed one Florent for you. I’ll kill another. I’ll keep slaughtering them until I’ve bled their house dry and even then, I won’t stop until all threats are gone, until you are safe in this new world that I will build for you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “And if there’s no end to the enemies you’ll make?”

“Then I won’t stop. I won’t stop until it’s just you and me left.”

You stare at him but nothing in his face flickers, nothing flashes. He is serious. He means what he says and you feel the weight of his devotion come crashing down on you. It is the heaviest thing you have ever felt. It knows no bounds and it crushes you completely, consuming every last bit of you and leaving room for nothing else.

And you relish it.

You’re not alone in your all-encompassing thoughts. Your hunger, your aching, raw desire, has its match, its partner, in him.

The enormity of it steals your breath from you, filling your lungs.

You’re not alone. It is complete ecstasy. It is utter bliss.

He stares at you, anger and worry fading away into anxiety, when he sees you’re not responding. Try as he might, hide as he will, but he cannot escape the little boy he once was, the boy desperate to be seen, the little boy desperate to be accepted, to be taken in.

“You are mine,” you say, the words leaving your mouth as easily as air enters your lungs. He sways towards you when he hears the weight of your voice, the adoration, the worship. “You are mine and I am yours.”

His eye grows wide and he stares down at you, his mouth dropping open slightly, looking as if you couldn’t have affected him more than if you had hit him over the head with a wooden beam, and you smile finally, feeling tears prick in the back of your eyes.

You had imagined saying it differently. You had imagined the library, had imagined being alone with none to disturb you.

But somehow, you can’t imagine it any different than this, any better than a stolen moment at the edge of a dance floor.

You reach out and grab his clenched fist, wrapping your hand around it as you bring it up to your mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on his knuckles.

“With this kiss,” you say, feeling almost delirious in your desire to do this. To prove yourself. To say something that can match his endless devotion. “I pledge my love. I pledge my life. I pledge my strength.”

It’s not enough. It won’t be enough. Not until you die in service of him.

But you need it. Oh gods, but you need it.

You drop his hand when you hear Daeron’s voice call, when you hear Alicent say his name right after.

You drop his hand and you smile at him, swallowing the thick tears down.

And he smiles back.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #apologies for any mistakes this was written and posted fast and furious #i had plans to use a different gif from s2 bUT the expression in this one kills me SO (:#pls enjoy

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 10 months

Text

A Perfect Score - Epilogue | FigureSkating!AU

Summary: months have passed since the finals with no sign of Aemond, making you wonder if anything has changed | Word Count: 6k~ | Warnings below the cut~

Series Masterlist | Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

Warnings: p in v sex, daddy kink, oral (f receiving), degradation, praise, *a finger in the bum*, butt play, ass eating, orgasm denial, creampie, ass slapping, pussy slapping, face slapping

A/N: *don't get emosh, don't get emosh, don't get emosh* I can't believe it's really REALLY the end! I've had this idea for the Epilogue for AGES and can't wait for you all to read the last instalment of our figure skating couple <3 would die for them and hope you enjoy!

"Good, but bend your knees!" You shout to El who's still got her hands outstretched haphazardly, wobbling on the ice as others whizz past her, knocking her off balance.

She throws a middle finger.

Charming.

You laugh as she pushes off to do another lap, reaching down between your legs for the bag and pulling your phone out for any new texts.

Nothing, you sigh.

El makes you jump, bumping into the ledge, "Will you stop being a simp and checking your phone every two seconds? He's going to text you!"

You click your phone off, "I know. I'm just so impatientttt…" you whine, exaggerating your frustration.

El rolls her eyes, "He'll get in, bud"

"Ew, don't call me that"

"Besides, if he gets rejected, he could always be your new manager, pal" she grins.

"You're so fucking gross, you know that?"

She shrugs, a grin that spells victory, "that'd be kinda hot to be fair. Going everywhere with you to competitions, organising your hotel rooms, fucking you over his des-"

"El! For fucks sake" you whisper-shout, heat rising to your cheeks.

A few other skaters on the ice turn their heads in judgment, making your face burn with embarrassment.

"Gods, so uptight" El jokes, a mischievous grin on her face.

To tell the truth. You missed Aemond. In all aspects.

You hadn't had sex since being in Dorne. And you hadn't seen him since the hospital.

Even though you texted most days, after months of seeing him everyday, it was quite the shock to the system.

It felt like there was a hole, conveniently Aemond-shaped, that was deepening the longer you two were separated.

"Oof!"

You both look up, to see Floris on the ice, wobbling her way back onto her feet, grimacing, "I'm ok!" She reassures, pushing off to skate slowly.

You nod in Floris' direction, "Is she okay skating?"

"Yeah, the physiotherapist said it'd be good to get her doing things like this again" El replies, looking over her shoulder at her sister.

She turns back to you, "Your manager doesn't hang around here anymore. Not since Floris has started coming back".

You resist the urge to frown.

Coward.

“Got you”, El smirks mischievously, "will you tell me what happened one day?"

It was something you’d thought about for some time. To tell her, or not? Floris certainly didn’t know the deeper details, but you knew she would have had suspicions.

Aemond was obviously unbothered if such information circulated, having put a very large proverbial wall between him and Otto the moment he was discharged from hospital. And yet, it still wouldn’t feel right, airing out all the Targaryen dirty laundry like that.

Even if he said it was okay.

But maybe, on a deeper level, Floris and El at least, deserved the truth.

"One day" you promise.

The cold winter chill nips at your bones, even through the layers of thermal clothing you've got piled on, the thick socks, boots and an overcoat, it still feels positively freezing.

“Who are you texting, missy?” you tease, bumping El on the shoulder, shoving your hands into your thick coat pockets.

She flushes, from the weather or the embarrassment you are unsure, but she puts her phone away quickly, “Nobody, you nosy cow”

King's Landing Winter Wonderland, Christmas Market and trinket shops, though it's far too early for any of that, it gets the people into the spirit. Stalls line the market square with several of them selling holiday related items as well as food, with an ice rink circling the entirety of the perimeter.

The air smells of mulled wine, cooked meats and the laughter of families and couples alike. With their warm breath creating clouds of white with each exhale.

El has you excitedly tucked into her arm, telling you all about her newest boyfriend, who for all intents and purposes is both hot and a keeper.

Ah, so that’s who she was talking to.

"He's already talking about us moving in together! Before the end of the year" She says excitedly, but her face falls, "but…I don't want to leave you in the lurch paying the rent by yourself".

You scoff, "I won't take you away from good dick because of fucking rent" you smirk, "if you want to, go for it".

She arches her eyebrows in uncertainty, "You sure?"

You pat her gloved hand with yours, "very", you smile, "as long as he doesn't steal you away from me, I want the lowdown".

"Oh you'll get that alright", she laughs.

Having poked your heads into a few stalls, and several sips of mulled wine later, you smirk as El is glued to her phone. Again.

"That your man?" You ask.

She quickly puts it away, biting her lip, "Yup" she replies, "wanna go skating?"

You roll your eyes, "It's not like it's my fucking job, El. Sick of it".

"Oh come on! I won't have to use the kids stabilisers anymore!"

She gives you her wide, puppy-like eyes.

Ones you know you can't refuse.

"Fine" you sigh.

She is far too excited to say that literally a few hours before she was struggling to use her two flippers to stay upright on the rink. Nevermind going backwards.

It’s quite entertaining to see her drag you by the hand excitedly to the ticket gate.

“One ticket for skating, please! Size 5!” she beams at the receptionist, who looks like he’d rather be dead right now.

You furrow your brows, “One? Did you want to go on by yourself and I watch or-”

“Nope! Just you” she grins.

“Me? El, what in seven hells are you on abou-”

She shoves the skates into your hands and practically pushes you past the gate, waving you off, “no questions!”

You don’t even really have time to cuss her out/question the situation, it feels like your brain is in overdrive.

There, either hand leaning against the entrance to the ice rink, where the public are zipping around slowly, laughing, pink in the face, hand in hand, is Aemond. The familiar ribbons of platinum hair that have fallen from the hair tie, now slightly waved from the moisture in the air, sways with the breeze at his shoulders.

He has that slack smirk on his face, his tall broad form leaning on one side, ankles crossed with the low quality skates on, tapping the tip onto the ice.

Even in a heavy looking coat, his hair messily done up and pink cheeks from where the cold had been hitting them, he still looks every bit as handsome as you remembered him.

It makes your heart sigh to see him smile at you with that glimmer in his eye. Blinking slowly and admiringly at you.

"Hey, Princess", he greets warmly.

You almost drop the skates in your hands, the cold wisps of wind making you realise now that your eyes are all wet.

You're sure his name slips out before you crash into his arms, flinging yours around his neck.

He smells just like he used to.

And all those good memories just flood back at once, making that wetness behind your eyes form actual teardrops that line your cheeks.

You feel him laugh a little, one of his big hands on your back, "missed me then?", he prods in a smooth tone.

Fuck. His voice.

You didn't realise you'd missed hearing it so much.

When you pull away, to properly look at his face, he's still smiling, in that classic 'Aemond' way.

You're so engrossed with just looking at him, you nearly flinch when you feel his thumb wipe your under eye softly, wiping the moisture away.

His gaze softens, "don't cry. I don't look that bad, do I?"

Giving a watery laugh, you shake your head, "Just missed you".

His hand is still around your waist, inadvertently pulling you close to him so your hands hover over his chest, "Now, now, don't get all soft on me".

Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

"How?.."

Aemond gestures with his head, "El organised it".

"But…she's-"

"With her new boyfriend, don't worry. It's just us, princess" Aemond smiles, picking up the skates you'd dropped.

"For old time's sake?" He smiles.

And all you can do is blush and smile up at him like a little lovesick teenager.

It feels utterly strange to get back on the ice with Aemond again, even if it is a public one in the middle of a Christmas market. Even more so that he's not flinging you around in all sorts of twists and jumps.

But it feels nice.

Hand in gloved hand, you glide about together, catching up.

Alicent, you learn, has gotten back in touch with her long time friend. Aemond furrows his brows when he recollects that usually she's on facetime with a glass of Dornish Red in one hand and creasing up in front of her iPad at something her friend has said.

Aegon. Well, he's Aegon. Aemond's words, not yours. But he's working on getting a teaching qualification so that he can coach skating instead. It's nice that he was able to find something to use his skills for. Other than womanising.

"Had minor surgery on my nerves…they think it'll do the trick for some years, hopefully forever" he says as you weave on either foot.

"Well that's good" you smile, "does it feel better?"

He nods, "Oh and Hel has a new partner".

You look over quickly, one eyebrow poised, "And? Was I right?"

Smirking, Aemond has to resist the urge to roll his eye, "Yes, you were right".

"Yes! I knew it! I knew she was bi!"

You flush when some families around you look over when you shout it a bit too loud.

Oops.

Aemond tugs you to his side by your waist, humming in a kind of quiet laugh. A comfortable silence descends, just enjoying one another's company.

"I got in", he says suddenly. Stealing your attention again as your feet synchronise in short glides.

"Got in?"

"KLU".

"KLU? Oh my god-" you surge up, his face between your hands, but he doesn't complain, and kiss him fiercely, "Congratulations, Aemond. Oh my gosh, that's-"

You beam with pride.

And you can tell he genuinely loves it, by the way he blushes slightly.

"And" he goes on, his face close to yours, smirking at the confused look on your face.

"And?..."

He licks his lips before he speaks.

"I got a place" he adds, "and was wondering…if you…"

He trails off. And your face settles into realisation. Your heart hammering in your chest, like the engine of an old train.

He shrugs, clearing his throat, “You know, because we basically spent all our time together during the championships…”

You swallow thickly, "Really?..." it comes out weaker than you intended.

He nods, “It’s just out of town, not far from here really” he gestures in the vague direction with his head, the hand that’s resting at your waist dropping somewhat.

Blinking the emotion from your eyes, you swat his chest playfully, “Alright, Mr Moneybags”

He doesn’t laugh, like you expect him to, but he does smile at least. At this point, you seem to have come to a stop, your skates nestled between his to keep you both stable.

His darkened gaze just looks at your face. Studies it.

Like he’s opened a book and is reading through the pages.

When he looks at you like that, you can’t help but feel a flutter deep in your chest. It feels like he is drawing on you softly, like a thousand little butterflies have landed on your face, and are slowly opening and closing their wings.

You shudder when his warm, ungloved thumb brushes against your cheek.

“What?...” you smile at him affectionately.

He hums, a cloud escaping his lips as he speaks, “I’ve missed you”.

All you feel is the ledge of the ice rink press against your lower back and yours and Aemond’s noses brushing against one another as he presses his warm, comforting lips to yours.

He takes his time, moving languidly against your lips with a soft, wet beat, his tongue parting your lips as if he had been waiting all this time to taste you properly.

He tastes just as you remember.

A hint of cigarettes that he’s tried to hide with spearmint.

When you break away, you can’t ignore the warm feeling that blooms in your gut. In all the time you’d spent apart, you forgot how his lips felt on yours, how his hands felt on you, and how his mere presence around you made arousal creep up your thighs.

Gods, it’s been so long.

A blush creeps up your neck to your face, and Aemond smirks.

“Stop that”

Your lower lip catches between your teeth before you reply, “What?”

He leans against the ledge, caging you in with his own body.

“Blushing”

His voice lowers.

“Otherwise I’ll give you something to blush about”

The tension was thick as you and Aemond trudged through the Christmas Market after vacating the ice rink. You tried to lighten it by doing idle things like looking at the homemade ornaments on one stand, to sharing a cup of mulled wine between you, feeling the way the liquid warmed your insides.

That warmth was nothing compared to the way Aemond looked at you.

It reminded you of all those months ago, at the hotel, before the dynamic of your relationship changed. The way he used to stare at you from across the room, in what you wrongly thought at the time was out of disinterest and detest.

How wrong you were.

Shooting off a quick text to El, who you were sure was already back at the flat anyway, enjoying all the ‘assets’ of her new boyfriend, you walk hand in hand with Aemond back to his apartment.

He was very intent on showing you his new place. And your insides fluttered in anticipation, heat crawling up your neck.

His apartment was nice. Not that you expected any less. It was several floors high, showing a good view of King’s Landing and the bright, illuminated Christmas Market in the square below. Even from here, through the tall and wide windows of the living room, you could see the couples zipping around the ice rink, as you both were just a few moments before.

It had that ‘new apartment’ smell, but whenever you brushed past a coat of his or a blanket, it smelled like him. The walls were bare, but you were sure that Aemond would decorate when he was properly settled.

“Is Vhagar going to be coming here?” you ask, cupping the warm mug of tea in your hands as Aemond gives it to you.

“Maybe. She’s quite settled at Mum’s though so…I don’t want to make her anxious”.

You nod, “It’s a nice place”

“Will look even better when you’re here” he smirks, bending down to huff himself onto the sofa, “I’m sure you have better ideas than I do on interior design”.

You simply watch him for a moment, the warmth of his apartment making your previously cold hands feel prickly. Your fingers tap against the ceramic, the sound of Aemond’s playlist rumbling quietly from a speaker in a different room.

Placing the mug on the coffee table, Aemond exhales as your legs rest either side of his torso, moving to sit atop him with your hands stealing beneath his shirt, watching as his pink lips part for breath.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, princess” he murmurs against your lips as he leans up, his large hands squeezing your ass, moulding the flesh to his grip and eliciting a low gasp from your lips.

"Who says it's a game?" You whisper back, teasing him by brushing your lips against his, moving your hips on him and smiling when you feel him harden instantly.

" - fuck - "

You know he hates it, just hates it, when you smirk at how pent up and desperate he gets. But you just can't help it. Not only is it all too easy, it's just too fucking tempting too.

How easily such a large, overbearing and domineering man, can be subdued to a mewling, near-begging mess just by the soft movement of your hips.

"Baby, please -"

Reaching down between your bodies, Aemond outright moans when you palm his erection through his jeans, sitting against his thigh quite obviously. You tease your hand from the base to the tip, squeezing through the denim, seeing the way Aemond almost knits his brows together in barely-contained pleasure.

And any time he tries to reach up, to kiss you properly, you pull back, allowing him to chase you.

"Oh, fuck you-"

You yelp in surprise as Aemond lifts you, keeping your legs around his waist as he pushes his bedroom door open and dropping you onto his mattress. And before you even have a moment to sit up on your elbows, he's on you, kneeing your legs apart and caging you to the bed with his body.

"Can't fucking wait any longer - need you, baby-"

Fuck, even the way he says that has arousal pooling between your legs, the desire to push your thighs together strong, but weakened with Aemond's body keeping them apart.

He's so fast and rough, the way he unbuttons your jeans and pulls the denim down your legs, taking your underwear with it, that you feel for a moment he may have torn something.

He practically fucking growls when he he looks between you, his thumb teasing your clit, finally able to look upon you the way he's wanted to for months.

"Already soaked for me, aren't you?" He coos lowly, teasing your bud in sure, confident circles, before swatting your heat firmly with a wet smack, "such a good fucking slut for me".

You mewl, pressing your lips together, a flush enveloping your face at his words. It's been so long since you were intimate with him, it will take a few moments to get used to it again and fall into that rhythm.

That, and you can't help but flush in embarrassment at the realisation you've not shaved your legs, genuinely not having expected to see him today.

It doesn't seem like Aemond cares.

With a fist over the collar of his shirt, he pulls it over his head, showing his lean and well-muscled torso lit with a warm amber glow from the bedside lamp.

You jolt in surprise as his fingers pull you by your thighs further down the bed, a gasp flying past your lips as his tongue and teeth nip and kiss at the inside of them. The sensation bordering on pain and pleasure at the same time.

"You don't know how long I've waited to taste your sweet pussy, princess"

You have an idea, by the way Aemond mouths at the crease between your thigh and hip. But you don't say it out loud. The anticipation of his mouth so, so close without touching you where you need him most is agonising.

" - fuck - Aemond -"

Your back nearly arches off the bed as he flattens his tongue against your warmth, swirling around your clit first before diving into your folds to feast on you, his fingers digging into your flesh for leverage. The feeling of his grip into your flesh burns pleasantly as he tugs you towards him, your lips parting with hurried pants tumbling out.

Your legs tremble as his low moan vibrates through your core, electricity creeping up your spine as he laps at you with vigour, his sharp nose nudging at your clit as he moves side to side to eventually fuck you with his tongue.

For a split second, you worry if he can actually breathe.

But as your embarrassingly quick orgasm starts barrelling towards you without warning, it somehow gets pushed to the back of your mind, you reach down, threading your fingers through his hair, chanting his name as if it’s all you can say as he groans against your cunt.

His hands hold you down by your thighs, tugging you back to his mouth in soft micro-movements as you shake against him, head thrown back against the pillows with your breath hot in your chest, unable to catch it well enough to form any other sound than moaning unabashedly.

Aemond outright moans as you cum against his tongue, the lewd sound of him licking up everything that comes out makes a heat creep up your neck. But you can’t find it within yourself to be embarrassed. Not when he makes you feel like this.

You can feel the moisture on his face when he takes mercy, drawing his lips away to kiss and nip at the inside of your thighs again, giving one firm bite before he pulls away with a smirk on his face, no doubt happy at the mark he’s left behind.

Your eyes feel heavy as you lift your gaze to him, now perched on his knees as he pops the buttons of his jeans off, the veins on the back of his hand straining, making you feel somewhat lightheaded.

“ - can’t wait to fuck you again - you don’t know how long I’ve wanted be buried inside that pretty little pussy -”

You lick your lips as your mouth goes dry. He always manages to do that. Somehow turn you into a limp, mewling mess in no time at all.

Something you have in common, clearly.

With your heart beating erratically, body throbbing in the afterglow of your orgasm, that feeling is enhanced still when Aemond tugs at his length needily, his shoulders rising and falling with the desire to just stuff himself inside you as deep as he will go.

You can only watch in awe as his fingers wrap around himself, the tip ruddy and desperate, with arousal coating it with every slow and calculated fist. His stomach muscles clench and unclench uncontrollably, his chest muscles moving steadily with each deep breath.

It feels exciting, how utterly small you feel when he leans over you, once again grasping your legs to spread them before him. His long, thick fingers tease your slick folds, before he guides the fat head of his cock to your centre, watching with parted lips at the way your eyebrows furrow in both relief and pleasure as he stretches you around him slowly.

“ - ohfuck - ”, he moans lowly, sinking himself slowly into your warmth and basking in the closeness it offers, “ - fuck, baby, so tight for me -”

Being with him like this again is like sinking into a warm bath, with the rolls of steam batting at your face. And his words are so soft, they’re like dozens of little snowflakes settling on your face in a flurry. All cold and numb, and yet warm and fuzzy at the same time.

It’s completely instinctual, the way you turn your head, slightly embarrassed as Aemond holds either of your legs apart, his pelvis smacking against yours as he eases himself into a steady rhythm.

“ -aw, don’t tell me you’ve gone all shy on me -” he mocks, his eye glimmering with mischief as he looks down at you, “-where’s the needy, little slut I used to know, hm? -”

You gasp as Aemond pushes both hands down, pressing both of your legs towards your shoulders, bending at the knee so that he can kneel higher, using the new position with gravity to fuck down into you faster and rougher.

The new position has you pretzeled before him, completely unable to do anything but throw your head back against the pillows and turn bright red at the wanton, breathy moans that slip out.

“ -Aemond -”

“ - what’s wrong, baby? -” he coos, “ -is this too much for you? Hm? I know you’re more flexible than this -”

Fuck.

Each rough push of his length into you from this angle has the curved head of his cock brush against your sweet spot with devastating precision. With every thrust, the air seems to expel forcefully from your lungs, not helped in part by the fact that Aemond has your legs pressed hard against your ribs.

All you’re able to see through bleary eyes is the way he smirks down at you with his hair stuck to his tacky face, his chest heaving with hurried breath, and every now and then, his neck muscles straining as he tips his head back and groans loudly as you inadvertently squeeze his length when he bullies the end of you.

The air is charged, hot and humid. And you barely register the fact that music is still playing in another room, and that the curtains are pulled back. Though there’s no chance of anyone being able to see you both from how high his apartment is, it still makes your insides tighten that it’s happening so unabashedly with the city right below you.

His hand drifts down your thigh, watching as you squirm beneath him as he presses hard on your stomach, your eyes closing tightly at the feeling of him closing you around his length as it pistons roughly into you. He smiles slightly, almost as if he can feel how deep he reaches inside you.

“ -Oh fuck, baby - can fucking feel you gripping me -” he moans helplessly, leaning over, the sweat on his forehead slightly illuminated by the warm lamp’s light, “-does my girl like being a dirty little slut?”

You barely even register he’s speaking, everything sounding utterly muffled and just too much all at once. His low voice only serves to make that coil wind tighter in your gut, reacting to the way he never lets up his pace once.

You jolt slightly when he taps your cheek twice, a little rougher than you’d anticipated.

“ -I’m fucking talking to you -” he growls, moving his hand from your stomach up to bunch the shirt in his fist, exposing your pebbled nipples to the warmth of the room.

You nod helplessly, “Yes - yes -”

It’s all mindless babbling, and Aemond knows it as he grins, his eye flitting down to watch the way your breasts bounce as he fucks you.

“ -please, Aemond -”

“ -please what, hm? You want to cum, is that it? But you’re too fucked stupid to say it?”

As much as you hate to admit it, his words send a bolt of humiliation through you that does nothing but excite you, your core throbbing around his length with every calculated word he says.

"Aw, poor thing -" he jeers, "- I'm going to have fun with you-"

Wait what?

This isn't said 'fun'?

Oh shit.

Before that familiar coil can wind itself any tighter, Aemond pulls back, grunting as he manhandles your hips to turn you over and his palm cracking against your backside, smirking in victory at the mewl it gets out of you.

The skin there blooms with warmth, more so as Aemond’s tantalisingly hot skin presses against it once more, your lips parting in what can only described as a relieved moan as he slides into you again, his cockhead hitting the spongey end, filling you utterly.

"-Aemo-"

Smack.

"Not my fucking name, Princess. C'mon, you can do it" he purred, pressing his hand against your back, pushing against your spine and forcing your face against the sheets.

A choked moan almost slips out, with him tugging your hips up to him in such a curved position, his cockhead bullies your sweet spot, dragging his length along your sensitive walls, propelling you to an overwhelming orgasm.

"Go on - beg me for it or I won't let you cum-"

The idea of him denying you yet again when you were so close last time just seems utterly unbearable. So despite the humiliation rocking through your core with each harsh smack of his hips, despite the overwhelming heat of the room and most of all, despite your pride.

You do.

"Please - daddy - need it-"

If you could see him, you'd hate it.

Because he grins. Ear to fucking ear like he's wanted to hear it for months.

"Aren't you gonna beg me for permission to touch yourself?"

You suck in a breath, squealing muffled against the sheets as he gives another hard thrust. Clearly, despite appearances, on the verge himself.

"-can I - can I touch myself - please, daddy -"

"-fuck- baby, touch that little clit for me, yeah? - want to feel you cum-"

His voice is strained, pushing you with each thrust further and further against the sheets, your arms near giving out with the weight of him on you. With difficulty, your hand snakes between you and the mattress that constantly dips with how rough Aemond is being, and finds your bud, running the slickness that has collected over it, tying up your pleasure into two feelings.

Aemond’s lips part, staggered breaths the only thing coming out, as he feels your walls flutter around him, looking down at the way your bodies meet with a soft smack every time. You feel so warm and tight, gods he’s wanted to cum since since you started touching him through his jeans.

But now, pulling you by your hips to spear you onto his cock, he’s so so close.

Just wants to feel you first.

“-baby, you’re doing so well for me-” he breathes quickly, his gaze flitting briefly from where he’s pistoning in and out of you, to your sweat slick face, pressed against the sheets, biting your lips harshly as you pleasure yourself in tandem with Aemond’s movements.

As his hand slid down past your hips, his thumb tracing the bottom of your spine, you suck in a harsh breath when he softly grazes over your puckered hole, still fucking shallowly as if to tease you and him into teetering on the edge of a climax.

You're barely able to see behind you, pressed so hard into the sheets, but he looks good fucking you. His chest shines with perspiration, the chain dangling around his neck teasingly, and his abdominal muscles clenching and unclenching with restraint.

And then you see him smile.

"-oh? We've never done this before have we, princess?-"

Oh shit.

After all the exertion of your passion so far, your slick has easily made its way onto your thighs, so Aemond doesn't have to move much to drag some of it on his thumb and circle your hole with light, delicate motions, moistening the area.

Humiliation creeps up onto your face, eyes slipping shut. No guy before has ever really tried to do this. So this is uncharted territory. But despite the brief embarrassment, you have to admit that the feeling of Aemond ever so slightly pressing his thumb against you as he continues to thrust brutally into your cunt just feels new in the most amazing way.

His other hand still grabs the flesh of your ass, tugging you back to his cock in a frantic rhythm. The mewls coming out your mouth now sounding so unlike your own.

Aemond knows by the way your hips move up to meet his touch that you like it, but are too embarrassed to say.

"-how about it, hm? - you want me in both your pretty little fuckholes? -"

"-yes - yes, please daddy, I-"

Making sure his thumb is slick enough, your puckered hole also, he slides in slowly, using the palm of his hand to grasp whatever of your ass cheeks as he can.

You almost hear his choked moan.

"-fuck-, you're so tight here, princess - you gonna let me fuck it one day, hm? - you'd be so fucking good here-"

The batting of his cock against your upper walls has you very nearly sobbing outwardly, combined with the feeling of him in such a new place, pressing in, you'd forgotten you'd stopped pleasuring yourself. Completely embroiled in this feeling.

He chuckles darkly, crooking the digit ever so slightly, leaning over to press against your back "-you'd fucking let me as well, wouldn't you? -"

The curling of his other fingers on the flesh of your backside has him smiling at the sounds it emits from you.

“-did I say stop, hm? Keep touching yourself - cum for me-”

You know that as soon as you do it’s all over.

His voice, combined with all three feelings at once, tugging at that pleasurable spot inside you that has white, hot pleasure soaring through your bloodstream, has a long, choked moan filling the space between you. And you’re surprised to hear that the same sound slips past Aemond’s lips as well, the air of his breath batting against your neck as he tries to bury himself as deep inside you as he possibly can.

You’re trying to suck in breath without really realising it, the earth-shattering orgasm making your body go all rigid for a moment before you relax against the sheets, with the pleasant weight of him above you.

Everything feels warm. His bedroom right now feeling like a large blanket has enveloped you both. It seems a weird thing to think in the moment, with Aemond’s half naked body hunched over you, his cock twitching and pulsing, whimpering as he is still emptying himself inside of you and feeling the aftershocks through your fleshy walls.

All his micro-movements seem overly-sensitive. And when Aemond exhales, lifting himself off your back, lifting your lids to open your eyes feels like the most difficult thing you’ve ever done.

“-sorry-” he whispers cautiously as he pulls his softening cock from you, immediately feeling the warm rush of cum coating your inner thighs.

Warmth blossoms once again to your cheeks as he stays still, and you think he must be staring at the way he leaks from you, sighing in a sort of perverted admiration.

You don’t even have time to open your mouth before his thumb slips out your other hole, only to jolt in shock once it’s immediately replaced by his tongue. All those dulled out endorphins that were dissipating into your limbs feel like they all gather back, and you squeeze your thighs together, fisting the bedsheets so tightly they could’ve torn.

Both of his hands seem to find their home on each asscheek, spreading them so he can easily swirl his talented wet, muscle around your hole, fucking moaning as he does it. All your nerves ring semi-uncomfortably, overstimulation nipping at the edges of the pleasure.

“-fuck, Aemond, no no, please-” you plead, emitting a weary, exhausted laugh when he chuckles and pulls away, landing one softened smack against the flesh.

“-Mm- another time-”

Lethargy pulls at your body as you lay on your front, blinking slowly as you feel the mattress rise, pressing your lips together as Aemond disappears into the en-suite, tucking himself back into his jeans.

A moment later, he comes back with a warm washcloth, offering to clean you up. But you simply smile, pushing yourself to sit up, “I’m good”, you smile, with a flushed face, feeling slightly bashful after what you’d just done together.

One long shower together later, you lay in his bed, looking out at the city beneath, the cascade of brightly coloured lights littering the dark space between buildings. Aemond’s shirt easily reaches to your thighs, with nothing beneath, not having anticipated staying over anywhere today.

Aemond sighs calmly, his chin on the top of your head, pressed against your back, with one of his hands running through the tresses of your hair, every now and then stroking at your scalp, which has your eyes slipping shut at the pleasant feeling.

“Well, princess? Do you like it?” he asks, his voice all soft and tired.

You meet his lilac gaze, tilting your head slightly in question.

“The apartment”.

“It’s perfect”, you smile, reaching up his cheek and running the back of your fingers over it, the scar tissue feeling slightly different in texture over your skin, “you sure you want me to move in?”

He blinks slowly, a smile rising to his lips, his hand coming to yours and pressing a soft, tender kiss to your wrist. And though not directly sexual, it makes your belly do little backflips, feeling so intimate and captivating that warmth floods your skin through his lips.

“Of course, princess. I can't do this without you”.

Aemond Taglist (1): @asp3nxx | @avidreader73 | @bellaisasleep | @boofy1998

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huramuna · 10 months

Text

a maid's folly - chapter 1.

dark aemond x maid ofc minor aemond x floris baratheon work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

summary: a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

word count: 2k

i got a few requests for dark aemond x maid / servant / lowborn so here is my amalgamation of all of those! this will be a mini series!

warnings: smut (eventually, will add further tags on chapters with smut), power imbalance, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

guilded lily - cults • christmas kids - roar

It was an eve of spring, a gentle breeze whistling through the corridors of the Red Keep. A particularly strong gust rippled the bandanna atop the maid’s head– she slapped a hand to the crown of her skull, pulling it taut once more.

She shouldn’t be getting knocked over by a mere gust of wind– in the South, no less. The newly appointed maid was a young girl of nineteen name-days passed. She was known by Rosemary; Rosemary Stone. Originally from the Vale, more specifically, she was raised in the Eyrie. Her mother was a handmaiden to Lady Jeyne Arryn– the two women were particularly close and Jeyne took Rosemary under her wing as if she were her own after her mother passed. Rosemary knew there had been a deep love between her lowborn mother and the Lady of the Vale.

Rosemary’s mother spoke little of her father, if at all– she had heard rumors swirling around the Eyrie that it was a bannerman of Lady Jeyne’s, but she paid no mind to it, it didn’t matter to her either way. She was raised as well as a bastard could be and received much love from Lady Jeyne and her mother.

“Rosemary, you must listen to me, my dear,” Lady Jeyne had said just a few moons prior, “The world is changing. You’ve grown in the safety of the Vale, but I fear that… you are unprepared for your future. You’re a young girl, beautiful and you could become something one day, something beyond your name,” she paused, taking Rosemary’s hand in her own, “You must leave the Vale.”

Rosemary blinked, recoiling slightly as if she’d been hit with a physical blow, “W-what? What do you mean, ‘leave the Vale’?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly, “All I know is the Eyrie— all I know is you, all I know is… is…” she sniffled, clenching on Jeyne’s hand tightly before letting go.

Jeyne let out a small sigh, getting a bit closer to her, their knees touching, “My sweet girl— that is exactly my point. I… cannot in good conscience let you live out the rest of your life here. You’re young, you have no titles, no land,” she paused, “No blood relatives keeping you here— you may see your bastardry as a hindrance and in some ways, it may be— but you have more freedom than anyone else in this Keep. More than I have, more than your mother had.”

The girl wiped the tears now pooling at her lashes, “I don’t wish to go— I don’t know anyone, and if… if I do, where would I go?”

Lady Arryn took Rosemary’s hands in her own once more, rubbing small circles on them in a soothing manner, “I’ve been corresponding with King’s Landing— I believe you may be a good fit in the Red Keep, mayhaps as a handmaiden or a servant. I will make the necessary arrangements,” she let out a small sigh, “Between you and I— I’ve heard that King isn’t well, and that it is the Hightowers who sit the Iron Throne now. The Vale is impregnable— but it is also where information goes to die. I shan’t be uninformed, up here in the Eyrie with none the wiser if a war is brewing right under our noses— I wish for you to send me letters of anything you deem noteworthy. We are safe from legions of soldiers but we are nothing against dragons— Maegor saw to that.”

Rosemary’s brow furrowed, “You wish for me to… spy?”

“In a way— think of it as your secondary goal,” Jeyne hummed, “Your priority is socializing, getting acquainted with other people and mayhaps finding a nice lover or two along the way, hm? You shan’t find any of those in the Eyrie, dear.”

The girl cracked a smile, albeit a small one. Slowly, she nodded. She didn’t wish to disappoint Jeyne. In a way, she was another mother to her, and she felt a strong desire to please her.

But she still felt a deep pit in her stomach— she didn’t know what to expect in King’s Landing.

Rosemary was pulled from her reverie by a tap on her shoulder. It was Magelle, one of the older serving ladies.

“Wake up, girl,” she whispered in a harsh tone, “Take this tray to the prince.” the older woman shoved a silver platter of hot water and tea leaves at her.

“The… prince— y-yes, the prince,” Rosemary stumbled, “Which one?”

Magelle rolled her eyes, “Do ye see wine on this tray? I told ye— the older prince only drinks wine. I’ll be rolling in my grave when that boy asks for tea. This is for the younger prince, Aemond. Remember what I told ye— no eye contact, especially with the second son. Ain’t a pretty sight none anyhow. Now get goin’.” she huffed, swatting the younger maid on the bottom, practically spurring her into action like a horse.

Rosemary stumbled through the halls with the tray, getting lost a few times— what was the point of all of these damnable hallways?

Eventually, she found her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, where the royal apartments were. She counted, Aemond’s chambers were third from last.

A gentle knock on the door was heard as she walked up to it. Her hand was shaking ever so slightly as she adjusted the hood of her kerchief , pushing up a single, errant hair. The teacups rattled on the tray she was balancing with her other hand. She was to serve the prince– the second prince, to be clear. If she were to serve the first prince, she would’ve just had to come with a decanter of wine and call it a day. But this prince– Prince Aemond ‘One Eye’-- was an enjoyer of tea, apparently. Rosemary thought it a much better choice than wine— she found the liquid to be sour and unappealing.

“Your g-grace,” she murmured, then cleared her throat, enunciating once more, “Your grace– your tea.”

“Enter.” a voice said– it was quiet, but something about it made her want to prick at her nail beds.

She opened the door with her shoulder, scurrying into the room with her head down. As a servant of the Red Keep, she was taught to not make eye contact with her betters unless addressed, especially Aemond, as Magelle had warned.

“Do you require sugar or cream, your grace?” Rosemary asked, putting the tray to the small wooden table, looking down at her feet.

She heard shuffling from her right, the creaking of leather and light footsteps growing closer. The scent of sandalwood and fire permeated her nostrils— it wasn’t unpleasant, just different.

“You’re new,” Aemond said, not even facing her. He walked past her to the table she placed the tray upon, pouring the rich brown liquid into his cup, “Are you not?”

Rosemary put her hands together, sinking her thumb nail in the soft of her palm, “Y-yes, your grace,” she replied, blinking profusely, “I’ve just come from the Vale less than three days ago.”

“The Vale?” he hummed, “Hm,” he dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup, stirring it, tasting it, before adding another two cubes.

She watched from below fettered lashes, her eyes landing upon his hands— they were large and calloused. She heard that he was a proficient swordsman and rode the largest dragon in the world— and yet he took his tea with four sugars. Quite curious.

“If… you needn’t anything else, my prince,” she bowed slightly, “I will leave you to your tea.” Rosemary began to move, eager to escape. He was quiet enough, but something about him unnerved her— as if she was being taken apart in his head.

“Wait,” his voice broke through the silence like a whip, “Come here, girl.”

Her heart stopped in her chest— she was surely dead. She must’ve done something wrong, and he was to execute her. Rosemary was not an optimistic thinker. The maid turned towards him, head bowed.

“Eyes up, little lamb,” he murmured, his already quiet voice rasping slightly, like flames licking at his throat. His hand, calloused and all, tucked under her chin, tipping her head up.

Rosemary, ever diminutive, raised her eyes to him— her two deep, brown eyes met his one violet. She wasn’t breathing, her fingertips shaking ever so slightly.

From her briefing about the royal family, she thought she was to look out for the older prince, Aegon, as he was known to be handsy with maids and servants alike. But no one had told her of Aemond except the warning not to look at him— and if they had, they said he was reserved, quiet and broody.

Magelle said that he was a sight for sore eyes— and after looking at him now, she wondered if the old bat was blind. He had chiseled features and a pleasantly shaped mouth, like a taut bowstring. She glazed over the nasty scar over the right of his face, but didn’t pay it much mind.

“Your name, little lamb?” he asked then, turning her head to the side, up and down, back and forth, as if appraising her like a slab of meat.

“Rosemary, my prince,” the shaking maid replied, so quickly and quietly that she thought that she almost didn’t speak at all.

The only indication that she had spoken was the tug of the prince’s upper lip in something akin to a grin. “Fitting. Lamb goes well with rosemary— or so I’ve heard.”

She felt a bead of sweat fall from her brow, “I don’t much like lamb, your grace.”

He snorted at that, “You valemen, or valewomen, raise sheep, do you not? My uncle once said that the sheep of the Vale are prettier than their women,” he let go of her face, but not without looking at her a bit more, “He never had any taste, truly.”

Rosemary felt her hands twitch as they came back together. What on earth did that mean? Was he calling her a sheep— more beautiful than a sheep? Was he calling her ugly? She was truly puzzled by the prince’s words, but said nothing of it.

“Thank you for the tea. You may go now.” he hummed, turning away from her, attending back to his tea.

A sigh of relief was felt throughout her body as she curtsied— it was still shaky from her nerves, but she managed to keep herself upright. “Have a good evening, my prince.” she murmured at last, leaving his chamber.

She heard him once more, emitting a small ‘hm’. She could practically see the twitching sneer on his face like before.

As she descended down the hallways, she unwrapped her kerchief from her head, her light cream colored braids falling out of their delicate shape and strewing across her back. Something about Aemond unnerved Rosemary so completely and her skin crawled as she left.

She had never met a dragon before— how could she have? — but she felt as if he was an embodiment of one, bones made of obsidian and ash. And she was just a lamb in the face of a dragon.

Descending back to her room— a chambered closet with a straw filled mattress— she curled into her bed, tossing her apron and dress aside. One of the things she brought from home— if she could even consider the Eyrie ‘home’ anymore— was a quilt sewed with thick, blue threads. It had depictions of the stars and moon, with little lambs and nightingales and dusk roses, sewn by her mother— with contributions from Jeyne— before her birth. Her hands traced the stitches, eyes filling with tears. The hem was frayed slightly from her habit of doing this very thing over the years.

It was the only thing she had left of her mother, both of her mothers. Her chest ached at the thought that she would likely never return to the Eyrie, never see Jeyne again— never have her hands held by her, never have their knees touch, never have her kiss her forehead and tell her that everything would be okay.

She was alone. A lamb alone in a castle of vipers and dragons.

How truly precarious.

Her sleep, when it came, was fitful. Tossing and turning, she dreamt of nightingales and lambs being torn limb from limb between dragons, some black and some green. Her skin was charred ash, her chest skewered by a stag’s horns until she bled out, wolves coming to feast upon her corpse.

tag list: @watercolorskyy @queen--kenobi

#aemond fic #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #my writing #the maid's folly #aemond x servant

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ilikebookssomuch · 4 months

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what if Ro dies in book 10. She dies for Keefe because that is her job.

Gisela murders her.

LISTEN IT'S EITHER HER OR FLORI SO TAKE YOUR PICK.

oooooo maybe Sandor or Fitz dies.

If Shannon doesn't kill off a major protagonist, I'll be disappointed. Not because I want anyone to die, it's just so heart-wrenchingly painful that I think she would do it. After all, we've all read her cliffhangers.....

#kotlc #fitz vacker #keefe sencen #kotlc fandom #kotlc keefe #unraveled #kotcl unraveled #ro #sandor kotlc #sophie foster kotlc

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be-lovas · 1 year

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Serendipity- part 2

How can I apologize for these months of inactivity??? omg guys i'm SO sorry....... I spent the whole summer working on my master thesis so I got carried away from this but I am back now!!! I've tried to tag everyone who asked me to do so, tell me if something's wrong with the tags <;33

Warnings: some men being dicks (but what's new), loose proofreading (I really suck at this I'm sorry), reader's bit sad, helaena being a sweetie

(Flashbacks are in italics) previous part - next part

"Tell me it is a farce, Aemond. I beg of you."

Alicent is on the verge of tears: she thinks of Rhaenyra and how she must be feeling. The loss of a child. She also feels sad for the boy himself, because although he was a bastard, he was merely a child. A feeling of regrets washes over her as she recalls that night in Driftmark, when she wanted to claim his eye for Aemond's lost one.

Aemond does not say a word. He does not feel the courage to do so. He never killed someone before. He has always thought that killing someone wouldn't do anything to him. Yet, to take someone's life,despite the someone being the boy who took his eye, procures him no satisfaction and no sense of justice. All he can think of is his nephew's body hurtling into the sea foam.

Aemond solely waits for everyone's anger, but not everybody seems angry. His mother definitely is, but his Grandfather and Aegon do not seem furious. Otto Hightower seems worried, because he has known Daemon for a long time, and he knows having him against you is not a luxury. Aegon is simply trying to supress a smile at the corner of his lips.

"Well done, brother," he comments.

"We need to secure Aegon's position," Otto eventually says, ignoring Aegon's comment.

Alicent lets out a histerical laugh, unable to control her nerves. "I believe Aemond just did that by killing one of Rhaenyra's heirs, Father."

"By marrying Aemond and Daeron off to great houses from the Realm."

"I chose Floris Baratheon," Aemond intervenes. "I intend to perform my duty."

He does not want to marry her, but he always promised himself to do his duty regarding his family. He has always seen Aegon minimizing his and wandering around the Silk Streets as he has always had the heavy duty of potentially becoming King someday. Aemond hates the fact that his brother tarnishes this honor, and he does not intend to do the same.

"We must find someone else," explains Otto.

"Perhaps the Dornish Princess? They might send troops in exchange," Alicent offers.

"They would rather die than openly take part in this war," Ser Criston comments, stepping up into the conversation for the first time since they entered the Great Hall.

"The Lannisters do not have any female child. Same goes for House Tyrell."

"What of the North?" Aegon suggests, and everyone goes quiet.

The North is ostracised. Its people may be a part of the Realm, but they do not identify as the rest of the Country. Otto Hightower has always seen them as a group of savages that attempt to appear civilized while hiding their gods in forests. However, Otto Hightower has always granted them their blinded loyalty towards each other and their considerable army.

"Rickon Stark swore loyalty to Rhaenyra," Alicent hastens to say. "He would never break his oath."

Her voice is unequivocal. She does not appear to acknowledge what she just suggested, but Otto does and gives Ser Criston a sidelong look.

"Rickon Stark is dead, My Queen."

You slowly emerge from sleep and keep your eyes closed, afraid not to recognise the ceiling of your chambers in Winterfell and to have the confirmation that you are indeed into your personal purgatory. You're feeling uncomfortable, and you remember that you're still wearing your wedding gown from yesterday. Worse, you realise you are alive. You thought that you would be dead by sunrise, but your husband finds it was not an express necessity to get you executed for mocking him.

A soft knock on your door startles you, and as if you were scared to be caught doing something wrong, you quickly get off your bed. You allow them entering and when the door opens, you are relieved to see that it is just a young servant.

"Good morning, my Lady. Queen Helaena and the Dowager Queen would like you to join them for tea," she indicates.

You rub your hands on your gown, looking at your dress before glancing back at her. None of you says anything, but you are positive that she has definitely understood your husband and you did not fulfill your marital duties last night.

"I will fetch a maid to help you get dressed, my Lady," she bows and leaves without expecting a reply, and you feel sick at the hearing of the way she adresses you.

As your feet obediently follow the maid who came to wake you up this morning through the dungeon's hallways, you gradually realise where you have been taken: in some of the books of the Winterfell library, the fortress is described as being so high that not even the three original dragons could penetrate the walls. The stone that built the tower was more refined than the stone of Winterfell's walls: in the North, everything is more raw. Here, everything seems shaped and moulded.

Your feet mechanically come to a full stop when your eyes spot something very familiar: an heart tree. You think of the leaf your brother gave you before leaving Kings Landing, claiming that the gods will travel South in order to protect you. For the first time since you got here, you somehow still feel close to home.

Just as you were expecting to have tea in the Dowager Queen's chamber (which you know too little about), Anna, Queen Alicent's servant, takes you to the court garden, which you did not know existed until now. When you arrived, you thought you would have to live within four walls and never see vegetation as far as the eye can see again. To your great surprise, you find the garden delightful and it is, in your eyes, a breath of fresh air in this fortress that seems far too anxiety-provoking.

When you see the Queen and her mother sitting at the table among the flowers, you force yourself to smile and slowly approach, a servant pulling the chair out for you to sit on. Before doing so, you make a brief curtsy to greet them.

"Good morrow, goodsister," Helaena is the first to greet you.

If you have prejudices about all of Aemond's family and Aemond himself, you have none about his sister. On the contrary, she seems very kind and gentle. It doesn't surprise you that you've heard that she is very popular with the people of Kings Landing.

"Your graces," you reply, verbally greeting Alicent simulteanously.

On her lap sits a small boy with silver hair. The child is eating a sweet without caring about what is going on around him.

"Did you sleep well?" Alicent asks, and you see her eyes drift to her maid for half a second.

Anna must surely have told her that she found you in the same dress as yesterday when she came into your room this morning. If she hasn't already, she's probably giving her a little nod, letting Alicent know that things didn't go as planned.

"Uh, I—"

"I was told you bled last night. Do not worry, it is completely normal. It means the wedding has been accepted and granted by the gods," she smiles, cutting you off. "You were saying?"

Words struggle to come out of your mouth. No one has checked your sheets because the only people who have been in your room have guessed that you were not deflowered by your husband last night. Or maybe it's just a set-up by the Queen Mother so that people around can witness her words, and thus seal this marriage. Whatever it is, you don't stand in her way.

"I slept well, thank you," you evasively reply while nodding your head.

"I have not yet seen Aemond. He usually stops by to greet the children before starting the day. Do you happen to know where he has gone?" Helaena asks you, wiping off some crumbs from the boy's mouth. "Maelor has been asking for his uncle since he woke up."

In all honesty, you do not care about Aemond's whereabouts. You'd rather not have to see him. Given the short but heated exchange the two of you had last night, you feel it would be better for both of you if you two come across each other as little as possible, it will make this marriage easier to bear.

"He has not spoken to me about it. I—"

Maelor's voice prevents you from finishing your sentence. The little boy flaps around on his grandmother's lap while babbling words you don't understand.

"Aemond!" Helaena stands up quickly, almost running towards her brother. "Where have you been?"

If Helaena looks excited to see her brother, the Queen Mother's features cannot say the same thing. Sitting across from you, you see the Queen's features harden, which tingles and causes you to turn around to see what could the cause of such a change in Alicent's humour.

Opposite you is Aemond accompanied by a woman. Not a young woman like you. A mature woman.

You analyse her without shame: slender, with hair as black as berries and an unmatched beauty. She is incredibly beautiful. You feel her gaze on you with an air of competitiveness, as if she is trying to challenge you.

Then it strikes you, and you find yourself wanting to laugh, feeling foolish for not understanding Aemond's words last night.

My heart will never be yours.

It can never be yours because it belongs to someone else.

Somehow, you find the empathy to feel bad for him. You did not want this union because your heart did not choose it and it was forced on you. Aemond did not want this union, or the union originally planned with one of Borros Baratheon's 4 daughters, because his heart belongs to her and as strong as his words were towards you yesterday, you feel some semblance of sorrow for him.

"Mother," Aemond greeted his mother with a nod. Then, just like a child afraid to be grounded, he glances at you. "Wife."

It still sounds off to hear this word. It still seems odd to consider yourself married, you do not really feel married. But that is only because all your life, you've pictured marriage in a very different way.

"Husband," you mutter as you swivel around on your chair to get back into your original position.

Facing you, Alicent's features harden even more as she keeps her eyes on her son, who sits silently at the table. The mysterious lover imitates him, searching for the Queen Mother with her eyes.

"Would you have the decency to tell me who this woman is?" Alicent's tone is cold and firm, and she doesn't bother to address the main interested party.

Alicent Hightower is known as far north as Westeros for her dexterity in matters of good behaviour. She didn't experience love during her marriage, but she always put on a good show. Inviting a lover to the royal table does not seem to be a decision she considers wise.

"This is Lady Alys Rivers," Aemond introduces, Alys reacts with a gentle smile. He's now playing with Maelor on his lap, the boy running to his uncle as soon as he saw him.

You level up your eyebrows at the mention of her name. Rivers. A bastard of House Strong. You exchange glance with Helaena, not that she realises the gravity of her brother's action, but she seems as uncomfortable as you are, and it selfishly soothes you.

Then all eyes set on Alicent as she lets out uncotrollable giggles, which makes her grandson laugh. "Lady Alys Rivers," she says, more to herself than anyone else.

"It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, your Grace."

Her voice is smooth and seductive. If Aemond wasn't a Prince, you would have wondered how she could have laid an eye on him: not that Aemond is a bad-looking person, but his personnality is not attractive at all. He is not a talkative person and does make you feel uncomfortable if your presence is not wanted. While Alys Rivers seems to be a very seductive woman, both with men and women.

She knows she does not fit in whatever plan the Queen Mother has planned for her son, but she tries her best to earn the lesser part of respect Alicent could someday accord her.

Alicent forces a thin smile before adressing Aemond once again: "may I speak to you?"

Not waiting for Aemond's answer, she immediately gets up and vaguely excuses herself, Aemond on her footsteps.

The life that has forced itself to you does not seem real. You feel like you are watching a play where the plot evolves around people close to you, but you do not intervene in any part of this plot.

"Aemond spoke a lot about you, your Grace," Alys tries to reach Helaena, who is far away in her thoughts. In fact, she simply reacts by smiling slightly, her eyes focused on the lemon cake displayed on the table.

Maelor, who seems to feel his mother's anxiety, surprisingly reaches out for you and for a moment, you do not really understand how the boy has grown fond of you, but you eventually let him sit on your lap, whispering some words to his ear.

"The whole North heaps praise on your beauty, and I now see why," she says, and you do not look up right away, focused on Maelor's babbling and truthfully thinking that the compliment was meant for Helaena. But when you do, you see that she is staring at you.

You do not really how to respond. Should you compliment her as well? Strike up a conversation? Ask her why is she complimenting the wife of her lover?

"Thank you," you timidly say, not really comfortable with the situation. The only thing that makes your anxiety lessen is Maelor, not having any idea of what is going on right now and eating his lemon cake slice.

You feel imprisoned in the middle of a play. Someone else's play.

Your days are very similar to one another: you get up, get dressed, join Queen Alicent and Helaena in the gardens where you eat, you wander in the gardens for the whole afternoon and spend some time near the heart tree before getting supper, where Aemond and his lover sometimes grant you the privilege to eat with them, before going back to your chambers.

Not that your days in Winterfell were very special, but it is home. Was home.

Your mother and brother are still not back in Winterfell. The trip is difficult and long, but your mother keeps you informed whenever they stop by in a place that she considers safe for them.

The rare moments when you have to get out of your chambers, you do your very best to avoid everyone from the Greens, except for Helaena and her children. Helaena is very often lost in her own thoughts, but she is very nice to you when she tries to have a conversation. As for the children, you appreciate their unawareness and their innocence as you watch them play together.

Maelor has turned out to be your favorite one out of the three children: not that she intends to, but Helaena's favors for the twins is undeniable, and the youngest Prince seems almost naturally to seek comfort in your presence. In truth, you somehow seek comfort in the boy's company, too: you've grown fond of him, and he is now following you for the most part of the day, for the greatest pleasure of Alicent.

Alicent has been plotting to remove Alys from the court since the day she arrived, but it does not seem to be effective. Whenever she leaves, Aemond leaves with her. Your relationship with Aemond consists of avoiding each other, and greeting the other by a timid nod when the encounter becomes inevitable.

But now, as you are wandering in the streets of Kings Landing hiding your clothes under a cloak and you just happened to chance upon your dear husband, he too hidden under a cloak but easily recognizable with his eyepatch, you are both surprised to meet the other one in such a place.

"My Prince," you eventually say, growing uncomfortable with the heavy silence between you. You discreetly hide the ink you just bought below your cloak.

This is the first time you go outside the walls of the Red Keep. You have grown curious about the City after watching it from your window and just as you wanted to send a letter to your brother in all discretion, you have decided to take the plunge.

"What are you doing here?"

The bluntness of his question catches you offguard. You let out a humourless laugh.

"I could ask you the very same question."

You do not consider yourself arrogant, not at all. You would rather say confident. But Aemond carries a certain look on his face that irritates you as soon as he lands his eye on you.

You expect him to answer with a vile comment about whatever thing he can hurt your feelings with, but he simply replies: "I live here. This is merely a morning walk."

Your eyebrows raise at the reply, noting that Aemond does not even try to sound convincing. He simply does not wish you to know about his whereabouts around the streets of Kings Landing.

"Is there a piece of advice you would give to someone who has never been to Kings Landing before?" You ask him, feigning innocence, too.

Around you, people cross the street without even giving a second glance to the two of you, too busy in trying to find the suitable item among the many street merchants.

"Avoid Flea Bottom at all cost," he tells you, "unless you wish to end up dead or raped."

"I meant advice about the shops," you specify, remembering you were speaking to Aemond Targaryen.

"I think you do not need my advice, as you already found what you were looking for," he nods at your cloak, and you cannot help but frown. You quickly try to hide your ink more astutely under your cloth, hoping that he is bluffing and that he hasn't seen the item like he pretends.

"There is no need. I saw you coming out of that bookseller, and a book wouldn't have fit under that cloak," he points out, attempting to soothe the smirk forming on his lips without much success.

You think of something to say to persuade him this isn't what he thinks it is, but quickly surrender when you spot the way his lips twitch into a smirk.

"Are you following me?" You ask, struggling to hide your growing anger.

"I wasn't, but the gods seem to be protective over some Northern newcomers."

You snort slightly, doing your best not to roll your eyes. His gods would certainly not protect you. On the opposite, they would gladly send you to their supposedly hells: you wonder which one you would belong to.

"By sending you?" You raise your brows, displaying your doubts.

This is the longest exchange your husband and yourself have done since the two of you were married, and Aemond's clenching jaw and your growing impatience for his lack of response show how you aren't a matching pair: you're asking too many questions and his answers are to evasive.

"My Mother would like to speak with you," he announces, stepping forward and you stumble lightly at the move. "I shall make sure you join her in the Sept."

The second you were told that you would marry him and therefore move to Kings Landing, you knew your beliefs would be jeopardized. Indeed, the folk on the southern part of Westeros isn't fond of the old gods, especially with a Dowager Queen who venerates the newly seven. You knew your love for the old gods wouldn't be welcomed here, but you still kept them close to your heart by paying a visit to the weirwood tree in the fortress.

"The Sept?"

Aemond stops in his tracks as he hears the sound of your voice, and even though he is standing with his back to you, you can see the top of his body slowly rise and fall, probably because he is sighing.

"Come," he simply tells you, though it is rather a command.

You reluctantly follow him through the crowd piled up in the different streets of the city. He seems to know it like the back of his hand, and you wonder how many times he wandered throughout it for him to know every single corner of every single street.

Aemond does not need to inform you that you have reached the Sept when you are in front of it, as the tall and imposing building speaks for itself.

You wonder why Alicent wishes to see you, and especially why it cannot wait until she's finished praying to her gods. Will she force you to pray with her? Does she want you to admit that you do not believe in the same gods as herself and her son?

As Aemond grips the door handle of the Sept, the movement allows you to have a glimpse of the underside of his cloak and you notice some sort of herb sachets underneath. Yet, you make no comment and enter the building silently, your husband holding the door for you.

"Lady Stark," your hear Alicent's voice echo through the sept, and you spot where she is knealing. She is in front of an imposant statue where candles are lit all around. You would lie if you say that there isn't something comforting in the silence emaning from the Sept. Outside of these walls, Kings Landing seems to never be quiet: including when you couldn't sleep during the hours of the night, you could hear the wandering guards trying to speak lowly outside of your doors.

You carefully walk towards the Dowager Queen as you see she does not move, waiting for you to come over.

"Your Grace," you slightly bow your head, hands clasped in one another.

"Join me, please," she smiles at you, and you see her hand patting the empty space next to her.

You attempt to hide the discomfort you feel towards her invitation: you do not wish to get on your knees to pray the Seven, but this is clearly an invitation in order to test the waters.

Having her on your side is essential if you consider leaving this place someday: from what you have understood since you arrived here, she is Aemond's safeguard from madness. She would be the one reasoning him if he tries to put your life at risk, not because she is a decent person that took a liking of you, but because she is a good manners woman.

You reluctantly kneel beside her, your eyes wandering around the ceiling before staring at your knees.

"Do you often pray, my dear?" She asks, handing you a votive candle that isn't yet lit up.

"I do, your Grace," you respond, moving the candle nearer the fire of those already burning. Once your candle catches fire, you delicately set it down next to the others. As you catch Alicent setting her gaze on you, you do your best to keep your composure and to prevent your hands from shaking.

Then she lets out a sigh. "I've always wondered about the religious habits of people from the North. It is said that many still believe in the old gods."

You're tempted to say something, but the end of her sentence does not sound as the end of a speech, so you let your sentence die and keep silent.

You see her smile, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "They are proud and loyal people. Loyal to their roots and to their oaths."

"Indeed," you answer, not sure where she wants to lead this conversation.

"You see, I fear for those people," she lets out a sigh. "Have you heard of the Shepherd?"

You say no with your head. "See, this man is out there, trying to persuade the people of Kings Landing that the King does not represent the Faith of the Seven."

You listen carefully. Aegon is indeed not a very accurate representation of the Faith: marrying his sister and therefore breeding incestuous children is a sin, whether in the Faith of the Seven as in the eyes of the Old Gods. You also learned that he was very often visiting the most luxurious brothels of Kings Landing: his bastards must be running freely around the streets of the city.

"He is setting the common folk against its ruler," you comment, getting where she wants to lead you.

"It is our duty, I as the Dowager Queen and you as the King's good sister to show the people our devotion to our gods."

This is why she wanted me here, you think. So that you could be seen entering the Sept.

"People are everywhere. Around the streets, outside the gates but also within the Keep," she explains, and you understand her innuendo.

No more visit to the heart tree.

"We must be irreproachable. You must seem beyond reproach," she cautiously says, softly gripping your arm. You glance at her hand on your arm, and all you can see is her bitten and chapped fingers. "Do you understand, my dear?"

The Targaryens are in danger, but so are you. You're all threats in the eyes of this Shepherd.

"I do, Your Grace."

Since the Queen Dowager has expressly asked you to be convincing in your role as follower of the new gods, you thought you'd start by paying homage to the Mother, reason why you're currently heading to the Tower of the Hand to discuss the idea with the man.

However, your good brother has decided otherwise as he comes the other way, flashing a smile as he takes you in.

"Lady Stark," he calls out. "We haven't got the time to discuss yet."

"Your Grace," you bow, returning a shy smile. "Sadly we have not."

You would have been happy not to change the course of things, but you've noticed that Aegon likes annoying people and does not prevent himself.

Aegon Targaryen is a strange man. You sometimes see him wandering through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast struggling to walk straight, a cup of wine in one hand. He is not the man crafted to be King, you would even say that the crown he is wearing does not even fit around his many white curls.

"Is Kings Landing to your liking?" He asks.

"Though it is not very similar to Winterfell, I find myself liking it, Your Grace," you lie.

"I am content you're happy here," he says, dismissing his guards by a handwave. You look at the two guards retreating, leaving you and the King alone. You instinctively look down, somehow uncomfortable with the mere thought of you two alone.

"What of my brother?" Aegon questions and you look up to find him taking two steps forward.

You do not really know how you should respond: given the undeniable satisfaction your marriage to Aemond gave to Aegon, the two brothers do not seem to get along.

"What of your brother, Your Grace?"

"Is he kind to you? Is he treating you well?"

"He is, Your Grace," you lie. "We are getting a-"

"Do not lie to me, goodsister," he interrupts, his eyes boring into yours as you feel his hand grazing the skin of your cheek. "Lying to a king is not a wise thing. Don't you think?

You feel your face flashing red. He can sense your uncomfort, but does not seem to care.

He wants to make you feel uncomfortable. He wants you to know he has the upper hand and could do anything he wishes to you.

"There is no need to be ashamed, Lady Stark. Perhaps I could show you how-"

"Your Grace."

The voice calling out Aegon instinctively makes you close your eyes, relief invading your whole being as you hear footsteps approaching.

"Brother," Aegon's hand beats a hasty retreat from your face and he smiles, but his smile does not reach his eyes. "I was just discussing with your dear wife."

"The Lord Hand is waiting for Lady Stark and myself in his study."

Not without some courage, you slowly step backwards until you are nearly standing next to Aemond. He does not look at you, he is staring at his brother in silence. You could almost find the silence uncomfortable: turns out you're to stunned to notice the uncomfort of the scene.

"Of course, he probably wishes to speak to you about Casterly Rock," Aegon explains and you furrow your brows, displaying your ignorance. What is it to know about the Lannisters' home?

"Please do give Daeron my regards, will you?" Aegon says to his brother.

Aemond does not make any comment but simply bows and you imitate him, a breath you didn't know you were holding escaping your lips when you see Aegon going backwards and eventually turning around.

Aemond seems to finally notice your presence and turns to you. His eye is scanning your face, searching for any trace of harm Aegon might have left. Only when he hears you sighing of relief do his features slightly soften.

Then, without being aware of the words leaving your lips, you whisper: "I am sorry."

You do not really comprehend the reason of your apologises. Perhaps it is for your recklessness. Perhaps for his affair with Alys Rivers that will never flower the way he wants it to do so, or even for your mere and arranged marriage. You do not actually know, but you feel the need to say so.

Nodding his head, he simply responds: "come, my Grandsire wishes to speak to us."

You have quickly noticed that he isn't a very talkative person, so you aren't surprised when you don't receive a formal reply. But for the first time since your marriage, you almost feel at ease standing next to him.

Tags: @yentroucnagol @tempt-ress @crazymusicgirl104 @unclecrunkle @brie-annwyl @pax-2735 @castellomargot @bellaisasleep

#aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #aemond x fem!reader #aemond imagine

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isnt-it-pretty · 10 months

Text

I would die for her

You tell them Flory! Sex work is real work and just as fucking valid as everything else. More valid than people sitting around making money just for existing!

Flory is honestly my favourite character in this whole book.

#tamora pierce #provost's dogs #beka cooper #bloodhound #tamora pierce bloodhound

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lya-dustin · 10 months

Text

The Dornish Princess

Aemond x fem! Dornish!reader

Cw: mentions of murder, false identity, theft

Tag list: @valeskafics @queen--kenobi

You arrive in King’s Landing as a poor survivor of a shipwreck. All your nice things and clothes and servants and knights gone when the Wyldes found you on their lands.

The only proof of your identity was a waterlogged scroll naming you Coryanne Nymerios Martell, Princess of Dorne.

You looked the part, tan skin, dark hair and the haunting purple eyes of your Dayne mother and the manner of a gentlewoman. By the time you arrived at Court, you had been given all a woman of your station needed and letters were sent home to your sister to tell her of your rescue and invitation to court.

No one knew why your dead handmaid looked so much like you until you quietly explained she was your bastard sister and companion. But you didn’t really cry for her, she was just a bastard after all.

The bastard of Qoren Martell and a dragonseed from Lys.

“My congratulations on your betrothal, may the gods bless you and your intended, your highness.” You say quietly when you encounter the Prince Regent avoid his three and ten year old betrothed.

Little Floris Baratheon had been picked because it would be a good three years until she was old enough to be bedded, a smart move to prevent Baratheon from having too much power over the Greens and keep one’s freedom for as long as one needs it.

You were in a similar boat, your hand merited more than a vassal lord so your sister decided to sell you to the Prince of Pentos because she refused to wed. You were Aliandra’s heir; you were older than Qyle and next in line to be Princess of Dorne, you were everything Floris Baratheon and the rest of the ladies in Westeros were not.

Now it was all a matter of seducing the infamous kinslayer beside you.

His mother distrusted you, a smart decision, no one should trust you. If anyone looked too closely, they’d see it was not snake scales you wore.

“I am engaged to a child, and you are engaged to a man older than my dead father.” He said bluntly and you agreed. Both matches were bad, especially if you were a romantic at heart. It seemed the prince despite his appearance and cold exterior was one.

It wouldn’t be difficult to convince him you love him, or to make him love you. Everyone you met had that misfortune of loving you and becoming blind to your true nature.

It wasn’t the shipwreck that killed your sister, you had held her under the water until she stopped thrashing and came up with the story you fed to Lady Wylde and her company.

Aemond believed himself to be the exception to the faults of men, but he was only a man even if he rode the largest dragon since Balerion.

“A betrothed is not a spouse; the Prince of Pentos is not the first of my suitors to propose and die before the negotiations begin in earnest, you know.” You admit, hinting at the tragic and sudden deaths of all the men ---young and old--- who courted you since you first bled.

You sampled some of them when you grew older, those who didn’t satisfy you usually had hanger-ons who did, and tradition dictated that no bride prices cannot be returned should the groom die before the wedding takes place.

You had amassed quite a fortune in Essos, that was where you were heading. To find more unsuspecting men after your sister was forced to toss you out of Dorne after you slipped up and was almost caught.

Perhaps you could stay here instead. All signs pointed to the Prince Regent becoming King before the first chill came south.

If Prince Aemond was as good with his cock as he was with his sword, he’d be worth staying in Westeros.

Queen Coryanne, now that had a better ring to it than Queen Floris.

“And Lady Floris is not the first of mine to seek greener pastures.” His lips quirk slightly in amusement. He was notorious for evading matchmaking mamas and their daughters, Borros Baratheon may think a war would prevent Prince Aemond from going back on his word, but he’d never played against you.

“Shall we put it to the test?” you ask in a whisper knowing little Floris will be shuffled off to the youngest boy like an old shirt before the sun even sets.

You like him, despite it all, you cannot help but like him.

You are betrothed now, a small feast thrown in your honor as the Baratheon contingent leave and wage war against the Vulture King to spite both the Greens and Dorne at the same time.

But House Targaryen does not care, they got the better deal in you.

Gifts of money and finery and jewels were given to you by your soon to be husband, his mother and the nobles currying favor with the woman who is queen in all but name.

Your dowry would be partially paid in gold and in men. While Dorne was far less backwards than the rest of Westeros and women held equal rights like men, and end to the hostility between the realms.

“We can wed as soon as your dowry comes, my love.” he says as you lounge in your bed after a particularly trying morning. Aegon was growing weaker, Helaena and Jaehaera doing so terribly they had to be taken to the motherhouse in Oldtown to heal away from prying eyes and the need for men and heirs was as important as breathing.

Letters from Dorne had come, mainly thanking your prince and his mother for their hospitality and the promise of sending a proper envoy to negotiate the wedding. You pray the envoy comes by land instead of sea.

Who knows, perhaps Dorne would join the six kingdoms without bloodshed.

But it won’t happen.

The moment the envoy comes, you are fucked.

He won’t want you if he knew the truth. Loathes bastards, killed one even if the little fucker had his blood. Worse, you made a fool of him as you rob them all blind as you plan your escape before Aliandra exposes you as the fraud you are.

What would he do to you when he knows you are Y/N Sand and not your dead sister, Coryanne?

“Why wait, my love?” you kiss him to show how much you care for him, how little it bothers you to see him without his eye as he fucks a bastard into you as he calls you by a name you spit like a curse.

And like the lovesick fool he’s become, the two of you elope in the night. Two strangers stand witness, and you give your real name as a jape as a drunken septon names you man and wife.

Aemond will hate you and hunt you down, you know this you spend your wedding night in his rooms and see how happy you’ve made him.

“I love you, Y/N.” he breathes out and your heart catches in your throat. The boy he was under it all didn’t deserve it, but you can’t have him and no matter how much you pray for the envoy to drown, you know your past will catch up to you.

You are gone when he wakes.

Nothing, not even the furniture, is left in your rooms, nor is there a speck of gold left in the royal treasury except a valid marriage certificate signed and dated with your true name.

He will hate you, but you’d rather he hate you than ever forget you.

Part ii

#aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x dornish!reader #ewan mitchell

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ryuzakemo128 · 27 days

Text

Wrath of a Scorned Woman

Pairings: Freyja Raengyreon & Floris Baratheon / Aemond Targaryen x Female Velaryon Reader

Content Warning: cussing and swearing.

Words: 765

Masterlist

Credit 4 Dividers: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: Heavy footsteps had come from down a cavernous hall. Floris ringing a bell from a velvet cushion, engraved dragons into the gold bell. “You are a coward, and I will see that history forgets you.” Floris spoke, looking at Aemond with his mistress.

“You have mistaken your own importance, husband. I have no further need of you or this ‘marriage’. I have found something greater than anything you could have ever provided me.” Floris eyes narrowed at her would be ex-husband. “I have found a dragon grander and greater than your eyes had ever seen.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Heavy footsteps had come from down a cavernous hall. Floris ringing a bell from a velvet cushion, engraved dragons into the gold bell. “You are a coward, and I will see that history forgets you.” Floris spoke, looking at Aemond with his mistress.

Towering over the three of them, a woman, a giantess of a woman. Eyes of blue violet mixed with light grey. Lumen in the dimly lit room. Burgundy red hair long enough to brush across the floor. Freyja didn’t have to say anything. All she had to do is stand there. A clear enough warning to those who break their oaths.

Floris might have harmed his mistress. But Aemond did something far, far worse. He ruined her chances of having children of her own. Ruined her chance of getting something she wanted. She didn’t care for the consequences, damn them all, and she will bring his entire house around his head. Bring him to his pathetic knees and crush him like he crushed her. May he die in a pool of ruin, like the seven have foretold in legends.

Floris determined to bring down her soon-to-be ex-husband and his mistress. She didn’t care if she were to die in the process. She had a dragon, and for once in her life she had the power to change things to make her own life better. Better for herself and her house. “Greens can’t keep their oaths, it seems.” Freyja snarled into his ear. “Can’t help themselves, can’t help but ruin everything they touch with their slimy, rotten hands.”

Floris’s smug grin spread across her face, ‘I will crush your bones until you lay broken in front of me. You will watch your house burn until nothing, but cinders, ashes and embers, remain. I will have you dragged from one end of king’s landing to the other until you are swimming in an ocean of pain.’

Aemond looked into Freyja’s eyes, his heart beating like a drum inside his chest, “You don’t know what you’re asking for, Floris.”

“But I do. According to your brother. You just need her. This marriage is no longer needed if that is the case.” Floris snapped at him. “And you. (Y/N) You have nothing to give, and you are worth nothing in comparison. Keep that pathetic excuse of a man. Keep him as you rot into the earth when I am done with you. You shall bear witness as I ruin him and everything that he will ever have. I will kill you all and decorate you on my walls. A better end than you are worthy of.”

(Y/N) spoke up, "You think you can just cast us aside? You're a fool, Floris. Aemond is the heir to House Targaryen, and I am his chosen. Your threats mean nothing to me."

"Aemond is prince regent and Aegon's son is his heir. Your existence means nothing to me any longer." Floris corrected. "Perhaps if you were more interested in books than Aemond's cock, you would have learned that by now."

“As you can see, I do not need you anymore. I have found someone greater than you. Grander. She will give me everything I want and more.” Floris declared, she found herself a dragon. A dragon more liable to eat the ones the House of Targaryen rides. “We have no further need of House Targaryen. Take your leave NOW.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress and walked out of the room.

Freyja glared at the two of them, “I will devour your dragons, crush their bones and force your entire family to watch. You will not leave this world without knowing the pain you have brought down. I will eat your dragon sheepstealer, Vhagar and Sunfire. A mere snack. A small payment for what you have done to my benefactor. Or you could annul this pitiful marriage you have no interest in and leave. Otherwise, I will, and can, devour all that you are. All that you will ever be.”

Freyja stood guard outside of Floris’s bedchambers. Disallowing entry to anyone Floris did not approve of. “Aemond take your mistress (Y/N) Targaryen and leave. You are no longer worthy of Floris Baratheon.” Freyja growled as she prevented him from chasing after Floris.

#aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond x female reader #aemond x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #female reader #f! reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #prince aemond #aemond kinslayer #prince regent aemond #floris baratheon #Freyja Raengyreon & Floris Baratheon

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vhagarsattorney · 4 months

Text

Sometimes I get jealous. But sometimes I really wish we would have gotten some kind of scene between Aemond and Floris. Oomph and I were discussing how we would have liked to see them kiss. 🤭

I just think the actor looks so interesting. She is pretty in a down-to-earth, girl-next-door type of way. I know Floris wasn't the most clever of the four storms but I feel like she could have been good for Aemond. Who knows. My HC can be so odd at times, even for me lol.

Maybe it is because, underneath it all, I am dying to know how Ewan/Aemond kisses?! Will I die of envy or be so turned on that I won't be able to move? Guess we will see. Maybe sooner than later.

#floris baratheon #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #hotd s2 #house of the dragon season 2 #hotd

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olderthannetfic · 7 months

Note

This recent talk about authors has me curious: Do you have favourite authors? Or favourite books that you'd recommend (as in not specifically recommend to a person looking to read a specific genre etc. but rather a book you loved reading and would love to shove into absolutely everybody's faces if you could)? Do you only read in English or do you also like to read in other languages? What book or books are you currently reading?

And just so these aren't one-way-street-like snoopily curious questions: my favourite authors are Emma Donoghue and Hannah Kent; my favourite books are "Slammerkin" by Emma Donoghue, "Burial Rites" by Hannah Kent, "Christmas Eve Kittens" by Wilma Counts, Cathleen Clare and Debbie Raleigh, "Every day" by David Levithan, "Der Kristallpalast" (The Crystal Palace) by Oliver Plaschka, Alexander Flory and Matthias Mösch; I'm currently reading "Time of the Magicians" by Wolfram Eilenberger and anxiously awaiting Hannah Kent's most recent book "Devotion" to be translated to my native language.

I am very bad at accurately sorting books into genres, but I'd guess most of the books I've read may be classified as YA, though I personally don't know what classifies a book as YA apart from "is written with young adults as the target group," but that's too broad a description to be useful to anyone in my opinion, heh. Some things I've read I'd sort into (also way too broadly classified) stuff like romance (Christmas Eve Kittens), crime or detective fiction [Krimi in german combines both] (for kids The Three Investigators and The Famous Five, and arguably for adults Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot though I've only seen Poirot films not yet read Poirot books, shame on me!), horror (Fear Street series as horror for kids and Lovecraft for adults), historical fiction (books by Hannah Kent and Emma Donoghue, Lilac Girls), historical nonfiction (Time of the Magicians and The Visionaries by Wolfram Eilenberger), steampunk (Der Kristallpalast, World Shaker, Steamed, Magierdämmerung), nonfiction (Zoo Station: The Story of Christiane F.), poetry (Heinrich Heine and Edgar Allan Poe) among other things like light-hearted children's books (St. Clare's series).

Some of the aforementioned books are classified as YA, and in my opinion reasonably so, though I do believe that classifying YA as a genre itself is quite useless since it only describes the target group but barely describes what a book is about, if that makes sense.

If I had to write down some classifiers for YA, I'd say it's maybe books that are written in a way that's accessible to a person who is no longer a child but still may be likely to not have experienced much of the adult world yet and may not necessarily be very well-read or knowledgeable about more "mature" topics on a deeper level. I'd guess that for example a book that's about topics that people may have come into contact with during their adolescence in some way may be YA like drugs (Blue Highway by Diane Tullson) and emotional rollercoasters and bullying (Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher, Easy Meat by Maureen Stewart) and stalking (Unheimliche Nähe by Patricia Schröder) and mental illnesses like eating disorders (Jeansgröße 0 by Brigitte Blobel) or depression and physical ilnesses (Before I Die by Jenny Downham, Skellig by David Almond though it's mainly about fantasy and arthritis isn't the focal point if I'm not misremembering) etc. (all of the examples are YA I've read and would also classify as such) or maybe a book that contains entry-level knowledge about philosophy that you may have learned in school or that you may yourself have come across in some way unrelated to school but that doesn't require deeper knowledge on that topic or on specific philosophers or philosophy schools for its target audience to understand well...

Now that I've forgotten whatever point I wanted to make: sorry for rambling, I've been sitting in your askbox trying to remember the titles and looking up their translations and the authors' names for the past hour or so instead of doing the household chores I had planned to do today lol. Off to eat bread for lunch because now I'm too hungry to cook, oops.

Have a nice day!

I'm currently reading Invitation to a Banquet: The Story of Chinese Food by Fuchsia Dunlop.

I don't have any books I want to thrust upon everyone. I think that's a good way to breed haters for things I love.

In general, favorite authors of mine are... hmm... Agatha Christie, Tamara Allen, Loretta Chase, Georgette Heyer, Mary Elizabeth Braddon... IDK. It's hard to think of people off the top of my head. I like the current indie "m/m romance" scene in English, but it feels like it's still early days for that industry, and I can't think of a lot of authors I love who have multiple series and who aren't going through a career slump. (Like I love Jordan L. Hawk in general, but his latest stuff isn't making me rush to read more even if I'm still backing his Patreon. KJ Charles not only irritated me with dumb posts but started writing suckier books till I no longer buy her at all.)

I've read a lot of Golden Age detective fiction and some hard boiled US stuff (think 1930s and 40s). I've probably reread those sorts of books more than any others. While I certainly have authors I like, I only very, very rarely reread anything, and a lot of what I read is by non-prolific or long-dead people, so I don't have a bunch of names I go to the bookstore for currently.

My grandmother owned a fuckton of Three Investigators books, so I devoured those as a kid, though I think most Americans my age don't care about them.

I read in Spanish too. The only thing I've gotten through a lot of that springs to mind is the capitan Alatriste series. In general, if I travel somewhere Spanish speaking, I'll try to pick up some books, but I usually end up with things that are too highfallutin and literary for my taste or that are real downers. (Plus I'm a slow reader in Spanish, so the more literary stuff is a slog.) I like fun trash, and most of the fun trash I've seen on bookshelves is translated American romance novels and that kind of thing. I'll read in translation, but not if it's from English.

I do read manga in Japanese, but I'm not anywhere near good enough to read novels at this point.

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crescenthoax · 8 months

Text

a nightmare before Christmas • pt3

🎄or an Annika, Floris, Willa and targtowers Christmas tale🌟

Part one

Part two

Parth three

Summary: Aemond, Daeron, Aegon and Helaena had different things planned for Christmas, but one same fate: their father’s old cabin.

Basically an i’m never gonna love again christmas modern AU because we need to spread some joy on these times and I wanted to write something fun. Mainly centred around Aegon x Female OC.

This is part 3/3.

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

Floris looks at Annika, tucked under the sheets of Helaena's enormous bed, clinging to them as if they shield her from the outside world. “I can't believe you're not coming to the Christmas Eve dinner.”

“I feel sick,” she responds, keeping the blankets over her. “And my ankle hurts; I can't wear heels.”

“That's not a valid excuse,” Floris insists, sitting on the bed next to her friend. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Yes, of course. Just don't want to dine, that's all.”

“But we worked so hard to prepare this dinner!” Helaena protests.

Then Annika uncovers herself. Her nose is slightly red, and her eyes are a bit swollen, but she disguises it with tangled hair falling over her face. “You made sandwiches with potato chips.”

“I made three different kinds of sandwiches?” Hel replies as if it were obvious.

“Yes, ham and cheese, a questionable tomato at the back of the fridge, and probably expired pastrami.”

“Did something happen to you?” Helaena asks, a bit concerned and suspicious. “Did Aegon make you angry or something?”

She thinks for a moment. Unable to piece together the story in her mind after what he confessed. She feels betrayed, a bit lost, too distressed. Initially thought she would spend the rest of the days in bed until they could eventually leave, but there's another doubt gnawing at her.

“Did you know about my mom's illness before I found out?” She asks her friend. Not accusatory, Helaena understands that very well, but in a confused way.

Helaena sits on the bed next to Floris, furrowing her brow. “What are you talking about? I thought your mother –“

“Aegon knew,” she blurts out as an explanation. “Your mother told him, and he never told me. He always knew she was going to die and never told me.”

Floris and Helaena exchange a glance of sadness. Floris gently strokes her hair and sighs.

“It wasn't something Aegon had to tell you, I think,” she offers, very gently. “But where did that come from? Did he tell you?”

Annika nods.

“Why?”

“He was drunk,” she quickly lies. “And it turns out my mother told him not to come near me because he would hurt me. That's why he didn't want to be my escort for the debutante ball, I believe.”

“That doesn't sound like your mother,” Floris says, puzzled. “I mean... Aegon was always a mess, but she trusted him. She always wanted him to be your escort, practically from the day you were born.”

“Yeah, it doesn't make sense. Why would your mother say that? And why would Aegon tell you now?”

She smiles sadly. “I guess our rivalry got out of hand, and now he wanted to genuinely hurt me. I don't know.”

Helaena nods her head angrily and stands up. “Well, it doesn't make sense! And Aegon can't just tell you those things without giving an explanation. He's an adult, and it's time for him to face the consequences of his own actions. You're going to the dinner, looking more beautiful than ever, and we'll find out the rest of the story. I'm sure there's more.”

“How are we going to do that?” Floris asks. “If Aegon hasn't told her everything...”

“We'll make him tell. We'll find out what happened on the night of the debutante ball, this time, the truth. I know my brother; he can be a drunk and thoughtless, but he's anything but violent. What happened that night always felt off. We need to learn the truth so that we all get closure,” Helaena indicates, and Annika sighs. “If Aegon has a chance to redeem himself, I think he deserves it. But first, he'll have to suffer.”

Helaena walks to the closet and rummages through it while Annika covers herself with the sheets again.

“Oh! It's the perfect occasion for the red dress,” Floris says, shaking her above the sheets. “Come on! Make him suffer.”

“You guys are pimping me out,” Annika complains, her voice muffled and distorted as her face is covered by a pillow. Helaena and Floris grab her arms to unearth her from the pile of blankets and pillows. “I don't feel like wearing the red dress, especially not for eating stale sandwiches.”

Floris jumps up and leaves the room, while Annika settles back on the bed. After a few minutes in which Helaena still holds the red dress, also known as the best piece in Annika's wardrobe, Floris returns with Daeron, who has an unbuttoned shirt at the neck and trousers on. He isn’t ready for dinner yet.

“What's going on? I thought you couldn't climb stairs, what are you doing here?” Daeron asks, then looks at his sister, who shrugs, and Floris nods.

“He jumped up here,” Floris explains. “And now, she doesn't want to go to the Christmas dinner.”

“What are you talking about? How can you not go?” He asks confused. “Helaena gave Logan one of Aemond's suits, and we're getting dressed just for you. What's happening?”

“She's sad,” the word drags on Helaena's tongue playfully, and she shudders with embarrassment at hearing it.

“I'm not sad!” She despairs. “I'm tired.”

“You're never too tired for any event involving the red dress,” Daeron wonders, and sits on the side of the bed. “Hey, come on. I get that we all had very different plans on how to spend our Christmas, but we're here now, and that has to count for something, right?”

“But...”

“Commmmme on!” He insists, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “It won't be fun if you don't attend. I'll make you a fancy invitation drawing if that's what it takes.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I'll go. But you're carrying me down the stairs.”

Daeron winks at her. “I'll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“So, we have work to do,” Floris says, grabbing her makeup case.

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

“It's not an optional dinner,” Aemond repeats, rubbing his temples. Aegon is sprawled on his bed, munching on a bag of Cheetos while watching old episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians. “Would you turn that off and pay attention? Helaena was very specific. You need to get dressed.”

“Why? We came here to relax and get away from our family. Sorry if the idea of dinner with them doesn't excite me again,” he says, taking another handful of Cheetos into his mouth. He laughs when Scott appears on the screen. “God, I love that guy.”

“You love that guy because he's just like you,” Aemond sighs. “What's the problem?”

“No problem. I've realized that I'm perfect, and it's everyone else around me who has issues,” he playfully grumbles while stretching on the bed and trying to push his brother out of his room. “Now, it's time for you to leave.”

Aemond takes Aegon's wrists and moves him aside. “Get your greasy Cheetos–fingers off my shirt. It's clean.”

The older brother looks at him for a few seconds and then lets out a sigh. He shrugs and gives him the typical look he always gives when letting him know he's ruined the fun, only for Aemond to drop his guard so he can embed his orange-stained hand in his brother's white shirt.

Aemond lets out something close to a feminine scream upon seeing Aegon's handprint. He smacks him on the head harder than intended. “That was my last ironed shirt!”

“It looks like you'll have to choose: wrinkles, Cheetos or dining naked,” Aegon smiles evilly, shaking his head to shake off the sensation of the hit and pretending that Aemond didn't almost grant him a one-way ticket to meet God for Christmas. “Now lose yourself.”

“Not coming to dinner is not an option,” his brother warns him. “Something's wrong. You're going to tell me what, or are you going to keep pretending you haven't downed a quarter of a bottle of wine?”

He doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to let it out, but he doesn't know if it's the alcohol or that his brother's hit has rebooted his operating system and loosened his tongue because with an unusually casual tone and almost indifference, he blurts out, “I slept with Annika.”

And it actually comes out with a connotation that is not the one he intended. As if he doesn't care that he did it. As if he's avoiding it.

Then Aemond hits him again. Much softer, because this time, he didn't really hurt him, so he doesn't deserve it. But he does deserve the hit for being an idiot, of course.

“Have you gone crazy?” his brother asks, rubbing his temples. “How can you be so stupid? When was this, last night? Is that why Annika wanted to leave?”

“Huh? No, not really. We've been sleeping together for a while. First time around three years ago, and then whenever we feel like. This past months it got overwhelmingly serious. We’ve been seeing each other all around the world, like, illicit.”

“You? Sleeping with someone consistently for months? You, who won't even let our driver take you to see someone if the drive lasts more than 20 minutes? Flying from San Francisco to New York to sleep with Annika?” Aemond raises an eyebrow.

“Not that much,” he explains, contemplating the past few months for a brief moment. “Sometimes we flew to other states, sometimes to Europe. South America once, even. That's not important here.”

“I think that's exactly what's important here, Aegon.”

“It's not a big deal. We had a fight in the spring and didn't see each other after that. She didn't go home, neither did I, and obviously, we wanted to avoid each other so much that we both ended up stuck here,” Aegon explains, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “And now, she's here making all sorts of demands...”

“Well, of course, she'll make demands. She's been in love with you since we were kids,” his brother tells him.

Aegon rolls his eyes. “She's not in love with me.”

“And why do you think she flew around the world to see you? What, do you think you have a magical dick?”

“The sex is good,” Aegon quickly says and smiles. “I mean, it's really good. The best. And yes, my dick is usually irresistible.”

“Have you considered that you have good sex because you love her, and she loves you?”

“It's supposed to be you hitting me and telling me that out of all of Helaena's friends, Annika is off-limits, and we shouldn't have done that, and we messed up, and it's a bad idea, and we're going to ruin everything.”

Aemond blinks, amused. “I would say that if you weren't in love with her. Annika keeps you in line. You keep her humble. It works.”

“I can't spend the rest of my life hoping Annika will fix me,” Aegon grumbles. “And I don't love her. And even if I did, she doesn't want anything to do with me.”

“Why? What did you do?”

Aegon sighs. “I told her the truth. That her mother didn't want me near her, that we couldn't be together because she once told me it would hurt her if I, of all people, hurt her daughter.”

“That's twisted,” Aemond murmurs, suddenly getting serious.

“I know, so –“

“What's twisted is that you use her dead mother as an excuse not to be with her, Aegon. If you can't handle your feelings, face them yourself. You know how sensitive the holidays are for her. How could you say something like that to her?”

“Because I thought that way, she would understand that we can't be together.”

His brother hits him again, a bit harder than the second time.

“You're a pig.”

“I know.”

“And still, Freya loved you a lot,” Aemond adds. “As much of a disaster as you were, she wouldn't have entrusted Annika to anyone else. Screw Dalton Greyjoy; you should have gone with her to the debutante ball. That's what she would have wanted. You know that.”

“And why would she tell me otherwise?”

“She was trying to get you to find something that would make you not want to hurt yourself, perhaps?” Aemond suggests, a bit resentful in his tone. “Because it seems like the rest of us have never been worthy of you even trying.”

“Oh, don't give me that nonsense now. You know I try.”

“You planned an escape from our family. On Christmas

“And here you are with me. What's your point?”

“Do you know why I came?” Aemond questions, giving him a shove on the shoulders that leaves him sitting on the bed, somewhat dazed. The action isn't violent, just authoritative. “Because Mum asked me to make sure you didn't kill yourself on the snowy road. To make sure you didn't overdose, and we found your body weeks later. Mum doesn't know how you are in San Francisco. She doesn't even know why you're in San Francisco. No one knows what you're doing. So don't pretend we came here for me; we all know we came here for you.”

Aegon crosses his arms and avoids his brother's gaze. “You're tough”

“Yes, I am. And I'm right.”

“I'll find myself dead before admitting you're right.”

“Admit that I'm right, and I'll let you skip the dinner.”

Aegon stands up, reluctantly. “So, what are we having tonight?”

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

Aegon looks at the silver tray in the centre of the table. Helaena has truly gone the extra mile to make the enormous table look like it's out of a tale, with a white tablecloth, decorations, candles, fine china, and matching glasses. One would expect that under the tray, there would be a turkey or any dish that matches the decoration.

But it's a tower of sandwiches.

There are other snacks and a couple of salads of questionable origin. But Helaena made them look beautiful.

“Well done, Hel,” Aegon says, putting an arm around his sister's shoulders while holding his glass with the other. He gives her a chaste kiss on the forehead. “It looks very nice.”

“You're drunk, aren't you?”

“I was. Now I’m just hangover,” Aegon says. He's wearing a dark green sweater and black pants, and he looks at Aemond with his white shirt, to which he tried to hide Aegon's Cheeto-stained fingerprints by putting on a tie, making him look ridiculous. “You look dishevelled. What do you think, Hel?”

Helaena has put on a silk blue dress that reaches mid-calf and has various figures embroidered in silver thread: suns, moons, stars, and various insects. It's something only she would wear, and she carries it so gracefully that it looks even more expensive than it is.

“Why are you wearing a dirty shirt?” she asks, disgusted.

“I didn't... You know what?” He tries to calm himself down, unable to be anything other than kind to his sister. “Forget it.”

“I can walk from here,” Annika tells Daeron, who holds her arm and insists on guiding her to the dining room. Floris holds her other arm. When they enter the dining room, the blonde smiles. “Wow. You really overdid it, Helaena.”

Aegon lets go of his sister when Annika sets her eyes on them and just takes a long sip, trying not to look at her directly as if she were Medusa.

“I chose the tablecloth,” Daeron proudly says.

Aemond elbows Aegon and crouches to whisper to him. “She's wearing the red dress. You're so screwed.”

“I'm not screwed. Shut up,” he complains, pushing him lightly. Aemond laughs and goes to sit at the head, right where their father always sits. Aegon looks at Annika for a moment, and just the sight of the golden waves of hair in contrast to the red dress makes him sigh. “I'm screwed.”

Aegon sits next to his brother. On his side are Willa and Daeron, and facing them, more by force and Helaena's order than by their own will, Annika sits. She has Floris on one side, Logan next to Floris, and Helaena on her side at the other end, right where their mother usually sits. They kept the table small to make it a bit more intimate.

Aegon doesn't thank her about that at all. Annika doesn't even register him, often talking to Floris and even exchanging a word with Aemond, but not with him.

“How's your ankle feeling?” Logan asks Annika. In the background, Helaena has put on terrible Christmas music that makes Aegon's head hurt, and everyone eats the sandwiches with a knife and fork to please her. Aegon thinks they look like lunatics.

“Oh, it's fine. It hurts a bit, but it's okay. A bit swollen. I don't think it's as bad as I thought.”

“You'll be walking normally before you know it.”

“Are you a doctor or something?” Florid asks, confused.

“I still have two more years to become one,” he explains. “I chose the internships in Aspen because my family is from here, and I've been away for a long time. But I attended college in Massachusetts.”

“Oh, lucky,” Annika winks at Helaena discreetly, and Aegon rolls his eyes. “My uncle is a doctor.”

“Of course. Lannister. I knew I recognized it from somewhere,” Logan snaps his fingers. “He's a master of cardiology.”

“I wanted to study medicine,” Daeron interjects, and everyone looks at him strangely. He stops chewing the chips he put in his mouth and swallows quickly. “What?”

“Since when? You hate blood. Aegon cut his finger once and you almost passed out,” Helaena laughs.

“Well, I never said I was going to do it, damn,” he sighs annoyed. “Besides, business is easier, and it guarantees more than anything else.”

“What about you, Willa? Are you in business too?” Helaena asks.

She smiles. “No, biochemistry.”

“And top of her class,” brags Daeron, putting an arm around her shoulders. Willa blushes slightly and shifts uncomfortably, with so many eyes on her. “She's fantastic. She has like, I don't know, five internship offers.”

“Oh, so you're smart-smart,” Floris tells her, fascinated at the possibility of having someone else to play chess with besides Aemond.

“Some might say. I consider myself diligent, nothing more,” Willa shrugs, the chiffon of the dropped sleeves of her pink dress moving gracefully.

Aegon takes a sip of wine, as bored as he can be whenever the conversation turns to study or life plans. He sprawls in the chair and discreetly stretches, trying not to make noise, when accidentally his foot hits Annika's, and she startles.

“Ouch!”

“It was an accident,” he quickly excuses himself, seeing that all attention turned to her complaint.

“Be careful next time,” she says, her voice cold and hard like the ice covering the pavement. She looks at her ankle with a wrinkled nose, and he shakes his head.

Aemond kicks him under the table to stop him from making an inappropriate comment, and the hit takes him by surprise too. “Ouch.”

“Do you think it's funny?” Annika asks, annoyed.

“God, no. It's not funny,” he sighs. He tries to restrain himself, but he can't. “It's hilarious.”

“Maybe we should move on to dessert,” Aemond insists, half trying to lighten the mood, half not wanting to eat the overdue pastrami sandwich. He's sure he got the worst one as punishment for Floris' incident.

“Oh, but there's no dessert, just an orange jelly that Willa made,” Helaena says. “There wasn't much we could do, and Annika burned the cookies, so...”

“I didn't burn them! You didn't tell me when to let you know to take them out of the oven!”

“Wait, no dessert?” Daeron asks, outraged. “What are we going to eat tomorrow?”

“The leftovers from Christmas Eve,” his sister responds plainly. He looks at the shredded sandwich on Aemond's plate, and he shudders.

“So... Bread crusts? No Christmas pancakes?”

“I'm sure tomorrow morning it will be viable to go out and get something decent to eat, and if not, we'll make an effort. My truck can probably handle most of the snowy road, and if the weather improves, they'll probably even make the Christmas parade, and we can watch it,” Logan says. “Worst case scenario, we'll eat cans of beans.”

“At least we have plenty of alcohol,” Aegon mutters. “Christmas is saved for me.”

“I can't believe it's Christmas, and there won't be any figgy pudding,” Daeron sounds disappointed.

“I thought you hated figgy pudding,” Floris tells him, puzzled.

“And I do. But it's tradition. Like gifts. We have no gifts. What are we going to do tomorrow morning?”

“You can always sleep until noon and miss Christmas morning,” Annika jokes. “I didn't think you were so traditional, Daeron. Certainly not to escape your family and come spend it only with your girlfriend on Christmas.”

“Let them screw in peace,” Aegon blurts out.

“You're rude. We're at the table,” Annika crosses her arms, as if the previous night hadn't seen her on the kitchen counter.

“We wanted peace and quiet, and we would have done all those things anyway. But now that we're all here... I don't know, it's weird. Because it doesn't feel like Christmas,” Daeron says. “Well, I don't think Christmas can feel like Christmas if I'm not trying to fall asleep in Annika's guest room because the party is boring.”

Everyone laughs.

“It’s not Christmas if Aegon doesn't pee on the tree and blame it on Sunfyre,” Aemond adds.

“It was only once!”

“And do you remember the Christmas when we locked ourselves in the basement to drink anise liquor, and your uncle Daemon found us, and we thought he was going to scold and accuse us, but he laughed at us because we were drunk on damn anise liquor?” Floris recalls, almost bursting into laughter at the memory of Helaena with her cheeks full of liquor, too scared to swallow the burning drink once her uncle found them.

“I didn't know about that,” Daeron complains.

“It was a long time ago. You were probably asleep in Annika's guest room,” Aemond recalls.

“When was it?”

“It was the first Christmas without my mom, I think,” Annika says, resting her chin on her hand, somewhat pensive, as if she had been lost in the memory. Floris puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it.

“It was,” Aegon nods.

He could never forget that night. The three girls had gone to sleep as drunk as skunks in the middle of the party, and he had put Aemond to bed with Daeron. Being slightly older than the rest, he knew how to handle and disguise his drunkenness a little better than them. He had wanted to go out to smoke on the balcony of the second floor and had seen Annika walking briskly to what had been her mother's painting studio, locking herself in there. He sat silently against the door and listened to her sobbing the rest of the night, too conflicted to try knocking on the door.

He often wondered what would have happened if he had knocked on the door. If he had told her he was there with her, even if she didn't want to talk about it. Even if she just wanted to cry.

But it is no use to ask himself that.

“I know it wasn't the initial plan for anyone, but we're all here now, and I'm glad it turned out this way,” Helaena interjects. “I’m grateful, for all of you.”

“I am too, Hel,” Floris smiles and raises her glass. “I want to propose a toast, for this... Christmas disaster. Even though it's Christmas Eve, and we're eating sandwiches with probably expired cold cuts thousands of miles from home, I wouldn't want to be with other people on Earth.”

“For Hel's expired cold cut sandwiches and Willa's orange jelly,” surprisingly, Aemond says, raising his glass. Then he looks at Floris. “I'm grateful too, for all of you. Even the stranger over there.”

Helaena shakes her head, amused.

“And for Aegon's Cheeto-stained fingers on your shirt,” Daeron teases, to annoy him.

“And Annika's sprained ankle,” Logan adds.

“And may the Moschino fur boots rest in peace,” she sighs, also raising her glass.

Everyone stands up to clink their glasses together. The sound of glass clashing, and everyone's laughter vibrates through the room. For a second, everyone seems to forget the dilemmas, tribulations that brought them there, the deceptions, and old secrets. For a second, they are a family again, the family they have chosen. It doesn't matter that dinner is sandwiches and orange jelly.

And it works. For a second, it works. Until everyone sits back down, the joy still part of their faces, and Aegon takes the bottle of red wine while still standing. “Anyone want some?”

It's Annika who holds her glass toward him from her seat. He looks at her, glimpsing the neckline of her dress from his angle as he pours the wine. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine, and her green eyes are highlighted with feline eyeliner. Her lips are still shiny even after eating. Blood-coloured nails hold the glass, and she even has a defiant look. Her hair is in a low ponytail.

And the dress. He hates that dress. It's a ruby red shade that clings to her body, not in a vulgar way, from the beginning of her breasts to the hips, and it reaches her knees a bit looser. Shoulders and collarbones are evident, and it has two straps that fit on her arms. He has seen that dress several times. He has wanted to tear off that dress every time.

This time is no different.

“Aegon, the wine,” Annika warns him.

He snaps out of his stupor at her click. He takes the glass he has poured too much when the wine spills over his hands and even to the elbow, and drops fall on his mother's white tablecloth. He curses, almost embarrassed.

“Oh, shit,” he says, taking his napkin and trying to clean up the mess he made on the tablecloth. Daeron tries to stop him when he sees that he seems to be spreading the stains, and Aegon doesn't stop. Among the decorations, he knocks over Willa's water glass, splashing it on her skirt. She recoils startled at the cold. “Oops, shit. I'm sorry. Let me...”

“It’s okay,” Willa tells him, and Aegon tries to clean up the water that drips from the tablecloth to the floor when he knocks over a candle, and the tablecloth takes a moment to catch fire.

“Aegon!” Helaena scolds him, getting up from the chair quickly. “Do something!”

“Oh, shit. Oh,” Aegon panics and tries to blow out the flames that have engulfed more than half of the table, but it doesn't work.

Anxiety courses through him as everyone starts shouting for him to do something, so he takes off the sweater and tries to extinguish the flames.

The sweater catches fire too. Daeron forces him to let it go and burn with the rest of the things. Then, before anyone can react, Floris appears with a fire extinguisher from who knows where and manages to put out the flames.

A graveyard silence falls in the room. Annika clings to Floris' arm. Willa has a hand on her chest while Daeron covers his mouth in disbelief, and Logan has his hands on Helaena's shoulders.

The sound of Aemond's blinking clock is the only thing that can be heard. Then he clicks his tongue. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

Everyone stayed to clean up after that fiasco. Even Annika, with her bad foot, forced herself to walk a bit and throw the remnants of the tablecloth ashes into the trash.

“Hey,” Annika calls to Helaena, when both are alone in the kitchen. She leans on the counter. “What's going on with you and Logan?”

“Why are you asking?” Hel questions, pretending not to care.

“Because you've been with him practically since he arrived, and I know you,” she accuses. “You've always been special when it comes to guys. But not with him. You like him”

“Maybe...”

“You love him.”

“Well...”

“You want to have sex, get married, have seven kids, and be a trophy wife with a veterinarian on a retreat farm,” Annika jokes. Helaena laughs. “I have to tell you; I always thought I would lose Floris before I lost you.”

“You're acting like I'm getting married tomorrow,” she rolls her eyes.

“Well, when you love, you love in a very special and deep way. I wouldn't be surprised.”

Hel grabs her hand. “You'll have that someday.”

“What do you mean?” Annika asks, confused.

“The conventional life. You know. Marriage, kids, love. You'll have that someday,” Helaena replies. She shifts uncomfortably. “You don't have to be always alone.”

And yet it seems like my fate. Always the wrong one, never the one. Always the “almost”. Always the nights and never the mornings.

“I know that,” Annika downplays. “But we're not talking about me. We're talking about you.”

“Well, speaking of you...”

Annika straightens up when Helaena turns around, muttering something unintelligible. Then she shows her the empty fire extinguisher.

“What do you want me to do with that?”

“Would you mind going to the service cabin to get the replacement?”

“The service cabin? Do you mean that horrible shed at the end of the garden where we once locked your father in for a whole night? That horrible shed?”

“Come on, you're not going to tell me it still scares you, right? Besides, they've fixed it. The floorboards no longer creak. Please, bring the other extinguisher to put this one in its place, and my parents will never know what we did here,” Helaena pleads. Annika rolls her eyes and takes it.

“Of course, I'm not afraid," she admits. "But why me?”

“Because everyone else has other tasks. And you yourself said your ankle felt better

She protests but fulfils her friend's request, unable to see any of the brothers in trouble for setting the table on fire. She throws a wool coat over her shoulders and walks outside through the kitchen door.

The service shed is located about fifty meters from the house, at the other end of the snow-covered yard. She makes the journey with a little difficulty, some snowflakes falling gently on her skin and melting instantly. Although the yard is turning into hardened snow, Aemond has cleared the path because he spent a large part of the afternoon making the round trip. The piled-up snow on the sides of the cobblestones betrays him.

She blows on her frozen hands as she moves her legs lightly to avoid losing warmth before putting her hand on the frozen handle, pulling with some force, opening the door with difficulty. The squeak is tremendous and almost feels like a bad omen.

It's a fairly large shed since it used to be the maid's quarters when they bought the house, but they never used it as such because it was never in a condition for anyone to sleep there. At least, as Helaena said, they had repaired the floor. She tries to turn on the light, but it's only a dim light that flickers tiredly. She hurriedly leaves the extinguisher aside and looks for the other with her eyes among the clutter of things. She stretches when she finally finds the device on a shelf, leaning all her weight on the uninjured ankle.

“What are you doing here?” Aegon's voice surprises her, and the extinguisher slips from her hands in shock, hitting the floor with a bang.

“Are you crazy? I could have gotten hurt,” she says annoyed, watching as it almost hits her healthy foot. Aegon carries a box of things with both hands and kicks the door closed to leave the box on a shelf. “What are you doing here?”

“I just asked you the same thing,” he says, sighing with effort when he finally puts the box on the shelf. “Who would have thought Helaena had a colonel's skills when it comes to cleaning. She even caught you; I see.”

She raises an eyebrow and chuckles. She heads for the exit without even saying a word, and Aegon growls again.

“Are you still angry?”

“Wonder what gave me away.”

“Besides the dress to make you look good, and you've ignored me all night...”

“I'm not ignoring you. I just have nothing to say to you, and you've made it clear that you don't either. We have nothing to talk about, Aegon.”

“We were friends before, Annika. We were friends before being...”

“Before being what? Your world-traveling booty call?” She cuts him off, with a hand on the latch. “You know what? I don't want to hear it.”

Aegon hurriedly puts a hand on the door and closes it when she tries to open it. “Wait.”

“I don't want to talk to you!” She yells, trying to open the door again. Aegon puts both hands on the wood and pushes outward while she pulls on the latch with all her weight. “Move!”

“Just listen to me for a second!”

“I don't want to hear you! Every time you say something, you hurt me even more!”

“And yet you think you and I would have worked?”

“Do stop bothering me!” Annika shouts at him, pulling on the latch again with all her strength. “For God's sake, Aegon, how much do you weigh?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but remains silent when Annika staggers backward and is left with the latch in her hand, while they hear the latch from the outside falling to the ground.

Aegon nods, lips tight. “That was your fault.”

“My fault?” She yells at him. “No. The last thing I want is to be stuck here with you. Go get something to open the door. Helaena! Aemond! Daeron! Willa! Floris! Logan!”

“Oh, great. Only the bears can hear you, Annika,” Aegon mocks her, and the wood bangs on the door. “Relax. Move. I'll open it.”

“By kicking it?” She asks, arms crossed.

“Of course, what do you think?”

“You're... You know what? Go ahead. Kick the door open.”

She steps aside as Aegon moves all his limbs as if he wanted to warm up his muscles whose only recreation is going up the steep street of his apartment when he returns from buying cigarettes on the corner at three in the morning. He prepares, takes a little distance, and hits the door with all his might.

Annika smiles satisfied when she sees him on the floor, in pain, holding his leg and complaining like a child. “Are you done? Can I shout for the others again?”

“That would be fine,” he whispers, almost breathless, straightening up to sit on the floor, almost defeated. “I don't think any of them have gone to bed yet, so shout loudly.”

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

Daeron laughs as he positions Willa on his lap, both sitting on individual sofas. Aemond and Floris are next to each other, a little too smiley from the alcohol intake, and Helaena is sitting on the floor beside Logan's legs as he holds a guitar on his lap.

“Hel, you're a terrible singer!” Floris mocks.

“What about you? You sound like a wounded wolf!” Helaena responds, offended. Willa laughs too.

“Come on, play another one!” Daeron asks Logan.

“Well, only if you insist,” he replies, and starts playing the first chords of a song without saying which one.

Incredibly, it's Aemond who takes a sip of his wine and guesses it first, singing the first verse. “Such a feeling's coming over me, there is wonder in most everything I see...”

“Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes, and I won't be surprised if it's a dream,” Willa continues, cheerful. And of all, she might have the least hoarse voice.

“Everything I want the world to be, is now coming true especially for me,” Daeron continues, using the tip of a small beer bottle as a microphone.

“And the reason is clear, it's because you are here, you're the nearest thing to heaven that I've seen,” Floris and Helaena sing together, while the blonde moves her arms in the closest thing to a dance she has.

“I'm on the top of the world looking down on creation!” They all sing this time, including Logan. “And the only explanation I can find is the love that I've found ever since you've been around… Your love's put me at the top of the world!”

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

“How long have we been here?” Aegon asks, exhausted.

Annika checks her watch. “Ten minutes.”

“What are they doing in there that they can't hear your screams?” he complains. “I want to get out of here. It's cold and creepy.”

“I don't know, but they're probably having a better night than me,” she says, leaning against the dusty shelf with a bit of disgust. “I hope you're happy.”

“This isn't my fault. If you had stayed and listened to what I wanted to tell you, you wouldn't have broken the damn latch,” Aegon reproaches again.

“Did it ever occur to you that I don't want to hear what you have to say because you messed with the one thing you know hurts me the most?” she says, wrapping herself even more in her wool sweater.

He lowers his head, feeling a bit guilty. Suddenly, everything Aemond told him feels too heavy. “Annika…”

“How could you?” She retorts suddenly. “How could you keep something like that to yourself? For years? How could you not tell me?”

“What did you want me to say?” He asks, standing up to her level. “I'm asking you seriously. What was I supposed to tell you? I wasn't supposed to tell you I knew she was sick. And I certainly wasn't supposed to tell you she didn't want me near you.”

Annika laughs. “You weren't supposed to use it as an excuse to not be with me. It's not fair that you're doing this to me. My mother has nothing to do with you being a mess who can't get his priorities straight.”

“Do you think I don't have my priorities straight?” He asks, starting to feel more annoyed than concerned for her, who clearly is fine.

“Please, I know you don't have your priorities straight. You dropped out of college, live in San Francisco on your father's money doing God knows what, and push everyone out of your life so they won't see that you're nothing more than a complete disaster.”

“Oh, who are you kidding, trust-fund princess? Hey, guess what, your mother dying doesn't give you a free pass to be a complete jerk with everyone when things don't go your way. Grow up a bit.”

She furrows her brow, annoyed. “Your father preferring his grandchildren over you doesn't give you the right to be a jerk either, but here you are.”

Aegon runs his hands over his face and stifles a scream. “God! You're fucking crazy. You shouldn't be here. None of you should be here!”

“Well, tough luck, champ. We're here trapped, literally and figuratively. Deal with it.”

Annika crosses her arms again and turns her back, but Aegon hasn't finished.

“No, but seriously. You being here has ruined everything. Floris and Aemond fought over your stupid little game…”

“Oh, come on! As if I made Aemond sleep with someone else!”

“And if they hadn't been here, I'd probably have someone sucking my cock right now.”

“Is that all the fuss? That no one has sucked you off?” She asks, putting her hands on her hips. “I'd do it if you weren't such an idiot, just a reminder.”

He bites his inner cheek, holding back the urge to shout.

“You… You're insane, Annika. You were yelling at me two minutes ago, and now you want to suck me off.”

“I never said I wanted to, just that I would.”

Aegon blinks. “You would? I mean… Now?”

“You lost the privilege of asking me to suck you off when you threw my dead mother's name into this mess,” she says, crossing her arms.

“And if I eat you out?”

“If you come near me, I'll bash your head in with those rusty golf clubs,” Annika points to them in a corner. Aegon smiles. “I’m going to ask you a question.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“Are you never going to settle down, or do you just not want to settle down with me?” She asks, leaving modesty behind. Aegon doesn't seem willing to answer. “And if it's not me, then I want to know why it's not me. Why not me?”

“Anything else you want to know?” He mocks.

“Why did you drop out of college? What's in San Francisco that made you move there? Why did you leave?”

Because I want you far away, far away. As far away as possible. I want you to forget about me.

“I don't think I can settle down. You know how I am.”

“I knew how you were when we were teenagers. We fucked for the first time three years ago, and since then, you've left but always come back to me. And you want to convince me that I'm just another of your girls?”

He groans. “We have the best sex, that's it.”

“And you know why.”

“You sound like Aemond,” he says. “Who, by the way, knows. About you and me.”

Annika walks toward him carefully and sits astride. Aegon knows she's testing him, but he's also sure she wants to sit and doesn't want to ruin her clothes by leaning against any dirty places.

“I don't care if Aemond knows,” she tells him. The wool cardigan slips off one shoulder, and he tries to keep his eyes anywhere else but her cleavage. “Did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted him to punch me and tell me how out of my reach you are and that I made a mistake.”

“And he didn't tell you that?”

“He said other things,” he cuts her off quickly. “But, you know what I think is funny? That you're here playing a game like a stupid teenager, trying to get me to say I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you when you never thought to tell me that yourself. Because you couldn't bear that it might not be a reciprocated feeling, so you haven't even thought about how you really feel about me. You just want me here to tell you I love you and fix you. I know you. You're an expert at sucking the life out of those around you, and I won't let you do that to me.”

“I can't do that. You have no life, nothing I could suck.”

“I have a dick that could use it.”

“You're making me cringe,” she shakes off a pretend shiver. The dress fabric has ridden up to the middle of her thighs, and he puts his hands on her waist, pressing forcefully to draw her closer. “What's in San Francisco?”

Aegon kisses her, holding the back of her neck so she won't pull away. Maybe he wants to shut her up, and maybe he wants to kiss her, sometimes he doesn't even understand it himself. But his pants feel tight, and she's at his mercy and willing, because she kisses him again. Palms against his chest, clutching the shirt and crumpling it between her impatient fingers.

“I want to fuck you right here,” he whispers against her lips. “One last time, please.”

“One last time? And then what?” She asks, arching her back slightly to bring her chest closer to his. “And then you'll disappear forever?”

“Maybe.”

Annika removes his hands from her with some difficulty, creating some distance between their bodies. “It's hard.”

“What's hard?”

“Loving you,” she replies simply, her green eyes almost soaked. Aegon's lips part slightly in surprise, and soon he stops breathing. “It's hard and painful. And you only make it worse.”

He doesn't know what to say. Suddenly, he's a little boy again who doesn't understand why his father doesn't celebrate his achievements and why his only company is the babysitters and why no one wants to do the science project with him—because he's the problem.

There's something about it that shakes him to his core when she stands up, adjusts her dress, and the wool cardigan swallows her almost entirely, shielding her from his cruelty. He wants to say something, but he can't formulate the words. His mind is blank.

“I…” 

“You wanted to hear it? Well, now you have,” she interrupts him, leaning against the wall on the other side of the shed. “I don't want to hear from you.”

He blinks, dumbfounded, and after a few moments of silence, he finally lets out, “There's nothing in San Francisco.”

“What are you talking about?”

“San Francisco. There's nothing keeping me there. I'm not doing anything in particular either. I guess I'm just running away,” he says. “There's nothing of you there.”

“Is that why you mail me my pink sweater? Because you had to move to a different country and a different city that had nothing to do with me?”

“Basically.”

“So, do you hate me?”

“I don't hate you,” he responds. “And you're right. You always have been. I love you too.”

Annika runs her hands through her hair in frustration and lets out a bitter laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

Soon, they hear a noise coming from the door, and it opens to reveal Daeron with his hand on the doorknob he fixed from the outside. “There you are! We've been looking for you for a while. The doorknob broke and fell. Are you okay?”

Their presence doesn't seem to matter to either of them.

“You're driving me crazy,” Annika shoots at Aegon, walking out the door without even acknowledging Daeron's presence.

“What's wrong with her?” the younger one asks, confused.

“Not now,” Aegon replies, walking quickly and pushing his brother aside. Behind him, he hears the shed door close in the breeze. “Annika, wait.”

“I'm tired of waiting for you,” she protests, her voice firm and cold. When she enters the house, her muscles relax in the warm atmosphere, and the others look at them curiously.

“Where were you guys?” Floris asks with concern. “Why do you look dirty?”

“Because Aegon broke the door, and we got stuck in the utility shed.”

“Could you stop saying it was my fault?! I needed you to hear what I wanted to tell you, and you broke the doorknob!”

Floris looks at Aemond confused, and he shrugs.

“You kidnapped me in the shed! I wanted out!”

“Okay, that's enough, it doesn't matter who broke it,” Helaena intervenes, putting her hands on Annika's cold shoulders. “What's going on? Why are you fighting now?”

Annika crosses her arms. “You already know, Aegon knew about my mom's illness long before I did. All that time, he knew and didn't tell me anything about it. And apparently, her dying wish was expressed to him instead of me, her daughter. Isn't that funny?”

Helaena hugs her tightly as if they were little girls again. Floris looks at Aegon appalled, while he clenches his fists. Logan and Willa shift uncomfortably in the room.

“So... Is that true?” Floris dares to ask. Aegon nods sternly. “I mean... Annika, that's not his fault. It wasn't something he could tell you, I think.”

“No, I know that… But what's macabre about the situation is that he uses it as an excuse to ruin my life, that he uses my mother as if her words were something sacred to him and acts like he respects her wishes when he's been fucking me for over three years!” Annika says. The room falls silent for a moment, and the air is tense.

Daeron enters, shivering from the cold but with a smile. “Hey, you left me locked in the shed. Thank God I was able to fix it. What are you talking about?”

“You two have been fucking... For three years?” Floris asks, surprised.

“What!?” Daeron exclaims, looking at his brother. “You and Annika?”

“It's not...” He begins to say, looking only at Helaena as if he owed her an explanation, but instantly falls silent when Annika laughs. Finally, he sighs. “Yes, Annika and I. I'm sorry. I really didn't want you to find out like this.”

“No, he didn't want you to find out, period,” she adds. “He uses my mother as an excuse not to be with me, but that didn't stop him from showing up on the night of the debutante ball and ruining absolutely everything!”

“I've had enough of this,” Aegon barks, approaching her almost dangerously and grabbing her arm tightly; his face inches from hers. “You want to know what happened that night? Everyone wants to know, right? I bet you do. You staged this whole show, so I'm going to tell you,” he says, letting go of her arm, trying to control the violence generated by the situation. “I beat Dalton Greyjoy not because I wanted to ruin your night or because I was drunk; in fact, I wasn't even drunk. I beat him up because you were a girl, and he was older, and I spent half an hour listening to him talk to his friends about everything he was going to do to you. And how after he finished with you, his friends could have you. That's right. He could sit next to you and act like a gentleman with plans to hurt you while I was on the side being villainized for not wanting to hurt you. And you know what? It's not fair. I was taking care of you. I have always taken care of you.”

No one dares to speak after his revelation. Daeron frowns and scratches his neck, somewhat uncomfortable, then puts his hands on Willa's shoulders as she hugs her legs curled up on the sofa. Logan doesn't dare to breathe, and neither does Floris.

Aegon steps back a few paces as if he needs to get away from all of them.

“Aegon. Why didn't you ever say anything?” Helaena asks.

“What use would it be? Annika would say that I was trying to ruin not only her life but her relationship. You wouldn't have believed me, none of you would’ve.”

Annika laughs, and this time, she approaches him. “Aegon, after all we've been through, you really thought I would have believed Dalton Greyjoy over you?”

He shrugs. “I didn't want you to get your hopes up. You were a bit foolish, and I wasn't exactly a knight in shining armour.”

“Always so considerate of my feelings,” she says, rolling her eyes. “God, Aegon, you're... a fucking idiot.”

“See? See how she is?” He addresses the rest and points at Annika. The only one who laughs is Helaena, who seems tempted by the whole situation, unlike the others who are uncomfortable but too involved.

“I mean, you should have told me. And to be honest, I didn't need you to take care of me like that... I appreciate that you told me the truth, but you embarrass me.”

“Well I lied to you; I was a bit drunk, yes,” he smiles, feeling the tension between them disappear. Then he remembers that everyone is watching them. “Would you guys mind?”

“Um... No? We've been here listening for five minutes. We deserve to know how this ends,” Daeron complains. “Please, make it our Christmas gift.”

“Fine,” Aegon says. “But then forget the air fryer I got you.”

“That's what you got me for Christmas?” Daeron asks disgusted. “Forget it. Continue. Pretend we're not here.”

Annika shakes her head and looks at Aegon again, almost pleadingly. “So. How is it going to end? Forget about my mother. Forget about Dalton Greyjoy. Just you and me.”

“You wanted to hear me say that I love you, and you ran the moment I did. So, you tell me, how's it going to be?”

“You love her!?” Daeron shouts.

“Daeron!” Everyone yells at him.

She squeezes her eyes shut tightly. “I'm willing to try. But if you're not willing, if you don't make an effort... it ends here, now. And I mean it.”

Aegon has a lot to evaluate; he knows that. He has to learn not to run away, to face tense and uncomfortable situations just like she does.

But if there's anyone who would make all these horrors more bearable, it's Annika.

He laughs and pinches her cheeks. “Well, I have to admit you’re the best sex I’ve ever had. I can't lose that."

“Ugh! You're so crude,” Annika protests, struggling to pull away from him, overwhelmed. “In front of everyone. Seriously, what's wrong with you? You're not right in the head.”

“Of course not, and neither are you,” he teases, while trying to pull her closer. He squeezes her cheeks with one hand and plants a chaste kiss on her lips. There's a feeling that reminds him, though, that he still has to face Helaena's scrutiny, silently standing by the Christmas tree with an indescribable expression. “Hel?”

“What?” She asks, confused.

“Is this okay with you?”

“Annika and you?” She asks, and he nods, still holding Annika around the waist. Helaena laughs. “It's a bit disappointing how uneventful it was, but, yes. I mean, you finally admitted it.”

“But I...”

“You're my brother, and she's my best friend. It’s like it was written in the stars, and, please, the only ones here who didn't know you two were sleeping together were Daeron and Floris.”

“Hey!” They say in unison, and then look at each other and sigh. Daeron shakes his head. “Ah, why lie. She's right. I would have never seen it coming. I mean, I never imagined you two were in love.”

“I knew,” Willa says, and her boyfriend looks at her puzzled. “Didn't you notice? Besides, the last time we were in San Francisco, Aegon lent me Annika's pink sweater. It was obvious.”

Annika turns her head like the Exorcist and looks at Aegon with an expression bordering on the macabre. “You. Lent. My. Pink. Sweater?”

“Please don't break up with me,” he sighs and gives her a kiss on the forehead.

“It already beat the record for your longest relationship,” Aemond teases, and everyone laughs.

“Alright, since we're confessing things... I have something to tell you,” says Helaena, approaching to take Logan's hand, who is sitting on the sofa. “He's my boyfriend.”

Floris gasps in surprise.

“Please tell me you're not moving to Aspen,” Annika pleads.

“He doesn't live here in Aspen; we lied to all of you. We have been dating for months,” she says, carefree. “I wanted you all to meet him before everyone at home, wanted to meet Willa, have Aegon and Annika finally admit they love each other, and know what happened between Aemond and Floris. At first, I was going to propose hosting Christmas in New York, but I knew everyone would find an excuse not to come, so when I saw on Dad's credit card statement the flights Aemond and Aegon bought to Aspen, I convinced Annika and Floris to come. And I mentioned this place to Daeron several times during the weeks leading up to it, knowing he'd end up coming instead of going to London. And, hey! Everything worked out perfectly.”

Everyone looked at each other, a little scared.

“So... You knew we were all coming?” Aemond asks.

“Basically, yes.”

“And you two pretended not to know each other...”

“Yes, exactly. The storm and getting stuck here were a coincidence. I wanted you to meet in a calm environment without preconceptions. And I sent you both to the shed, but the doorknob breaking was also a coincidence. It was fate, I think,” she explains.

Aegon opens his mouth to say something but can't formulate words due to surprise. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yes... I saw you and Annika together in France a few months ago. But I didn't say anything because Logan and I also went incognito.”

She laughs and walks over to hug Helaena. “My beautiful, beautiful weirdo. I love you so much, but don't ever do something like this again.”

“And you could have told us about him,” Floris also gets up to give her a hug.

“There was never a right time; something always came up, and we really wanted to spend the holidays together. Introducing him at home when everything was a mess wasn't a viable option,” she replies, giving Floris's hand a squeeze. “I'm so sorry, guys, but I really wanted to bring you all together, and this was the only way I found. Are you mad?”

Her voice is so sweet and gentle, and she's so Helaena that none of them can be angry. She knows it very well and is kind enough to at least apologize; she knows there will be no consequences.

“Of course not, Hel. I really enjoyed being here with all of you...” Aemond begins to say.

“Don't get sentimental on me now,” Aegon cuts him off, giving his sister friendly pats on the head. “Thanks, Hel. Even though we had stale sandwiches, thanks. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to take a shower. I'm freezing and dirty.”

“That’s a Christmas miracle, alright,” Floris teases. He gives her the middle finger.

“I have a girlfriend now. I have to look presentable. She's truly neat.”

Annika raises an eyebrow. “I don't remember you asking if I wanted to be your girlfriend.”

“It's not necessary,” he says, and leans to support her body in his arms, carrying her like a princess. She wrinkles her nose. “Well, good night.”

“I thought you were going to take a bath?” Daeron says. “It was too good to be true.”

“Yes, I'm going to shower. She's coming with me. Enjoy yourselves.”

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

In the two hours that Aegon and Annika have been in a relationship, he has realized that Annika doesn't joke when it comes to a shower.

“You know,” he says, a towel wrapped around his hips as he finishes brushing his teeth and watches the girl apply lotion. “When I brought you to the shower, I was expecting some sex. You know. Like a honeymoon. Christmas shower sex.”

She looks at him, her golden curls a bit darker and soaked. She's wearing a pink satin robe. “But look how cute you turned out with the cream bath. And I thought you liked my shower gel.”

“I smell like lavender,” he says, indignant. “Don't get used to this.”

“Why would it be so terrible to use shampoo, conditioner, and soap separately?”

“I'm telling you, my 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, and soap are fine. Cosmetics are just an industry that takes advantage of women to make money and destroy our planet.”

“Alright, Mr. I use my family's private jet to pick up chicks.”

“Those days are behind me,” he says, shaking wet strands of white hair to splash her. She scoffs, and he takes her by the waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “I have my favourite girl with me.”

“Wait, let me just...” Annika asks when he starts kissing her neck, tickling her. She shifts her shoulder restlessly and leaves her cream on the marble countertop when he unties the robe's knot and runs his hands over her body. “Aegon, stop. I need to dry my hair.”

“But it's been so long,” he says, turning her around and cornering her against the counter. He helps her jump up and gets between her legs, opening the robe more. Annika smells like lavender, and he does too. It's even a bit comical.

She takes him by the nape of his neck and pulls him to her lips, kissing him fiercely, as if seeking some kind of animalistic release. Annika hugs him tightly, pressing her naked chest against his, while Aegon's hands grip her thighs so firmly she's sure he'll leave a mark.

She could cry. “I missed you,” she murmurs on his lips.

He smiles mischievously, reaching her wet centre. She squirms every time he gives her the attention she needs, tracing small circles on her clit.

“I need you so bad,” he gasps, feeling her tighten against his fingers.

Then Annika experiences a moment of enlightenment and leans back. “Wait. I'm not on the pill.”

Aegon blinks, as hard as he can. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, I stopped taking them since...”

“I don't have condoms,” he curses, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

“How do you not have condoms?”

“No, I already used them,” he replies without thinking. She lets out a heavy sigh through her nose, and he raises his gaze a bit embarrassed. “I didn't know you were coming. You know I was trying to...”

“I don't care,” she cuts him off, breathing a bit calmer but still agitated as if coming down from a moment of ecstasy. “Ask Daeron.”

“Don't you think it's a bit humiliating?”

“To Logan, then.”

“Annika! I don't want to think about him having condoms. He's my sister's boyfriend.”

She rolls her eyes. “I also have an older brother, and I doubt he'd make such a fuss when I tell him you're my boyfriend.”

Aegon shudders, but a smile appears on his face. “I'm sure Rhys will love to hear the news.”

“Your mother will be happy.”

“Of course, she loves you more than she loves me,” he tells her and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Listen, I could just...”

“It's not going to happen. Get me condoms,” she orders, pushing him away from her body and tying the robe again. “Go, while I dry my hair.”

“God, give me patience,” he murmurs, leaving the bathroom for his room to put on a change of clothes and lose all his dignity heading to his younger brother's room.

He walks stealthily and knocks on the door a couple of times, swaying on the spot. Daeron opens the door, a bit surprised. “Hey, what's up?”

“Here goes nothing, I guess... By any chance, do you have... You know...?” His brother looks at him impatiently, and he sighs. “I ran out of condoms.”

“Oh,” he avoids laughing. “Wait a second.”

He closes the door in Aegon's face, missing his nose by just a few millimeters. A few seconds later, he opens it again, only showing his head and extends his arm to give him a small box. “Have fun.”

“Ribbed? Are you kidding me, Daeron?” Aegon sighs when he reads the box, putting his hand to his head. Listen, if I come back with this, Annika will make me sleep on the stairs, and I won't have sex. Don't you have something simpler?”

“What do you think I am? A pharmacy? Get your own stuff,” Daeron mentions and closes the door in his face again.

He returns to his room, almost dejected. He's had enough, and it doesn't even occur to him to knock on Aemond's door. He finds Annika with her hair tied up and folded over her head with a strange device, wearing the same pajamas from the night before.

“Did you get the stuff?”

“Um...” he tosses her the little box. She quickly reads and returns it the same way, shaking her head.

“That is not going anywhere near me, let alone inside” she replies. “Sorry, champ. We can always do other things. Fun things.”

“Like what?” He asks, tempted by the idea. Annika approaches him and pushes him onto the bed, straddling him. She gives him a kiss on the lips and moves to his ear.

“Well, I could return the favour from the other night...”

“God,” he almost pleads, in a tone of voice resembling a whine. His cock twitches beneath her, expectant, and Annika doesn't take much longer to kneel in front of him and play with the elastic of his pajama pants. “Annika, please do something already.”

“Well. Tell me you love me first,” she teases, stroking him over the fabric.

“I love you,” he says, leaning down to give her a kiss on the forehead. “You're the best, and you're the queen of the whole world and the universe.”

“You know me so well,” she purrs before lowering his pants and taking him into her mouth.

Aegon growls when she strokes the wet tip with her agile tongue, feeling like a teenager knowing he won't last long because she knows exactly what to do. How to take it all, how to sink her cheeks, how to use her hand, and how to caress other parts of him.

Unconsciously, he tries to tangle his hand in her hair, and she slaps him and stops pleasing him. “Hey. No. I'm trying these heatless curls. It took me a lot.”

“Are you kidding me?” he complains, furrowing his brow. “But...”

"Shh, it’s fine," she hushes him, taking his hands and intertwining them with hers, using only her mouth. He groans impatiently, and it doesn't take much longer for him to release in her mouth. She takes every drop, and he doesn't even get a chance to say anything before Aegon has her pinned against the mattress, kissing her lips and making her laugh.

“You're so...” he says but gets interrupted by a knock on the door. “Oh, fuck. And now what?”

“Maybe it's Santa,” she jokes, hitting his arm to get him off her. Aegon adjusts his clothes, just like she does, and it's she who heads to the door.

“If he doesn't have a box of condoms, tell him I'll kick his ass back to the South Pole through the chimney,” he says, settling on the bed.

“North. Santa lives in the North Pole,” Floris corrects when Annika opens the door. She looks distraught, with a red nose and teary eyes.

“Are you okay? What's wrong?” Annika asks, taking her arm and ushering her into the room. She strokes Floris's hair, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, talk to me...”

Floris doesn't speak; she just bursts into tears and hugs Annika.

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

It's late, and while everyone seems to be asleep, Aegon and Annika remain awake in silence. He shifts uncomfortably on the hard floor, sighing and raising his torso to observe Annika sitting against the back of her bed while Floris sleeps peacefully in her arms. He gave them some space as they spoke quietly, but then joined the conversation and told Annika she could stay there for the night.

“Still awake?” He asks, although he knows she is.

“It's hard to sleep,” she replies. “I really hate your brother.”

“Do you think she'll be okay?” Aegon asks, referring to Floris. Annika carefully moves her from his arms to the other end of the bed, and when she returns to her place, he climbs into the bed on the other side and lies down on her. Annika looks at him tiredly. “What? It's my turn.”

She rolls her eyes and runs her hand through his hair, adjusting it so he doesn't crush her chest. “She'll be fine, eventually. But I can't go to San Francisco with you when we leave here. She needs me right now.”

“I understand,” he replies, lifting his head. “Are you going back to New York?”

“I want Floris to settle in. Helaena is going back to London to see your family, and we'll all meet again on New Year's,” she explains. Aegon nods. “You can come with us.”

“To New York?”

“Yes. You know, you could help us move Floris's furniture around.”

He laughs. “You're asking me to move in with you.”

“No, I'm asking you to come with me so we can go back home together later. My apartment is big, and it'll just be Floris and me,” she tells him. “I don't plan on making you leave your life in San Francisco for me. And right now, she really needs me.”

Aegon sighs. “I feel like we're married. We're not having sex, and we have a child to take care of in our bed. We're skipping a lot of steps.”

“Or we already had a lot of sex,” she laughs, giving him a kiss on the forehead. Aegon squeezes her waist. “It's the least I can do for her.”

“Well, of course, you both need a male presence. I have friends in New York. Maybe we can introduce her to one.”

“She'd hate your friends.”

“But I want to reconnect with them. Show them the hot girlfriend I got...”

“The girlfriend you got?” She teases. “Oh, God. You're a weirdo.”

“I am,” he says, leaning up to give her a brief kiss on the lips. “And so you'll have to put up with me for the rest of the week, roomie.”

“Floris will be thrilled.”

“We'll get her earplugs because I have no intention of giving you a break.”

“It’s a promise, then.”

🧣⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⍣ ೋ *ੈ🎄‧₊˚ . *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ೃ࿐🌟

Christmas morning unfolds with a surprising sense of normality. There are several miracles to be thankful for, such as Annika helping prepare breakfast and, as the road was clear, Logan and Helaena making an early trip to fetch provisions. This allowed Daeron to enjoy his Christmas-themed pancakes (or something resembling them, as they were made by Annika).

Floris looks a bit sad, but occasional hugs from Helaena or Annika manage to bring a smile to her face. Additionally, Annika accidentally tripped and spilled her hot chocolate on Aemond's Christmas sweater, also known as the last clean piece of clothing he had for his stay.

“How clumsy. My foot still hurts. Whoops.”

Aemond says nothing, just giving her a friendly punch on the arm. Despite any lingering resentment between them, they laugh, at least for now. Everyone could have returned to their homes, different states, or countries, but they chose to stay.

“You know what I think?” Daeron says, helping set the table. “We should make this our own Christmas tradition.”

“I think what made it special was that it wasn't planned,” Floris replies. “I mean, 80% of us were deceived.”

“I can't believe you didn't see it coming,” Helaena says. “I fooled two of the smartest people I know. Does that make me the smartest one here, then?”

“Wouldn't you like that,” Aemond smirks. “But you come pretty close. Maybe third place.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Aegon complains. “You wish you were as beautiful as Annika and me.”

“You're not even close to her level, Aegon. She's too pretty for you,” Daeron tells him.

“Still in love with her?” He teases, and Daeron crosses his arms, while Annika passes behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“He's still my favourite, and now I have a new favourite,” Annika says, putting one of her hands on Willa's shoulder. “I really hope you guys come to visit us.”

“I just hope it's not like the visit we paid Aegon,” Willa recalls.

“Of course not. I'm more fun.”

“Alright, sit down already,” Logan asks when the table is set again. Everyone takes their places as the night before, and he raises his cup of hot chocolate. “Merry Christmas, guys. Thanks for including me.”

“We haven't included you yet; it caught us by surprise. The next time we meet, we'll subject you to our initiation ritual,” Daeron explains, looking the most horrified at the idea of his sister's new boyfriend.

“He's right. Are you free on New Year's?” Aegon asks seriously, and Annika kicks him under the table.

“Enough nonsense, and let's try Annika's pancakes,” Helaena suggests, with a smile. “She got up very early to make them.”

“Yes, I did. And I broke a nail in the process,” she says, embarrassed. “So if you find a nail, don't be surprised.”

Floris grimaces and wrinkles her nose when she sees the pancake that simulates a deformed star. “I love you, but maybe learning to make pancakes should be a New Year's resolution for you.”

“You demand too much from me.”

Everyone laughs, creating a warm atmosphere despite the cold outside. Aegon looks around and feels truly fortunate to have these people with him. If he had to go back a few weeks and were offered the chance to live out his initial plans instead of this Christmas fiasco, he wouldn't change it in a million years. But that's not something he'd tell them. They know already.

And, as Daeron said, he really hopes they can repeat it next Christmas and make it their own tradition, away from their parents, although he doubts it will be as special as this one.

“Annika!” Helaena yells, as everyone spits out the pancakes in disgust. “You put salt instead of sugar!”

“Oh, no.”

Well, perhaps he could use a less-special Christmas.

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