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lizzyiii · 2 months ago

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His Mother's Sister

pairing | aemond x aunt!reader word count | 4.7k words summary | aemond becomes instantly captivated by his alluring and enigmatic aunt upon her arrival in King’s Landing, his fascination growing into a consuming obsession. one night, he sneaks into her chambers intending to claim her, only to find himself ensnared and wholly claimed by her instead. tags | 18+ MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, obsession, incest, oral (f), aemond being a simp, aemond being obsessed, older woman/younger man, reader is in her early 30s a/n | haven't written smut in a while, so here's my smut piece before I continue with my normal angst and fluff

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“I have summoned your sister to King’s Landing.”

Aemond’s attention sharpened, his gaze lingering on his mother’s face as Otto spoke. He watched as the blood seemed to drain from her cheeks, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of the table.

“For what purpose?” Alicent’s voice held a strained note, attempting to maintain a composure that clearly wavered.

Aegon, lounging at the head of the table, raised his head, intrigued. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, eyes flicking between his mother and grandsire.

“Marq Ambrose commands one of the most powerful armies in the Reach,” Otto stated with an offhand shrug, his eyes giving nothing away.

“And he would serve us best by keeping that power in the Reach, where it may be summoned at need,” Alicent interjected, her tone unyielding, her eyes locked on Otto’s. There was no mistaking the tension in her voice, a chill that crept through the words.

Aemond’s brow furrowed slightly as he observed his mother. His aunt had always been something of a mystery—whispered about in brief conversations that faded when he entered the room. A few years after his birth, she had been wedded to Lord Ambrose of the Reach, her presence a vague shadow on his life, a name he had heard only in passing. And now, with her impending arrival, he sensed a thread of something forbidden—a story that remained carefully locked away, just out of reach.

Aegon chuckled, breaking the taut silence. “Let Lord Ambrose come, then, if he so wishes to make merry in our halls. He is but my uncle by marriage; surely, we ought to welcome such kin to the capital.” His gaze gleamed as he spoke, and his smile widened. “And I would be most pleased to meet my aunt, at last.”

But Aemond’s mind lingered elsewhere. His mother’s discomfort stirred his curiosity, yes—but something deeper, a whisper of anticipation he could scarcely name, took root.

A week had passed since that conversation, and now the family gathered in the throne room, awaiting Lord Ambrose’s arrival. Aegon sat with careless authority upon the Iron Throne, his gaze sharp with the amusement of expectation, while the rest of them stood beneath the shadow of the dais.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and a knight’s voice rang out through the hall. “May I present Lord Marq Ambrose and his Lady Wife.”

A stocky figure stepped forward, his hair streaked with white and black, his girth almost comical in its fullness. Aemond cast but a cursory glance at the man, unimpressed by this swollen lord from the Reach, before his gaze shifted past him.

And then, Aemond stilled. His eye widened, his brows lifting as he fought to contain his reaction. His heart gave an unbidden jolt, nearly betraying him. If he had chanced a glance at Aegon, he would have seen his brother’s mouth agape, struck silent.

Beside Lord Ambrose stood his lady—a woman of such beauty that she seemed almost ethereal in her presence, like some creature of starlight veiled in fine silks. You could have been Lord Ambrose’s granddaughter, and yet here you were, his lawful wife. Aemond’s mind spun.

From what he understood, this aunt of his was five summers younger than his mother, yet you bore not a trace of age. Your beauty held a captivating allure, tempered with a regal composure that only added to your mystique. You appeared no older than five-and-twenty, though your presence held the calm authority of a queen.

"Lord and Lady Ambrose," Aegon declared with a broad grin as he rose from the Iron Throne and descended the dais, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Welcome."

Lord Ambrose, with a thick and lumbering step, inclined his head and spoke in a voice as stout as his frame. “We thank you for your welcome, Your Grace, and pledge our loyalty to the one true king.”

Aegon waved a dismissive hand, barely seeming to heed the man’s words. “Yes, yes, the crown is grateful for your loyalty and your… soldiers,” he said, his tone absent, as though the promise of men-at-arms meant little to him in the face of his aunt.

Then Aegon turned his attention to you, his expression shifting to one of eager charm. He stepped closer and took your hand, lifting it to his lips. "My aunt," he said, his voice thick with pleasure, “it is an honor to finally make your acquaintance.” He kissed your hand, his gaze lingering on you as he released it.

Your lips curled into a slight, knowing smile, your sharp eyes gleaming with a trace of amusement as though you found the entire display mildly amusing. “The honor is mine, my king,” you replied, your voice soft but rich, laced with an elegance and confidence that defied your role as the wife of a lesser lord.

Aemond, standing nearby, felt his pulse quicken at the sound of your voice. It was smooth, sultry, and held an unspoken promise, a warmth that washed over him and stirred something deep within. His gaze lingered on her, captivated, as if drawn to some unnameable force.

Otto cleared his throat, a subtle warning in his gaze as he stepped forward, sensing the direction of Aegon’s attentions. He inclined his head politely. “Lord Ambrose,” he greeted, then turned to the lady beside him, his tone softening. “Daughter.”

Aemond watched with surprise as she stepped away from Lord Ambrose without hesitation, her face alight with joy. “Father!” she exclaimed, her voice warm and bright. She crossed the floor with graceful steps, her skirts sweeping behind her as she embraced her father.

Otto’s usually stoic expression softened, his arms enveloping her with an affection rare to see from the Hand of the King. “How I’ve missed you,” he murmured.

Aemond, along with Aegon and Helaena, exchanged startled glances, astonished by the depth of feeling Otto revealed.

She broke away, casting a radiant smile at Otto before her gaze shifted, and she found Alicent. Aemond watched as his mother’s expression flickered, caught between awkwardness and reluctance, her shoulders tense. But his aunt moved toward her with the same confident warmth. “Sister,” she greeted, wrapping her arms around Alicent in a sincere embrace.

Alicent seemed to steel herself, managing a strained smile as she endured the hug. When they pulled apart, her expression remained stiff as she forced a cordial tone. “Sister,” she said carefully, “you look… as though no time has passed at all.”

The amusement in your eyes deepened, a subtle spark of mischief that curled your lips into a nearly smug smile. “And yet,” you replied, voice gentle but pointed, “it seems that time has left its mark on you."

The words were soft, yet they carried an edge that struck the air between them. Alicent’s face faltered, her polite mask slipping for an instant. Aemond watched the exchange, captivated by the intricate web of tensions and histories unfolding before him. He had thought his mother impervious, yet here she was, visibly discomforted under the gaze of her younger sister.

“Well,” Aegon’s voice broke in, strangely lively, “this calls for a celebration.” He clapped his hands, grinning widely. “A family supper, to welcome Lord… and Lady Ambrose to King’s Landing.” He glanced between his aunt and mother with a glint in his eye, as if relishing the simmering tension.

Aemond glanced toward his aunt, your eyes alight with a confidence that drew him in, entangled with memories he could only guess at. You seemed utterly unperturbed by the uneasy reception, holding yourself with an assurance that only deepened the fascination you stirred within him.

The supper was, in truth, a strained affair. Lord Ambrose quickly drank himself into a state of merriment, his voice growing louder with each goblet of wine he downed. He boasted endlessly of Ambrosia, their ancestral castle in the Reach, extolling the grandeur of its halls, the strength of its walls, and the might of his armies.

It was painfully clear that neither Aegon nor Otto paid him much heed; Aegon’s eyes glazed over with feigned interest, while Otto offered only the occasional nod, his mind elsewhere.

Aegon, however, deftly steered the conversation back to you at every opportunity. “But tell us, Aunt,” he said with a sly smile, “what tales do you bring from the Reach? Surely there are more interesting things than castle stones and soldiers.”

Across the table, Aemond found his brother’s persistent attempts at flirtation grating, yet he could not fault Aegon for giving you the attention. Your voice, like a song in his ear, drew him in each time you spoke, its smooth cadence addictive.

You spoke easily, your words painting scenes of courtly life in the Reach, of feasts and tournaments, your radiant smile outshining your husband’s drunken ramblings. Every eye at the table seemed drawn to you, but none with the quiet intensity of Aemond’s single, focused gaze.

He was captivated by the way you commanded the room, with a poise that cast Lord Ambrose’s bluster into the shadows. And when you looked his way, even for a fleeting moment, he felt as though the world quieted around him.

“And what of you and my mother in your younger days?” Aegon asked, a mischievous, drunken grin on his lips, his words slurring slightly as he leaned forward in his chair.

Alicent shot him a pointed look, her expression tightening as she cleared her throat. “Aegon,” she murmured, her voice gently chastising, “perhaps my sister would appreciate a moment to enjoy her meal.”

But you merely laughed, dismissing her concern with a wave of your hand. “Oh, it’s quite all right, Alicent,” you said warmly. Turning to Aegon, your eyes sparkled with a hint of nostalgia. “You see, in our younger years, your mother could barely stand to be near me.”

Alicent’s discomfort grew visible as she shifted in her seat, her voice soft but strained. “That is not true, sister.”

“Oh, but it is,” you replied with a soft, almost wistful laugh. “Not that I hold it against you, Alicent. I was terribly fond of her then; I looked up to her as one might look to a mother. But every time I tried to spend time with her, she would run off with Princess Rhaenyra, laughing at my expense.”

“Those were mere childish games,” Alicent interjected, her voice taut as she worked to maintain her composure.

“Indeed, they were,” you agreed with an unbothered smile. “Children can be so prone to envy and jealousy. You see,” your tone lightened, yet held a playful undertone as your eyes drifted back to Aegon, “I was often called the ‘Diamond of Oldtown,’ and perhaps such adoration left its mark on dear Alicent.”

The words were spoken with an air of casual jest, yet there was no mistaking the edge beneath them. Aemond watched as Alicent’s mask slipped, her cheeks flushing as she struggled to keep her voice steady. It was clear you were savoring Alicent’s discomfort, a faint glimmer of amusement lighting your eyes as they traveled slowly down the length of the table.

And then, your gaze found him.

“And what of you, dear nephew?” you inquired, your voice as smooth as wine poured in darkened halls. “I’ve heard many tales of you in the Reach.”

Aemond felt his heart thud within his chest, a warmth rising unbidden to his face as he fought to maintain his poise. “Tales of what, Aunt?” he asked, his voice low, striving for calm.

A smile curved upon your lips, one that was as inviting as it was knowing. “A great warrior, fierce and unmatched across the Seven Kingdoms. The rider of Vhagar, queen of all dragons,” you murmured, your words laced with a hint of admiration.

“That’s all, my lady,” Aemond replied softly, his gaze never wavering from yours.

And in return, you tilted your head ever so slightly, an amused glint in your eyes as though you were looking beyond the surface, into the very marrow of him. It was a gaze both alluring and unsettling, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

Before you could speak again, however, your husband’s voice cut through the charged silence. His tone was slurred and irritated, clearly displeased by the lack of attention on him as he clumsily launched into yet another tale of his supposed valor. Aemond noted how you sighed softly, a look of resignation crossing your features as you turned your gaze away from him.

But then, as though unable to resist, your eyes drifted back to Aemond. You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed and, with a barely concealed smirk, you winked.

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat, his lone eye widening ever so slightly as he blinked, wondering if he had imagined it. He looked back, only to find you now watching your husband with a look of faint distaste, a grimace twisting your otherwise perfect features. It was a small, subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes, and Aemond felt a surge of something dark and possessive stirring within him.

In that moment, he realized that this supper was not simply an introduction; it was an invitation, a challenge, and a temptation all at once.

These thoughts lingered long after, spiraling in his mind with an intensity he couldn’t quiet. Later, as he passed through the halls, he overheard a quiet murmur from a maid: Lord and Lady Ambrose had chosen to sleep in separate chambers. Aemond’s pulse quickened.

The knowledge seemed a silent invitation, a doorway left just ajar. He recalled the way you had spoken to him, your voice holding layers meant only for him. The look in your eyes—hungry, as though you sought to devour his very soul—left him craving to be consumed by that gaze again. No, this was not his imagination. He was certain of it.

And it was this certainty that drove him through the darkened halls of the Red Keep, slipping past drowsy guards, cloaked in shadow, his steps muffled by the silence of the sleeping castle.

When he reached your door, he eased it open, careful to make no sound, and stepped inside with the stealth of a shadow. Yet he halted at once, caught off guard by the sight that greeted him.

There you sat, reclining on a velvet chaise, a goblet of deep red wine in hand, eyes cast down at a leather-bound book resting in your lap. The faint candlelight painted your skin in warm gold, and your attire—a red nightgown, translucent and clinging to every curve—left little hidden, casting a spell of allure around you.

Aemond’s throat tightened as he took in the sight, the image searing itself into his mind. But the quiet gulp betrayed him, and your gaze lifted, pinning him where he stood.

“Your Highness,” you murmured, your voice laced with a seductive warmth. “What a surprise.” The knowing smile on your lips told him this was no surprise at all.

Feeling the weight of your gaze, he steeled himself, adopting the guise of confidence. “I could not find sleep, my lady,” he replied, his voice steady. “And it would appear you are in the same predicament.”

You set down your goblet and closed the book in your lap, your every movement deliberate. Rising from your seat, you let the robe slide from your shoulders, the fabric pooling at your feet. “You know,” you murmured, teasingly, “it is most improper for a man to visit a married woman at such an hour.”

Aemond took a step closer, his gaze never leaving you. “But you are my aunt—my family.”

A small, knowing laugh escaped your lips as you slipped past him, your arm brushing his, a soft touch that sent a jolt through him. He closed his eye briefly, savoring the warmth, and when he opened it again, you had moved toward the bed, your smile one of invitation.

“The Targaryens are known for their peculiar customs when it comes to family.” You glanced back at him with an amused, daring gleam in your eye. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

He took another step forward, drawn like a moth to flame. “I think you know what I desire.”

“And if I were to say yes,” you purred, sitting upon the edge of the bed, “what would you do?”

He moved closer, his voice low with reverence. “I would do whatever you asked of me.”

Your lips curled, eyes glinting with a barely concealed command. “Then kneel for me,” you whispered.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed, but any hesitation vanished. He lowered himself to his knees before you, his head tilted upward, gaze reverent. “As you wish, my lady.”

You studied him, a look of satisfaction crossing your face as you gathered your skirts, parting your legs with a languid grace. Tilting your chin, you gave a single, soft nod. “Then go on, my sweet prince,” you murmured, your voice a quiet command, heavy with promise.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh. His hands came to rest on your hips as he began to place soft kisses along your skin, working his way higher.

When he finally reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, looking up at you, his eye hooded.

"Are you certain about this, Aunt?" Despite his words, his body language betrayed his eagerness - his breathing quickened and his fingers tightened their grip on your hips ever so slightly.

You let out a soft moan as he kissed your thighs, your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on, "Yes I am certain, now continue before I change my mind."

With a low growl, he surged forward, burying his face between your thighs. He wasted no time in finding your sensitive bud with his tongue, flicking and circling it expertly.

One hand slid up to cup your breast through your thin nightgown, kneading the soft flesh as he continued his ministrations below. He alternated between long, slow licks and quick flicks of his tongue, gauging your reactions to find what felt best.

The other hand gripped your hip more firmly, holding you in place as he devoured you like a starving man at a feast. Wet sounds filled the room as he worked tirelessly to bring you pleasure, lost in the taste and scent of your arousal. Your back arched as he licked your cunt, a loud moan escaped your lips, "Oh gods, yes."

Your fingers tightened in his hair, as you bucked your hips against his face, seeking more of his skilled touch, "Yes, feast on me."

Spurred on by your moans and the encouragement in your voice, Aemond redoubled his efforts. He sealed his lips around your bud and sucked hard, his tongue lashing over the sensitive nub in rapid circles.

Two fingers slid deep inside your slick heat, curling to stroke along your inner walls as they thrusted in and out. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers pumping into your dripping core mingled with your increasingly desperate cries of pleasure.

Aemond could feel you tensing and shuddering beneath his touch, teetering on the brink of release. He doubled down, sucking harder and fucking you faster with his fingers, determined to push you over the edge into blissful oblivion.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, screaming out in ecstasy as your body shook violently, juices gushing out and soaking his face, "Oh fuck! Aemond!"

You clutched at his head, grinding your cunt against his mouth as you rode out the waves of pleasure, your skin glistening with sweat, "Don't you dare stop until I tell you to!"

Feeling your body quake and spasm around his invading fingers, Aemond drank in every drop of your sweet release, lapping at your pulsing sex greedily. He prolonged your climax with relentless strokes of his tongue, coaxing out every last tremor of pleasure.

Only when your spasms subsided does he finally pull back, his chin dripping with your essence. He gazed up at you with a triumphant, almost feral glint in his eye, his own arousal straining against the confines of his breeches, "Have I pleased you, Aunt?"

"Yes, yes you have," you said breathlessly.

Without a word, he rose to his feet and began to strip off his clothes, revealing a lean, muscular physique honed by years of training. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed with blood, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

"You have such a pretty cock, nephew," you said, taking in the sight of him, as your hand reached out for his cock.

Aemond's breath hitched as your hand wrapped around his throbbing length, his hips instinctively bucking into the touch. He watched, transfixed, as your fingers traced the ridged veins and delicate skin, marveling at how small yet firm your hand looked compared to his engorged member.

"It's yours," he rasped, his voice strained with need. "Do whatever you want with it."

He stepped closer, pressing the heavy weight of his erection against your palm, the heat of his skin seeping into your touch. Leaning down, he captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue delving deep to tangle with yours as he grinded against you.

You broke the kiss, panting heavily, as you pulled him onto the bed. Then you straddled him, rubbing your dripping cunt along his cock, coating it with your juices, "I've never ridden a dragon before. Tell me, do you want me to claim you?"

Aemond's single eye blazed with lust and something deeper, darker, as he gazed up at you poised above him. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, the muscles flexing beneath his pale skin.

"Yes, Aunt," he growled, his voice thick with desire. "Claim me. Make me yours."

His hands came up to grasp your hips, guiding you to position yourself over his straining cock. His head nudged at your entrance, smearing your slickness across it.

"Do it," he urged, his gaze intense and unblinking. "Take me deep."

So slowly you sank down onto his cock, letting out a loud moan as you stretched around his girth. You took him inch by delicious inch until you were fully seated on him, "Fuck, your cock was made for my cunt."

Aemond threw his head back with a guttural groan as you sheathed him completely, your tight heat enveloping his throbbing length. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin as he reveled in the feeling of being utterly filled in you.

"So tight," he panted against your throat.

His hands squeezed your hips, holding you steady as he began to thrust up into you, meeting each downward plunge of your own hips. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your mingled moans of pleasure. And feeling a tinge of frustration, his hands met the top of your nightgown as he pulled hard, ripping it in half completely, making you gasp.

You rode him hard and fast, your breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mixed with your high pitched moans, "Yes, yes, fuck me harder Aemond!"

Aemond leaned forward, sucking on your breast as if he was a babe desperately seeking milk. He suckled greedily at your breast, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak as he drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth. His hands roamed your curves possessively, one sliding down to grip your ass while the other tweaked and tugged at your neglected nipple.

He met your wild riding with equal fervor, pistoning his hips up to meet your downward thrusts. The force of his movements drove you upward, impaling you again and again on his thick cock. Your cries of ecstasy spurred him on, his own groans of pleasure growing louder and more desperate.

Suddenly, he flipped you over onto your back, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eye. He pinned your wrists above your head, holding you captive as he pounded into you with renewed vigor, the new angle allowing him to penetrate even deeper.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking him in place as you grinded your hips upwards to match his frenzied pace. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, urging him on, "Fuck! Right there!"

Aemond let go of your wrists, leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to ravage your cunt. He swallowed all your screams and moans, relishing in the taste and feel of you.

"Cum in me aemond! Fill me with your seed!" You screamed into his mouth as another orgasm ripped through you.

The sensation of your inner walls clenching and rippling around him sent Aemond careening over the edge. With a hoarse shout, he buried himself to the hilt and erupted, his hot seed flooding your womb in powerful jets.

"Ahh, gods," he gasped, his body shuddering with the intensity of his climax. He continued to pulse and twitch within you, ensuring every drop is deposited deep inside your welcoming heat.

As the aftershocks subsided, Aemond collapsed onto you, his weight a comforting press against your satiated form. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants as he struggled to regain his composure.

"That was...incredible," he murmured, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. “You are truly remarkable.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, reveling in the warmth of his body against yours as you both sought to catch your breath. A delicate shiver coursed through you, remnants of your shared ecstasy still fluttering within.

“There, there,” you purred softly, running your fingers through his silken hair, enjoying the feel of his softness against your skin. Aemond lay on your chest, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the intoxicating scent of you mingling with the fading heat of your shared intimacy.

Once Aemond had calmed his breathing, he lifted his head to meet your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a fervent exploration, igniting a spark that flickered between you. His hand traveled down your body, the warmth of his touch setting your skin alight.

When his hand paused on your stomach, he broke the kiss, a frown creasing his brow as curiosity flickered in his violet eye. It was well known that you had been wed to Lord Ambrose for fifteen years without bearing a child. Whispers of your barrenness had circulated through the halls of the Red Keep, and Aemond could not suppress the question that hung in the air between you.

"Is it true you are barren?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

You regarded him with a playful smirk, the corners of your lips lifting. “No,” you murmured softly, your fingers gently caressing his long silver hair.

There was amusement in your voice, and as you laughed lightly, the sound was like music in the dimly lit chamber. “Do you truly think I had ever wished to be filled with a child by that fat cunt?”

Aemond’s single violet eye widened in surprise at your boldness. You continued, your tone shifting to one of quiet confidence. “Each time I’ve lain with him, I’ve taken moon tea the morning after.”

You leaned closer, your hand reaching out to caress his cheek with a gentle, deliberate stroke. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, igniting a spark that sent a wave of absolute pleasure down Aemond's spine. “Yet I don’t think I’d mind bearing your child.”

The very thought of your bearing his child sent shivers of exhilaration coursing through him. The idea that at this very moment, his seed might have taken root within you filled him with a sense of possessiveness that was both intoxicating and primal. In that instant, it became clear: you were his, and he was yours, bound together by an unspoken promise.

Aemond’s mind raced with possibilities. He would need to find a way to rid you of Lord Ambrose, but that task seemed deceptively simple in the face of what awaited him. Once the obstacle was removed, he would claim you as his wife, securing a future that felt destined.

You were made for him, and in his heart, he knew you had been waiting all this time—patiently, silently—for him to come to you.

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

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controld3vil · 6 months ago

Text

the one

pairing: aegon ii targaryen x targ!reader

synopsis: thrown into madness, not one person can comfort the king of his thoughts. his sister wife left to deal with her grief. his mother for chooses not to heed his needs. his brother, gone in silver of the night. yet you, left forgotten stand in front of him, teary eyed.

notes: i gasped loud this episode!!

content warning: spoilers obvi for s2ep2, themes of grief and inferiority, targcest; if you are uncomfortable, please do not interact.

The death of Jaehearys exhausted you.

Nothing prepared you for the shock and emotional consequences. It felt as though a giant sea storm had swept away your emotions and feelings of sense. Because in a way, you felt numb and unable to comprehend what you were feeling. It was either too strong or your denial in it that made you feel out of it. In the confidence of your home, the grand kingdom of your father and his grandsire before, suddenly you feel apprehensive about where you resided and the castle itself. Who to trust and not as a moment noticed in your head as your mind spirals down a rabbit hole.

Your nephew, a kin of your own, was dead.

He was murdered in cold blood. In the sanctum of your home, in the privacy of the royal rooms. It was your fault you were not by Helaena’s side. Oh, your poor sister, the turmoil she must’ve endured in the small moments last with her son. A small piece of purity and semblance he brought into your little life and a beacon of what you strived for every day. Yet now, it has all turned to blood and dust. Used and tossed away like the sacs of bodies they would throw off dead soldiers in the aftermath of a tiring battle.

There you sat with a half cup of wine, undrank. You dared not step out of the chambers of your comfort. Not for long, your presence would be reminded of the council. You insist on every meeting that your presence would bestow better acquisition. In most eyes, the men divert their gaze from you.

In contrast, your wretched mother opens her mouth agape with hardly any words being supported. Your grandsire contrasts, always with an excuse that you should be needed elsewhere other than the higher discussion. How benign of you, dear granddaughter. But you are unfit for a position at court.

Otto Hightower would never speak those words directly. But you know in your heart and his intuition, the words are nearly there. You don’t need an interpreter to translate what is said by the councilmen. Even if they are unaware, you understand all that is said. A tragic incident, Your Grace. The Kingsguard are doing their best to inspect all the members in the castle as we speak.

“I will have it! They will pay for this!”

The dried tears that swept down your cheeks felt sticky and annoyingly guilt-ridden of the events that had happened. You would not allow them to witness them. They were not worthy of your sadness. In grace, you hiked your dress over your feet to climb up to the doors. From where you were, you could discern the murmurs of Aegon and his hysterical yelling, absolutely mad with anger and rage. Respectfully so, the loss of his child was an unexpected and stressful one.

When the chambers open, the rest of the councilmen stop for a moment. Before you begrudgingly make your way to the center. “Gentlemen,” You are at fault in giving away your tearful expression, the candlelight's of the chandeliers do your angelic features justice. And no noble would dare to speak upon its beauty and sorrow. All while, your lady in waiting, trails timidly behind you, head pointed down in respect. “Your Grace,” You address, and finally for a blind second, a glint of relief flashes on Aegon’s face. Finally, he must think, someone he trusts abides in the room.

“Princess,” The Hand levels his chin, leaving a steady foot of your unforeseen appearance. Beside him, your mother lays agape in both deary and fortification.

The Queen stumbles on the syllables of your name, quietly. As if she was citing a wrongful plea of desperation. “Is- Is Helaena?” Of course, the last she saw you was in her bed chambers, coming in to console your sweet sister and her child. Alicent was running amuck, pulling on the fabric of her dress to prevent you from witnessing her privacies before. Luckily you didn't have to witness that.

“She is with Ser Arryk and Jaeheara.” You breathed out, soft and mellow. You can tell by the exhale of your mother and grandsire's shoulders that deflating meant that their worries were at least accomplished. And a slight corner of your eye, your brother too relaxes in caution, aware of his wife and daughter’s whereabouts.

“Good good,” Alicent frantically nods as if trying to reassure herself that her child and granddaughter were safe. Ser Arryk was a noble knight, one who betrayed his twin to stay beside the king’s side. That alone was enough to prove his loyalty and servitude. “Thank you, my daughter.” You swallow with a gaping hole in your throat. The whole room felt the compacting of the many eyes directed at you and the Queen Mother.

“And what might be the reason for your intrusion on this council meeting, princess?” Otto’s voice somewhat triggers a fight or flight response in you. You’ve dealt with similar situations before, wanting to be included in the war business. However this was different, the council was discussing matters of potential betrayal and the killing of your kin. You suddenly felt targeted for the offense of interrupting something crucial and overriding.

However, you know you should have a say in this matter. “Shouldn’t I be present when the death of my nephew has been informed to me merely hours ago?” There was a snap in your voice that many of them knew. Though some such as your mother and brother were accustomed to that sound more often.

“Perhaps it is best if the princess were with the Queen to rest away comfort and grief,” Maester Orwyle suggests only to infuse your temper.

In a quick turn, your lilac orbs strike an alarming resemblance to vexation and hostility. “Why?” Your tone was sharp and accusing just as it was. The Queen Regent could only watch and stare mutely at your grueling pettiness. Lord Tyland and Ser Criston Cole dare not to look at you but at the maester. While Aegon, all the more slightly frustrated at Maester Orwyle’s comments, stops and waits for your dreadful retaliation like a venomous viper. Otto couldn’t look more disappointed in you.

“The death of your nephew is a tearful one, princess. And maybe you should stay within the quarters with the Queen for safety.” The maester does not falter in his reasoning, knowing how quick and ill-tempered you are similar to your brother was to retaliation. But his expression flickers in doubt shortly after you are seen to lay your palms on the edge of the end of the table. It’s hard wooden material, clenched tightly around your hands as you glance up at the councilman with fury in your eyes.

“I am more capable than you think of me, Maester Orwyle. And I would be damned to sit in silence and pity for this horrendous murder!” You snarl, a frown forming at the edges of your lips. You were livid beyond this. Only when you want to be present in the decisions regarding your kin, did the council decline your way. It’s insulting. “My nephew should be avenged! To whoever ordered the murder!”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” The Hand’s inclusion is an attempt to bring a truce between the others who felt your presence as much of a disturbance. “But we should not be hasty and leave every opportunity out in the open.”

“This is my son we are talking about,” Aegon’s hand came down with a thump on the table. He’s since calmed down but you know there is still rage in his heart. The fuel of it burning and churning for the desire to find and kill whoever brought out the murder. “We must search the grounds for traitors, find anyone who leaves the Red Keep, and capture them immediately!”

“Of course, Your Grace but we should consider what this would be for Rhaenyra,” Alicent reminds the room when she scans everyone’s thoughts and faces. On the other hand, you stand uncomfortably, with the sense of your legs growing numb.

“That bitch queen of bastards will pay!” The King screams, pointing with an accusative finger. “She is on her throne, laughing at me for this! For the death of my son, I want her dead!” It’s like a fire has been lit in your brother’s mind. It flashes and flickers rapidly as he manages to strike and spit out outrage of his growing vengeance on the Black Queen. However quick his temper simmers and rises.

The coming morning of Jaehaerys funeral drags his body to the Sept to be burnt in Targaryen tradition. More importantly, it is to sway the people’s opinion of Aegon’s claim and blame Rhaenyra for the tragic death. Spurs of propaganda flourish in the crowds as the chariot drags the casket of the fresh body, followed by the Queen and her Regent. What felt like discomfort and suffocation for Helaena only her no semblance through the entire morning. She is grieving and mourning in her own way. No one can understand the loss of a mother of her children. It is the tragedy she has felt for the first time and it stings her to her stomach. For most of the ride, Helaena could not breathe or look at the folk people, afraid of what they might do. She’d never left the Keep like this before, presented all fragile and glorious as the new Queen officially.

Even so, she knows you are more suited for the role. Helaena has thought of it many times where you should’ve been wife to Aegon instead of her. She knows why her mother and grandsire chose her. It was because she was compliant and willing to do her duty as a lady wife. While you had no sense of duty. More or less, so did Aegon but at least she would elevate his image as King with her kind personality.

“Helaena,” You spoke, interrupting her thoughts amid her sewing. Your sister pauses and then looks at the piece she has been working on. It was a picture of purple lily flowers, something you had mentioned wanting to see from the grounds of the Highgarden. She thinks of you and subconsciously starts to sew a new patch of thread. She’s sweet to you like that, and you forever cherished that side of her. And it's a shame her softened voice always now came with a stutter and droop of a sob.

Helaena wakes up from her daze and greets you with a warm yet sombreros smile. “You are well?” The question itself leaves bitterness off of your tongue because you should be asking her that. You know Helaena isn’t one to openly express her emotions and thoughts proudly. As her sister, you honor that but also can become the maternal figure she needs within seconds.

“I should be asking you the same,” You smile, looking smug and all. And your sister’s droopy eyes slowly lighten with glee. Her small frown turns upside down and suddenly you feel your heart fill with warmth and joy. “What has the Queen been sewing all this time?”

“Purple lilies,” She gently shows you her work and focuses on your excitement. What she appreciates is your fascination with her skill with a thread and needle. You had no talent in it, much to your mother’s display. But you would gladly watch your sister sew for hours for the fun of it. “I remember you mentioning them a while ago. And I thought it would be pretty to make for you,”

“How thoughtful of you,” You plead with your gentle eyes, resting a hand on her thigh. You looked like you were going to burst into tears out of happiness for her nonsensical act. You act differently around her and the children, sometimes Helaena thinks you have two personalities. One with her family minus Aegon and another with everyone else. You were mushy and caring, nothing like yourself hours earlier in the morrow in the councilroom. She had heard you burst into a meeting, enraged by them claiming you as a disturbance to their discussion. Like the stubborn person you were, she knew you would rather stay and argue with them for hours. And that you, for her boy.

The Queen hums, delighted by your soothing presence in her slightly dimmed room. The room had been cleared of children's beds and toys. Now it lies barren with little to no furniture. The curtains did not change, they were arranged simply to allow some light into the chambers to let the children wake. But now, there would be none and it is left abandoned.

“How is Jaeheara?” The whisper of your voice is the only thing she’s heard after minutes of silence. Helaena does not reply immediately, knowing her thoughts are too invasive and terrifying to think about. The black gown she still has on feels tight and makes her uncomfortable. She doesn't want to remember the funeral. It was too much for her to reminisce about despite being hours earlier.

She makes another loop with bright purple stringing onto her needle. “She is well and is accompanied by a Kingsguard during her lessons,” She makes sure to include the Kingsguard, knowing you have been adamant about the protection and security around King’s Landing. As of late, it felt as though the castle did not feel like home anymore. It became somewhat of a hollow skeleton of a dungeon. With many escape routes and corridors, people would walk in and out without notice. It terrifies her and knowing you, you would rather be killed than have another child murdered.

Her response pleases you however Helaena is aware of something else on your mind. She can feel it without looking at your face to know. It’s your inseparable bond as a sister that you sometimes were astounded by. Helaena calls it a bond and maybe she is right. Your eyes are focussed on somewhere else and it gives her a moment to look at you. Your brows furrowed with a subtle curve of a scowl makes her believe you were having negative thoughts. Were you feeling guilty about Jaehearys death?

“What’s wrong sister?” Despite her knowing the reason, Helaena wants you to admit your remorseful thoughts. The veil that covered her face was no longer present and she could face you without barriers. Her lilac eyes look at you, softening at you.

“I can’t help but think I am guilty of Jaehearys death,” You sound vulnerable, no other person would witness this side of you. Because you shielded this side of you. Your display of weakness was only meant for people like Helaena, close to you, unjudging and caring in your coping. Yet sometimes you think of your sinful thoughts of guilt to be an act of punishment. You sometimes felt you were meant to feel this way for not being present with the Queen and her children when it happened. Why couldn’t you be a good sister and protect the ones you loved?

“You should not be,” Her small palm cradles the side of your jaw, making your stare connect with her. Helaena is quiet and gentle in her expression of words. What she says always has an impact. She is a woman of few words and it makes her speech inspirational. “I- For anything, it was my part as a mother, for letting my child be murdered in cold blood-”

“No of course not!” You were quick to retaliate to her pleas. She could not be responsible for such a horrific act taken against the crown. “Helaena, you did your best to protect your children.”

“Yet I was asked to choose,” The bottom of her lips quivered, and eventually hot tears filled her waterline. “And I had no other choice!”

“You were held at knifepoint,” You grasped the hand that held your jaw. Gently and slowly to make sure and emphasize her attention to you. “I would’ve bursted into the room and offered myself if I could’ve. But you did the best you did as a mother to protect your children.” You gave her another tight squeeze.

“I had no other choice,” Her sobs slowly brewing. And the tears flowed and there was nothing you wanted to do other than comfort your dear sister. She was grieving like any mother. You would be present for her and give Helaena all of the world, to give away her sorrow. However, it is inevitable and you best offer her your condolences and feelings of heartbreak. Because you did love her children, Jaehearys and Jaeheara. The light and beacon of Helaena and Aegon's marriage.

Helaena’s figure dwindled as she scrunched herself forward into a curling ball. The weight of her thoughts was too much. As a parent, she believed she failed the role she was meant to play. Her cries did not stop or steady in a rapid heartbeat. Any further, Helaena believes she would’ve acted impulsively if not for you, holding onto her shoulders. You were gentle against her tragic and frail body when you allowed her head and shoulders to rest against your chest. You’re silent in the comfort you gave. Because no words could pursue more than your actions. Being the more responsible and maternal figure, you became a weeping shoulder for Helaena to spout the rest of her worries and anguish.

You wonder what Aegon and his sorrows are.

Criston Cole was in a predicament. He failed as a Kingsguard to protect the royal family. And because of his absence, a dead prince was left at the doorstep of the king. He’s ashamed in silence because he could not make any reason for where he was during the intrusion of the castle. His affair with Alicent was more than a passionate one. It consoled him and eased for the upcoming days of Aegon’s coronation and Rhaenyra’s horrific deeds. The knight was stuck in a situation he wished would not bring to the public eye. No one can know of his relations with the Queen Regent. Not when times were suspenseful and dire as to who to trust in the castle.

And so, after he challenges Ser Arryk to do the impossible and slay the Black Queen within her quarters of Dragonstone, he desires to focus on his plans with the king. The afternoon following the prince’s funeral, Ser Criston smoothes out the ends of his locks, recomposing his hysterical manner against the twin knight. Of, the accusations of treason against the king and the knight’s code. He should be honoring the Kingsguard words at the back of his sleeves by now. For all that has occurred to him, Criston wants to prove to the king he is capable of being essential.

The summer breeze is faint and noticeable to those in the Red Keep. It’s open corridors and windows, it is the perfect spot for sunlight. The Kingsguard makes his way to Aegon’s chambers, where he plans to inform his schemes of sending Ser Arryk away to Dragonstone. In hopes, it would please His Majesty of the constant restless nights he has experienced.

But he nearly misses you. It takes a second for Ser Criston to take a step back and look back at what you have been doing. You, the princess, looking out of place in the training area of the stables. Where knights and stable boys fight and practice their combat. It was a place you’re likely forbidden to be, however, it has never stopped you. The knight knows of your ambitions to fight like your brothers. You’re eager, more confident than your siblings to practice. He had suggested once to the Queen that she should allow you use of the sword. For self-defense and hobbies.

You practically begged Alicent to hold a sword in your hands. Your cute chubby cheeks as a small child were something he remembered sometimes. You were so eager then. He could still see it occasionally when you ventured to the training area, staring at the knights practicing their moves and defenses.

“Are you alright, princess?” Ser Criston appears behind you and you’re suddenly aware he must’ve been standing behind you for some time. He knows you come here to think and be reminded of the past. “The morrow has been rather bleak has it not?”

“Rather too bleak,” You groan, crossing your arms and rubbing your forehead in weariness. You’re aware the Kingsguard is not allowed to probe your troubles further but you rather indulge. “The day grows weary for the wavering support of the other Houses.” A quiet nod of endearment is seen from the knight as he reminisces about why they had exhibited the funeral exactly. To spread rumors and weaken the queen bastards' claim.

“It will help us in the long run, princess,” He steps forward as you turn to stare at his gentle Dornish features. Maybe in another lifetime, you would’ve fallen for him if he wasn’t a knight.

“Is that what the Queen Regent said?” A switch and it was like your tone turned to bitterness the moment you mentioned your mother. Ser Criston feels his heartache at your sentiments to the Queen. She was your mother and loved you very much. Something you can’t seem to appreciate whenever you open your mouth in front of the council. While she has complained and spouted worries of your deterring interactions, you’ve taken glory in the distance between you and your mother. Ser Criston hopes one day you will reprimand that relationship.

“No,”

“Tell me, why do you value her opinion so much?” He eyes at you shaking your head with a heavy scowl of disgust. Your hatred towards your mother ran cold and poisonous, under the depths of your hard-spoken shell of a heart. Maybe some part of you did care about the Queen. If there was, Criston had never been able to witness it, you’re too stubborn. And you know Alicent cherishes him deeply.

“She has a kind heart,” The Dornish man cannot more than understand why you probe his opinion of your mother. Were you suspicious? He’s served your mother for nearly a decade and gained her trust as her right-hand protector. Yet where was he when an intruder entered the castle grounds and left Helaena traumatized and crying?

You snarl a mocking laugh, “A kind heart?” You’re staring at the Queen’s protector with discontent and failure. “She plots and schemes to gain the people's trust over my brother’s claim. What more is she than the Hand’s right-hand puppet.” This is an alarming accusation because Ser Criston knows Alicent does not trust her father with her boys and daughters. You were an example of that. Whoever she plots with, he knows she takes into consideration who is affected the most. She was the Queen of course. Dainty and considerate of her subjects.

“Another advantage we have over Rhaenyra, princess,” He reminds you of the whole reason why the council decided such a thing. It’s grueling yet would sway the people in their favor towards the crown than that false liar of a ruler across the land. “Understand that everything she and the council decide is to gain more allies,”

“By simply lying to the public and creating more web of lies for us to be stuck in,” You probe and your lilac orbs glow in a dark tone. You could not stand the ploy they had used for Jaehaerys funeral. You think it was anything but honorable, to use your nephew as a cause and leeway to denounce your half-sister. Ser Criston gives you a look, only a parent would hold when their child does something to disappoint them. And even though he was not your father, he still felt utterly responsible and devoted to you as one. He has seen you grow from a child to a woman. He’s aware of your struggle in your place at court. He was there when you desperately wanted to hold a bow and arrow, practically crying to your mother on your knees. He was also there to comfort you when you accidentally drove your dragon into a terrible accident. Criston Cole felt some kind of platonic love over you, despite you never feeling the same way. ‘

Yet he couldn’t help but agree with you. “You’re right, princess. But it is the only way to convince the townsfolk of our cause. We need their support to win this coming war.” He sees your shoulders slumped, most likely growing tired of talking back and forth of their intention to false news. You hated how everyone agreed to it wholeheartedly.

“We need more than the support of the townsfolk to win a war,” Your lips turn to a thin line, contemplating all the reasons why you had to be on the wrong side of justice. “We have dragons, that is how we win a war.”

Nightfall was as unanticipated as it was wanted. The funeral and rumors from the council made it unbearable to walk past servants and nobles without being reminded of it. There were many times you wished to stop in front of the people and shout in their faces. There would be no denying it all. However, you were done with it. You were tired of receiving the same piece of news and rumors. It made you hereditarily furious and petty like a child. But no violence has been spilled. Instead, you could only clench your palms, aggressively and move on with a faint scowl. A puff or two would break your cover.

Moreover, the servant girls and maids knew what made you tick. The type of gossip you hate to talk and listen about. Since you’ve lived in the castle for the entirety of your life span. So regardless of whether they spoke of today’s events or not, people knew you were not in a great mood. More or less you were agitated, imitating, and not to be consoled.

You made it your routine to visit Helaena before going to bed. When you were younger, you and your sister often paid visits to your mother and sometimes your father if present. Queen Alicent would soothe your worries and nightmares while Viserys sat in silence, unable to speak due to the pain. Yet now, that was before you and Helaena slept in the same room. She was Queen now and had a separate room with her children. It was you who made it customary to ease her worries at night and say goodnight to her children. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, her beautiful children. Even now, after everything had happened, you wanted to honor your promise to visit the new Queen.

The granite tiles were cold. You could feel it despite wearing soft padded shoes. Your garments were loose and free from the restraints and pains you’d worn for the day. But somehow it made you feel anxious and oddly vulnerable out in the open. Of course, it was natural to feel this way after what happened. But everything, even the times you felt the most safe was now invaded by thoughts of fear and concern. You swallowed whatever security you had and moved along the balcony inside King’s Landing. The royal rooms were all the same, but you knew which belonged to whose. You knew which rooms were your mother’s, your sister’s, which had the best hiding spots, and which had the quickest way out of the city.

Although whose room brought you the most curiosity was the one in front of you. In the distance, where you stood, a figure of green exits out of the room and disappears into the darkness. Your mother. Alicent did not seem to be in a rush to have exited Aegon’s chambers nor did she look content coming out of it. It looked as though she had mistaken his room for another.

Hastily your paused movements began to quicken. As you tip-toed towards the doors of your king, you twist the knob and a soft creak makes you curse out of anonymity. The bed chamber was dimly lit and the fireplace illuminated a gorgeous orange dew that covered half the room in warmth. The drapes of the windows were slightly closed, making the silhouette of Aegon, hunched over more evident. He leans in a cushioned chair by the fire and you can see his unsecured locks, shape the sides of his face.

You quickly realize your brother’s sobbing, saddening and heartbreaking. For all the things he was, Aegon did not deserve to lose a child. You understood very much as him that Alicent had planned his coronation for a long time. Yet now that it has happened, tragedies come down like dominoes in a panic. Lucerys has died on dragonback. And now Jaehearys was murdered in cold blood. Both are innocents from the result of this pretentious battle for power between Rhaenyra. It is when you shut the door behind you with a faint click, you make yourself known to the king.

“Aegon,” It’s a whisper with no silence. Covering his face to shield his tears, Aegon does not dare to look at you. He looks ashamed and can only stare down, lost and in failure. You understand his dismissal of your presence. No one should see their king as weak like this. Not even his closest kin and mother. Only that his mother has witnessed this scene a multitude of times over the years of watching over her son. Still, you were not the type to witness Aegon at such a low point like this.

Nothing. You wanted nothing from him, seconds ago only curious about his profound discussion with your mother, who did not seem to speak to him at all. Something about that makes your heart churn at the Queen Regent. You walk slowly and only when you finally face him, his gaze is still on the floor, unable to lift his head to say anything. Go away! You’re making a fool out of yourself.

Instead, you closed the gap that separated the two of you. You clasped his neck and held it firmly in a consoling manner. His weeping only grew louder the moment he felt your touch, so comforting and soft. His hands eventually wrap themselves around your waist and he rests the side of his head against your stomach.

Only you can soothe him like this. It’s discovered to be the most effective way for Aegon to calm down, your touch perhaps was the solution to it. It was never touched upon, this consolation you had with him, there were rare occasions when the prince had become too drunk to return to his quarters to have gone to yours instead. There were times when your brother wanted to hide and be away from your conniving mother and her insults. Sometimes he’d cry, drink, or rant about her inconsolable expectations of him. Because truly you are the closest to understanding that feeling. The feeling of being unwanted and as though you were not doing enough of your duty to care. Of course, you cared, you did everything for your family. Still, it could never be enough to put a smile on your mother’s face. And more evidently that of your grandsire.

“I’m sorry,” You let out a dreary breath, rubbing Aegon’s hair. He sniffles, allowing his forehead against your stomach. He closes his eyes and lets out a sad laugh that turns into a cry. He’s lost so much in a matter of days. No one to comfort him, and his wife silently grieving in her own time. His mother forever abandoned her efforts. And his brother disappears with no explanation. Now here you were, the one he found relying on.

“I tried so hard,” He cries out, snot and tears making his speech muffled and disproportionate. “Yet everything has backhanded and slapped me in my face!” You feel a quiver on your lips when he speaks those words. Your heart burns and aches and maybe finally, you can put away your pride and be gentle. You reach behind where his hands are secured by your waist. Sliding them down to allow you to kneel to his level. With his red-shot eyes and puffy cheeks, Aegon looks like he wants to give up everything now and then. He’s never looked so weak and tiresome.

“I know,” You shaped his face with your palms, sliding your thumbs over his cheeks. They are dried of momentary tears when he looks so desperate to cling onto anything to save him. “And as king, it is a heavy toll. Jaehearys will know you did everything you could to avenge his death.”

“It has gone to madness,” His lilac orbs staring at you with such intensity and possibly love. Torn and twisted, you know this is a wife’s duty to be her husband. Though under Helaena and Aegon’s relationship, they have never loved each other. They were husband and wife, yes but only under law. Helaena held no love but did genuinely care for his well-being. And you had shown more devotion towards his feelings than anyone had done within days. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You can start by figuring who and who not to trust at court,” You exhale, heart beating like a bass drum when you feel his hands circle yours. “Know who your trusted allies are and destroy Rhaenyra’s support.”

“Then I need you,” He leans forward, his silver locks tangled in between yours. His gaze was wild and desperate for any kind of refusal you might have. “I need you at court. By my side, you are as essential as any of us there.” It felt as though nothing in the world mattered next only the two of you at this moment. At this important moment, you felt a surge of adrenaline and an urge to comply with his heeds. Your eyes momentarily trail to his lips before discerning back to his eyes.

“Because I have a dragon,”

“Because you are my blood, you are a strategist and the smartest woman I know in the Seven Kingdoms,” His dried tears make him even more angelic. Perhaps in another lifetime, you two would’ve married instead and dealt with it more easily. Your mother knew it. Your gransdire did too. Despite it all, they all disapproved of you for your lack of devotion to duty. What more can you offer than your service directly to the crown? To the council? It makes you grin in pride for his acknowledgment of you.

“Of course, my king,” And with those words, he closes the gap between your lips. Sorrowful no way but profound in a new kind of serge to overcome the tragic delay. You were right in front of his eyes all along. You, the second-born princess of Alicent and Viserys' marriage. Quip with a sharp tongue and tactics for how long you’ve studied the art of it. You were no ordinary princess. You were a fighter, a warrior who well enough wanted bloodshed as much as him.

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entitled-fangirl · 4 months ago

Text

The crown.

Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!wife!reader

Summary: the reader must attend the coronation of her mother's usurper. At least Aemond eases the blow.

A/n: this is so short but too long to be a drabble so 🤷‍♀️

Masterlist

........................................

She stood next to Aemond. Not confident, as he was. Not nervous, as Helaena was. Not arrogant as Otto.

She wasn't like any of them, really.

How could she be, she was a Velaryon.

She was married to Aemond when they were both five and ten. It was Rhaenyra's idea. She wished to bridge the gap between the families.

And the two grew to love each other well.

But like all marriages, there came strife.

Like Aegon usurping the throne.

So there they stood, watching as Aegon walked through the crowd to be coronated.

Aemond looked to his wife, his fingers reaching to brush hers. His voice was soft in her ear, "Please pretend to be joyful. At least give me that."

She turned her face to him, their breaths mixing. "You'd have me lie?"

He hummed. "I'll not see what happens to you if you do not. I will not allow it."

…

She opened her eyes, cringing when the light from the window blinded her.

Giving a light yawn, she stretched and sat up in the bed.

Aemond had already left.

It was not uncommon. His favorite time to spar was the morning.

She waited a while, frowning when her handmaiden never came in to help her dress.

She stood on shaky legs and moved to the door.

Locked.

She shook in vigorously. "Ser Erryk?!"

No response.

She banged her fist on the door. "Please."

She stepped back, growing frustrated. "I am locked inside!"

"Ser Erryk?"

"Aemond?"

"Please! Take me to my husband!"

She finally sighed and tried one last effort, placing her hand gently on the door, "I do not know what I have done. Please."

When nothing came, she huffed and moved to dress herself.

…

"What?" Aemond asked lowly.

"The Princess, your grace. She has been calling for you."

He shrugged. "Why? She can come to me. She knows that."

"Her door has been locked, my prince."

His gaze hardened. "You've locked her inside our chambers?"

"By the Hand's command, my prince," Ser Erryk said. His eyes held remorse.

"Why was I not made aware of this?" Aemond growled. "She is my wife. If she is of any consequence, it should be mine! If she wishes out of her room, bring her to me."

"Yes, Prince Aemond."

…

Aemond spent the next hour holding her as she wept.

Her grandsire gone. Her mother's right taken from her.

And this poor girl was stuck in the midst of it all.

"You and I both know… V…Viserys did not… want this," she cried into his chest.

He hummed in thought. "No. But it does not change its coming."

"Your family sees no reason," she sniffled.

"Hey," he warned lowly as he cupped her cheeks to force her to look at him. "Our family. You must be more Hightower than Velaryon now."

"I hold none of your mother's blood in me, Aemond."

"If you stay a Velaryon, you will not last. You are married to me. You have my name. You have my titles. You have everything."

"I have you. I shall make that enough, dear husband."

…

She felt tears form in her eyes as the crown was placed on Aegon's head.

The crowd cheered, but she saw nothing.

A rubble stirred through the ground and the silver hair siblings all gazed at one another in confusion.

Rhaenys and Meleys emerged from below the boards, causing a shake to move though the building.

Gasps and screams were heard.

Aemond's eye widened, and he immediately was on guard.

Alicent moved to Aegon, shielding him from the dragon's jaws.

In turn, Ser Criston shifted himself between the dowager queen and Helaena, ready to interfere anywhere he needed to.

But only when Meleys turned her head did Aemond move.

He grabbed his wife's wrist in a desperate grip, pulling her behind him as his other hand was held near his sword.

They watched as Rhaenys and Alicent stared at one another, waiting for the other to make a move first.

Meleys reared back, preparing herself to attack.

When her great jaws opened and they believed fire would escape from it, Aemond turned completely to his wife, wrapping his arms around her waist and the other holding her head against him. He was intent on shielding her from the horrors that laid on the other side of his body.

But when a mighty roar came from the dragon instead, Aemond relaxed slightly. His hands remained, but his body was eased.

He turned when Meleys finished. His eye met Rhaenys'. It was clear she was thinking about something. Not something, someone.

His wife stood behind him still, her eyes peeking over his sturdy shoulders.

Rhaenys tilted her head at the sight of the two of them, mourning the loss of Rhaeynra's daughter to the Hightowers.

And Meleys flew away.

Aemond let out a breath, pulling her head to him to kiss the crown of it.

...........................................

#fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones imagine #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x velaryon!reader

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amphiptere · 2 years ago

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can’t believe whoever’s making the man called ove movie doesn’t think american audiences can handle a movie about a man called ove

#mine #otto? really?#i know it's common but like come on #we need to just force people to learn more unusual names #i haven't read the book i don't really care about it or the movie i just saw a trailer last night at the movies

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dumbkiri · 4 months ago

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𝕯𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝖄𝖔𝖚 2

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

@lionheart178

You both asked for it and I couldn't resist. If this is well received as much as the first part, part three will include Rhaenys v Aegon v Aemond

Apologies for any mistakes spelling wise and story wise. HOTD is confusing okay!

[Name] woke up at the beginning of dawn with a knock at the door. The knock only stirred him awake because he trained his body to wake at any sound, also because he stayed alert after what happened last night. He couldn’t allow another assassination to happen under his nose.

He blinked his eyes open and looked around the bed. Somehow Daenerys and her dragons made their way in between him and Helaena, the little girl being embraced by her mother protectively. The man sighed at the peaceful sight and he took himself out of bed with smooth movements. He didn’t want to stir his family from their sleep, not yet anyways.

The person at the door had a great amount of patience, [Name] noted. So the list of names got shorter. It couldn’t be his twin, Aegon, or his younger brother Aemond. Both would have stormed in without a second thought. His mother had patience, but her anxiety would have made her knock on the door again. The other people on this list like the council members, he didn’t want to talk to at such an early time.

Politics were boring.

Even still, he slipped a loose shirt over his head and popped his arms into the sleeves. Then he walked over to the door, the sleep gone from his eyes and his lips ready to spew out a curse here and there at the person for wanting to have a conversation so early.

His hand grabbed the handle of the door and he opened it up to reveal a disheveled Aegon. His twin brother looked like a terrible mess and [Name] swiftly brought him into the large room. Aegon didn’t need to be seen by the castle people. Lords and Ladies would be talking about him for days, maybe even weeks about how he looked.

The curse words on his lips fell short when he caught a glimpse at his twin. [Name] led Aegon over to the couch and sat him down while he took a seat across from him. Aegon sniffled and looked over to the left where he saw bodies laying on the bed with relaxed breathing.

“They’re making mother and Jeyne follow Jaehaerys on a cart,” Aegon said softly looking back at [Name], “they s..stitched his-”

“I know, brother,” [Name] responded with a defeated sigh. It was no secret what those ratcatchers did to Jaehaerys. The poor boy had no reason to go through that pain and suffering. “You can tell Otto not to go through with this. You can grieve in a healthy way, Aegon. Have you seen your queen at all?”

Aegon looked down at the floor with his hands fumbling over with each other, “No.”

[Name] leaned back into the sofa and said, “You should go and see her.”

“She can’t see me like this!” He whispered, gesturing to his messy look. His red eyes puffy from all the crying he did. His breath smelled of wine too.

“It’ll be good for her to see you like that,” [Name] replied, “because it shows Jeyne that you are a grieving father. She is a grieving mother, you think she looks pretty like a queen right now?”

Aegon processed his words and he wiped his nose with his sleeve. Then he asked, “How do you not look like me? How can Helaena sleep as if her son didn’t die?” The glare didn’t go unnoticed by [Name] and he leaned forward feeling animosity radiate off of Aegon’s body. If Aegon wanted to speak ill about him and his wife, he should have spoken to someone else.

But he bit his tongue and relaxed, his twin just needed to understand. To learn how to grieve properly.

“I don’t look like you because I leaned on my wife for support. Helaena could sleep knowing I was in bed with her along with our daughter. Listen to what I have to say Aegon, you need your wife and she needs you. Nothing is more important than her. You do your best to love your family and to protect them.”

The lilac eyed man clutched his knees and sneered, “I regret not being there for them. I regret taking Balerion on patrol when I should have been asleep already. But she lifted the weight of my shoulders and loved me. She understood my plight despite dealing with her own. A husband and a wife need a sturdy foundation to stand on. If the floor beneath her crumbles, I know I’ll be there to hold her hand. To repair that foundation with her. That’s what you and Jeyne need to do. Grieve together, love each other and repair the foundation.”

[Name] lowered his voice when he saw a small body rise up in her bed. The little girl looked around frantically and finally spotted her father sitting on the sofas across the room. Quickly she slid out of bed and her feet carried her over to her father.

“Daenerys,” [Name]’s features softened and he opened his arms wide to capture his little girl in his arms, “why are you crying, little one?”

Aegon watched how loving his twin was. He never admitted it out loud, but [Name] made high expectations in being a father. He didn’t drink every night, he trained his son every day, cared for their studies and even joined Daenerys in her embroidery classes. To which brought happiness to Helaena.

“You weren’t in bed, I thought you left us,” Daenerys cried and hugged her father tightly. Meanwhile [Name]’s heart constricted with a little heartbreak. Left us, she said. Daenerys recognizes the danger without him, the consequences of an absent father. [Name] rubbed his hand up and down her back, bouncing the leg she sat on.

“Everything is alright, Dany. I’m here, I’m here,” He repeated and pressed a kiss at the crown of her head. After a time, her sobs quieted down and she remained in his arms, not wanting to go anywhere else.

Aegon with a small smile on his face said, “I forgot how close Dany was to you.” He spoke the truth. Daenerys very rarely left her father’s side besides when she had to go to classes. She often flew on Balerion with him and watched Rhaegar train in the fields. Daenerys admired her father a lot, no one could ruin his image. Not even the ratcatchers.

“You hear that Dany,” [Name] peered down and nudged his forehead against hers, “Your uncle thinks you spend too much time with me.”

Dany wiped her tears and said, “Not enough time, uncle. You always take Father away.” Her teasing glare made Aegon feign a surrender, his hands held up high. A chuckle left Aegon’s lips and [Name] came to another realization. Aegon didn’t need Jeyne to help him grieve.

“Please forgive me, dragon warrior,” Aegon playfully responded, “but your father is an exceptional fighter. He protects this kingdom so well and always stands up for me.”

Daenerys laughed and sat up wanting to play along with her uncle. The little girl wrapped her arms around [Name]’s neck and said, “But who will stand up for Father? Do you think you’re worthy enough to protect the Warrior of Light, the rider of Balerion?”

Aegon subtly looked at his twin and [Name] mouthed, “She takes play pretend seriously, you’re in for it now.”

To which, Aegon didn’t mind because this moment distracted him from the night before. His niece took away the pain, her demanding words and playful attitude brought him into a different world. Play pretend, [Name] called it. How often did his twin brother play like this with his children?

[Name] knew exactly what Aegon was thinking and he spoke up, “Daenerys and Rhaegar are very creative and imaginative. She plays the role of a dragon warrior, defender of the realm while Rhaegar played as a priest, a man of truth and light.”

Aegon smirked and before he could ask what was up with that, [Name] shook his head with a grin, “Don’t ask me why, Rhaegar was different in many ways. Anyways Helaena, chosen by Rhaegar, was the Queen and you could only imagine what they made me.”

“Oh~” Aegon kept his smirk, “they made you a king?”

[Name] laughed and responded with mirth, “A bloody peasant in love with the widowed queen.”

Aegon hollered and fell back into the cushions of the sofa. “Your kids hold you very high in opinion, but in their world they made you a peasant!” Aegon could not believe what he heard.

“Yes, we all dress up for our game too,” [Name] laughed again, “my clothes are very itchy, I tell you.”

The brothers laughed together, but [Name]’s died down a bit before Aegon’s. The older twin enjoyed seeing that smile on his brother’s face. Aegon needed him, [Name] told himself. Him and his family to cheer him up. But they were to leave, very soon. Guilt ate at him and he debated whether to tell Aegon of his plan, but his brother wouldn’t take it lightly.

[Name] planned to move to the other side, taking Dreamfyre and Balerion with him. Taking Moonlight, Nightmare and Frostfang, his children’s dragons. That’s adding two dragon riders to the Blacks. Technically one because Helaena could never burn people. [Name] would have to make that point abundantly clear to the Blacks.

“Aegon, there’s something I must tell you.”

[Name] saw Aegon catch his breath, a faint smile still present on his face.

“You are strong, brother,” [Name] kindly said, “Yes, others may think you’re only a drunk. But I’ve seen you in the throne room trying to help out your subjects. Only to have Otto strike you down. I’ve seen you try to take charge, only to have that fire stoked out by the council members.”

[Name] brought his lilac eyes to meet Aegon’s shining eyes, “Do what you must to keep your fire burning. Because once it’s out, who knows how long it’ll take to rekindle it. Don’t let Mother strike you down, don’t let Otto control you anymore and most of all, don’t let Aemond underestimate you. You are their King, not their pawn.”

A spark ignited in Aegon’s chest. Little did [Name] know, his fire was already out. But his words ignited the hearth in his heart. And it burned with strength and passion. Then [Name] stood up, carrying a quiet Daenerys in his arms.

Aegon followed quickly and shook his head, “You should have been King, [Name]. I don’t know why Father chose me when you were the perfect candidate.”

Smoothly [Name] responded, “I never wanted it.” The confusion on Aegon’s face made [Name] continue, “The crown, the throne, it’s all a game. I don’t know how to play it and you don’t know either. But Otto does, he played it well too. Having his daughter court our father while he grieved for our half sister’s mother was a ploy to get one of us on the throne. To have someone he can control. Do you think you sit on the throne, brother?”

Aegon blinked then casted his eyes onto the floor, “Not really. No one takes me seriously. The council meetings take place with my opinions never heard.”

“Which is why you announce your presence. Every member of the council is afraid of Aemond because he rides Vhagar. Everyone is afraid of me because I have Balerion. What can you do to make them afraid of you?”

“I don’t know.” Aegon replied.

[Name] shifted Daenerys to his other hip and said, “We all have something in common that people are afraid of. Dragons are dragons, beasts the normal folk cannot begin to understand. Not like us. So show them you’re a dragon rider and a king, make them afraid of you. You’re the rider of Sunfyre.”

Aegon cleared his throat and walked over to the door. He felt a shift in the room and he looked back at his brother. This moment, it felt too somber and Aegon had to tell him something too.

“Brother, thank you for this.”

[Name] nodded, “I always have your back, Aegon.”

After Aegon left, [Name] moved over to the bed and wasn’t surprised that Helaena woke up. Perhaps she had already risen long ago.

“Hello, my sweet lady,” [Name] sang and placed Dany on the bed next to her mother. Then he leaned over and pressed a light kiss on Helaena’s lips. His hands held her face with love and he pressed into a little deeper. She returned his passion and asked in between his kiss, “Did you mean it when you said it to Aegon?”

“Of course, I did,” [Name] pulled back and sat by her bedside, taking her hands into his own. He rubbed her knuckles and brought them up to his lips. He kissed her gently and put them back on her stomach. “Now we shall get ready for our journey before the rest of the castle wakes.”

Helaena pushed herself upward and suddenly embraced her husband. His eyes widened in surprise and he looked down at his wife with questions. Nonetheless, he kept his mouth shut and embraced her back. She felt amazing with her chest pressed up against his. He could feel her heartbeat, hear the slow breaths her lungs took in. Without noticing, his hands dragged themselves lower holding onto her waist.

He dipped his head down and his lips started leaving a trail of kisses on her neck. One hand held her back pressing her further into him while the other hand held her head. His fingers threading in her long hair and pulling the strands gently down, so she could look up at the ceiling. It gave him more access to her neck, to her breasts.

He would have dived straight for them if she didn’t remind him who was watching. “This isn’t the place, [Name],” Helaena spoke timidly and he pulled back to see Dany covering her eyes with her small hands. He chuckled with an apology to his wife and daughter.

“You’re very hard to resist, my love. Excuse my behavior.” He pressed a sweet kiss on her cheek and stood up, ignoring the beautiful look in her innocent eyes.

Helaena smiled at his bashful look and pushed the throbbing in her core away. Yes, he was also very hard to resist. She’s surprised they didn’t have more children running around them. In due time, she told herself.

……

They’ve been in the air for quite some time and the morning sun began to rise with soft yellows and pinks. [Name] opted out on wearing his black armor while riding with his children, but kept Hellfire strapped to his waist.

Viserys, given a medicine to help him sleep during the flight, drooled onto [Name]’s shoulder. The father didn’t mind and he looked down in front of him to see Daenerys holding onto the cages that kept the three tiny dragons there safely. Her long hair braided into two and she wore a light blue dress paired with her mother’s.

[Name] looked to his left and watched Helaena fly quietly next to him. She was a good distance away from him because of Baelrion’s long wingspan. So he kept a careful eye on her from time to time as well as their surroundings. If the Blacks attacked them now, the fight would be devastating for his surrendering family.

He came for answers and sanctuary. He didn’t want a fight.

Finally Dragonstone came into view and [Name] commanded Balerion with a powerful voice to land on a beach near the Black’s base. Balerion roared into the sky to announce their presence, no doubt alarming the people in Dragonstone. The descent was a little too fast for Viserys and the tiny boy cried all the way down, alarming Helaena who followed after the Black Dread.

When they touched, Balerion dug his claws into the sand and lowered his neck so the Targaryen family could climb down. [Name] being the first one off the giant dragon helped his daughter down. The small girl watched hopped into his arms, careful that the cage didn’t smack him.

Helaena touched down fast next to Balerion and released the reins on Dreamfyre while [Name] moved the swaddle from his back to his front.

He tried to ease Viserys and when he turned around to ask his wife for help, Helaena was already next to him. A worried mother is quick to help her babes, he’s always reminded. [Name] handed Viserys over to his wife with no hesitation and she soothed him with gentle caresses and hushed mumbles.

Then a loud screech resounded in the sky and he looked up to see three dragon riders making their way to the beach. A golden dragon, a burning red one and a small one. [Name] knew these dragons and their riders, Rhaenyra, Rhaenys and Jace. Luckily for him, Daemon wasn’t with them.

The three landed on the beach a safe distance away from Balerion who challenged them a little too quickly for [Name]’s liking. The black beast held his head high and covered [Name]’s family with a wing. Daenerys awed at the sight and Helaena looked at [Name] wearily.

“Lykiri, Balerion,” [Name] walked forward with a hand raised at his defensive dragon, “lykiri.”

Balerion quieted down, his throat bobbing up and down a few clicks and groans rumbling in his chest. His tail swished about on the sand and he lowered his head down to his rider, pressing his large head onto [Name]’s side making the man stumble on the sand.

With a quick pet, [Name] ran his hand down the scales and rough skin of Balerion’s snout. His eyes dragged away from his beast to the three hesitant dragon riders across from him. He looked back at his family and Helaena gave him a nod of approval. This wasn’t a fight, [Name] reminded himself as he walked forward. Be respectful and pledge your support to Rhaenyra.

Offer yourself and Balerion to her cause, he told himself again.

When he walked up to a respectful distance for a conversation, [Name] greeted his estranged family, “Sister, cousin and nephew, I don’t mean to alarm you.”

Was that a good start? To let them know that he wanted no fight. He didn’t use their titles, not quite used to addressing them as so since he acknowledged his brother as the king and such.

“If not to alarm us,then what do you want?” Jace questioned, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

[Name]’s own fingers itched to rest on Hellfire, but if he did that Balerion would take it as a sign to defend his rider and his family. So he kept his hands at his sides and responded with a calm tone, nothing like Jace’s hostile tone.

“Originally I came here looking for answers-”

“With two dragons at our front door, one bigger than the rest of ours?”

Rhaenrya and Rhaenys both snapped their heads over at Jace to silently tell him to keep his mouth shut. Both being mothers and both wanting to know the reason why [Name] was here. But if the lilac eyed man kept getting interrupted, then he wouldn’t get to the point.

“Please, nephew, let me finish my sentence,” [Name] gritted his teeth, his patience running thin, “I came here looking for answers about my son’s death. They are pinning Jaehaerys’ death and Rhaegar’s on your shoulders. So did you or did you not give the order to murder our sons?”

He directed his question to his half-sister.

“Sons?” Her voice faltered and she took a step forward, “Rhaegar was killed as well?” Rhaenrya looked behind [Name] and saw a visibly concerned Helaena with Daenerys and Viserys by her. But no Rhaegar.

[Name] sadly nodded, his throat constricted closing the airways painfully. He cleared it away and said, “He died trying to protect his cousin. They slammed him up against the wall and strangled him. My boy didn’t stand a chance against a ratcatcher.”

“I-I,” Rhaenyra’s eyes watered up, “I did not give the order, this was done without my knowledge by my husband.”

Immediately a scoff left his lips and [Name] looked over at the water. He muttered with a disdainful look on his face, “Of course he did, I’m sure he did it to get revenge for you. Aegon is looking to do the same, but I am not. I blame my mother and her cunt of a guard, Cole.”

“What happened?” Rhaenys asked, trying to get the whole story. They received word that Jaehaerys was killed, but no mention of Rhaegar. Now [Name] put the blame on his own mother and her sworn protector, Criston Cole.

“I went out to fly Balerion in the night while Helaena and Jeyne entertained the children in their rooms. One ratcatcher and a man of the Night’s Watch came in claiming ‘A son for a son’. They cut Jaehaerys’ head off while another strangled Rhaegar. This happened because the knights were relieved from their watch on the order from their Lord Commander. While the boys were on their way to their deaths, Jeyne and Helaena took the remaining kids out of the room looking for help. But there was none. So Helaena went into our mother’s room.”

He took a deep breath in and balled up his hands, he looked back at Rhaenyra and finished off his explanation, “My son died because my mother wanted to get a good fuck in before she turned in her bed.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t believe it, but at the same time she did. Alicent always posed as this woman of faith. Cole posed as a man worthy of the white cloak, ordering people here and there like he was above them. But they were scum, trash beneath her feet. They disgusted her.

“We are very sorry to hear about this, [Name],” Rhaenys spoke for the emotional Rhaenyra, “We would never order something like this, we want to avoid fighting as much as we can. We tried reaching out to your mother-”

[Name] rubbed his chin and pulled his sword out, it didn’t ignite into flames, but it unnerved the three members of the Targaryen family. Their dragons, mainly Syrax and Meleys, roared at the action. In turn Balerion puffed out his chest and let out a louder roar than those two dragons combined.

The sand hit his back and [Name] took a knee, surrendering his valyrian sword over to Rhaenyra. With his head bowed, [Name] spoke, “I don’t care what happens to my brother or mother. I only care about my remaining family. As a father it’s my responsibility to choose them. So here I am, pledging myself and my dragon to your cause. If you’ll have us, Queen Rhaenyra, I will put an end to the Hightower-Targaryens. I will answer your call and go to battle with Balerion. You do not have a need for an army anymore when you have us.”

The three Targaryens looked at each other very shocked to see a Green kneel before them. Pledging his support to Rhaenyra, she couldn’t believe the rider of the Black Dread was doing this. The Blacks have always been afraid of the green monstrosity Aemond rode even more so of Balerion.

Yet the rider, [Name] Targaryen, had different views in this war.

“I accept you and your family, brother.” Rhaenyra walked up to [Name], her dress fluttering in the light breeze. She could hear the small protest Jace let out of his mouth, but Rhaenyra knew [Name].

He was the only brother she didn’t feel threatened by. He always stated that he was happy father named her his heir, saying that he never wanted the crown and its burdens. Plus she saw the love for Helaena in his lilac eyes. He would never bring her harm.

Rhaenyra kneeled down and picked up his head with her hands. The tears running down his face cemented the fact that [Name] needed her to accept him and his family. His hands dropped his sword and he hugged Rhaenyra tightly, holding onto her like a son does to his mother when looking for comfort.

“She didn’t apologize to us,” [Name] growled out, “She had my son killed and she defended Cole instead of admitting to her faults.”

Rhaenyra accepted his hug and said, “I don’t know why she did that.” His words carried in her stomach heavily, he truly did blame the death of Rhaegar on Alicent. It almost felt like he hated his mother. Rhaenyra pulled away from him and wiped his tears away with a frown on her face.

“You would fight for me? Kill your brothers if the situation calls for it?”

[Name]’s eyes hardened and he didn’t falter in saying, “I pledged my help Rhaenyra, I will answer any call and support the Blacks in the battles to come. I will support you.”

Rhaenyra’s frown curved upward into a gracious smile, “Let’s get you and your family settled in some rooms. You can send Balerion and Dreamfyre to hunt after we land in Dragonstone. Then we can talk about your place in the council.”

“My place in the council?” [Name] asked and picked up his sword from the sand and followed after her to stand proudly. He sheathed Hellfire back into its holster and watched Rhaenyra.

His sister nodded her head and said, “There’s a lot of old men on my council. They say they support me, but disagree with me on almost everything. They want to spill blood, but we don’t have capable dragons to do so.”

[Name] agreed with her words, “Yes, that is true. Father always said your dragon was more of a spoiled mother than a warrior. Meaning no offense to you or Syrax.” He chuckled seeing the expression on Rhaenyra’s face.

“Yes, well the ones capable of fighting are Meleys and Caraxes, but we need them for Vhagar or even Balerion.” She looked over at the Black Dread and his red eyes pierced her bright ones. “Now that you’re here, we could do a lot of defending our supporters and their homes. I will pair you with Rhaenys, you two could pose to be a formidable duo. One with speed and the other power.”

“Well we do pose a huge threat to Aegon’s claim to the throne, sister,” [Name] looked back at his wife and remembered something important.

“But I will not allow Helaena to fly Dreamfyre. Both of them will remain in Dragonstone, safe from any battle.”

Rhaenyra understood his demand, but she had to know why. “Any particular reason why she cannot fly her dragon to battle?”

“Have you ever seen Helaena hurt a creature, crawling or walking?” [Name] shot back feeling defensive for his wife.

“Well no, I heard she likes to keep bugs and take care of them.” Rhaenyra responded with a small laugh.

[Name] smiled back, “That she does, sadly we had to leave the ones she had in King’s Landing behind. My point is she cannot give the command to burn people, sister. Please don’t make her do it.” He begged.

“Of course not,” Rhaenyra reassured him, “She will remain here with your children.”

“There’s something else I would like to ask of you,” [Name] stopped Rhaenyra and looked back at Balerion. “I don’t know if you noticed, but Rhaegar…he’s with us too. We would like him to be honored here at Dragonstone in Targaryen tradition.”

“We shall set it all up for you, will Balerion be the one to ignite the pyre?”

“No,” He stretched his hand out and Daenerys immediately ran over to her father. As his little one ran towards him, Rhaenyra spotted the two dragons; one perched on her shoulder and the other clinging to her hip. “Daenerys has bonded to two dragons, Moonlight and Nightmare; Rhaegar’s dragon. She will command them and we shall see if Nightmare truly bonded with her or just smells Rhaegar on her.”

“An interesting child, you have,” Rhaenyra commented lightly.

And [Name] would have it no other way.

……

The Targaryen family stood behind the Hightower family respectfully watching Balerion with weary eyes along with their council members and guards. If [Name] wanted to he could turn his attention on them and have his beast burn them in black fire.

But Rhaenyra reminded them of his oath to support her. After all, [Name] came to Dragonstone to honor his son and protect his remaining family.

Daenerys stood at the side of the pyre holding back her tears. She watched Rhaegar being tackled by the ratcatcher, heard his last words then the clang of his dagger when it fell from his hand. She was going to miss his stupid jokes and his protective nature. She held her hands out, Moonlight perched into her right hand and Nightmare on her left hand.

They looked at her as if they waited for her command. “Brother,” Dany spoke quietly, no one could hear her over the crashing waves below the cliff, “In our next life, I hope we live long enough to rule the skies together.”

A moment passed then she gave out the infamous command, “Dracarys.” The two dragons looked away from her and aimed their snouts at the pyre. Slowly they opened up their mouths and breathed out a stream of orange fire. The twigs caught on fire first before the chain reaction began.

The funeral rite went slow and [Name] walked up to Daenerys, letting go of Helaena’s hand. He pulled his daughter away from the small fire, so he could finish it off with Balerion’s black fire. He gave a subtle nod to everyone surrounding Rhaegar’s body and immediately they all backed up.

“My love,” He spoke to Helaena and handed Daenerys’ hand over to hers. Helaena hugged a crying Dany who could no longer hold her tears. Then he walked a bit forward away from his mourning family, holding the pommel of his sword tightly.

“Balerion!” He shouted over the waves.

The black dragon shook his whole body responding to his rider’s call. The ground beneath his clawed talons broke under the pressure of his weight.

“Dracarys!”

Balerion puffed out his chest, his wings spread out and his neck peered over the pyre in a grim image to the rest of the people. His large mouth opened up and all they saw was a dark pit, the fire blending in the dark of his mouth. With a resounding screech, Balerion breathed his black fire onto Rhaegar’s body.

[Name] watched on in silence, hearing his wife and daughter cry out in anguish. They couldn’t express their sorrow the night of. But here, they let the water flow out of their eyes like a river. The crackling of the fire, the waves below and their cries felt unreal to him as he lost himself in his thoughts.

If he ever sees Criston Cole on the battlefield, he’ll snatch him from the ground. He’ll bring the oathbreaker into the skies, above the clouds and let him fall to his death. He wanted to instill fear into Cole. He wanted to burn Cole, he wanted to behead him. There were so many ways to kill a man.

The black smoke reached the skies and he turned away from the pyre. He outstretched his arms and embraced his girls. Daenerys clung to his leg while Helaena wrapped her arms around his neck.

Aegon may have gotten to the ratcatcher first, but Cole was his. This he will make sure of.

#x reader #x male reader #x male y/n #helaena x reader #helaena x male reader #helaena the dreamer #hotd spoilers #hotd season 2 #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd x male reader

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starogeorgina · 4 months ago

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐢𝐧

Warnings: Smut, swearing, mentions of blood, incest

Pairing: Cregan Stark × reader, Aemond Targaryen × reader

1.04

“Many in my line have been dragon riders; very few among us have been dreamers like Aegon the Conqueror.”

The sound of snow being crushed under Lord Stark’s boots is much heavier; he has remained mainly silently as you walked towards the godswoods. Your grandsire had told men from the north they were not ones for long conversation, but then again, Otto Hightower has been wrong about many things.

“He saw them, the threat in the north, in his dream.”

Lord Stark slows his steps, “How do you know this to be true?”

“Aegon's conquest was not an act of pure ambition. The conquerors goal was to unite all the kingdoms so they might survive the long night. How much faith do you have in prophecy’s my lord?”

“Since the days of the First Men, we have stood as guardians against the cold and the dark. I know what danger lies beyond the wall.”

The closer Vermithor got to Castle Black, the more could the emptiness, that vast darkness surrounding it. The wind screamed in your ears, telling you to go back, to flee, but you could not retreat. Not when you needed to see the darkness. A cold sweat trickles down your back, and you suddenly feel overwhelmed, you away on your feet.

Lord Stark grabs your arm with his gloved hands to keep you steady. “Princess, are you okay? Should you return indoors?”

“I’m fine, my lord; I’m just—not used to the cold.”

He looks unconvinced, but let’s go of your arm. His first name was lingering on the tip of your tongue, but as there were others around, although at a distance, you thought it best to remain formal.

“They are inhuman, elegant, dangerous, and beautiful. The white shadow’s blood is pale blue; they are tall and gaunt. Their eyes burning like ice. Flesh pale as fresh milk.”

You stand on the edge of the pond across from the Weirwood and feel a coldness creeping on the back of your neck, but it disappears when you feel the warmth of Cregan’s breath. “Is the white shadow what they are known as in the south?”

“No, only myself and my sisters know of the threat.” Both you and Helaena had learnt of the prophecy through visions, and your father had told Rhaenyra. “The threat will go by many names: the others, white walkers, white shadows. Some will even refer to them as the cold gods.”

“You have fire in your words, princess, but a prophecy alone cannot be the only reason you came to Winterfell. And it wasn’t to sway which side the North would fight for.”

“There has never lived a Stark that broke their oath; it would have been foolish of me to even ask,” you smile. “The dragons are the last magic of Old Valyria, and they are scared. I believe the looming war between my family will be the last of them; the magic will die out, and then death from beyond the wall will spread and consume all of Westeros.”

“You believe the Targaryens will fight along with the night's watch when the time comes.”

“There is no doubt the north produces the fiercest fighters, my Lord, but a man cannot kill the dead alone. The white shadow fears what can destroy it.”

He swallows thickly, “fire.”

“My father owned a Valyrian steel blade with the words, ‘My blood come the Prince that was promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.’ The dagger now belongs to my brother, but it should have gone to Rhaenyra. The prince that was promised will come from her line.”

You remove your gloves and place your palm firmly against the bark of the Weirwood tree, feeling the cold against your skin. Closing your eyes, you hear Helaena’s voice in the distance, but it’s not you she's speaking directly to.

“There is warmth beneath all that ice.”

“Ah!”

Opening your eyes, you look down and notice blood falling onto the snow; something had sliced through his thick leather gloves and cut his hand. “What happened?” You apply pressure to the cut with your own hand. “Shall I get a maester?”

Before he can answer, the sound of wings flapping alerts you to a dragon flying nearby. Vermithor and Silverwing fly lower than not casting a shadow over where you stand. Cregan takes a step closer to you and tilts his head down; he kisses you tenderly on the lips.

Seconds pass by, and he’s standing in front of you again, the cut on his hand staining the snow below crimson.

Was the kiss real or a figment of your imagination?

“No, maester. It’s only a small cut.”

You had only known the Lord of Winterfell a few days, but seeing the way his face twists in discomfort makes you want to help. You clear your throat, “then let me clean the cut for you.”

—

The room was silent as you dabbed at the raised skin around the cut on Cregan’s palm with lukewarm water. The wound has stopped bleeding, but you wanted to make sure it was clean. What would your grandsire or mother say learning a princess was attending to Lord Stark in such a way? No doubt the dowager queen would pull a face of disgust, and your grandsire Otto would put a political spin on it. Try to paint you as the image of the mother.

“I thought the cut would have been bigger,” you say quietly.

“Aye, it is small but deep.” He holds up the fang that he picked up in front of the Weirwood tree. “The wolf this came from is larger than my son’s but not yet fully grown. Even as a pup, a wolf's fangs can rip the flesh from a man’s throat.”

“The day will come when they say a Stark will ride into battle on the back of a giant direwolf.”

You look up from the bowl with water and into his eyes, “Thank you. You have a much gentler touch than the maester. I assumed most princesses would swoon at the sight of blood.”

“My brothers used to fight when we were younger, and I would tend to their wounds before our mother would see.” You chuckle, “In his youth, my eldest brother would stub his toe, but would have you believe his entire foot was about to fall off.”

“Not long after Rickon learnt to walk, he went through a phase of screaming seven hells whenever he fell or bumped his head against something, but I soon realized he did it because any lady who saw would rush to coddle him as they do their own children.”

Your heart bleeds for Rickon; no young boy or girl should grow up without a caring mother. You had seen firsthand how Aegon and Aemond turned out spoiled and entitled, with your mother's bitterness rooted deep within them, as did you. Until having a child of your own changed you for the better. “I’ve seen Maitland fall and skin his knees while playing in the gardens of our home countless times; mostly he’ll get up without a fuss, but whenever his father is there, he cries and screams. He only stops when Aemond picks him."

The thought saddens you. Aemond would pick your son up and immediately place him in your arms, because to him it was a woman’s job to deal with whatever woes a child may have.

“Growing up, I was taught that a mother's love was the fiercest of all.”

Your heart flutters. You didn’t like the way Cregan was unintentionally making you feel so... safe. You drop the cloth into the water, which is now tinted red, and go stand by the fireplace.

“Is something wrong, princess?”

Pressing a hand on the wall above the fireplace, you stare down at the flames and shake your head. It was wrong; a man you barely knew should not make you feel more at ease than your own husband.

The chair he was sitting in makes a scraping noise as Cregan stands. “Have I offended you, princess?”

“No, forgive me. I’m just—in my own head.” You turn your head to look at him and are surprised to see the look of concern on his face. “As you said before, a prophecy isn’t the only reason I came here. I wanted to know what it was like to be free.”

“Free?”

“My mother told me women cannot rule, only guide the men that do, which led me to believe I was to make a window in the wall of my own prison. I’ve spent my life so far in the service to men, my father, grandsire, husband, and now Aegon.”

“What is it you desire?”

“To take my son and go somewhere where the name Targaryen means nothing, where the people aren’t scared of our dragons.”

The Lord now stands only a foot in front of you, “princess.”

“Hm?”

“Northerns aren’t scared of dragons.”

No more words needed to be said. Cregan takes a step forward and touches your chin with his rough fingers and gently tilts your face upwards so his lips are mere inches from yours.

You opened your mouth to say something, but no noise came out. Cregan presses his lips against yours. It was a gentle kiss.

Resting his forehead against yours, he asks, “Should I stop?”

“No,” you whisper. “Kiss me again.”

He kisses you again, but this time it’s full of urgency. Was it dishonorable? Yes, but the feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing. Addicting. When Cregan’s lips move to the side of your neck, the need to touch more of him becomes too much, and your fingers fumble as you untie the thick fur covering his shoulders and back.

He kissed below your ear, then quietly said, “You are a rare beauty.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch Cregan kneel in front of you. Putting his hands under your skirts, his palms glide up your thighs until they reach the top of your tights, and he pulls them down. You remain frozen in place, feeling his breath warm against your core; his stubble rubs against your skin as he plants gentle kisses above your womb.

“Wha—oh, gods.”

You barely manage to cover your mouth in time to muffle the moan that escapes it as Cregan uses his tongue on you in a way Aemond never has.

“Oh,” you use one hand to keep your skirts up and the other pressed against the wall. If it wasn’t for Cregan’s strong grip on your thighs, you would have lost your balance. “Gods, gods!”

Your eyes roll back, feeling the flat of his tongue against your clit. It doesn’t take long for you to reach your peak. Your legs shaking around his head as you scream Cregan’s name. You drop your skirts when he stands again; your eyes linger on his lips, fascinated by the way your arousal is smeared across them.

He’s so close, your breaths mingle in the air. “Princess,” he brushes his nose against yours. “My dragon princess—”

You grab hold of the waistband of his breeches and start pushing him backwards until his legs hit the chair facing the fireplace. Cregan smirks when you pull his breeches down low enough for his cock to spring free, then push him backwards. Lifting your skirts, you straddle his thighs and sink down onto his cock.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.”

You set a slow pace at first, rocking your hips until you get used to the stinging sensation of him stretching you out.

Cregan brings one hand up to cup your breast, “You are so perfect, so beautiful.”

You begin rocking your hips faster the more praise falls from his mouth. Tangling your fingers into his hair, you lean forward and press your lips against his.

You'll pray for forgiveness in the morrow, but for now you wanted nothing more than Cregan.

#house of the dragon #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark fanfic #aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader #the beauty of sin #cregan stark smut #cregan stark/reader #cregan stark fanfiction #cregan stark #house of the dragon smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen/you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic

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ellewritesalright · 5 months ago

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The Ward

Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Masterlist - Part 2

Synopsis: Aemond has a fascination with you, his mother's pious ward from a vassal family of House Hightower, but he has a peculiar way of showing it.

A/N: Hi!! this is set in and around the last few episodes of season 1. Reader is unnamed but comes from a noble house from the reach. I made up a Tyrell lord because I just wanted a name to throw about, but it's not that serious :) I wanna do another part of this, so lmk if you're interested and would like to be tagged

Warnings: mentions of the war, burning, Aemond being a flip-floppy bitch to reader, Aegon being a bit of a creep, and pls lmk if I've missed anything

Word Count: 3900

The halls of the Keep were quiet, despite the impending ruling of Lord of the Tides and the huddles of highborn folk who were visiting for the occasion. You walked through the grand passageways, a shawl over your shoulders for your journey outside the castle walls.

"Where are you off to this afternoon, my lady?" You heard Aemond's smooth voice from an alcove you'd just passed. You took a step back towards the sound as he made himself known, his tall frame coming out into the corridor.

"To the Sept, Prince Aemond. I'm going to pray," you answered.

He gave a slight nod and echoed, "Going to pray."

"Yes."

His eye was so focused on you, so attuned to your face that you felt he was trying to read your mind.

"You're aware that your presence is required at dinner this evening?" He inquired, folding his hands behind his back. “Rhaenyra and her brood will be in attendance.”

"Yes, your highness. I'll be back before the festivities begin," you assured him. "I only wish to say a few prayers on holy ground, several of which will be for the royal family."

Aemond's lips twitched into the smallest smirk. "You would pray for us?"

"Of course," you nodded. "I pray for everyone in this house. I always begin with King Viserys and pray for his health, then I thank the gods for Queen Alicent and her kindness in making me her ward, Ser Otto for his unending wisdom, I pray for Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena, and their children that all of them prosper, then I pray for you, my prince."

"And what do you ask for when you pray to the gods for me?" He raised a brow, complete curiosity on his pretty features.

"For the gods to protect you," you answered.

He let out a quiet laugh, one you almost mistook as a scoff. Perhaps it was a scoff.

"You think I need protection, my lady?" He smirked.

"Everyone needs protection."

"But I most of all?" He raised his brow again. "Do you think I'm not strong enough to protect myself?"

"I never said such a thing. I only said that I pray for your protection."

"Hm, well, how considerate of you, my lady," he appraised, a foreign glint in his eye. "Take a guard when you go out."

You nodded softly. "Yes, of course."

He looked at you for a moment longer, then he turned and walked away.

……….

The conversation before dinner was dull, even despite the tension among the family members. No one mentioned lord Vaemond, the dead man in the bowels of the Keep being cared for by the Silent Sisters. Though the lack of mention for his severed head was not the root of the ill mood this evening; you had only known this group to dislike each other.

You didn't fully understand why the family had splintered so, since you became Queen Alicent's ward only after Princess Rhaenyra and her family had moved to Dragonstone. You knew it happened after the funeral of Prince Daemon's second wife and had something to do with Aemond's missing eye, but you had never been given the full story from either side.

The tension in the family was only exacerbated by the king's poor health. King Viserys should have been resting, not hosting his entire family to dinner, but alas, you were all gathered at the table waiting for his guards to carry him in.

Across from you, Prince Aegon was expectedly fidgeting in his chair, prisoner to his boredom and wishing the night would end so he could sneak off and do something depraved. Beside you at the head of the table, Prince Aemond, ever the calm and dutiful brother, sat back in his seat, his lips pursed in that unknowable way he seemed fluent in, especially as he stared down the table at Lucerys.

You made polite conversation with Otto Hightower where he sat to your left. He had always liked you, seeing as he had been the coordinator of your guardianship under Queen Alicent. Ser Otto was even the one to bring you on the carriage journey from the western lands of the Reach to King's Landing when you were just fourteen. You had learned much at court since then, growing to be whispered about as a fine young lady.

"Lord Denton Tyrell sent his regards to you, my dear," Otto turned to you, ignoring the smalltalk between Rhaenyra's group.

Aegon scoffed into his wine across from you.

"Did he?" You smiled kindly, though you were not sure it reached your eyes. Lord Denton was fifteen years your senior, and quite a lumbering fool.

"Mentioned you in a letter I received from Highgarden. Seems you made quite the impression on him at the last hunt."

You reached for your wine. "I barely spoke to him during the hunt, I wasn't aware I made any sort of impression."

You felt a stare on you, and you didn't have to look to your right to know that Prince Aemond was watching you, as he often did. But another prince was watching you too.

“We know what he's interested in, don't we, my lady?” Aegon smirked at you.

“Not another word, grandson.” Otto leveled him with a look across the table.

“Marriage,” Aegon said in an innocent tone, holding his hands up. “He is sure to be interested in a union with our lovely, pious ward. A coupling, if you will.”

Otto gave him another look, and Aegon looked as though he wanted to continue his impish teasing, but just then King Viserys was being carried into the room. Everyone stood beside their chairs as he was brought to the empty spot at the middle of the table.

The family sat back down and dinner proceeded. After a moment of heavy air, King Viserys began to speak to his family, addressing them as equals and not as their king. Rhaenyra spoke, then Alicent, and it seemed any animosity had disappeared from their memories. Dinner progressed further, and you watched Rhaenyra's sons--mostly Jaecaerys–butt up against Aegon and Aemond as the three stood and seemed square for a fight. But then, finally, the three of them sat again, and a temporary peace was made. The musicians returned to playing, and Ser Otto began engaging you in casual conversation again, both of your stares straying to Jacaerys and Helaena as they danced.

You caught Aemond glaring across the long table at Lucerys, and your eyes flicked down to his hand in his lap, how it clenched into a fist. Without thinking, you lowered your hand beneath the table and reached for him. Your fingers settled over his knuckles, and he broke his glaring at Lucerys and instead looked over at you, his eye losing its hard edge. The bones of his knuckles rippled under your hand, and you felt a chill run down your spine as he flattened his fingers then folded them around yours. Aemond gave you a slight nod, then looked over to his sister and nephew dancing, his hand still in yours.

From the corner of your eye, you could vaguely see King Viserys being carried to his room again as dinner trays were being brought in. You let go of Aemond's hand as servants approached your end of the table with a suckling pig. Above the music, you could faintly make out laughter, and you looked all the way down to the other end of the table to see Lucerys smirking at Aemond and the pig.

Before you could take his hand again, before you could so much as look at him again, Aemond had slammed his fist on the table and rose to his feet.

“Final tribute,” he called, eye intent on Lucerys and Jacaerys. “To the health of my nephews Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… strong.”

You went rigid in your seat as the ensuing tussle broke out. There was nothing civil about how Aemond shoved Jace to the floor as soon as he stepped closer, and how Aegon pinned Luke to the table when he tried to join Jace. Ser Otto rose beside you, and you watched as guards tore the Velaryon boys away from Aemond and Aegon.

Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra seemed to admonish their respective children--though you weren't sure how effective the scoldings were considering the glares their children still sent one another–and then the Velaryons and Daemon's daughters were sent to bed. You watched as Aemond squared his shoulders, then stalked away.

“I shall also take my leave for the evening,” you said to the Hand. “Goodnight, Ser Otto.”

You kept your pace steady as you left the room, but once you were in the hall you were hurrying.

“You shouldn't have done that,” you said as you caught up to Aemond.

He didn't even look over at you. “I was complimenting them, my lady.”

“No one at that table took it for a compliment, your highness.”

“It is remarkable how when you speak, my mother's voice comes out.”

You frowned at him. “You know I'm right, you just won't admit it.”

“I know you believe yourself to be right.” He stopped in front of you, his eye narrowed to a knife's point. “Does your arrogance stretch so far as to think I should heed your wisdom?”

You buckled under his cold eye. “I only meant–”

“You meant to belittle me for my behaviour and tell me I am in the wrong for not taking the righteous path the gods would have me seek. If you didn't lack the worldly understanding of so much as a dormouse, I might be inclined to listen. But as it stands, I am not obliged to heed you."

You had no time to respond, as he turned on his heel and stalked down the royal family's wing. You stood in bitter silence, thoroughly lashed, as you watched him leave.

……….

The library was empty this morning. None of the maesters were hanging about as they often did, all busy after Aegon's crowning yesterday. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since you were informed that King Viserys was dead, yet the world felt upturned. Your warden, the now-Queen Mother Alicent, had brought you a dress to wear for the coronation, and you wore it again today, just without the ornamentations of jewelry. It was a deep green, a departure from the usual grays and blues you often wore, but you were grateful to her for it. It was difficult to not appreciate all she had done for you by bringing you to court, even if her son had scorned you.

You huffed and closed your book, setting it on the small stack you'd accumulated. You heard the far door open, but no footsteps. When you looked over your chair at the other patron of the Keep's library, you hurried to stand.

“Your highness,” you nodded at Aemond, watching him come further into the room. He seemed light on his feet today, not as angry as you had seen him as of late.

“Why the forlorn expression, my lady?”

“It is nothing, your highness.”

Your words lost their conviction the longer he stared at you, his eye seeming to peer into your soul. Aemond had stood beside you at Aegon's crowning, not looking at you the entire time. Whether that was due in part to his harsh words for you the night of the dinner, or more because his envy forbade him to look away from Aegon, you could not tell. But right now he was staring at you like you were the only thing in the room.

You let out a small breath and prepared yourself for a second round of insults today. “I was merely wondering how the Princess Rhaenyra must be feeling this morning.”

“Why?” His response was quick.

You struggled to keep your fingers still and indifferent to tension as you clasped them together in front of you. You glanced away from his hard stare.

“Why, my lady?”

You pursed your lips. “It just seems unfair, is all. It couldn't be easy for her, hearing what happened yesterday.”

“King Viserys changed his mind, my lady. Would you like to take it up with the queen mother?”

“No.” Your eyes snapped up to his face. “No, my prince, I would not dare.”

“And yet, I detect dissent."

"Not dissent, your highness," you shook your head lightly. "I have always known your mother to be the most trustworthy of figures. If she says King Viserys changed his mind, then I believe her. It's just that I feel some remorse for princess Rhaenyra; this has been her life's trajectory for some twenty-odd-years."

Aemond looked at you, his eye piercing. “My half-sister is not fit to be queen.”

“And his grace, King Aegon, is?” You said it quietly, but you knew after they had slipped out that your words could be interpreted as dangerous. “I only meant… King Viserys didn't ready his grace for the throne, not like he did with Princess Rhaenyra.”

Aemond looked at you with measurement in his brow. He leaned in slightly, looking at you with that veil in his eye, the one that hid him from any discernable emotion.

“Perhaps your thoughts are best kept to yourself, my lady. Do not speak to any other how you have spoken today.” You felt his breath on your face. “They may not be as forgiving as me.”

You nodded, closing your lips and taking a quiet inhale through your nose. He raised a brow, as though prompting you to respond, and you did, “I won't repeat myself to anyone, my prince. I'll stone the sentiment from my mind.”

He looked at you a moment longer, then pulled back. “Don't leave the Keep, my lady. Not even to visit the Sept. You must pray from inside these walls for the next few weeks.”

“Why?”

You could tell he didn't want to say at first, his shoulders tensing just a modicum. “It is for your protection, my lady. Who knows what Rhaenyra's side would do to you?”

“I have no part in this conflict among your family.”

“You do.”

“I don't, your highness,” you said more firmly. “I am a mere ward, there is no cause for any harm to befall me.”

“Rhaenyra's Council will see yesterday's events as an act of treason. Everyone who was on the dais yesterday, including you, my lady, will be treated as committing such treason.”

You closed your mouth.

“So,” he spoke with a slightly softer tone, “for the love of the Seven, stay inside.”

He once again prompted you with his brow, and you nodded, “I understand, my prince.”

……….

The evening had been strange for you.

After your library run-in with Prince Aemond that morning, you spent most of your day with Helaena, helping her care for the twins as she worriedly stitched. You had dinner in your chambers, feeling uncomfortable about being near most of the royal family right now. They were all busy, anyway; word had traveled yesterday with Rhaenys on the back of Meleys, informing Rhaenyra of Aegon's ascension, and your ward's family would undoubtedly be fortifying themselves, shoring up support for the crown in whatever way they could. An inkling whispered to you that they would surely marry you off to some lord to gain favour or loyalty, though you prayed that would not be the case. There was not a lord in the kingdom you'd met thus far whom you felt compelled to wed.

You did not prepare properly for bed that evening. All you did was take off your dress and collapse on top of your sheets, only your shift covering you as you quickly passed out. You had meant to just rest your body before you prepared a bath for yourself, but you did not rise again.

You dreamt of Aegon's coronation; all came to pass in the same way as reality, except as Ser Criston put the crown on his head, the people began to stir in outrage. Angered screams filled the dragon pit, and by the time Rhaenys and Meleys rose from the ground the crowd seemed to praise her for interrupting the ceremony.

Prince Aemond stepped in front of you again, as had happened in reality, except this time Meleys had opened her throat and fire had torched all in her path. You felt the heat of it, and as the line of fire came towards you and Aemond, your body jolted awake.

You gasped, moving to brace your hands over your face and save yourself from the flames. It was then you realized there was a warm weight on your stomach, something your hand had knocked against as you startled. Adrenaline returned to your veins and you pushed at the weight, but it pushed back, hands coming out to stop you at your wrists.

By the gods, it was a person.

You started to scream, terror taking reign as your mind raced with the possibility of who could be about to harm you. Was it an assassin sent by Rhaenyra to kill you in your bed, or a thief who had somehow crept into the Keep to defile you?

A hand quickly covered your mouth, and your jaw trembled so that you bit down, but there wasn't enough force to truly harm your assailant.

“Shh,” a voice came through to you in a quiet tone. “It is only me, my lady.”

Familiarity struck you, and you noticed the outline of long hair and the strap for a patch running over it. Your eyes caught on a lit carrying candle across the room, sitting on the dresser near your door, and you saw the way its light bounced softly off of white-blond hair. Your body stopped struggling.

“Aemond?” You murmured into his hand.

“Tis I.”

He removed his hand and you let out a breath with the realization it was just Aemond. But you weren't able to settle completely, especially not as he snaked down your body again, returning the weight of his head to your stomach.

“My prince, this is entirely inappropriate,” you muttered, your muscles freezing as he clung to you.

"I would never defile you, my lady," he whispered into your thin shift, his voice strained. "I only sought you for your familiarity."

Despite his arrogant behaviour towards you as of late, the weakness in his voice appealed to you, and you hesitantly set your hand on his head, your fingers lightly stroking along his scalp. You noticed then that his hair was damp. It was not raining outside the Keep, and Aemond looked too disheveled to have just cleaned in a bath. He must have been on dragonback this evening. Thinking this, you could smell traces of Vhagar on him. A sigh escaped you as you looked down at him.

"What is wrong, Aemond?" You asked lightly.

He would not say for a moment, then he pushed his face somehow closer to you, as though he wanted to burrow himself inside your body. “I have sinned.”

“What have you done?”

He shook his head slightly. “It is grave. Too grave for your ears.”

“Speak it.”

He shook his head again.

You sat up, trying to move out from under him as you huffed quietly. Aemond would not let you move more than this, his hands on your thighs and head having slipped down to your lap as you sat forward. You let out a soft scoff.

“Speak it, my prince, or I must ask you to leave.”

His fingers gripped your thighs, and you were reminded of how near he was to your skin despite your shift, his breath warm along the apex of your thighs. He loosened his hold again, and took in a deep breath.

“I was in Storm's End. Lucerys was there as well, and we quarreled in the sky. Vhagar… she… his dragon was so small in her jaw.”

You felt your heart drop in your chest.

“Aemond, tell me you didn't,” you whispered.

“I cannot lie to you.”

The resignation in his voice did you in, and you ran your palm along your face to stave your anxieties. You felt his nose pressing to your lower stomach but you weren't in a state to push him away, not when he'd all but admitted to slaying his nephew. You set your hand on his head, not stroking his hair but simply putting some weight on him in hopes it may provide comfort. When you next spoke, your throat was dry and you had to swallow your fear in order to make a sound.

"All you can do now is go to the Sept and pray to the gods for forgiveness."

His head shook on your lap. "There is no penance or prayer for what I have done."

You huffed, running your fingers through his hair. Aemond shifted, his hand on your thigh flexing as he tilted his head to the side to look up at you.

"Forgive me," he said. "Absolve me of my sins so that I may continue my life and end this conflict for my family."

"I'm not the one you need absolution from," you shook your head.

"It wasn't a request, my lady."

His lips were pursed and his eye was trained on you, assessing your face with scrutiny. You felt his hand on your thigh gripping just slightly too tight.

"Aemond, I…" you started, feeling your throat dry again. "Your highness, I am not comfortable with you here any more."

"It is not my wish to impose." He spoke as though he didn't see anything wrong with his actions. He made no move to get up.

"It is late, your highness. You must go."

He reached up, palming your cheek with a gentle but assertive touch. "You're warm."

"Prince Aemond, please," you muttered as you tried to shift him off of you. "You mustn't be here any longer."

"Just say it. And I know I will have the strength I need to end the rest of them."

"The rest of who?"

He shook his head yet again, pressing his face into your stomach once more. "I need you to say it. Tell me you forgive me."

"Aemond, you must leave."

As you moved to lean back against your headboard, trying to shake his weight, he sat up and braced his hands on either side of your lap. His slender, callused fingers dug into your bed sheets with a tense ruffle. His face was so close to yours, his breath warm on your cheeks. The look in his eye was impassioned, wide, and with a blown out pupil. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy motion. Warm air puffed in and out on your face. You couldn't escape the feeling of his breath, or him for that matter.

The next breath you drew bordered on a gasp, however hard you tried to contain it. His eye dropped down to your lips, and you saw his mouth twitch before he could steel his expression and slip back into that impassive Aemond you knew best. You felt another breath on your skin, warm from his parted lips.

He pulled back, his eye losing that feral quality as he steadied himself before standing.

"I am sorry," he murmured, "for disturbing your evening."

His head dipped almost indistinguishably in a soft nod, then he left without a word.

You were still on your bed, crowded against the headboard despite being alone now. You blinked, looking at the candle on your dresser. It was the only evidence that Aemond had been in your room. You watched as the wax dripped in the dish, the wick burning nearly to the bottom. It was hard to say how long you watched the flame burn, but by the time the wick ran out, you had tucked your knees up to your chest, holding yourself as securely as you had Aemond.

……….

A/N: Thanks for reading! Feel free to like, reblog, and comment--I really appreciate the feedback! I'm gonna do more parts of this dynamic so please lmk if you wanna be tagged in them. Also if you want to request a fic for hotd, I will write for Aegon, Aemond, and Jacaerys, so please feel free to send in an ask. Otherwise, I hope you have a great day/night :)

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #hotd fic

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houseofhyde · 4 months ago

Text

iv. another man's pain

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. a visit to dorne goes awry as an unexpected visitor arrives, tensions between in-laws come to ahead at last. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, lady stark is having a brat summer ( sunbathing and arguing with her situationship ), male infertility, canon-accurate misogyny, mentions of pregnancy + marital s/a + war crimes + death, a little angst, a little fluff, a little smut ( unprotected piv, breast/nipple play, oral- f receiving, aemond is the verbal consent king ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 19.4k (for my pwp girlies: they fuck at the end, i swear 😭) hyde’s input. this chapter is extremely yap-centric, i'm so sorry. i could not get these bitches to shut the fuck up. please ignore any typos, i've driven myself mad re-reading this over and over :( another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The heat in Dorne is sticky.

Stifling, overwhelming, heavy. Upon inhale, it slides through the nose, yet, in exhale, it weighs heavy on the chest. It leaves one panting like a dog, with sweat that soaks through linen, and a longing for the forgiving breeze that sweeps its way through the Red Keep. Already, you await the day the carriage arrives to shuttle you off on your journey back to the capital, if only to move an inch without leaving a river of your own perspiration behind.

Six days and five nights into your moon-long stay in the southern lands of sand and your trunk remains fairly untouched, filled to the brim with clothes too heavy to face the heat. Helaena promises it’ll pass, that soon you will acclimatise and find yourself basking in the kiss of sunlight upon your skin. “Until then,” she’d assured you, a gentle squeeze at your hand across the vanity’s table. “You’re more than welcome to make use of my old dresses. With my body in recovery and two children in need of my care, I no longer make up the same shape I once did.”

At first, the proposal was to host you in Sunspear. A written invitation, extended by none other than Prince Qoren himself, hand delivered to you by one of the King’s squires as you shared a morning under the shade of the godswoods alongside the Dowager Queen. The pair of you had read over it in tandem, a silence overtaking, before you promptly announced your need for rest, scrambling the letter as close as possible to your chest as you raced off to the safety of your quarters. By evening, your husband had been informed, his own mother encouraging him to accept the invitation.

“It will serve the girl well,” she’d insisted, clutching at the arms of her chair within the hall of the small council, meeting long over and naught but the mother and son occupying the tension filled room. “There’s been little joy for her here as of late. The burdens of politics have begun to take toll on her, for certain. It will serve your wife well to take a much needed break.”

“The only burden politics brings her is the difficult decision of which gown to wear to dinner with Lord Up-Himself and his Lady wife of House Prissy-Cunt. Meanwhile, it is I, her husband, who bears the true difficulties of the crown!” Woe is he, the king who never wanted to be, trapped eternally in a life of decadence and obedience, a war raised in his name, and half a bloodline destroyed in his wake. Otto Hightower had warned his daughter, before the dragons had truly begun to dance, of how Aegon’s self-inflicted victimhood would one day be his downfall. With every passing day, the King’s mother sees this destruction growing closer. “My wife is of no use to me building sandcastles down South. She needs to make me an heir, not run off to take care of my sister’s.”

“A visit to Dorne may prove to be more fruitful than you believe, Aegon.”

And, so, it was settled. Three moons after the birth of Prince Qoren and Helaena’s second child — a moon-eyed boy, with his father’s raven locks and his mother’s smile, awarded the name of Jaehaerys — you would depart the city gates, with a small travelling band of knights upon saddles and a carriage large enough to sleep two, yourself and your dearest lady-in-waiting.

Only days before your arrival, however, tragedy struck. An assassin of the Free Cities, infiltrated within the walls of the Martell’s seat of power, made an attempt on Princess Helaena’s life. A half-failure, the assassin claimed a life but mistook a sleeping maid for the dragon girl. The premises were vacated, with Prince Qoren demanding his family find shelter someplace safe, someplace private.

Three leagues to the west, buried away from curious eyes and beached by the waves of the Summer Sea, the Water Gardens sit. With a decadent, lavish palace leading out into a garden of rare beauty where palm trees stand taller than dragons, and water lilies float upon crystal-clear ponds, and rose buds burst into perfect bloom. Raised in honour of his darling wife, it is a vision of Prince Qoren’s that stands not yet completed, the beginning structures of what will one day be a private sanctuary to the dornish royals, a home to grow their own in, far away from the intruding eyes of court and capital.

Welcomed with open arms — that very soon wrapped around you in a tight squeeze — thus began your peaceful getaway.

Where days in the Keep are spent hiding in shadows, and exchanging pleasantries filled with discomfort, and sitting rigidly at a family dinner table, your days in the Water Gardens are full of glee. The laughter of the many Martell children, running rampant down hallways and through bushes, dirtying their knees with the green of grass and the rough of sand. Afternoons splayed out on beds, hand-fanned with the fallen leaves of palm trees, a soothing battle against the burning heat. A table foreign to silence, with Prince Qoren’s ever present queries into your day, and Helaena’s ecstatic chatter over the recent stitching patterns you’ve taught her, and the many other welcoming faces of the Martell bloodline, each smile warmer than the last.

By far, however, the thing you enjoy most is this: watching over your niece.

Day by day, at an hour when the newborn babe lays his head down to sleep, be it morning, or noon, or evening, you have taken it upon yourself to relieve poor Helaena of the tougher parts of motherhood, gifting her with the blessing of uninterrupted rest as you take her firstborn by the hand and let her guide you around the dornish grounds.

More often than not, she brings you here, to the shallow waters of a pond, with a sweet aroma of surrounding blood-orange trees and the calming sounds of water flowing out a central fountain enough to ease even the most troubled of minds.

Right now, your young niece stands soaked to the bone, dancing around as you sit close by, feet dipped within the very same cooling waters with the occasional splash coming your way from the toddler. In the few days you have been here, she seems to have grown so quickly, doubling in size before your very eyes, and finding a more steady manner in which to stand upon her feet, and learning to babble more syllables, each sounding less like nonsense than the last.

“Aliandra,” at the call of her name, those violet eyes are upon you. They carry the signature twinkle of a mind yet unmarred by life shining bright in your direction. “What is this called?”

You extend your hand towards her, a freshly peeled chunk of orange plucked between two fingers, and await the acceptance from her smaller hands.

“Fruit!” You believe is what she means to say, though her r is hardly pronounced and you’re certain she’s added an extra vowel at the end.

Still, you give her the win, departing with the sweet slice and delighting at the mess made as she bites into it, a spray of juice splashing down her tiny palms. It is incentive enough to move closer, wading through the shallow waters and leaving the lower fabric of your dress to soak itself as it trails behind you. At the height of the young princess, you sink down onto your knees, a much needed refreshment as the water settles over your waist.

“Here, sweet girl,” with a voice as gentle as your touch, you guide her to dip her juice stained hands under the water, the whole of your thumb wiping at the inside of her palm. “We ladies mustn’t dirty our hands.”

In lieu of a reply, the small child merely giggles and surrenders herself fully into your hold, her tiny limbs relaxing so suddenly, you have no choice but to let her rest within your lap, a head of white blonde hair finding respite upon your shoulder.

There is a strange emotion that only the presence of your niece seems to conjure. One of desperation, one of tenderness, one of an all-consuming need to hold her as close as possible and shelter her from all harm that may befall her in the cruelness of this life.

As a child, you’d never truly known the experience of being the elder sibling, the one looked at to lead, and guard, and tend to any other youngling alongside your parents. That job had always been Cregan’s and, for better or for worse, he had made a point of truly stepping into this protective role when it came to you, watching over you from cradle, to courtyard, to the carriage that dragged you down to your fated marriage.

It is half a wonder if this feeling she gives you is owed to the Mother and her instincts at last taking root within your heart, a seed watered slowly into a sapling that promises to grow and spread its branches from limb to limb. An emotional catch-up to the rest of your body, cursed by the moon’s blood for almost a decade, only now do you feel fit to step into the role of care-giver, nurturer, mother.

As if reading your thoughts, Aliandra nuzzles deeper into you, a tiny fist clasping a mighty hold of the yellow silks you wear.

“Are you tired, little darling?” Though she shakes her head in denial, you hear and feel the way she yawns against you, no doubt tired out by the blaze of the sun’s warmth.

You choose to stay like this a little longer, swaying slowly back and forth as you clutch your niece against you, small ripples in the water left in the wake of your movement. They seem to grow larger with each sway, the tremor upon the liquid’s surface lasting longer, the ripples rising higher and dipping lower.

A squawk of birds steals your attention in time to catch how the small flock fly away from a palm tree. You can’t help yourself from pointing at the tree, nor the whispered inquisition you throw at the girl: “Ali, what is that called?”

You watch her head raise off your shoulder, her whole body shifting to look at the tree, her head comically tilting straight up at the sky. The wind picks up, the palm leaves beginning to shake back and forth as the girl lets out an excited squeal. “Zaldrīzes !”

A cloud seems to swallow the sun whole, a cast of darkness coming across the gardens and greying the world around you. In your arms, the child’s excited chant continues, both hands pointing at the sky as a tiny voice calls out syllables you can’t make meaning of, over and over.

“Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes ! Zaldrīzes !”

Craning your neck back, you point your eyes up to the sky and find a mass of flesh.

Aged, large, green.

Claws, tail, wings.

A dragon.

The dragon.

Vhagar.

As a child, you begged your mother to visit the beach.

The request came no more than a day after Cregan had returned from a voyage to the Iron Islands, the first of many politically motivated visits he’d make with your father before his passing. You had been young at the time, no larger than a child of seven years, and so full of wide-eyed belief and childlike wonder that it wasn’t difficult for your older brother to enchant you with stories of sand made of specs of gold, and crystal blue waters warm enough to melt away centuries of snow, and a horizon that knows no limit, stretching onward into an eternity of undiscovered lands, where not even the fiercest of dragons dared venture towards. You’d decided, then and there, that you would be the one to go discover such lands, man your own ship and set off along the perfect waters.

This dream would die, of course, many moons later, as you boarded your first ship and a great fear of it took grip of you.

Your mother hadn’t the heart to tell you the truth of the matter. Of how the beach Cregan had visited had been naught but a warsight, sand made of the dust of bones ground down by time, and water so violent it sweeps away anyone fool enough to dip their feet in, and the sea-creatures dwelling at the bottom of it, with more tentacles than eyes, and more teeth to ever dare count. She instead nodded, brushed the hair out of your eyes and promised you, one day, she would take you to the beach.

It isn’t quite what you expect it to be.

Toes buried in the sand, eyes watching as the tide rolls in only to roll back out. Unforgiving heat burning away at your corneas, the subtle blush of salt in the air. The constant rise and fall of waves collapsing into one another, the overwhelming loneliness that settles in as you realise it is only you here, no sight of your mother, her bones now long gone and buried beneath the walls of Winterfell alongside your father.

The dream of a child is wasted on the pitiful adult.

“Typically, people choose to bathe in the sea, not stare at it from the shore,” a voice calls on you from behind.

Across the beach, the prince strides, kicking up a storm of sand in his wake. A whole four days have come and gone since his arrival upon dragon’s back and, still, he has made no accommodations to his attire, the ever-present shades of Targaryen black and Hightower green sitting snug along his limbs. Without a doubt, the clothing of his house is out of place in this garden of blooming colour, yet the thought of him wearing anything but his leathers would be wrong. It wouldn’t be Aemond.

“I find I much prefer the view from here,” you remark, letting your eyes wander as far down as the length of his torso before you’re forcing them to look onward, back to the constant flow of the water. Something magnetic seems to tug at your soul, willing your feet to shuffle two steps closer to his incoming figure, drawn to close the space between. You dig your heels in the sand and will no further movement from yourself. “This is the first time I’ve stood upon a beach like this. It is… not what I’d expected. I feel no siren’s call towards the sea, no desire to soak myself within its merciless waters, no matter how tranquil and forgiving it may seem.”

The sun hovers low on the horizon, a hair’s breadth away from sinking beneath the line that separates sky from sea and taking with it what remains of the day, plundering the world into the darkness of night. There is a part of you that knows you should find your way back out of the alcove, through the rocky tunnel that feeds straight from the Martell’s summer home out onto the sandy beach, the call for supper soon encroaching on you and demanding your presence.

But if to know is to care, then perhaps you are not so aware of what mannerly duties are expected of you, for you harbour no desire to attempt any movement that even dares remove you from the one-eyed prince’s presence. For too long, you’ve waited to be in it.

“Surely you cannot truly claim to prefer standing here, if you do not yet know what it means to let the sea wash over you,” it’s hard to resist temptation, your eyes cast upon him once more. The same well-kept hair, the same brown patch covering his tarnished eye, the same ever-present pout upon his perfectly bowed lips — his time at Dragonstone has changed little of him. You wonder if he notices the changes in you. The lonely spark in your eyes, the threat of an incoming frown line, the sorrow that has rained down over your once positive mind, dampening you into nothing but a mirror of duty, set to obey the status quo laid out by the queens who came before you. “Declaring favour without so much as attempting another option, is that not so similar to settling?”

“You fail to consider that perhaps I am afraid to take the plunge,” an answer you fire with far too much haste, a chord struck within you, a conspiratorial mind that digs for deeper meaning than what the prince offers at base level. “Treading into sea from land is no safer than flinging one’s self off the sails of any ship. I am the queen, after all. I cannot be so reckless as to risk getting caught within waves and ripped beneath the surface by unforeseen currents. I have no desires to meet the Drowned God. Not all of us may rely on the luxury of deserting upon a dragon's back at the first spark of danger.”

Silence settles in between you like fog.

There is a call to anger that brews deep within you, one that has endured far too many moons of being trampled down under the weight of your own exhaustion, freed alas by the crashing of waves and the heat of the sun.

In the days following the prince’s departure from court, you’d grieved. First had come the sadness, nights spent weeping into the smell of your own sheets, arms curled around your own self as you bathed away whatever lingering touch of his remained on you. Tears gave way to desperation. You picked up a quill, put ink to paper, wrote out the words he’d not given you the time to say, only to falter when the time came to send it off to Dragonstone and, instead, choose to burn it in the flames of your chambers’ hearth.

For a moment, watching how the fire ate up your fragile pleadings for answers from the prince, you’d felt that first flicker of anger. A warm, inviting temptress, blooming in the guts of your body, whispering riddles in your ear of how the prince had no right to play you for a fool, to plunder you both down into the pits of seduction, only to disappear in the night, leaving you stranded with no way back.

As quickly as the feeling arose, you shut it out, choosing instead the easier, more acceptable approach: you denied his very existence. When his name was mentioned at the dinner table, you ducked your head down, kept your focus on stabbing at the next piece of food with your fork. When dragons flew above the skies, weaving through the towers of the Keep, you refused to glance up. With time, it all grew easier, new duties thrust upon you as you and Aegon embarked on your first royal progress throughout the Westerlands, and less hours spent trapped within the walls of the very home in which he’d fled from you. It became as though the Prince had never even existed, much less the complications that came along with him.

Yet now, standing face to face once more, that temptress has returned, an iron fist of anger clasped around your heart.

The prince dares to call your name, gently, as though he’s yet to feel the burn of your glare piercing through his skull.

“Eight moons since you left court and not once have you returned,” your tone has more bite than even you are used to. Words that possess fangs, sinking deep into the prince and drawing blood with one foul swoop. He, of course, doesn’t show this, face as stoic as it's ever been. That singular eye, however, can’t hide the truth, widening slightly and wavering in its powerful stare as your ire rips a wound right through him. “When your dragon flew overhead, I thought this was it, at last you were here to see me. That perhaps you had caught wind of my travels and were no longer capable of denying yourself the need to come to me. Yet four times the sun has risen and you have made no effort to seek me out, you barely glance my way as we break bread at the same table, and you cut through corners to avoid crossing paths with me throughout the palace walls. Now you call upon me, after all this time, with the intention of… What? Sharing false small talk? What a fool you must take me for.”

“My departure was nothing personal, you should not take such offence,” whether he intended it or not, his answer almost seems to goad you, tossing more oil into an already raging fire. The condescension, the thoughtlessness, the implications of his words, dismissing the rightful irritation his actions have brought upon you and denouncing them as naught more than the silly fancies of a self-obsessed mind. It reminds you of Aegon, demeaning you without sparing it so much as a second thought. “I had no other choice but to leave.”

It hits you like a bucket of ice water, tossed upon the raging anger, not enough to scare it away yet enough to tamper it down, have it willing to at least listen to what possible reasons the prince may have had, and condemn him from there onwards. So, you enquire, “why?”

“What grows— Grew between us was dangerous. Deadly. It was not safe within the Keep, knowing our paths would keep crossing and feelings would complica-”

“Then you shut them out!” A step you take forward, the stomp of your foot kicking sand upon your ankles. You wish to invade his space, get him uncomfortable with the tangible closeness of your bodies, united upon common ground and beneath turbulent skies, yet with little remains of the interest you once possessed for the one-eyed prince, diluted by his abandonment in court. “Whatever those feelings are, you push them down until they no longer make noise within you, and you try to feel something else, for someone else, and you move along.” Much to your chagrin, the prince is turning his back on you, literally this time, twisting on both feet and seemingly attempting to flee the field of fire. You can not grace him with such sanctuary, hand darting out and catching a steady grasp on his forearm. “You do not simply take off at dawn’s first light!”

“Do you not think I have tried?” Aemond turns too quickly for you to process, stumbling backwards only to remain caught by his own hands, blunt nails pinching into the skin of your wrists as he presses them tight against his chest, his face so close to your own, you could commence counting his every eyelash. The sound of his voice, a musical combination of exasperation and desperation, holds priority over your attention. “For moons I would keep my distance, keep myself at bay. Only to lay it all to waste, time and time again, at the first sign of you needing me. No one has ever-” The prince pulls in a deep breath, a subtle shake of his head as he lets it free. His eye slips shut, only to reopen and stare upon you once more with a false promise of calm. “I have tried to lay this to rest, do not rob me of this fact. But, you see, it is hard to make a scar out of a wound you keep reopening.”

“You speak as though it were not you who made the first cut!” Try as he might, his peaceful tone of voice can not sway you to relax, your frustration doubling as the words burst out of you, hand fighting its way out of his hold and jabbing a finger at his solid chest. “Or was it not you who welcomed himself into my bed? Was it not you who offered to be my tutor? Was it not you who held me close, only to keep your distance and act as though nothing happened for weeks to come afterwards? But at least then you were still present in court. I mean, you could not even grace me with goodbye. Would it truly be so bad, Aemond, to feel something? So bad that you had to cross sea and mountain just to escape it?”

“When that something is for my brother’s wife, yes.”

“Oh, as though he cares!”

“He does! He would! What is it that you do not understand, Lady Stark?” It is fortunate no others are present to witness the way you and the prince stand so close, nose to nose, chests heaving every breath as though they may be your last, voices raising louder with each exclaim you throw each other's way. “Aegon would have my head on a spike if he knew the thoughts of you it conjures.”

“That is not true. I would not allow him,” both of you know it is a meaningless mutter. You have no control over Aegon, you never have. That doesn’t stop you from denying truths, an attempt at filling both your minds with fallacies of a future. “We could find a way. We have to at least try rid ourselves of the troubles he causes-”

“What would you have me do, woman? Kill my own brother?”

“You are hardly the one to play outrage at the thought of killing your own kin,” you don’t mean to say it. You know this because, the moment you do, your stomach drops and there’s the fear that you may in fact spill your guts up any second now. A mind both stubborn and still ruled by an anger conceived in sadness, you give yourself no choice but to push onward with your cruelty, no chance to apologise or take it all back, and do the one thing you’ve wanted to do since the prince first strolled into the halls of the Martell home: throw yourself at his feet and beg he never leave again. “What is it the smallfolk call you? Ah, yes, Prince Aemond the Kinslayer.”

For a moment, time ceases to be and the world no longer moves.

The waves do not crash, the birds do not sing, the air does not reach your lungs. A background that fades to grey, until all that is in focus is Aemond and the disbelief you strike within him. It’s a gentle progression, like ink staining paper, the way his teeth grind under a clenched jaw, and the way his nose flares almost defensively as though he’s trying to make himself appear as big as possible, and the way his eye moves through shock to anger to nothing. Two steps back, a pause, followed by another step back the moment your feet dare move an inch closer. A deep breath followed by a huff of anger, before at last he speaks again and the world falls back into view, full focus, full motion.

“My sister sent me to fetch you,” over the horizon, the sun is nearly gone and, with it, it’s warmth. You feel a chill run down your spine, a first since you arrived in Dorne. “She awaits you in the nursery.”

The prince has already turned and began to stride back from whence he came before you can even put thought to word, feet frozen in the sand as the rift between you opens wider.

Aemond disappears.

An act he is growing familiar with, a complete removal in the middle of the night, flying off on his war beast. And while you do your best to avoid glancing at the empty seats around the breakfast table, and feign disinterest at the mention of his name as it is spoken, you come to learn it is not Dragonstone he has fled towards, and it is not a journey he made alone.

In the fallout of the attempt on Helaena’s life, Sunspear had remained desolate. Men and women armed with metal and spears the only souls to move within the home, with rat catchers and maids welcomed on every third day of the week to maintain the home's upkeep. Even those who inhabit the city had retreated to the mountains, homes abandoned in fears and whispers of another Dornish war on the horizon, a new enemy yet to be unmasked.

It is Qoren Martell that decides enough is enough. Mounted upon his trusted steed, backed by a flock of his most trusted advisors and fiercest swordsmen, and with the protection of a dragonlord patrolling from the skies, he returned at last to the seat of his house. A letter reached Helaena’s hands, a reassurance of her husband and her brother’s safe arrival, followed by a promise to ensure the safety of both her and her children, a husband's devotion to bringing punishment to whomever orchestrated such a cowardly attack.

You receive your own letter, too. Penned by Aegon, the parchment informs you of his own travels, accompanied by his mother, to the riverlands. A show of good faith, he calls it, an attempt to mend what fragile loyalty remains after Aemond’s fire-filled rampage. You can’t imagine it is so easily fixed, with their lands scorched beyond use and half the riverlords struck down dead amidst their support towards Rhaenyra’s claim. Before you can dwell too long on the ghosts of recent history, Aegon closes off his writings with a request. Perhaps, it is a demand.

I believe we are overdue a talk, wife. Upon your return from Dorne, I do hope that you will find time to at last discuss the shadow that looms over our union. In the meantime, enjoy what remains of your stay with my sister, I am sure your company during this frightening time is much appreciated. I hear my brother has at last flown from his nest on Dragonstone. Perhaps he has more interest than I give him credit for in keeping this family safe.

You have yet to respond.

Trust this: it is not from a lack of trying. You have sat before parchment, quill clasped in hand, more times you can recall, and attempted to construct an appropriate reply. The first carried a stench of guilt, an involuntary admittance to something the king has yet to even accuse you of. The second, third, and fourth edition had been a stream of consciousness, in which nothing made sense and the letters all crashed into one another, written with shaky hands. The truth of the matter is that you’re not entirely sure what is expected of you, what kind of reply is desired.

On one hand, you could assume his words are a warning. A scarlet letter, branding itself upon your skin. He may know of Aemond’s presence and, with it, the possible scenarios that may play out between you two, meaning he knows of what has already transpired between his wife and brother. On the other hand, Aegon’s request could be about something as simple as the need to both agree on a redesign of tapestries within the throne room. Meaning it could be nothing of importance, nor danger, nor threat.

It does not make your hand sit any steadier as you make yet another attempt at conjuring your response.

“The Triarchy?” Helaena’s voice will never fail to soothe an unnamed ailment within you, so soft and welcoming you hardly believe she was raised in the same home as someone as brash as your husband.

“Hmm,” or as him. He returned this morning, at an hour one would hardly call appropriate, the screech of a dragon flying overhead your wake-up call, half falling out of your bed in shock. “It seems they’ve come to claim more than they were offered. Apparently the events at the Gullet were more bloody than they were promised, and now the Stepstones are not a good enough reward to compensate for the nameless men they lost. One must wonder how they did not expect the presence of dragons in a feud between dragonlords.”

The Targaryen siblings sit at the opposite end of the communal balcony from you, a crystal table adorned with golds and bronzes between them and two cups of wine — Helena’s remains untouched, Aemond has reached for his thrice. The view ahead is one of tranquil beauty, where children are playing in the fountains, leaves are rustling in the wind, and a sleeping she-dragon is sighted over the stretch of the Gardens’ walls. You almost wish to tell them to take their chatter of warfare and betrayals elsewhere.

You opt, instead, to continue staring down at the page in front of you, no more than three words cursed out in ink.

My King husband.

“My husband has not returned,” Helaena remarks on what you’d silently noted. Not only his absence, but the entirety of the fleet of Dornishmen who departed by his side, too.

“He remains at the seat of his house, sister. The people of Dorne need to know their so-called prince has not abandoned the city to savages,” in the corner of your eye, you see him, sat with his back perfectly straight and his hair impeccably done, one arm outstretched upon the table in front of him, the other plucking a grape off a vine and delivering it past his pouting lips. The image of him, relaxed and confident, angers you more than it would typically, your wound still unlicked from the incident down at the beach. “In the meantime, I am to fly to the Stepstones and remind them of the dangers of making enemies with a dragon. Should these pirates dare not retreat, then myself and the Lord Martell will begin talking war strategies, deliver an attack so brutal, they’ve neither the will nor the ability to strike back.” Let the history books know that you do not mean to laugh. It simply escapes you, too quickly heard by the siblings before you can even dare hide it. “Am I amusing you, Lady Stark?”

Four eyes, focused solely on you. Six, truly, if you factor in the cupbearer who’s feigning minding her own business, the watering-can she hovers over a bush of nearby roses long ago emptied and free of any liquid. Helaena’s stare is one of curiosity, a million unspoken questions flashing behind them as she bares witness to the tense atmosphere between you and the prince. Aemond’s own gaze is a challenge, a novel of unfinished business, the sour tone with which your last interaction ended still very much present, even if he tries to hide it behind a snide smile.

“Apologies, good-brother, I do not mean offence,” it is tempting to cast your eyes down onto the still blank page before you, will yourself to continue on with your task at hand — giving response to the Targaryen man who you truly owe it to by marriage — but that would mean breaking the intense stare that exists between you and Aemond. That would mean defeat. “Please, continue as you were. Do not let me distract you.”

It seems he too has no desire to forfeit in this war of eyes. There’s a brief squeak that plays as he slides his chair back, the arm that rests upon the table now bent at the elbow and serving as support to his weight as his frame leans closer in your direction. The smile on his lips only grows, rousing a deeper shade of unease in you. “If you’ve something to add, I insist. You are the queen after all, are you not? Who better to comment on the wars that ravage our lands than you, a lady who has never tasted blood.”

It strikes you, hot as fire, strong as iron.

You know in which way he means it, that you’ve never drawn blood from another, never pressed blade into flesh, never drained the life out of a man’s eyes. True intentions don’t stop you from being thrust back into that room, on that night. The sound of rain crashing down on the city, the stench of the two men in your chambers, the taste of your own blood on your tongue. Fighting, screaming, crying. Pleading for your life, running through the halls of the Keep for someplace safe to hide, someplace the rats couldn’t find you.

“Very well, if you insist,” you manage, as you always do, to shove the memory behind, lock it back in the cage of Unwanted Trinkets. May it play out only in your sleeping mind, where no one can witness the weakness it casts over you. Besides, there are more pressing matters at hand currently, such as matching wits with the Crown Prince. “If you cut the head off the serpent, ten more will grow in its place.”

“Sister, your patterns of speech seem to have influenced Aegon’s lady wife,” Helaena meets his words with a gentle smile, one that doesn’t quite match the glazed over look in her eyes. “Speak plainly.”

“Apologies, I believed your skills were at a level to understand such a simple riddle.” A frown bends, momentarily, at the skin of the prince’s forehead, as the cupbearer chokes back a snort of laughter. You would be lying if you said it doesn’t bring a sick kind of satisfaction, even if it’s immediately followed by a guilty kind of remorse, echoes of your true self, one who would never wish to place the handsome prince within such a public humiliation. “You are rushing into another war, after what will perhaps go down as the bloodiest one our lifetime will ever know. Have you considered that threatening them with the very cause of their ire is only bound to guarantee more backlash? Yes, there is a certain chance that you and Vhaghar will strike fear as you fly above. Maybe you will even burn a few pirates to make a point. But for every one you kill, countless more will take their place. Your viciousness will unite their armies.”

“Then how exactly do you suggest I answer those who would have my family killed? To those who would see our lands ravaged, and our women raped, and our men slain? Should we perhaps host a feast in their honour, open the gates to King’s Landing, lay down our swords and-”

“Give them what they want.”

“My sister’s head?”

“Repentance, apology. Tell them of your failings to protect them at the Gullet, mourn their losses. Mention how fortunate they were that at least the Lys fleet had not been sent into a bloody rampage,” you speak as though you have no reason to waiver in your idea. It is a testament to the years you’ve endured within the Keep, catching the tail-ends of conversations amidst the Council, and attempting to soothe Aegon’s insecurity driven rants of his lacking position among all those who would advise him. It had been your own duty, as his wife, to hold your tongue and speak no part of your mind, serving as nothing but a vessel of agreement to his own warped ideals on how his kingdom should be run. But Aegon is not here and the prince truly had insisted you speak. “Once you’ve made yourself the remorseful council, you must hire an assassin. There are plenty of them within the Free Cities. Whispers sing of tensions brewing amongst Tyrosh and Myr, the wives of their fallen men claim Sharako Lohar led them to their deaths. A Tyroshi killing a Myrish holds more threat to their cause than the great Prince Aemond Targaryen mounted upon his dragon. It will divide them, long enough for you to rinse your hands and let the infighting begin. They’ll be too busy killing one another to unite forces against you.”

Echoes of the children’s laughter fills the air. Glancing through the marble railing, you spy a few raven haired babes — cousins to Helaena’s own — scuttle around in the waters, splashing any who dares step in their line of sight. It carries a certain innocence, one you fear the day they lose.

The creak of leather, a crack of palm striking palm. Aemond sits further back in his chair, smirking as he lets his clapping come to a slow stop. “My my, with such advice, I do wonder why my brother has you here, instead of seated at his council.”

His words do not strike you as earnest, a syrupy kind of distaste laced throughout them. You meet him with a reinforced amicability, doe eyes and sweet mouth. “The King believes it is of more priority that I be here.”

“How curious,” what you wouldn’t give to wipe that smug look off of his face. “Surely not because of Helaena’s attack. That happened days after you already set off.”

“You speak the truth, good-brother. The ravens upon Dragonstone must truly be put to work for you to be so clued in on my royal plans.” Let it be his turn, you think, to wear the consequence of his own embarrassment upon his face, a rosy tint creeping over the tips of his ears and a hitch in his otherwise calm breathing. “If you must know, the King sent me here to visit my niece and nephew. He believes time with your sister’s children will serve me well. An old folk tale has the maester convinced there is correlation between the presence of children and a woman’s fertility,” you seem to strike a chord within him, for the composure cracks a second time, long enough to let a chortle break through. “Am I amusing you, Prince Aemond?”

It feels good to throw back his own words in his face. So good, in fact, you feel a throb between your legs, a warmth buried only beneath a thin layer of pale cotton. Helaena at last takes a hold of her wine, swallowing down two heavy cups. There is trouble upon her face, one that almost makes you regret the conflict that plays out between her brother and you. As though she senses your eyes on her, she meets your gaze and shakes her head slowly, mouthing a series of words you can’t decipher.

“Apologies, Lady Stark,” Aemond, none the wiser, steals you back over to his side of the table, a fresh layer of amusement painted over his features. “I just find it curious that my brother sends you here, yet there is no sight of him. Forgive me if I am wrong, but don't both the man and woman have to be fertile if they wish to conceive a child?”

For a moment, there is only panic.

Panic that he knows of the private dwellings between yourself and the maester. Panic that he’s read through the lines, with that sharp mind of his, and joined the dots on why your marriage to Aegon is yet to prove fruitful. Panic that he knows of the conspiracies you yourself have yet to even pose against the King, the questions of his fertility disputed only between you, the maester, and your reflection.

You can not let him steal your leverage, not when it is one you’ve clutched so dearly against your chest, all in anticipation for the right moment to present it to Aegon.

The fear must not be too loud, too noticeable, and so you right yourself, reassure yourself that his words are no more the product of a sharp tongue aiming to cut, not of a mind meaning to threaten.

Gathering your paper and your ink, you rise from your seat at your own table and give the Targaryen pair a curt nod, dismissing yourself before you may linger too long on the true intentions of Aemond’s questioning of the King’s fertility.

“The Crown commands my King husband to deal with more pressing matters. It is a burden you should feel lucky you will never bare, Prince Aemond.”

Days pass with little of note.

The monotonous routine you’ve carved within the Water Gardens brings far more joy than the one you live, day in and day out, within the Keep. You do not tire of it so easily, and instead find beauty in the tranquillity, and comfort in the quiet rustling of the household. Qoren and his men remain absent, and the skeleton crew of guards that stay behind keep mostly to themselves, polite yet brief greetings exchanged when paths cross within the walls. Vhagar and her rider also hang nearby, a threat large enough you almost think the need for guards unnecessary. The Martell women keep close quarters, mothers and grandmothers who watch over their blooming children, indulging in their cups and sharing tales from their marital lives the women of the court would no doubt turn their noses up at. They have no shame, and it is frequent they encourage you and Helaena to do the same.

“We are the true keepers of power in our houses. We are the ones who give life through our cunts.”

You have yet to convince yourself this isn’t all part of a dream. A paradise, hidden amidst deserts of sand, where women claim the power of the land, and there is no reason to live if not to graze on freshly picked fruit and sleep the day away under the shades of palm trees. For some reason or another, you find yourself thinking of your good-mother, Alicent, and how deeply she deserves a life like this, free to rest alongside her darling daughter, away from the stresses of the courts, her temperamental sons, and her oligarch father.

The babe in your arms lets out a gentle coo.

At last he’s fallen asleep, no more tears running down his cheeks nor snot bubbling out of his nose. Wiped clean, tear free, he nestles easily into the arms of his aunt, comfort so aplenty his eyes threaten to fall into sleep with every blink he takes, those striking lilac eyes stubborn in their endeavour to look upon you a little longer.

You’d found him crying in his cot as you entered the nursery and had been quick to aid his poor wet-nurse, teats exposed and struggling to get the protesting child to drink. She, too, herself wore fallen tears, a great relief coming over her face as you gently took the babe out of her arms and insisted she go rest. Not a moment too soon, she departed out the room, leaving you alone with your nephew.

Of both of Helaena’s children, you’ve yet to spend much time with him. Moons old, he clings closely to his mother and his wet-nurse. His father too, when he sits present. He is a sweet boy, quick to smile at the simplest of things. The dark of his hair clashes against the blonde of his sister’s, and yet they both make up the perfect mix of their parents. The pair of them are everything your good-sister deserves.

Sinking into a rocking chair, you let the babe snuggle himself against your chest, the picture of innocence held safely in your hands. You peel one away from cradling him, too tempted to ignore your desire to run your pointer finger over the gentle slope of his button nose. The boy’s eyes slip shut a few moments, and you nearly believe you’ve succeeded, until they spring back open and he stretches a stubby arm out to capture your finger in his mighty claps, his entire fist covering no more than one of your knuckles. All the while, he’s smiling up at you, speaking in a language of coos you’ll never understand.

It doesn’t stop you from giggling, enamoured by his very existence as you let your feet begin to rock the seat ever so softly.

“You are a natural,” the prince’s voice is an intrusion that nearly leaves you jumping out of your bones. Dressed in his riding leathers, armed with his swords, he is every piece of the Aemond you have always known. And, yet, somehow he feels distant, different, changed. For a moment, you nearly convince yourself there is a longing in his eye, only to quickly remind yourself of the fraction that stands between you, a rift that remains divided, much as it may pain you. “I imagine you must be desperate for motherhood.”

“I must,” you agree, because that is what is expected of you. Then you recall you are far from the Keep, and it’s master of whispers, and circle of spies, free to speak upon a doubt you’ve never shared. It isn’t hard to convince yourself it holds no meaning that it is him you choose to share it with, he is merely the fool unlucky enough to have presented you with the opportunity to talk. “Must I? In truth, it scares me.”

A weight lifts off your shoulders, the deep breath that follows easier to achieve than ever before. A lady should only ever dream of motherhood, not cower from it. Yet, you find no judgement in the prince, only silence, the kind that implores you to continue speaking your mind.

“This fear, it is not for myself, but for any child I may have. Aegon, he is… a difficult man but I often wonder how much that crown upon his head is to blame. I ask myself, would he have turned out different, were he not groomed to sit upon that cursed throne? I do not want to bring a child into a world where it is no more than a chess-piece. To live a life where its only purpose is to fulfil the role of heir and wait around for its father to either die or grow so weak he must renounce his crown,” like river to sea, the fear flows out of you, spilling itself down your entire being, a cold chill striking at your heart. The boy in your arms tightens his hold upon your finger and attempts to pull it towards his gaping mouth. You try to picture the conqueror’s crown — your husband’s crow — upon its head, and grow fearsome at the image of it encased around the babe’s neck, his tiny face turned black and blue under the choke it holds him in. A blink of the eye and the babe is all rosy cheeks and golden skin once more, smiling with success as he suckles at the tip of your finger. “And that is only the curse of the eldest. I do not even wish to begin thinking of what would come to be of any other child I birthed, the spare to the Iron Throne, the hatred they’d cast my way for not having birthed them first. I do not want it, any of it. I do not want my children to experience the same childhood as Aegon and you-”

You feel more than you hear the way Aemond flinches at your choice of words. Where days ago you thrived in poking metaphorical needles at his frayed edges, now you wish you could swallow the words back in and erase them from existence. Dead and buried lays the anger that had so consumed you, the ghost it leaves behind wearing the name of acceptance.

The prince had claimed no other choice but to leave the Keep and, your own agreement to the side, you believed him.

“It was not so bad,” his voice comes out in that breathy tone you’ve come to know over the years, a feat he cannot help when emotion wells too high within him and clogs up the space in his throat. He moves in search of where you sit, a repeated clink ringing as the hilt of his sword meets the buckle on his green, leather jerkin with every step he takes. “There were good moments. A few with our father, most with our mother.” When Aemond at last stands before you, that singular eye glances down at how you never falter in your rocking of the child. The babe takes interest in him, too, sacrificing the grip on your finger to stretch out in search of some piece of the prince. “Your children will not know a childhood of my kind. They will be loved, nurtured, protected.”

“You speak as though it is a law, not simply a hope,” you say, a furrow brandishing itself across your brows as your eyes flick up to meet his face, momentarily, before quickly glancing back down to where the prince lays his hand out for his nephew to take, a delighted laugh shaking out of Helaena’s boy. “How can you be so certain?”

With his free hand, the prince bridges the gap between you, the warmth of his palm finding rest upon the side of your face, robbing you of any sight but his well-angled, sharply-defined features. “Because they will have you as a mother, Lady Stark,” it is barely a whisper, yet the heartbreak laced within it leaves behind a hole in your chest, vacant and bleeding. The pad of his thumb smooths over your cheek slowly, as though it moves at a will not controlled by the prince, pure instinct commanding it to comfort, to soothe. It would be easy, you think, to slip your eyes shut and sink into a fantasy where this is your life. A babe in your arms, Aemond at your side, that fluttery feeling in your chest swelling so large, it threatens to explode out of you. But the prince clears his throat and you are back in the real world, your nephew in your arms, your good-brother standing too close. “You must allow me to apolo-”

“Brother!” At the intrusion of Helaena’s voice, both of you jump back, his hand ripped from your cheek and the babe’s grip gone from his fingers. Your good-sister seems none the wiser to the scene played out before her, an earnest joy upon her face and her daughter’s legs dangling from where she sits propped on her mother’s hips. “I did not think I’d find you here.”

It feels like an accusation, an imaginaged query that bites and snarls at your mind, threatening to strike you if you do not lay all your sins at her feet. Reminiscent of Aegon’s ominous letter, paranoia makes home once more within your bones.

The prince, on the other hand, appears as composed as ever. A memory plays on in your mind. His chamber walls, his taste fresh on your tongue, his mother stood across the room. Even then, inches away from being caught, he’d not even broken a sweat.

“I came only to announce my leave,” words you loathe to hear. “Your husband and I have some matters to converse, arranging a meeting with the Triarchy being one of many.”

Helaena seems relit by a flame of excitement as she shuffles over to a nearby table, rifling through the many papers strewn across it, scribbles of figures and etchings of jumbled words stained on them. The parchment she settles on seems to be the only one folded over neatly, not a single wrinkle to be found as she holds it out towards her brother. “Please, see that this reaches my husband!”

He can only nod in agreement, slender fingers plucking the parchment from her own before tucking it safely within an inner-pocket of his jerkin. Though his back is facing you and his attention remains on his dear sister, the words that follow out his mouth feel as though they’re meant for your ears only. “I will return in five days.”

Your eyes seem to linger on the door long after he’s walked out of it, Helaena talking away in your ear while a desire to sleep what remains of the day away takes root within you.

The prince turns out to be a liar.

Five agonising days come and go, each more tortuous than the last. The hours seem to crawl, slower than Helaena’s newborn, and the greatest curse known to woman befalls you, a stain of red between your thighs and an agonising pain stabbing at your abdomen. At the very least, you try to console yourself, it falls here, under sun and sand, and not in the stone cold walls of the Keep. You won’t have to face Aegon’s snide comments as you announce the repeated failing of your couplings, just this once.

A sixth day dawns, and no sign of a prince nor a dragon shadows over you. A fact you pretend not to notice, a promise of disinterest upon your face as Helaena comments on her brother’s absence seven days after his departure.

On the eighth day, a letter arrives, your name branded upon it. It carries word from your brother. One part heartbreak, the other part intent on mending it. The death of your Septa, taken in her sleep as peacefully as many may only dream of, and the birth of a new Stark. His only daughter, seven years her brother’s junior and, yet, already the apple of his eye. Cregan writes of how the instant he held her in his arms, he was brought back to the first time he’d held you as a babe, all squirming limbs and sniffling tears, and thought there was no better name for such a child than your own, in honour of her Queen aunt.

The news makes your heart ache, a longing for a home that no longer exists — at least not in the way you remember it — that crashes over you and spills out of you, tears staining your cheeks as you lay restless in your bed, the ceiling above blurred by your own sorrow. You should be there, in Winterfell, warmed by furs and surrounded by family. True family, not the disfigured image of it the Targaryen house tries to uphold.

Were your father alive, you would be where the wolves belong. In the north, wife to a Karstark, or a Mormont, or any other house that bears its sigil and bends the knee to the Warden of the North. You no doubt would be happy, whether there be love in your marriage or not, with a handful of children to occupy your time and your childhood home no more than a few days ride away at all times. Perhaps you would live an entire life never casting sight upon the King, or the Crown Prince. They’d be only names in a history book, royalty out of reach. Would life have been easier this way?

A door slams.

A fact you’d dare not take note of, were it not for the late hour, the outside world already enveloped by darkness hours before. You rise slowly from the mattress, the sheets pool around the naked skin of your waist. Sitting patiently, you await another disturbance to the quiet, pray for something familiar, like the gentle pitter patter of mischievous children running down halls, or Helaena’s voice calling out your name, awaiting entrance to your chambers. It wouldn’t be the first of her midnight visits, a comfort you’ve both come to seek in each other when the night is dark, and the palace is silent, and no greater time exists to exchange laughter like the young girls you’d both wished to have been, free of duty, free of pressure, free to live.

But there’s no calling of your name this evening, and so you settle with the silence that remains. With no sleep on the horizon, and no sign of Helaena’s company, you decide you must at least try to induce your own rest. Covering your naked skin with a dress that lays discarded at your bedside, you inch your way over to the unlit hearth and work at starting up a fire. When a spark lights and the crimson flames begin to dance among themselves, you secure a pot of water over it. Your mother always swore there was nothing that could not be fixed with the sacred remedy of her herbal tea, not even insomnia. And though you’ve not quite her mother’s touch, you’d sat by her side plenty a times as a child to give the recipe a try.

Another bang rings out.

Your heart seems to still, as do your hands. With only a blink of the eye, your head fills with visions of a massacre. An intruder, who’s sat idly by and waited until now, when only women, children and a handful of guards inhabit the home, to enact their butchering. Perhaps it is an opportunistic attack, a nameless nobody, with no real idea who sits inside the lavish walls of the Gardens, stumbling across the residency and deciding to try their luck at breaching the unguarded walls. The more horrors you envision, the louder the voice in your head grows as it commands you to move, take action. At odds with your own self, your body seems to move on account of some other force, rushing over to the chamber’s vanity. Searching for something to do harm with, you find it in the shape of a letter opener. Thin, delicate yet razor sharp, a silver knife you clutch within your palm.

The chamber door creaks as you open it, much to your dismay. You pause, awaiting a terrible discovery from someone, faceless among the shadows of darkness. There is only silence, again, until another noise plays out.

The sound is human, you have no doubt, a sharp inhale or a pained hiss between clenched teeth. Your fingers curl tighter around your weapon of choice. The sound repeats and plays out longer than the last. Your eyes flicker to a door. A little down the hall from your own, it sits ajar, a light within it bleeds out into the darkness. Another hiss sings out into the night through the crack between the door and its frame.

You steal your breath, tread only on the tips of your feet. Inch closer, and closer, and closer to the door. With your free hand grasping at the handle, the other gripping even tighter at the envelope opener, you pull the door open and raise your weapon, preparing to at last strike the danger, the threat, the intruder, the… “Aemond?”

The prince stands across the room, his back facing you. A looking glass before him, the image he reflects within it is fickle, forever morphing under the flickering light of several low burning candles. If not for the signature starlight silver tresses, he’d be scarcely recognisable.

“My apologies,” at the sound of his familiar voice, you feel your shoulders slouch and your nails retract out of the skin of your palm as the grip on your weapon loosens, your hand lowering back down to your side. There is no intruder, no attacker, no danger. There is only Aemond, a man who only steals away any fear of harm you may possess. Perhaps that is why it is easy to let yourself give into the temptation to inch closer into the chamber, even if he gives you no leave to do so. The two steps you take announce themselves with an echo. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“It has been nine days,” it is a pathetic proclamation made in desperation, yet it is spoken all the same, a tremble in your voice that matches the one in your chest.

The prince makes no move to face you, his focus stuck on the mirror in front of him. You squint your eyes, and try to make sense of the image he paints in his reflection, but it is a useless action. What you do manage to see is the lack of a leather strap fastened around the back of his head. The eyepatch sits disregarded by his feet, as though ripped off with haste.

“I had duties to attend in King’s Landing,” his hands ball into fists as your stomach twists with knots. The movement calls upon your attention and only then do you notice it, the stain of blood upon his fingers. “My mother requested my presence.”

It is unnerving to picture him in the Keep, the threat of Aegon’s letter still weighing heavy on your mind. Had the two ran into each other, crossed paths within a hall? Is that why blood now drips from between his knuckles onto the cold floor below? Impossible, you try to reason with your own mind, for surely Aegon would not let him walk away with his life if he knew of your betrayal. But perhaps it is the King who met a certain fate and the blood on the prince’s skin belongs to him. Aemond has always been more skilled in battle, after all. The remnants of dinner turn in your stomach as bile swells up the canal of your throat, an acidic burn that makes a nest for itself at the back of your mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Another hiss slips past his teeth as you question his state, as if the gods mean to rob him of any right to deny it.

“The hour is late, Lady Stark,” the fist squeezes tighter by his side, a second drop of blood splashing to the floor. You step closer and search for a better view, the face in the mirror still obscured. “Return to your chambers.”

“Aemond,” you give a silent prayer, inching closer, eyes stuck on the width of his leather-clad back. The stench of dragon still reeks off them. He must have just arrived. You reach a hand out, so close to touching him, yet far enough that you feel no reprieve of feeling the man you’ve long now missed. “My prince, something brings you pain. Let me help you-”

“Do not come any closer.”

“You cannot expect me to rest, knowing you are injured!”

“It is for your own good,” the mirror gives away his frown and how it shadows over the rest of his face, a mass of darkness haloed by burning light. Were the timing more suited, you’d take note of how angelic the image is, one of pure divinity, a man so infused with beauty, the Gods grant you no grace to gaze upon him. A third drop of blood hits the floor, though this one does not fall from his hand. “This is not a sight suitable for a lady.”

“Gods be good! Aemond, be quiet,” you say, louder than you intended. In a fear of waking anybody else, you clear your throat and compose your nerves. “You do not get to decide what sights are suitable for me. I do.”

By some miracle, the prince puts no effort into halting you from twisting him around to face you. At the curl of your fingers around his forearm, he’s already turning into your touch, feet smudging the red blood across the floor as they move to point towards you. Once your eyes dance up the length of him, scanning for the first sign of a bleeding wound, and settle upon his face, you come to realise what reaction he expects of you.

A disgusted grimace, or a terrified scream, or a heartless laugh. Whatever it is the prince sits awaiting, he does not receive it. You do not even flinch as you take in the sight of his left eye, no leather to hide it, no sapphire that fills it. An empty socket, marred by scar tissue, a bleeding gash reopened atop his eyebrow. A river made of pain and the essence of his life, that flows down the length of his face and drips off the razor sharp edge of his jaw.

“I warned you,” the prince speaks with false pride, one you do not fail to see right through, even as his intact eye stares you down in a challenge, daring you to give him the disgust he thinks he deserves.

“Come,” you plead instead, hand slipping down to grip at his wrist. “Let me see you in a better light.”

He gives no fight against you as you begin to lead him away from the looking glass, grip tightening and pulling further away as you watch him attempt to grasp at the sapphire sphere he leaves behind. As the two of you slip through the chamber doorway, out into the dark hall, your sweating palm loses its hold on the leather. The prince’s hand catches yours, denying it retrieval back down to your side, an effortless lacing of fingers that serves only to make your journey all that easier, pulling him along behind you, hand in hand, to your chambers.

“Sit,” a poor attempt at commanding, finger pointing over at the chair that lives in front of your vanity. The prince makes no move towards it, hand gripping firmly at your own as you go to move away, eyeing the steaming pot atop your hearth. “Sit.”

He listens, at last, and you are free to move onwards with your goals, lighting a few more candles within the chambers before dashing over to collect the warmed water. By the vanity, the prince sits, head tipped to the ground, those blonde locks curtaining him out of sight as you make your way over. Delicate with each movement, you rest the boiled pot atop the dresser and grab at the first piece of fabric you can find. Your own smallclothes, freshly washed and folded only hours ago.

The slosh of water within the pot as you submerge the fabric seems to snap him out of his daze, regaining his voice if only to speak words you’ve already grown tired of hearing.“This fuss is not necess-”

“Hush now,” the stubborn voice within you can not allow him to finish his sentence. Busy hands ring the soaked smallclothes. Most droplets of water rain back into the pot, while a few dance their own paths down your forearms. “What happened?”

“I insist, Lady Stark.”

“As do I,” cloth meets skin at last, a gentle swipe over the length of the prince’s jaw. Briefly, you feel the weight of the prince’s stare upon you, only for it to return to the floor the instant you try to catch it with your eyes.

You drag the linen over his skin a second time, inching a little further up. There’s a horrible tug at your heart as you smell that metallic haze blood carries. The pain only grows more intense as you watch how quickly harsh red makes home for itself in soft linen, a stain that promises to remain forever engraved.

In new light, the brightness that envelops your chambers, you’re given a better view of the damage he occults beneath that eyepatch. Some may call it a warrior's mark, a sacrifice given in exchange for the glory of claiming the last of the Conquerors’ dragons, but all you see is a blade that ripped out a child’s eye.

You do not feel disgust, not even an ounce. The gouge is a gruesome sight, that no one can deny, yet you feel oddly drawn to it. It is as though you at last see Prince Aemond, instead of the One-Eyed Prince that so fearsomely struts his way through the realm. Vulnerable, naked, whole, beautiful. Never have you felt so drawn to reach for him, draw him closer.

“It appears worse than it truly is,” at last the prince answers. “It is a flight wound. The air over Dorne is riddled with sand, it must have tore at some of the scarring.”

“Does it happen often?” You inch a little closer, till his knee bumps against your leg, and tell yourself it’s to get a better view, keep your hand more steady as it swipes further up his face, washing away at the blood upon it.

“Not so much, anymore,” you dunk the makeshift rag back into the water, the bile burning harsher at your throat as you watch how the crimson hue washes out into the clear of the bowl. You ring it out, soak it once more, only to ring it out again before you deliver it back to his face, the pathway of blood diminished to naught but the reopened skin of his brow. “Long flights are always unpredictable. Some I fair just fine, others I dismount to find my sapphire causes me pain, the skin beneath dried by the cold sky.”

The prince grimaces as you drag the smallclothes over the tear in his face, yet he dismisses your apology, reassures you that he is fine. You pretend you believe him, even if the frown remains indented upon his forehead as you finish cleaning the wound.

With the promise of being gentle, and a hand pressed against your own heart as you vouch for your skills with the needle and your experience at dressing your brother’s wounds, the prince agrees to let you thread his skin shut. You’re quick to heat a needle under flame, and even quicker to hastily rip a loose thread off one of the untouched gowns in your trunk, returning to the vanity with the speed of a dragon’s wings.

As if hearing your thoughts, a rumbled screech echoes out into the night, just past the gates of the Martell home. You’ve half the mind to think it is Vhagar voicing her rider’s pain on behalf of him, as he sits quiet while you pierce the needle into him at last.

“It is unfair,” you mutter, much before you can stop yourself, as you thread a second loop, watching how the skin reunites with skin once more. “What happened to you, Aemond.”

“It made me the man I am today,” Rehearsed, empty of feeling, you wonder how used to those words the man has grown. Does he truly believe himself? “I am better for it.”

“I’m sorry,” a third loop, and then a fourth. The dark thread stands out against the pale of his flesh, you’re almost certain it will be visible even with the cover of his eyepatch. “For what I said to you on the beach. I was unnecessarily cruel.”

“You owe no apology, most certainly not to me,” a pained hiss flies out of him as you stab a little too harshly, a hand grips around the back of your thigh, as if to stabilise your shaking limbs. It carries the opposite effect, the tremble creeping up to reach your fingertips, the needle threatening to fall under your own nerves. Still, the prince does not verbalise his pain, never tells you to stop. The hand upon your clothed thigh squeezes a single pulse, a quiet command to continue stitching his brow. “You spoke only the truth, I have slayed my own kin,” his voice infects the room with an emotionless air, a murder stated as simply as a fact bringing a chill down your spine. You loop a fifth and final stitch. “It is I who owe you an apology. I should not have taken advantage of you that evening, in my chambers. Nor on the boat, nor your own chambers before that. Neither of us were acting in our right minds.”

“Take advantage of me? You speak such nonsense,” you do not like the way his eye returns to looking past you, nor the emptiness in his voice. “Do you ever… Regret it?” You ask, before you realise you are not quite ready for his answer, nor willing to have what remains of the illusion between you shattered. You cannot bear to be just another warm body to a second Targaryen man, and so you scramble to redirect the question. “Storm’s End, I mean.”

“No.” Heavy, powerful, punctuated. Aemond does not hesitate, even for a moment, to negate it. Still, his gaze will not meet your own. “Given the chance, I’d do it all the very same.”

“I do not believe you,” you speak, only after silence tries to creep its way back between you. The emptiness of your palm calls for the heat of his skin. You ball your hand into a fist, resist the urge to let it find rest upon the scarred side of his face. “You are not so heartless.”

“You do not know me as well as you think, Lady Stark.”

“That is of no cause of my own. I am here, idle and waiting, wishing to know more of you,” denial is futile, your hand makes its own way onto his face, forcing his focus back onto you. "You are not the heartless monster of some bedtime story, Aemond,” you can only pray to the Seven he can hear how much you mean it. The thumb that rests against his cheek moves absent-midedly, a soothing rhythm against the soft of his skin. “No matter how much you may try to play the part, you feel. There’s no inch of you that scares me, it is fruitless to even try. I may not know you, but I see you. All of you. Man, myth, and heart.”

The wood that burns in the hearth cracks.

The birds outside the window flap their wings.

The dragon by the gates screeches.

But no sound follows from the prince.

There is only his eye, set on you and unblinking, frozen with a quiet that unnerves you. For an instant, you fear you’ve angered him. Struck a chord, made him feel weak. Played so far into your fantasies that you have cast a false identity onto him and, now, he means only to show just how wrong you are, just how little you truly see of him.

He rises out of the seat as slow as the sun does over the horizon, long limbs that stretch to stand tall and stable, and threaten to cast a shadow over even the largest of men. Your hand slips from his cheek and you take a cautious step back, an apology on the tip of your tongue.

An apology you don’t get to speak, as the prince envelops your lips with his own.

Startled, you cry out against his mouth, and it is enough to send him stumbling his own step back, eye wide with shock and his chest heaving with deep breaths.

“Lady Stark,” he starts, only a whisper of that earlier false confidence remains. “I am sor-”

“Shut up,” you don’t let him finish. Can’t let him finish, surging towards him and dragging his mouth to meet your own once more.

It is everything a younger version of yourself had thought a kiss would be.

Hands that seek the warmth of skin, lips that move with the grace of water. The two of you melt into each other, a burning desire that’s been left too long unattended at last burst into raging fires.

His arms wrap around your waist, as easily as yours grapple at his shoulders, frantic in their aim to pull him closer. His lips are soft, pink rosebuds that mean no harm as they attempt to consume you whole, his tongue a viper, striking hot venom with each lave it delivers.

There is no time for thinking. Of the dangers, and the possibilities, and the downright wrongness of your actions. Of the courts, and the spiders, and the King. Of the blood ties, and the marital vows, and the eyes of the Seven looking down. There is only Aemond, strong, and sweet, and present, pressed against you and, still, begging for less distance as he stumbles forward into you, your own feet making new space for him as you shuffle idly backwards.

Lungs that scream for air, lips that struggle to part. You make the first move, a hand on his cheek as you turn your face. His lips chase your own through the darkness of closed eyes, delivering a pleading of three pecks upon them before, at last, he gives you respite.

For a moment, there is only the repeated intake of air and heart beats that run off with the wind, forever to be lost to the wild.

“Being near you, all these days,” there’s an edge to his voice, a rasp he whispers over and stumbles on. The press of his forehead into your own, as mouths rest inches apart, lips that brush against one another as the prince continues to speak. “Watching you sweat under the sun, and care for the children,” the hands upon your body grab at the thin fabric of your dress, balling it into fists that squeeze and tug at orange cotton. “And move in these pathetic excuses for dresses,” he speaks with the desperation you feel, a warmth stirring in your loins as Aemond — consciously or not — slowly inches the hem of the dress further up your calf. “You do not understand the torment it has brought me to keep myself at bay.”

As though having spoken all he deems necessary, the prince’s kiss returns to you. For only a moment, it lingers on your lips before his focus redirects itself elsewhere and he’s chasing a pathway only he can see down the side of your jaw, his lips running off with his own kisses.

“Yet you instead chose to spend all that time at my neck,” you somehow find the ability to think, even as he melts your mind like a dragon’s breath melts armour, one clear swoop and you are at his mercy, hand tangled amidst the hair at the back of his head and holding him secure in his place against you.

Aemond smirks against your skin, trailing kisses over the expanse of your throat and dragging his lips up to the shell of your ear, the perfect excuse to whisper into it how, “some would say I am more at your neck now than I have ever been, Lady Stark.”

There is a collision between where his mouth lies and where his hands wander that leads to a peaceful departure of his kisses, a far more pressing matter at hand: undressing you. The prince seems to do so without giving it much thought, only for the gravity of his action to strike him, ice cold water and melted iron, as he takes in the sight of you, bare as the day you were brought into the world.

It does not matter that he lacks an eye, for the one he possesses carries the weight of a thousand men’s stares. A slow, agonising pause falls over his frantic need, as the prince falls into a trance, tracing over what feels to be every bump and every blemish that marks and shapes your body.

Never have you felt so exposed, not even the harrowing events of your bedding ceremony dare compare. You mean to find modesty, fruitless as it may seem, crossing one leg over the other while your arms do the same over your breasts. He can’t let that be, his own hands shooting out to gently grasp at your wrists and tug at them. Like the prince let you guide him to your chambers, you let him bare you to his eyes once more as your hands fall back to your side.

The intense stare continues, as does the silence, but, alas, he puts his skin to yours once more, a single finger that dances over the expanse of your clavicle, a teasing waltz that dips slowly between the valley of your breasts only to rise again. It takes interest in your left breast, skimming over the swell of it and, as it reaches the nipple, a second finger joins the cause. Together, they clamp round the soft flesh, a gentle pinch that pulls at an invisible string connected to your cunt, the start of an itch that demands to be scratched.

“This is wrong,” Aemond whispers, as if the words are not even meant to reach your ears.

“So wrong,” you can’t help but echo back. There is a shake in your breath you don’t expect.

“I should not be touching you,” yet he makes no attempt to stop touching you, feet inching closer and his forehead resting against your own. “Only hours ago, I broke bread at the same table as your husband.”

The weight of his gaze lands on your lips. You await the reunion of his mouth and your own, but it never comes. Instead, his head dips down and the very same lips he uses to scowl delicately envelope the peak of your right breast. His mouth is warm, his tongue is curious, and his teeth give a gentle nibble to your right breast, in tandem with the pinch of his fingers on your left breast.

“Aemond,” a futile plea of his name. Your body calls to him, the way it only does for the prince, a subconscious squeeze of your thighs bringing a sweet drop of relief in the desert of desire.

He forces himself off of you, a sign of desperation between his kiss-swollen lips, pink, and plump, and shining with the wet of his own mouth, a perfect match to the residue of saliva he has stained upon your breast.

“Tell me to leave,” he demands, yet makes no attempt to flee as your hand clasps at the top buckle of his jerkin, nor as you undone it and move down to the second buckle. “Before I lose any modicum of composure I still possess.”

You do no such thing.

You do not even speak.

Both eyes glued to his one, you inch your way backwards blindly, until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back, unable to hold back a giggle as the mattress bounces you several times. The prince still stands a foot away, top buckles undone and the two that remain strain against the heaving of each breath that enters his chest.

“You stare too much, Prince One-Eye,” an unexplored part of you seems to take the reigns, a version of you that teases, and mocks, and feels no shame as you bend your legs at the knee, plant your feet flat against the bed, and slowly let your thighs part, baring your naked centre in a quiet offering. “Do you never tire of observing instead of participating?”

His footsteps echo, a slow approach towards the bed. He makes no sound, yet his face speaks a thousand words of longing, hunger, lust, all framed in a tightly bound brow, a pointed nose, sharply carved cheekbones, and lips that hover apart, drifting further from one another to make way for a rosy tongue that wets the lower lip. Like treacle slips down the tree or honey drips from its comb, the prince sinks slowly to his knees at the edge of the bed.

The image of a man at prayer, so buried in his worship that the caps of his knees bruise a pretty purple, made into a sin by the tugging at ankles, and the grabbing of naked thighs, and the hoisting of a single leg over a shoulder. He turns his face, closes his eye, and delivers a whisper of a kiss against the lower calf that rests upon him. It is a slow advance down into the well of madness, both the journey his lips make along your skin and the longing that it awakens in you, a heat that rises, and rises, and rises between your legs, melting away into a wetness of sin that dribbles its own path out the eye of your cunt and down the swell of your rump.

“Aemond,” it has become something more of a plea than a name. A call for something, anything, so long as it soothes your ache and laves your burning skin back to health, back to sanity. The prince protests with a tight squeeze around the meat of your thighs, his mouth paused above your knee. The eye reopens, blinks at you twice, before it shuts once more and he continues his descent down the length of you, growing closer to the apex of your legs with each fleeting kiss.

When he strikes, he strikes hot. Like dragon’s breath, the prince’s mouth melts you beneath its kiss, open-mouthed upon the slickened lips of your cunt. Another kiss follows close behind as the prince continues a short journey higher, lips enveloping the hardened pearl that rests atop your centre. The leg on his shoulders jerks inwards, delivering a harsh kick of your heel against his back, yet Aemond barely seems to notice, too lost in the feast he sets himself between your legs.

He delves into you with reckless abandon, open mouth and curious tongue. They are a fearsome pair, who move over the length of your cunt with the grace of any great waltz. Lips pull the tongue in, and explore the pleasures of suckling at your pearl like a babe does its mothers teat. They descend further in their dance, twisting and twirling, parted lips and dipping tongue. You are rendered speechless, unable to speak much other than his Valyrian name and a cacophony of wanton moans, and shivered gasps, and back-arching whines, your head thrown back and your eyes feeling the need to shut. You cannot let the sight escape you, too far and too dark does the memory of the night in your chambers now live, more of a picture book than a motion play-by-play of the ways in which the prince had ravaged you between your thighs, the original sin of kin-by-law, kin by king.

You’re barreling towards your own undoing, mouth barely finding time to breathe between each coo, and whimper, and cry it gifts the prince in honour of his efforts. Where he calls, you seem to follow, hips moving on their own accord to meet the breaching of his tongue between the warmth of your walls. He welcomes the movement, a groan of approval and the reopening of his eye, if only to stare at you intensely before returning his focus to what matters: delving in between your thighs.

“Ah,” he nods at your pitiful proclaim, and you swear you feel him draw out each letter of his own name upon your skin, branding you with his tongue and forsaking you to a life you already lead where the dragon prince is the only man to master the skill of pleasing you, of bringing you to a peak so thrilling it is hot white, burning, and blinding, and, unfortunately, fleeting, a beauty the gods gift you only a moment in time with, rather than the eternity you long for.

With your good-brother’s tongue burrowed as deep as it may reach within your cunt, and his hands grasping your flailing legs tightly by the thigh, and his nose swiping back and forth at your pearl as your hips bend and rise to meet the strokes of his mouth, you at last take a tumble off the mountain of desire, rolling directly into a river of your own peak that stains the prince’s mouth. He answers it with open lips and delighted grunts, a gentleman who dares not leave a single drop of his prize go to waste.

It takes you time to regain your composure, and even longer to regain your breath, mind floating out your own head and drifting somewhere among the clouds, leaving the puddle of limbs that becomes your body. The prince, however, takes no pause, no break, no reprieve, the lips you stain with your own pleasure travelling a new path up the slope of your gut, the dip of your belly-button, the valley sloped by your heaving breast, the clavicle that shakes under the beat of a racing heart, the length of your neck that begs to be turned purple and blue by possessive lips, all the way to your ringing ears.

“Tell me you want this,” his command is but a whisper beneath the rush of your own heartbeat, so quiet you fear you mishear him. As if to reassure that your ears do not deceive you, he repeats the very same words, louder.

You nod, wordlessly, though your mind lies leagues away from rationality and you’ve little to no idea what the prince means by this. All you know is that if Aemond is willing to give, you are happy to take, no matter the nature of his gift.

No clothes live between you any longer, the prince undressed in your moments of delirium, leaving you both bare bod against bare bod, warm to touch and eager to explore and be explored, conquer and be conquered. The leg that sat upon his shoulder now clings onto it only by the ankle, the knee of it bent and sitting firmly between both your chests. The stretch of the angle brings a sweet pain to the back of your thigh, the muscle pulled taught like a bow ready to be released and shoot an arrow out into the night.

There is something hard, heavy, and warm that rests against your lower stomach, and it takes you glancing down to notice the familiar length of his cock, pink-tipped and spilling a tease of what seed lives within it against your skin, a liquid that shines under the flickering candlelight. The fire in the hearth has already lost its flame, yet you feel no chill while laying naked against the night. Though you’ve no doubt anybody feels a chill in the dornish air this evening, you prefer to credit this phenomenon to the blanket of muscle that hovers over you, four limbs, two hands and one eye that warms you beneath its stare, greater than any sun or hearth may dare.

“Tell me. Say it,” he grows desperate in his words, a hand slipping up between your bodies to grasp at your face and pull you back down to earth, eyes on him and mind back in the safety of your own head. When he catches you looking at him, at last, he seems incapable of stopping himself, bringing his mouth down against your own, a desperate parting of lips and the curious exploration of a tongue eager to taste yourself from upon his lips. Your essence tastes sweeter than you imagined, yet simultaneously more tart. Like a raspberry, freshly picked, you needn’t wonder why he feasted upon you with such delight. “Tell me I am not taking that which you are not willing to give.”

It’s not clear who out of the two of you moves, but the action gives way to friction between you, a buzz of pleasure that shoots down both your spines as you grind, body to body, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

You realise then what he’s asking of you, the tension that has lay, building stronger and fortifying its defences over the course of an unspoken number of years, from the first moment you lay eyes on him and the night you married his own brother under his own watchful eye, to the nights of pleasantries exchange at feasts and indiscretions exchanged thrice in the privacy of each other’s company, all leading to this, right now, both of you as bare as the Mother delivered you into this world and desperate to let the fever of lust at last break between you.

So you nod your head, and quickly realise that’s not enough.

“A man cannot take what is already his,” the prince between your thighs seems to approve of your words, the hand upon your face reaching down to grasp at the length of his manhood as he aligns his hips with your own, before dragging the tip of himself between the mouth of your cunt, all the way up against the hardened nub that lives above it. “Aemond, I want this. I want you.”

“Yeah?” He croons against your mouth, tongue dipping down to brush against your own, lips parted as a single breath of air passes back and forth between you.

You nod your head for a third time this evening, curl an arm around his neck as you pull his mouth fully against your own, losing yourselves once more in a kiss of tangled limbs and racing hearts, neither mind thinking of the risks that lay on the road ahead. There are no vows that bind you by law, no customs that dictate how you should interact with each other. There are only two bodies, bare upon a bed, losing themselves in one another.

His lips are the first to drift away, while your own continue to press against the sharp line of his jaw. The weight of his forehead presses into your own, the heat of his breath warms your ear, and the tips of his fingers drag over your thigh as he takes hold of his cock once more.

“Then it is decided,” he mutters, half distracted, it seems, as the mushroomed tip of his prick at last breaches the opening of your weeping slit. “I’m going to defile you, Lady Stark.”

The first thrust is shallow. You welcome him with a delighted gasp and a tight grasp at his blonde locks. It’s not long after that he gives a second push and, lastly, a third, till the base of his cock kisses against your soaked lower lips and his stones rest against the swell of your arse.

With Aegon, the process of your couplings is ritualistic. Him, drunk out of his wits, you staring blankly at some blurry horizon. You’d cried at the beginning, till war had come and taking your husband between your legs was no longer the scariest threat that loomed in the shadows. There is always that initial pain that fades into mute pleasure, teasing you with the thought of enjoyment, only for it to be snatched away all too soon as your husband spends his seed and takes his leave, a sardonic voice that calls over his shoulder, “let’s hope you make yourself useful and spare us the need of repeating this come the next moon.”

There is a pain now, as the walls of your cunt spread and mould themselves tightly around the shape of another man’s cock, yet it doesn’t deter you. It awakens you, makes you crave a greater dose of the toe-curling pain as the prince stills himself, fully sheathed within you, mouth dancing across the skin of your neck, the length of your jaw, the dip of your clavicle. He’s everywhere upon you, a blanket of Aemond, and still it is not enough.

The prince grasps at your ankle, yielding it down from the pedestal it took upon his shoulder. In an act of pure instinct, you choose not to lay it rest on the bed but, instead, find yourself hooking it over the slender frame of his waist. You fight back a wanton whine as it drives him closer to you, deeper in you. He takes it as his command to move at last.

It starts off slow. A testing of waters, a low burning ember. His hips retreat from your own, only to undulate back down against you, smooth as a hot blade cuts through butter. Your body reacts with ease, legs begging to spread further than they can dare go, a display of how willing it is to offer you, whole and hole, to the prince. It makes it easy to drag your mind away from your husband, and the many misdeeds of your marital bed, and the anger that begs to be called upon when you think of the years you’ve spent being bowed and broken-in by a man who knows no pleasure but his own.

You find yourself turning Aemond’s face away from your neck and up to your parted lips, need to connect with every part of him that you can as your other hand lays splayed across his muscled back, delighting as it tightens and loosens beneath your fingertips, a pattern that only doubles in speed with each passing moment, a testament to the prince finding his footing, setting a pace with which to ruck himself into your opening.

The room fills with whispers of moans, cries of each other’s names, and the squelch of his manhood spearing into you. Over, and over, and over again, till your toes curl in on themselves, and your back arches off the bed, and his mouth trails wonders down the expanse of your neck down to the valley of your chest once more, that warm mouth claiming ownerships of one of your breasts and the other is engulfed by his hand.

“Gods,” you cry out, a blasphemous act amid this display of naked sin upon the goose-feather mattress.

“No, no gods,” the prince answers, voice ragged and breath hot against skin that shines with his spit and your sweat. “Just you and me.”

The leg thrown over his waist clutches tighter, holds him close. Some part of you fears it has all been an illusion — the visit to Dorne, the return of the prince, the thrill of at last tasting the sting of his cock slipping between your lips — and that soon you will waken with a gasp to find yourself back in the Queen’s apartments at the Red Keep.

The only gasp you give is one born of pure pleasure, the gentle grind of his pelvis against the hardened pearl between your legs. It sets off butterflies that flutter in your gut and fly from there, ripples of pleasure down your thighs, and up your spine, and through your chest.

He kisses your name against your skin, as his hands clamp down tighter and his hips fuck into you harder, faster, more desperate and out of rhythm with themselves as the moments drag on, and on, and on, a force that’s driving you both closer to the edge of pleasure and certain to throw you off it, down into the pits of blinding ecstasy.

“Aemond,” it is a warning, one you needn’t even speak, one you would not be able to put into words if you even tried. And try you do. “I’m- Ah! I can’t-”

“I know,” the prince cuts you off and, despite his ability to speak without his own vocalised enjoyment interrupting him, he is in no better state than you are, hair sticking to his sweated skin, and eye struggling to keep itself open, and hips stuttering with every few trusts they give, as though he’s actively fighting off the inevitable release his body begs of him. “I know, I know.”

A hiss blown out into the night, through gritted teeth and followed by a pathetic noise that crawls itself out the prince, the growing intensity in his grip upon your thighs, your hips, any part of you he dares touch becomes a reflection of your walls tightening around the swell of his cock and the lips kiss the base of him, praying that he never dare leave.

You feel your peak hovering right over you, as if you need only stretch out your hand and grasp at it. Instead you grasp at his hair, fingers curling around the tresses and tugging them at the roots. The moan that follows the prince is one of approval. As the world around you melts away under warmth, and light, and sweat, you stumble at last and crash straight into a blinding pleasure, a cry of ecstasy infused with his name.

“Don’t leave,” you beg, and he listens.

He takes his own leap, no warning, mouth at your ear, hands on your thighs, cock in your cunt. The pair of you are a mess of panting breaths, and ill-delivered kisses upon sweaty skin, and fluids that stain you in each other’s lust. Together you stay for what feels like an eternity, limbs entwined and air shared between you, until the prince rolls off of you and lets himself crash, back first, against the mattress. Coolness kisses at the sweat that lines your body, the wetness in your thighs one you’d usually find uncomfortable, yet you welcome it now, even as a trail of his seed slips out your slit.

This is treason, of the highest order. The Queen and the Prince, bare for the world to see, bodies sated and shaking in the aftershocks of coupling as they lay side by side, one bed that holds two hearts. His seed has stained your insides, an act that threatens you both, yet neither of you care to speak of it.

Because right now, you are not the Queen, nor is Aemond the Prince.

It is just him, and you.

No gods, no duty, no family, no honour.

Just you and me, his words echo in your mind.

“It was an accident,” he whispers. You shift on your side, all at once, elbow digging into the bed as you scan your eyes over the length of his body, waiting for him to inflict more pain, waiting for him to scramble away from you in a hurry, redress himself and walk out the door, fleeing on his mount and plundering you into another drought of pretending his is not the company you long for. But his voice starts up once more, and the prince does no such thing. “What I did to Lucerys. I think.” Under a sigh of relief, your shoulders sag and the exhaustion that alluded you hours ago creeps up on your bones, forcing you to surrender yourself against the prince, laying your head to rest upon his shoulder, your arm across his beating chest, and your legs entwining with his once more.

“I did not give the command…” The prince continues to speak, barely acknowledging you with his eyes as his own arm secures itself over you, dragging you closer, as if there’s any space left between you to be crossed. “It was Vhagar who struck. I do not know what I set out to do that night when I took to the skies in pursuit of my nephew. Perhaps I meant only to scare him. Maybe I truly wanted to strike him at that moment, and Vhagar was merely my vessel to do harm.”

You watch the apple of his throat bob as the prince swallows back words you will never hear. Despite your curious nature, you find yourself at peace with this, no part of you wishing to learn of things he wishes to not share, events he can barely recall without a shake making nest within his voice.

“I do not know the full answer, if I regret it or not,” comfort in your silence, Aemond finds it in himself to continue recounting, letting his mind spill to the floor and his mouth collect it as coherently as it can. “All I know is that repentance is not my path to take, my role in history has already been written. Kinslayer, that is to be my legacy. What kind of man can outrun such a thing as legacy?”

You, you wish to say.

But fear you would not even believe yourself. The maesters gather in Oldtown already, putting quill to paper and weaving tales from the dragon war into the history books, binding rumours, and facts, and treason, and falsehoods into its pages. History favours the victor, that much is known, yet you wonder what the books will read and what the songs will sing of Aemond Targaryen and the acts he committed, from the lead up to the Dance, to the recapturing of King’s Landing. A trail of blood taints the path he walked, but is it any more than your husband’s? Or Ser Criston Cole’s? Or your good-mother, the instigator of Aegon’s coronation and accused usurping?

Perhaps the trails of blood all lead back to one man, Viserys Targaryen, dead and gone before the dragons took the sky, and fire and blood became not just the words of House Targaryen but the death of it.

“Promise me, Aemond,” the candlelight has burnt out, the room encased in the darkness of the moonlight, a pale blue hue that blankets over the shapes and shadows of the chambers.

“Anything,” his voice is gentle yet firm all at once, soothing in its own assurance of the word it speaks.

“Leave before morning dawns,” you feel the hand that had begun trailing patterns over the naked skin of your back freeze, unexpectant to your request. You, too, can hardly believe it. Moons you had spent in court, wishing and hoping for a moment of his company, if only to scream in his face and lament your own lonesome days in the Keep. Now, you have him bare beneath you and it is more terrifying than you ever dared consider. “I do not wish to be burdened with the memory of how it feels to lay by your side all through the night, nor do I wish to know the sweetness of your face being the first view that greets my waking eyes.”

You glance up at him, head lifting off his shoulder to fully gaze upon his naked face for one last time this evening, wishing he could understand how much you truly mean it. He gives you no response and so you take upon yourself to end the conversation, a gentle kiss delivered against the scarred tissue of his cheek, one last gaze at the part of himself he’s haunted by.

As you feel your eyes slip shut, head back upon the safety of the prince’s shoulder, it is unclear what rings louder in your ear: the beat of his heart or the final cry of his dragon gives from outside the walls.

You wake at dawn’s first light.

It creeps in through a crack between curtains, the gentle breeze of early morning air billowing them further apart with each passing moment. Disorienting, for half a moment you’ve forgotten where you are, eyes blurred by sleep that scan over a room that holds no familiarity to your apartments in the Keep.

The bowl of water upon the vanity reminds you of where you are, and everything that transpired hours before.

A stifled yawn, a stretch of limbs. You reach a hand up to wipe the sleep out of your eyes, but on its journey it gets caught against something else. It is soft, and warm, and wrapped tightly around you. The image of the prince, head nestled against the naked skin of your chest, sleeping soundly as the world passes by and daytime steps forth into the sky.

He has broken his promise, yet you cannot even fool yourself into feeling angered.

Not when the sight is one of beauty, a rare peacefulness on his ever-weary face. He looks his age, a man no more than a couple years past his second decade. You brush your hand over his messed hair, trail over the freshly made stitches that live temporarily above his brow, and sigh in utter defeat.

Not a day will come where you will not wake and long for this sight.

And not a day will come again where you will see it.

The moon has almost completed its cycle once more, and your return to the Keep crawls closer by the day. You will soon trade your time of respite and warmth with duty and court, by your husband’s side once more. And far, far away from the one-eyed prince.

A longing to watch the sun’s light rise over the horizon calls you away from the prince, and the bed, and the chambers. You leave him there, sleeping peacefully as he tangles himself amidst your sheets, and slip out the door with no more than your wits and the very same dress Aemond had pulled off of you during the night.

You make your way quietly through the halls, your bare feet padding carefully over the floor, careful to attract no wandering guard or waken any curious child. Solitude is a virtue you have so little of, and so you want to reach for it while it sits in front of you. You almost believe you’ve achieved it, stepping out onto the communal balcony that overlooks the gardens and stares right out to the rolling tide of the Summer Sea.

Until, for a second time in so few hours, you find yourself faced with the back of a Targaryen.

“Helaena,” you call out to her gently, apologising with a smile as the hand you lay on her arm causes her to flinch. “I wasn’t expecting for anyone else to be awake at this hour. Are you well?”

You both stand before the marble bannister of the balcony, shoulder to shoulder, and as her face turns to you, you find a shell of the girl you’ve come to know.

Eyes rimmed with red, and wide with panic, and brimmed with unfallen tears. Her hair is a mess, and not in the usual careless fashion that it seems to live in, but dishevelled, distressed, as though pulled at and tugged on. She’s pale. Pale as the days she lived in King’s Landing, hiding from the world with her critters and her bugs, before she travelled south and found the joy of sunlight warming one’s skin.

The sight of her is most unnerving.

“I used to wish for a sister,” her voice is hollow, like the rest of her, emptied of its joy. “I had Rhaenyra by blood, but she was gone by the time I reached an age where those things matter. All I had was my brothers, each one equal parts awful and wonderful in his own way.”

“I, too, knew only brothers growing up,” you hope the worry she’s birthed within you goes unnoticed as you smile her way, appeasing the strange conversation she sparks up and praying it does not head in the direction that you fear it may: Aemond. “I used to force Cregan to sit at my feet and let me paint his lips and cheeks with rouge, and braid his hair. I think he began to wish a sister for us both, if only to take my affections off of him!”

Your laughter is met only with more troubled looks from Helaena.

“Then you should understand why I am so grateful to have you now, as my sister. Not by blood, but law, but a sister all the same,” you nod in agreement to her words, place your hand upon the one she rests against the bannister and deliver a comforting squeeze to it. “Then you should understand that I worry about you.”

Ice runs through your veins, in place of blood. You begin to fear the worst, images of Helaena knocking at your door and you replying in only sounds of pleasure. Of her twisting the handle and finding the sight of you in bed with her brother, her other brother instead of the one you’re bound to by law.

You swallow back a ball of anxious energy that lodges up your breathing pipes.

“Helaena, sister, you do not seem yourself,” you keep your voice hushed, hoping she’ll do the same if she dares speak of the events transpired between you and Aemond. You were wrong to be so reckless, to think you were safe to step where you like because you sit far from the Red Keep. Nowhere is safe enough, nowhere will ever be safe enough. “What worries you so deeply?”

“I see him,” she hisses the words, like she cannot bring herself to speak any louder, forcing it out of herself in a breath. “In my dreams. It frightens me.”

“Who?” You pray for her to tell, try to think what defence you could possibly have for yourself and the prince under the accusation of her mind’s eye, a gift you’ve heard much of and seen little, the curse of the Targaryen dreamers.

“You’re there, too, in a bed soaked by tears, and sweat, and blood,” the more she speaks, the more the fear rises within you. The fear feels bigger than yourself, bigger than the affairs between you and Aemond. “He is there, at your bedside, a hand on your shoulder. He means no harm, but death is his nature, he cannot help it. He’s there to take you.”

“Who, Helaena? You must tell me!” You wipe away the single tear the streaks down her face and cup at her face with both hands, a gentle comfort that seems mute against her fear stricken features.

“The Stranger.”

+ extra hyde !

we're finally getting into the meat of the plot, beyond these two horn-dogs trying to bang in a world that hates to see a bad bitch thrive. from here on out, expect more drama, and mystery, and death (but who's?).

i really hope the length of the chapters makes up for the slow, once a month, roll out. the series' masterlist has been edited, with 2 new chapters added to the timeline.

a quick apology to anyone who may have felt the smut is a little lacklustre in this chapter. i tried to write a much wilder, kinkier, mouthier version of the scene and, in all honesty, it did not feel true to the context under which they at last wind up smashing. writing smut and using medieval language is surprinsingly hard (no pun intended), so this is honestly a journey we're all going on together (aka me trying to navigate not being able to use the typical language of modern sex scenes).

thank you for reading, see you next month!

#aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon smut #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen series #house of the dragon fanfiction

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moonflower91 · 5 months ago

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Saerah and Aegon make peace.

“Aegon, get down from there before you cut yourself.”

“Do my eyes fail me? Has your hair turned brown and your name changed to Alicent? I am not a child and you are not our mother. You do not command me, baby sister.”

Saerah scoffed, stepping closer. She paused at the base of the throne, observing her brother as he lounged over it as one might lounge over a pillowed sette. She looked towards his squire, a tall boy clutching a pitcher of wine. “His Grace must be hungry. He missed supper. Fetch him some food.” She commanded, and at Aegon’s affronted squawk, she spoke again, looking at him. “I did not command you, I commanded your squire.” He did not respond. “You know Viserys cut himself on it years ago and that led to his long, disgusting, miserable illness?”

Aegon gulped down a bit more wine and shrugged. “I’ve sat here for hours just this way, not a nic on me. Perhaps the throne approves of me more.”

“You’ve gotten drunk on the Iron Throne with your friends, and didn’t get cut?” She asked, brow raised.

She felt appalled, shocked, and a tad disgusted but all she could think to say was, “That’s actually quite impressive”.

“Thank you, little sister. Would you like a drink? I shall have someone fetch you sweet wine. I know you care not for the spiced vintage” It was, perhaps one of the kinder things they’d said to each other in ages.

“No, thank you. Don’t indulge too late though. You’re to hold court to hear petitions on the marrow. Mother and I will attend you, along with grandfather.”

Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes and letting his head fall back with a soft thud on the melted swords behind him. “I think you’re the only one I will tolerate to attend me. At least you shall remain silent and let me speak for myself.”

“Mother means well.” She said softly, knowing Aegon had always felt the weight of her disapproval far more sharply than any of her other children. By how heavy it felt on her at times, she knew it was a heavy burden to shoulder. “Otto too, I suppose.”

“And you? Do you mean well, sister?”

“I only want everyone to be happy. Content. To receive what they need without fuss.”

Once more, Aegon took another drink. But this time, his shrug lacked the joviality of before and his fingers turned the glass in almost a nervous fashion. “You and I, I think we’ve more in common than you’d like to admit.”

Saerah felt somehow… warmed by that, and she gave him a half smile.

“Do not cut yourself. I do not want you suffering as that old fool did.”

“You did so hate the old man, didn’t you?” He observed. He found himself swinging his legs over the armrest to settle his feet on the floor. He rather liked hearing Saerah compliment him. And with his mother and grandsire in his ear, constantly complaining about him to him, Saerah was a lovely change.

“He did steal my dragon. Sent me away like a dog he didn’t want anymore. He even called me ‘Rhaenyra’ the last time I saw him.”

“Cunt.”

“I know.” She murmured, lifting her skirts above her ankles so she could sit on the first step before the Iron Throne comfortably. “But worse than that, I loved him still. Even just a little, at the end.”

Aegon continued to fiddle with his glass. “He never saw any one of us, really. He tried sometimes with Helaena, and you, I think. But he never understood how Aemond liked books about great thinkers more than anything else, how Hel liked her bugs. He never knew us enough to love us. And he never loved us enough to know us.”

Saerah regarded her elder brother a moment, letting the sad fact pollute the wine soaked air between them. But then, she smiled and decided they’d had enough sadness to fill ten lifetimes. “Is it wine that makes you wise or…?”

Finally, Aegon broke into laughter, that jovial, almost mad smile returning.

#saerah targaryen #asoiaf #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x sister!OC #aegon ii targaryen

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arolesbianism · 9 months ago

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Y'know what I take back wanting every dupe donor to get full names and shit I want all of them except Marie so I can continue my half joke hc that she and Mi-ma come from the same donor

#rat rambles #oni posting #this is a joke tbc if I dont have full names for all of them in due time Ill explode and die #also I do need the peace of mind in knowing I am indeed correct abt mi-ma being the scientist of my nightmares #oh dr. sklodowska how you torture me so by being almost certainly mi-ma but not provably so #and it sucks cause shes almost certainly referencing the same person marie also references so there is semi evidence for marie being her #I say semi because other scientist also devatably reference the same ppl between them #like theres a guy named otto stern whos a physician and while that could easily be coincidence I wouldnt put it above the oni team #but yeah ideal third option for marie reveal is for the writers to just give me the win and make my joke hc canon cmon guys be a bro #that wont happen ofc but its fun to imagine #mi-ma and marie may share a hair style but several other elements of their designs are out of line so I wouldn't put my money on it #real think I need them to do is unfix the devon double last name thing let them and frankie be married #or alternatively make them canonically divorced love loses <3

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timkontheunsure · 4 months ago

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The clocks back theory

Something in this zanny one is plot relevance. (Probably relevant to this season's finale, Sinsmas)

It could be a couple of things, or both. 🙂

Emberlynn's amulet

It could be the Dhorks and cherubs related. But would be funnier if the people writing akuma no otto, the devil' husband, were just using a lot of religious stuff as backstory. (Like Hazbin hotel does. Hey offbrand Charlie).

If Stolas' seal is all that's to summon him, I can see merchants for a show accidentally making holly protection. 😆

Dumb fanfic

Ok, so gist is a someone who previously had a wife stands up against satan to protect their lover.

And Satan is turning up soon, probably in Sinsmas.

Blitz and IMP look to be in trouble in the trailer.

What if they get caught?

We know Andrealphus is plotting something to get all of Stolas' wealth, legions and title. And 'technically' doing this for Stella, Stolas' wife, so she'll get more in the divorce. (Actually doing it so he gets it).

Emberlynn also calls Blitz a demon prince.

Wich makes me think it's foreshadowing Stolas being the one taking a stand for his man. Not Blitz (this time).

There's been a theme this season of Stolas learning to choose, and stand up for what he wants. After failing to do so before last

Like going through with the divorce,

Makeing sure Blitz can manage his business without him,

And setting a boundary of needing space when he's hurt. Something that's really hard do with loved ones.

These are all pieces of rebuilding you have to do after abuse.

This part with the ars goeita, Andy and Vassago, Mammon and Satan all looks to be in the same place.

I'm assuming this meeting is about IMP's illegal use of the grimoire. To show Stolas is too incompetent and unfit for his job.

While Blitz now has a legal method and is under Asmodeus jurisdiction, how much will that help when Ozzie's also very publicly dating an imp?

That might make him seem to biased to help, when Blitz originally was lent the grimoire for sleeping with Stolas.

But why would Mammon be helping here?

Blitz burned down Loo loo land, while IMP were being bodyguards for Stolas. Wonder if hell has a law about being liable for any damage that contractors do?

But I can see Stolas standing up against Satan in the ars goeita council, to keep Blitz and IMP safe.

So why do I think the amulet might come back in?

A lot of people at assuming Andy is going to win this. (Couldn't be arsed to keep putting the full name anymore. And I get a laugh thinking it'd piss the pompous bugger off).

That he'll take everything from Stolas. Money, home, job, grimoire, and probably even Via. 🙁 (Don't think that'll stick as Via is a real daddy's girl).

Stolas without his grimoire would probably be vulnerable to Andy, especially if he's just been dragged by the council.

Thinking this is going to get a call back.

A lot of us have been wondering how Blitz is defending a vulnerable Stolas.

Maybe the strangle looking knife is merchant from the akuma no otto show lol?

(NB I had to do so many double check that I didn't put Santa instead of Satan in this thing. 😅 Heh dyslexic kiddies write Christmas lists to hell lol).

#helluva boss #helluva theory #helluva spoilers #stolitz #blitzo x stolas

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syndrossi · 2 months ago

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October Trick or Treat Fill #11: Daemon overhears an upsetting song

There were some great prompts for mad!Daemon and I...ended up taking little pieces from a few. (I started with "Daemon punches Cole" but ultimately stopped because we might get there at some point in the main story.)

So at long last, here are 3.6K words of Daemon experiencing all the emotions, which definitely include anger.

x~x~x

“Why is this so difficult?” Daemon snarled as they stepped back into the busy street.

“Because you are making it difficult,” Laenor said. “Why did you ask me along if you refuse to heed my advice?”

That was six shops along the Street of Kings visited, none of them offering anything remotely worth gifting to his sons. He had only given them two years worth of name day gifts, and each time it grew more difficult to decide upon a worthy one.

He had hoped that Laenor might have insight to offer, but his sons were years younger, while Daemon’s sons often seemed older than their own years. The wooden ships he had gifted Jon had seen some limited use when their cousins visited, but otherwise collected dust on the shelf. He doubted they would show any more interest in wooden knights or horses.

“It must be perfect,” Daemon said, frustration rising.

When his sons’ belongings had arrived from the Gates of the Moon, and Rhaegar had excitedly reached for his harp, Daemon had been met with the harsh realization he still did not know half of the things his sons were interested in. And when he had learned that Jon’s short sword and Rhaegar’s harp had been gifts from an unnamed “benefactor,” he had needed to excuse himself for a rare visit to the yard, where he had hacked a target to pieces with Dark Sister.

Realizing that Otto Hightower had known his sons’ preferences better than he, to have sent the perfect gifts, had filled him with fury at first, but when his energy had finally been spent in the yard, it had turned to hollow grief. I should know these things. I should know their favorite color, what foods they loved as infants, what joys they clung to for comfort in that joyless place.

That Jon had been forced to seek solace in weapons, in bashing training targets to gain some sense of control with he and his brother at Allard Royce’s mercy, while Rhaegar had turned to song to soothe their pain—

Daemon spun away from Laenor, breath hissing through clenched teeth as he fought to master his fury when every part of him screamed with the impulse to burn, to destroy.

“I know where we can go!” Laenor said, voice tight with the forced cheer Daemon had heard him use before to stave off one of Joff’s toddler meltdowns. His cousin raised his arms, palms flat, in a placating gesture when Daemon turned, ready to snap at him.

He exhaled then. Laenor was not the enemy. The man he wished to burn was in the Vale. “Where?”

“Children like secrets, hidden things. Like Jon’s sheath, the one you said Rhaegar gave him.”

That was true, though it set his chest to burning once more at the reminder of another enemy who still drew breath. Rhaegar’s first gift had been taken from Jon the night of their attempted escape, when Crayne had broken bones and threatened him with death, and discarded. His younger son had asked for aid in having a new one made for Jon, who had been moved almost to tears at the gift.

“What do you have in mind?”

“There is a shop nearer to River Row that sells such things. Jeweled boxes with false walls where they can keep their treasures, pouches with hidden pockets that can hide letters or other small things. Oh! There were some fetching brooches and hairpins that conceal tiny knives.”

His sons did enjoy both intrigues and martial pursuits. And although both had their bronze knives now, Rhaegar wore his openly rather than concealed. He might enjoy the novelty of a weapon hidden within a hairpin. It went without saying that Jon would gladly welcome any excuse to be further armed. He had already started to pester Daemon about when they would be considered old enough to wear a sword at their side.

“That sounds promising,” he admitted, earning a smile in response.

The shop in question was so close to the River Row as to nearly be in it, just barely skirting the edge of the sphere of affluence that radiated outward from the base of Aegon’s Hills, where the wealthiest of the city dwelled. The man who greeted them seemed to be a jeweler by trade, but there were enough works of leather that Daemon assumed he had a partner who specialized in such.

It had all that Laenor had described and more, and the jeweler, upon recognizing that he had royal visitors, brought out some richer pieces for their perusal. There was a beautiful pin of garnet and gold, fashioned into the shape of a red dragon that Daemon was immediately drawn to, the head rearing back and wings splayed wide, as though preparing to breathe dragonflame.

It had considerable heft to it, the pin itself wide and tapering to a point, to serve as a sheath for the hidden blade. The hilt and guard were hidden behind the dragon’s head and wings, secured in place to a pair of hooks by leather straps on either side of the guard that could be worked free.

The dagger could hardly be called that, its delicate hilt barely long enough to pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and the blade itself thin, tapering to a needle’s point. But it could stab a man’s flesh, should the need arise, and bleed him capably enough if aimed somewhere vulnerable.

“Can you make two more in this style?” Daemon asked, running his finger over the jewels that formed the scales. “One of sapphire on silver, and one of onyx on bronze?”

Jon did not often wear his hair styled into braids, but he might consider it with a Shadow hairpin that could transform into a tiny blade. The bronze would stand out against his dark hair, just as the blue of the sapphire would in Rhaegar’s light hair.

“For your sons?” The jeweler’s smile faltered for a moment at Daemon’s suspicious frown. “Tales of their hatchlings have spread throughout the city! It would be my honor to fashion pins in their likeness. Would my prince prefer the pins without a blade?”

“No,” Daemon said. He tested the red dragon’s blade with his thumb, which proved acceptably sharp. “It should be just like this one.”

“I can have it completed within a moon, if that is acceptable,” the man said with a bow. “Should I set aside the red dragon pin for when they are complete, or would my prince like to take it with him today?”

Daemon looked at the hairpin, heavy in his hand, and hesitated. He had not planned on seeking any trinkets for himself, but the red of the scales combined with the warm yellow of the dragon’s topaz eyes were too alike Caraxes not to be tempted.

“Here,” Laenor offered, taking the pin from his hand.

He wove the pin through one of Daemon’s side braids, then through the center braid. With just the pin, it would not have been especially stable, but the wings themselves extended into the teeth of a comb, allowing the decorative top piece to be partially secured in place. Daemon turned his head from side to side, then gave a small hop, testing its hold. It would be better served by some center braid knot, with the pin and comb akilter above it, but he could seek suggestions from Rhaenyra when she finally returned.

“It is very fetching,” Laenor said.

“Set it aside,” he said. One for each of us. It would not do to spoil the surprise early by revealing his own.

He added a pair of belt pouches with secret compartments to his purchase, and even took Laenor’s final suggestion, dictating a design for a pair of jeweled boxes with a clever mechanism for triggering the false bottom to spring up when pressed, revealing the hidden space below.

It was not an inexpensive trip, but Daemon had spent little of his royal allowance over his time in the Stepstones. He looked forward to someday bringing the twins with him to the shop, certain they would find other trinkets to their liking within. Once the matters of Volantis and the Stepstones are settled.

They were near enough to a woodworker’s shop that Daemon agreed to one more stop. Laenor had, for once, been inspired by his gift choices and wanted to find some wooden ships for Jace and Luke.

“He also carved their wooden dragons,” Laenor said. “If you’d like any for the twins. His Caraxes was quite a good likeness.”

As they turned onto the next street, they spied a small crowd gathered around a singer who was plucking his lute as he sang a melody Daemon hadn’t heard before, too distant yet to make out the words themselves. They had taken no more than a few steps when Laenor turned abruptly.

“I did not take note of the hour,” he said. “We should return to the holdfast. I can stop by another time.”

The swiftness of his speech spoke to a sudden agitation, and Daemon regarded him with suspicion, not moving to follow. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Laenor said, shoulders slumping after a few seconds of Daemon’s unblinking stare. “I—there is someone I wish to avoid.”

Although his words held the ring of a lie, his gaze did stray toward the singer. Daemon squinted through the crowd to catch a better glimpse of the man. Short, with short brown hair and a plain face. Far from his cousin’s usual type, which was lean, handsome, well-muscled and preferably knighted. And he could think of no other reason Laenor would wish to avoid some singer of common origin.

“Why—?”

“I can explain later.” Laenor grabbed his arm. “Come.”

Daemon easily twisted his arm free, and Laenor’s final protests trailed off as he approached the crowd gathered around the singer. The song was flowery tripe about a pair of Targaryen princes, with two entire verses devoted to their beauty. Such hyperbole was not uncommon in songs about their house.

The song turned slightly ribald then, switching to the lascivious Free Cities of Lys and Myr, whose loveliest slaves could not compare in a verse where their shortcomings were enumerated, with heavy innuendo. A few stretches of broken and butchered Valyrian were sprinkled into the verses, presumably to emphasize the foreign nature of the Free Cities, as the owners of the richest pillow houses conspired to steal away the “hidden jewels of the Iron Throne.”

“You see?” Laenor hissed at him. “It is nothing. We should return.”

Daemon turned to follow, willing to concede just this once, only to halt as the singer moved on to the details of plot, where the “jealous witch of Runestone” struck a bargain with the Lysene slavers.

My sons. Daemon spun back to the singer, too stunned for a moment to hear much of the next verse. It is about my sons.

A purse of fifty-thousand dragons was offered and accepted, and the young twins—fair and dewy-eyed in their innocence—escorted south to Gulltown by a man named Crayne, where the slaver ships awaited. Much was made of his sons’ helplessness, and the slavers’ delight when inspecting their find.

It did not matter that Daemon and Caraxes were made the heroes of the tale, swooping in for a daring, last-minute rescue. Hearing his sons spoken of thus, as objects of desire, as fodder for a Lysene pillow house, brought his blood to a roar in his ears.

“Daemon—” Laenor whispered, seizing his arm once more to halt him from drawing Dark Sister.

“My sons are eight,” Daemon hissed, mind shying away from the knowledge that the pillow houses across the Narrow Sea were notorious for training their pleasure slaves young.

“It is only a song,” Laenor said, straining with both arms now to hold him back. “Nothing happens to them, even in song.”

Laenor’s caution was no match for his fury. Daemon dragged him several steps before his cousin released him at last, and the crowd parted around him as their eyes fell upon his hair, then his unsheathed sword. The singer spotted him last, glancing up from where he had stooped to pick up his earnings, and Daemon lifted him in a single motion, shoving him back into the wall, bringing Dark Sister’s blade to rest just below his jaw.

The man stared back, terrified recognition in his eyes. “My prince. I—”

“Is that song of your creation?” Daemon demanded, the heat of his blood growing with every second he dwelled upon its ugly lyrics.

“No!” the singer gasped, desperately angling his jaw upward to put space between it and Dark Sister’s edge. “There was a singer in Flea Bottom, I learned it from him! And he had learned it from another.”

Daemon searched his gaze for signs of a lie, finding mostly terror, and he turned his head aside, spitting the vilest curses he knew in Valyrian. It has spread then. “What is it called?”

The man swallowed, clearly reluctant to answer. “‘The Pillow Princes.’ I did not name it!”

Laenor had made his way through the crowd after Daemon and put a hand on his shoulder. “Daemon.”

Daemon’s arm strained with the effort of not opening the singer’s throat to spill upon the cobblestone. “If you wish to keep your tongue, then you will not sing it again. And you will spread my warning to others who might do the same.”

The man gave the barest of nods, mindful of the blade. “Yes, my prince, of course! I will spread your words far and wide!”

Daemon lowered his sword, then his elbow, which had pinned the singer in place. The man bowed once, twice, even lower, and stumbled over his lute as he backed away, feet jarring several of the coins that had been tossed his way, which he now ignored to stumble further, not daring to turn his back until he was fully out of view.

When Daemon looked behind, he found that the crowd had dispersed entirely, as though fearful of receiving similar treatment for having listened to the song.

If it has made it through the city, it is only a matter of time until it finds its way into the Red Keep. The thought of his sons hearing it themselves, even if they did not entirely understand the uglier parts, made his fists clench. The part about Rhea will hurt them.

Rhaegar especially. She had given his younger son reason enough to doubt her love, he knew from speaking to Ser Perkins on the matter.

Crayne’s inclusion in the song made it clear that word had spread of his bounty, and inferences had been made from that as to the intentions behind the kidnapping attempt. That the singer behind it had chosen the vilest of possibilities, rather than the more obvious interpretation that one of the Free Cities sought dragons, spoke of malice.

I shall have every gold cloak on alert. Any who dare sing it—

“Forbidding a thing only increases its allure,” Laenor said.

Either he had read his thoughts, or Daemon had spoken aloud without realizing. Denial rose in his throat, and he swallowed it, jaw clenching so hard that it ached. Laenor was right. And if the song had made it to River Row, then it had almost certainly found its way to the harbor, and from there—anywhere.

I cannot protect them from anything. Every failure loomed before him, taunting him. Crayne’s continued freedom, wherever he had fled. The warlock’s candle that continued to haunt his sons. The reward offered by Volantis for their capture, unopposed and uncontested by the Crown.

Even the Stepstones remained unconquered, merely the seeds of victory being planted, with the harvest unassured. And the true horror of the song was that if not for the protection offered by Volantis’s reward, he could very easily imagine the Triarchy hatching such a plot to punish him for all that he had done to oppose them.

He did not sheathe Dark Sister, the walk back to the Red Keep a blur of bitter rage and despair, his thirst for violence, for bloodshed, unquenched. The temptation to mount Caraxes and set out for the Stepstones was nearly overwhelming. Let Caraxes rain fire from above. He would join the chaos of the melee, find release in the spray of blood.

Anything was better than yet another day spent on planning and logistics, on useless whispers and fruitless investigations. I am a blade left sheathed for too long.

Laenor departed once they reached the yard, and Daemon hacked at one target, then another, and another, but the destruction only further fueled the fury in his heart, until he felt as though he might choke on it. I am useless. I shall only fail them, as I failed them for so long.

“Daemon.”

That was his brother’s voice. Daemon blinked, finding his sword stuck partway through the top beam of the wooden fencing along the edge of the yard. His hand throbbed from the repeated impact of metal against wood, carried up the blade to the hilt.

There were a dozen knights in the yard, keeping either a respectful or wary distance from his swath of destruction, and two Kingsguard flanking his brother, and yet all Daemon could feel was a vague sense of threat. As though he were surrounded by only the illusion of safety, and it could vanish within an instant, trapping him, trapping his sons—

You cannot protect them.

He released Dark Sister’s hilt, the fire gone even more swiftly than it had built, without even embers to warm him. He felt cold as he looked to the setting sun, then back at his brother.

“Is there not a small council meeting?”

“Laenor fetched me,” Viserys said. He nodded at Ser Harrold, who strained for a few pulls before wrenching Dark Sister free of the fence and handing her to Daemon, who stared at the sword a moment before sheathing her. A hand found his back, resting lightly there. “Daemon, you worry me. What is the matter?”

There was a concern in his voice that Daemon desperately wanted to believe. “Am I one of your problems again?”

His brother heaved a heavy sigh, which seemed answer enough. “I should not have said that before. I am sorry.”

I am sorry, but we cannot risk open conflict with Volantis while we war against the Triarchy. I am sorry, but you must wed, even if you do not wish to. I am sorry, but I do not trust you enough to explain. I am sorry, but your children must remain here, blood to be spent.

“Daemon?”

“I do not want your apology,” he said. The screams he had strangled before had still somehow left his voice raw.

His brother fell silent for a few long seconds, though his hand remained on his back, a subtle pressure between his shoulder blades. “What do you want?”

“I—” So many things all at once that they might as well be nothing. Daemon swallowed. “I want my sons.”

Viserys’s head moved, and Ser Harrold spoke. “Their arms training is finished for the day. They should be back within the holdfast.”

“Come, then.” Viserys’s hand pushed gently, spurring him into a walk. “We shall find them.”

“Are you not needed at the small council meeting?”

“Are you not needed?” Viserys prodded back, only to quickly add as Daemon’s steps faltered, “They shall manage without us.”

Daemon was escorted to his apartments, and the two Kingsguard and the knight standing vigil outside the door were then ordered a few paces back by Viserys, who continued to study him, his small frown only serving to make him appear even wearier.

“Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

Everything. “It is nothing you can help with,” Daemon said. Nothing you would help with.

“Laenor told me about the song,” Viserys said, hands squeezing his shoulders. “I shall have it dealt with.”

Daemon was startled to find that it had almost completely slipped his mind. The embers of his fury earlier flared briefly, but as he reached for their warmth, they faded once more. “Thank you.”

“Would you do something for me in return?”

He should have expected a price. Daemon’s hands flexed. “What is it?”

“Would you stop slipping your household knights when you leave the Red Keep?” Viserys’s frown deepened. “It is not safe for you until the Triarchy is dealt with.”

He does not wish to let you beyond his reach.

Daemon gave a halting nod in response, and Viserys pulled him into an embrace, pressing a kiss to his temple before releasing him, pulling back to arm’s length, gaze roving over him once more, seeking something that he did not seem to find. “Thank you.”

The sound of laughter rose from within his apartments, and the constriction that had found its way to his lungs eased. Jon. He reached for the door, overcome by the need to see them, hold them. “I must—”

“Go on. We can speak later.”

The flutter of apprehension in his chest settled as he pulled the door open to the sight of his sons staring at one another across the room, their hatchlings positioned between them in some unknowable game. All four heads turned to him, and within moments he was swarmed by all four, warmth seeping through the cold at last.

#resonant trick or treat #resonant trick or treat fills #why do only bad things happen in river row? who can say #spent way too much time researching hairpins and drawing dragons really badly

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afro-hispwriter · 7 months ago

Text

A Good Wife Prequel

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!reader

(Daemon and Laenas daughter, no aegon x reader in this)

Prequel to “A Good Wife” but can be read as a standalone

Warnings- targcest(cousin), set during episode 8, oral(f receiving), p in v sex, virginity loss, sexual tension, choking, smut part inspired by Rhaenyra losing her virginity to Criston sorta (you'll see), Aegon's advances, jealous!Aemond,

Summary- you hadn't seen your cousin Aemond in 2 years, only briefly meeting at your mother funeral and another at a name day celebration, but after being called to KingsLanding, attractions come to light

Switches between 3rd and 2nd person(i tried to be grrm at the end lol)

Wc- 6k

Thank you @fan-goddess and @jasminecosmic99 for the help!

Your mother is dead. You had to watch her struggle to give birth to your newest siblings then painfully walk to her dragon, Vhagar. Your father had rushed out after her, you tried to follow after but he didn't let you. So you went up onto the walkway which looks out over the beaches of Pentos. Yet what you saw was utter heart wrenching, as you watched Vhagar open her mouth wide and set your mother and baby brother ablaze.

Daemon had fallen to his knees on the beach and couldn't move as he continued to merely stare at his wife’s body. He wasn't sure how long it had been before he felt a small hand on his shoulder.

The funeral came quickly. The last time you were in Driftmark was when you were born, but even then Laena and Daemon managed to take off to Pentos not soon after.

There were so many new faces, but not of your grandparents. They held the three of you tightly as your Uncle Vaemond Velaryon led the funeral, and as her casket fell into the sea the realization settled in that you would never see your mother again. Never feel that warm touch. Never hear her soothing voice again.

You sat on the beach with your legs crossed as you dug into the ground with a stick. Your tears had long dried up and you were down to just sniffles.

"Y/n?" A small voice came behind you and you turned around. It was a young boy, around your age maybe. Targaryen as well.

"How do you know my name?"

"My mother told me. I'm Prince Aemond Targaryen."

"Oh, the king's son." You stood up and dusted your black dress, followed by a small curtsy. Aemond just frowned and shifted on his heels awkwardly.

"You don't have to do that." He says and you press your lips together. An awkward silence fell on the both of you. "Why are you down here alone my lady?"

"I-I." Your eyes started to well up with tears and you wiped the first layer away but suddenly they were falling fast. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I should take you back." Aemond offered you his hand and you wiped your eyes before wiping them on your dress and taking his hand. Letting him lead you back into the castle.

From above Alicent and Otto stood, Alicent with a glower and Otto with amusement painted on his face as they watched the two children below hold hands and walk up the steps together.

"It isn't a terrible match, it could help us secure Daemon. He loves his daughters no doubt about that." Otto states.

"There is no securing Daemon Targaryen.” Alicent said, her glare still prominent. “We need Aemond available for future use if it comes down to it." With that, the queen walked away just as the two children came up the steps with Aemond leading his cousin through the crowd and dropping her off at her designated chamber where she would remain through the night. All the way through the chaos that would come. However, until Daemon came in the morning and announced they were moving to Dragonstone with Rhaenerya and her sons.

Dorne was nothing but beautiful the 2 years you resided there. Only now returning when the conflict for the next heir of Driftmark was being called into question. You didn't HAVE to be there, but it was for "moral support."

Vermithor had you in King's Landing in just 3 days. You were sad to leave Dorne. You’d learned and experienced so much that it hurt to leave but you couldn't deny how much you missed your father and sisters.

You ended up landing just after they did. There's been a slight chill covering Kinglanding and your new wardrobe from Dorne did not help you one bit to help you accommodate it, but the small shawl that simply buckled softly around your neck sufficed.

You hadn't been there long enough to know exactly where you were going. As not many people knew you were even attending, you didn't even have an escort, but you eventually made it inside the Keep. So much has changed. But it was more like the Hightowers had changed. Everything Targaryen or more like nothing that wasn't Seven approved was taken down and replaced with that damned seven pointed star.

"It’s a shame really." A deep voice spoke behind you and you turned around just to look up at your dear cousin.

"Prince Aemond." You say with a smile which he returns.

"Lady Y/n, was Dorne everything you hoped it to be?" You didn't miss the way you cousin's lilac eye took you in. All of you. No doubt you had grown since the last time you saw each other at Aegon's name day celebration.

"It was quite the experience, I learned a lot."

Your hair was longer, your eyes were deeper, and don't get him started on your dress. It was so different from the modest one he last saw you in Aegon's name day , asThis one was true Dornish style. The material was soft silk and there was a mesh addition to leave much more to the imagination. His mother would have a heart attack at the dip of the dress at your chest.

He had grown too though. Taller. Broader. A dark aura shined around him and it drew you in. He made your chest tighten.

"Are you not cold?" He asks you with a smile.

"Not really, I’m getting quite warm actually." You say as you undo the buckle of the shawl and let it fall so it rests on your arms. You turned around suddenly and you could hear Aemonds breath hitch.

The dress was backless. Aemonds eye traced along your skin before settling on the material that sat bunched up just above your ass. The smallest tug could reveal so much. If Alicent wouldn't have a heart attack, Aemond certainly would.

"Like what you see cousin?"

Oh you little-

You let out a giggle and Aemonds looked down while his face turned red. You strode up close to him and turned your head slightly to catch his eye.

"Don't be ashamed my prince, we're Targaryens. it’s in our blood." He looked up this time but as soon as he did he quickly looked away again from you making you smirk. "Prince Aemond?"

"Yes, Lady Y/n?"

"The rest of our family is here already but I'm having trouble finding them. Could you help me?" Aemond did not know what game you were playing at, but he was still willing to be a pawn for you at any time. He offered you his arm and you gladly took it.

It didn’t take long for you to find your family, or rather, they saw you. They were all huddled together speaking lowly, but Luke saw you first and his face broke into a wide smile. You broke away from Aemond and Luke had you in a tight hug instantly.

“I miss you.” He said as he laid his head on your chest while you smiled. Aemond took a step back as the rest of your family from Dragonstone and Driftmark approached. Daemon Targaryen rolled his shoulders back at the sight of his grown nephew The boy now towered over him. The One-Eyed had matured, and any man or woman could see he had his sight set on Prince Daemon and Lady Laena’s firstborn.

“Thank you, for aiding my daughter.” Daemon says as he kisses the side of your head in a possessive motion. “I'm sure your mother is wondering where you are.” There was a tension built in the atmosphere just between the two men, and you took the liberty of an attempt to dissolve it.

“Thank you, for helping me, Prince Aemond.” You say and separate from Daemon to go up on your toes to kiss Aemond’s cheek.

“It was no trouble my lady.” He nods before turning away. You bite your lower lip as you watch him leave, the act going unnoticed by Daemon.

“What were you doing with that Hightower cunt?” You rolled your eyes and hugged Rhaena tightly.

“He was only helping me find my way to all of you, nothing more.”

The throne room was packed, so many overlapping voices. Rhaena and Luke had wanted to know everything about Dorne that you hadn’t already incorporated in the letters sent, while Jace simply listened in.

Daemon however noticed the eyes of the many lords who looked over at you and whispered to each other. No doubt he would be approached once this was over by lords either presenting their sons or themselves for your hand.

The moment Otto started talking though you made sure to tune the man quickly out.

Your cousins on the other side of the room seemed to be doing the same as it appeared Nobody truly wanted to be there.

Aemond on the other hand loved it deep down. He saw you less than an hour ago and you’re all he thinks about now. You shined brighter than anybody in the room, even in the gloomy light shining through the windows.

His look did not go unnoticed by you and you couldn’t help but think howSomeone has to show your one-eyed cousin how to be subtle. But to tease the man a bit you brought your hands up as if you were brushing your shoulder randomly, your thumb “accidentally” getting caught on the material around your breasts and brought it down slightly, Revealing the swell of the sides of your breasts. His breath hitched and he looked away. That action did not go unnoticed by your eldest cousin Aegon though had noticed as well and he licked his lips.

The arrival of the king brought you back. Your father going to help the old sick man who dropped his crown and could barely stand.

It wasn’t long before once again, Lucerys’ claim was established. Again. Your great uncle Vaemond had a say in it, which resulted in part of the man's head chopped off.

You were escorted out after that. Brought to your chambers where you learned the king asked for a family dinner. It was the perfect moment for you to get closer to Aemond, so You made sure to tell one of the servant girls to inform the others who were preparing for the dinner to put a chair next to Aemonds.

The servants scrubbed you down and cleaned you everywhere, trimmed where anything needed trimming or cut completely.

The dress you wore was more modest, but still with your new found Dornish style.

As you finished with your accessories, someone knocked gently at your door.

“Come in.” You called and turned around in your chair to see the door open. A man opened the door, helmet in hand and head low. “Eoywn!” You stood up and ran to your friend and wrapped your arms around the man.

Eoywn was a stable boy on Dragonstone andYour first friend after the move. The two of you would watch the knights train which is what convinced him to join. A little help from you, and he was being trained. Eoywn was always a handsome boy. Brown hair, brown eyes, and his warm olive skin shined always.

“Ser Eoywn now I suppose.” You chuckle and hold the man at arms length. He certainly grew. “I didn’t know you'd be here.”

“I was being briefed and introduced to King's Landing, my apologies My Lady.” You cocked your head to the side.

“Oh please don’t start with the Lady.” You groaned as he chuckled.

“Your father sent me here to escort you to dinner, so you don’t get lost again. in his words.” You rolled your eyes.

“Lead the way.”

Aemond stood talking with Aegon when you walked in with Ser Eoywn behind you. He instantly stopped talking to his brother and locked eyes with you while Aegon turned to you and instantly smiled.

“My beautiful cousin.” He says and holds his arms out to pull you into a hug. You were tense, but you still greeted the man. He pulled away and let his hands drag along your waist. “You’ve grown.”

“Everyones been saying that.”

“Because it's true.” He squeezed your hips. “So very true.”

“Leave her alone, Aegon.” Aemond says behind him and Aegon rolls his eyes.

“Simple innocent fun brother. You do know what fun is right?” Before Aemond could respond, everyone fell silent as King Viserys was carried in. Everyone then took their places, you walked round the table while Aemond sat and Eowyn pulled out your chair right next to the prince and pushed you into the table once you settled in it.

Daemon was leaning back in his chair staring directly at you.

Aemonds demeanor changed, as he clasped his hands together in his lap and straightened his back. You sat to his right, allowing him to look at you out of the corner of his eye . Aemond was glad you chose something a bit more modest, but no less beautiful. If you had shown up to dinner in the same dress from earlier, Aemond would no doubt be having another date with his hand after the dinner was over.

“He should’ve stayed in bed.” You mumbled looking at the king. Aemonds chest jumped slightly as if trying to stop a laugh. “Me and you could have had our own dinner, just the two of us.” You grabbed a napkin and flattened it across your lap.

“We still can.” He says lowly. “Just leave now. Nobody will notice.”

“Hmm and do what?” You smirked at him. “Eat or-.” You were cut off by Viserys standing. He proceeded to go on about the family and how divided everyone was and how that shouldn’t be. When the man took off the golden mask revealing how bad the illness truly was. You swallowed deeply as you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

It didn’t take long before the king finished and Rhaenerya and Alicent followed with their own toasts. You’re not sure what Aegon had said but Jace’s reaction was enough. Everyone looked at him in confusion and suddenly Aemond stood up tall, chair creaking as he did so. You kept looking between the two, tension was clearly high between them and everyone waited for the other to act.

Aemond instantly going to his brother's defense made the fire already burning inside of you burn hotter.

Jace punched Aegon's arm softy and lifted his cup of wine, saying toast to his two uncles. Once it was done Aemond was the one still standing, glaring at Jace.

“Aemond.” You whispered and he looked down and licked his lips before sitting back down. Helaena stood up next with a smile and wine in hand.

“I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena.”

“Don’t let them get to you.” You whispered to Aemond. “They’re only boys.” Aemond didn’t respond, just drew his shoulders back. You rolled your eyes and grabbed his pale hand and squeezed it. You smiled at him and he showed no emotion but a flicker of his eye to your lips. You leaned forward and he leaned back, cheeks dusting pink making you giggle.

Music started and food was brought out. Everyone dug in passing around plates of potatoes, peas, and salads. You’ve let Aemonds hand go to start filling your plate full of food.

“How does it look compared to Dornish cuisine?” Aemond asks and you shrug.

“There is more color in Dorne.” You took a bite. “And more flavor, but I missed this food nonetheless.”

“Y/n.” Otto bumps into the conversation. “Was Dorne everything they say, I rarely go.”

“It was fun, I learned a lot. They express themselves a lot, it makes me admire them.”

“Any suitors?” Aemond asks and you raise an eyebrow.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, cousin.”

“I would actually.”

“And why is that?” There was a sly look on your face and Aemond tensed his jaw.

“Aemond?” Alicent caught her son's attention and shook her head.

“My apologies my lady, I did not mean to intrude.”

“No harm.” You say taking another bite and shifted your knees to push into his. “What of you? Any ladies lining up.”

“None.” He says, you would say it was a tone of disappointment but he didn’t let it show.

“Well they are fools.” He let out a hum.

“Are you a fool, my lady?” He asks.

“I won't be the fool if you anger me, my prince.”

“Then I should see that I don’t.” He raised his cup to you and brought it to his lips, followed by you copying his actions. The king's health seemed to drop even further and the man was carried out.

A steaming pig was brought out and placed in front of the two of you. You licked your lips and instantly grabbed a knife and fork to start cutting your own pieces. You missed the way Luke laughed at Aemond, it wasn't until the man stood up, slamming his fists on the table and grabbed his cup.

“Final tribute.” He says and everyone stops. “To the three strong boys.” You set your utensils down and stared up at him.

“I dare you to say that again.” Jace says and the two started walking towards each other.

“Why? Do you not think of yourself strong?” Jace swung hard at Aemond but didn’t make the man stumble. All while Aegon slammed Luke onto the table as your sisters tried to jump into the fight. Aemond shoved Jace to the ground and turned around, flashing you a big smile and you shook your head in disappointment.

“Your brother certainly is strong, my lady.” He whispered in your ear as he set his cup down. You rolled your eyes and simply drank more wine.

Jace scrambled to his feet and tried to charge again, Aemond readying himself to humiliate the boy again. But Daemon stopped it before anything happened. This time you did stand up to try and intervene but it was Ser Eowyn who stopped you.

“My lady.” He says while shaking his head. Your shoulders slumped and you took a step back. Aemond and Daemon stared each other down before Aemond backed off, looking straight ahead and walking out the room.

Dinner was clearly over. You dismissed yourself and walked quickly to try and catch up with Aemond with Eowyn in tow. Only for him to be stopped by Daemon.

“Make sure my daughter goes straight to her chamber’s. By force if needed.” He says, emphasizing on the “her”. Eowyn nodded and took off after you.

“My lady.” He calls after you as you’re already down the hall. “Y/n stop!” You stopped in your tracks and whipped around.

“Yes?”

“Your father has given me strict orders on making sure you go straight to your chambers.”

“Orders.” You rolled your eyes. “He can suck my cock.” You turned around again and started walking when Eowyns gloved hand encased your wrists.

“You come willingly or its by force.” He says serious this time.

“As if you would.” You said offended and ripped your wrist from his hands and crossed your arms.

“I care about you my friend, I truly do. But your father scares me more.” Suddenly you were over the man's shoulders and he was walking towards the direction of your chambers.

It was a fight the whole way there until he set you down right in front of the door. You huffed and smoothed your dress out and opened the door.

“Sorry.” He says and you shut the door in his face. You had to see Aemond, there was no way you were able to stay in King's Landing now.

Your best course was to get ready for bed and wait a bit until everyone was surely asleep and you could sneak out somehow. Ser Eowyn should be patrolling the halls by that time.

You finished wrapping up your hair and threw a robe on. As you were looking in the mirror your door slammed open making you scream. Daemon walked in with a heavy step and started looking around the room.

“Are you mad? What if I were naked?” You crossed your arms and glared at him.

“Well it seems that's where you're trying to go with my nephew.” He looks into the closet.

“What are you talking about?”

“A blind man could see what's going on between the two of you. You’re so infatuated with him you didn’t even defend your brothers.”

“My brothers?” You scoffed. “They’re my half cousins at best. And maybe we wouldn’t be here if Rhaenyra made sure at least one of her sons looked the tiniest bit like me, don’t you agree?”

“Mind your tongue.”

“Or what, you’re going to chop my head off?” You scoffed again and sat in a chair. “I'm not a child anymore, father. Please leave.” He let out a deep sigh before turning around and leaving.

“I'm glad he did not see me.” A voice sounded from behind you and you almost jumped out of your skin.

“Aemond?!” He stood there in the window and brought his hood down. “You can't be here.”

“Why not?” He asks and unties his cloak and tossed it on a chair. “Were you not planning on seeing me?”

“Yes but my father made it difficult.”

“Hmm.” He says and your eyes flash to the dagger on his hips. “You’re not mad I shoved your brothers.”

“Hmm, no.” You say standing up to stand before him. Aemonds heart started racing. “I don’t care enough to be mad.” Suddenly you unsheathed his dagger and playfully pointed at him. “Unless you want me too.

“Give that back, I don't want you to hurt yourself.” He says holding out his but you shake your head.

“Hurt myself? Who do you think I am? I can cut you down right here and nobody would know.” You say and started backing up. Aemond frowned and tried to lunge at you but you ran to the other side of the bed

You were playing him.

“Y/n.” He tried again but you dodged it and giggled. “Are you done?” You pouted and flipped the dagger so the blade was in your hand and the handle faced Aemond.

“You’re no fun.” Aemond rolled his eye and walked towards you. The second his hand was reaching out to grab the handle, you tossed the blade to the side of the room and grabbed Aemonds wrists and yanked him down so you could press your own lips against his. The prince was stunned but he let it happen. You slowly let go of his wrists and pushed yourself into his body. Aemond wrapped an arm around your waist so you could reach up and wrap an arm around his neck and back.

The kiss was getting heated and you could feel yourself get dizzy at the lack of air. It was Aemond who pulled away first.

“That was unexpected.” He squeezed your waist tightly making you bite your lip. You kissed him again and this time Aemond let his lust take over and walk backwards until the back of your knees hit the bed and you fell. He let you go so you only bounced on the bed. You brought your knees up so your nightgown fell and revealed your thighs. Aemond licked his lips and grabbed your knees.

“We really shouldn’t.” You said and lifted yourself up to get rid of your robe.

“No. We shouldn’t.” Aemond says and he sinks to his knees and pushes his face down to disappear under the dress. “No small clothes like a common whore?” He kissed your inner thighs a few times before letting his tongue deleve straight into your folds making you gasp. You bunched up the bottom of the gown and scrunched it towards you so you could see Aemonds face. He pushed his nose into your clit and inhaled softly. Your face burnt in embarrassment.

“Aemond no.”

“You smell divine.” He muffed and opened his mouth wide to devour you. Your fingers made their way into his hair and pulled tightly making him groan. His lips closed around your clit and he sucked harshly.

“Aemond.” You arched your back and your leg made its way over his shoulder. “So good.” Aemond brought a finger up and plunged it in your hole. Your jaw slacked and your stomach tensed.

“Oh gods.” He started thrusting his finger in while still not letting your clit go. It was better than your fingers would ever do.

Your moans were loud while Aemond was practically silent. You bit the sheets of the bed and bucked up into his face, forcing hips lips off your clit and the hood of your clit catching on his nose

“Aemond fuck.” You grabbed the back of his head and pushed his face flush against you. It allows you to start moving your hips up and down. Aemond just let it happen, regardless of how much he couldn’t breathe. He curled his finger slightly and your belly tightened and you let out a loud squeal as your orgasam washed over you.

You slowly let Aemond go as your muscles spasmed. He sucked in a deep breath to fill his lungs back up before dipping down again and licking any juices that dribbled out. The overstimulation was unbearable so you practically shoved Aemond so he fell on his ass.

“Too much.” You laughed out of breath. Aemond shook his head in amusement before standing up. His erection pressing heavily against his pants was very evident. “Do you need help?” Your foot made its way up his legs before settling on his groin and you pushed against it. Aemond groaned and clasped a hand around your ankle.

“I shouldn’t stay and you know that.”

“But I want to return the favor.” You sat up completely and slowly shed the robe from your shoulders. “Don’t you want me too?” Aemond looks down at you with a dark glint in his eye. He dropped your ankle and stepped in between your legs.

“If we get caught. There would be a scandal.” He says and started undoing his vest.

“I live for drama.” He tossed the material to the side to reveal his bare chest. He lifted one knee onto the bed and leaned over you, supporting his weight on his arm.

“Then let us be the biggest scandal this kingdom has ever heard of.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him flush against your body. He kissed you deeply before pulling off and reaching down to the tie of his pants. He pulled the strings to loosen them up then pushed it down his hips to set under his ass. His cock jumped out, sliding against his stomach and sticking straight at you.

“Is this what you’ve been hiding from court?” You reached out and tried to grab him but he slapped your hand away.

“No time for that.” He pinned you down on the bed by your wrists with one hand. Your dress was once again around your waist but this time Aemonds hand ripped the top of your dress with one tug, releasing your breasts from their confinements. He took one in his mouth and released it.

Aemond grabbed his cock and pushed his hips down so he could swipe the head along your fold. The tip got caught against your hole making you jump and struggle against Aemonds wrists. At seeing your struggle he instantly let you go.

“Gently, Aemond. Please.” He chuckled.

“Such a tease but you haven’t even let anyone touch you.” Your face burnt in embarrassment. “Did you learn anything in Dorne? They are known for being so open.”

“Shut up and just fuck me Aemond.” He didn’t have to be told again as he pushed in. There was still some resistance so he reached down and rubbed your clit. You were a mix of groaning in discomfort and moaning in pleasure once he was fully inside you.

Your hand found his and they entwined. He slowly started thrusting and you felt yourself loosening up. Aemonds eye fluttered shut and his head lowered to your ear, letting you hear his quiet sounds of pleasure.

Your legs locked around his waist. Aemond sped up, your tightness was squeezing him deliciously. You bit his shoulder to muffle your moans. Your hands have found your breasts to allow you to pinch and tug at them, just to amplify the pleasure more. Aemond captured your lips again, your mouth opening to moan allowed the prince to slip his tongue in.

You released your chest and grabbed the back of Aemonds hair and tore the band holding the strands of hair up. It framed his face and the speed of his thrusts and closeness of your bodies let the end tickle your body. You tugged his hair to force him off your lips and pressed your foreheads together as your body jerked at his harsh thrusts.

“I-I want to see you as I cum cousin. All of you.” Aemond stopped his thrusts and your heart sank. He stared at you, seeming to be deep in thought. If you were any other woman, in any situation. He would’ve said no. But the way the moon shone on your body, revealing the glistening from the layer of sweat or how your face was blissed out all due to him.

He shed the eye patch and threw it across the room. You looked at him in awe, the shimmering of the gem was beautiful. But it turned into pleasure once again as his hand grabbed your throat and pushed you into the bed. Holding you to the bed as his thrusts started again, deep and harsh.

“A-Aemond.” You squealed and his hand tightened to cut your airways slightly . His cock continuously rubbed against the spot inside you leaving you even more breathless. “Gonna cum!” Your face twisted and your jaw slacked as you came all over Aemond. He groaned at the tightness which squeezed him tight enough for his seed to shoot out and fill you up. Your legs tightened against him, pulling him even closer.

He let you go and grabbed your legs to unwrap them from his hips so he could fall down. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of the two of you trying to catch your breaths.

You would’ve fallen asleep if it weren’t for Aemond getting up and putting his clothes.

“Why are you leaving? The fun has just started.” You brought your knees together and swayed them side to side.

“It is late, cousin.” You rolled your eyes at his sudden bluntness.

“Just one more time, please.” You pleaded with a pout. In the process of tying his pants together, he looked behind himself to give himself a taste at the sight below him.

His pants were dropped completely this time.

It was the cool steel blade resting on Aemond’s jugular that woke him up. He swallowed deeply and he stayed still. The one thing he could think of was to awaken you. So he squeezed your hips tightly from under the blanket. You stirred instantly and turned around.

“Wanting more alr- father.” You scrambled out the bed, taking the sheets with you. You stood up with the sheet to your chest. Aemond was still frozen, now bare for everyone to see. “Please don’t.” Daemon looked at you then down at his nephew before pulling the blade back.

“No need for the hostility uncle.”

“Shut up, and get out.” The man says and Aemond gets up. You were looking down, frozen in place. Aemond tugged his pants on and found his eyepatch to slip it on over his wild hair. His boots followed, then he grabbed his dagger and ended with his vest. Aemond walked out the room in silence.

“Father-.” Daemon simply held a finger up to silence you.

“Make yourself decent.” The Dark Sister was placed back in her usual spot on the prince's hip. Before Daemon walked out, the flash of red on the bed stopped him. The little blood splotches on the sheets reminded him of everything that transpired during the night.

You were led to the council room by a knight. There was Alicent who was scolding Aemond, who looked very unamused. Otto stood behind him with his arms crossed. Rhaenyra sat on the other side of the table silently, while Daemon paced back and forth. Alicent stopped talking once she took notice that you stood in the entrance. Everyone else looked up.

“Sit.” Daemon sharply pointed at the open seat next to Rhaenrya and you obeyed instantly. The second you were seated the screaming started.

“How could you be so foolish!”

“I raised you better than this.”

“Do you understand the consequences of your actions?”

“You’ve brought shame to our houses, to our family.”

It was safe to say everything said was directed both to you and Aemond.

“You knew not to taint yourself and you do it anyway.” Daemon says and you roll your eyes.

“Oh please like you hadn’t gone through every whore in Fleabottom by the time you were my age.”

“Aemond you know better than to take the maidenhead of a lady, what if she becomes with child?”

“Then marry me to her.” He says and everyone's eyes widen in shock. “Save yourself the drama and marry me to her.” He says again and turns his face to Daemon.

“Nobody would question it.” You say. “The people would be told it was a way to fix our split house, but in reality if I were to have a baby. They wouldn’t know.” Otto and Alicent shared a look.

“It isn’t the worst idea.” Otto says.

“No.” Daemon says. “I’ll just marry her off to an old fat lord in the North who is in need of an heir.”

“Daemon.” Rhaenerya instantly stood up. “She is your child, you wouldn’t dare send her through such horrors.”

“My child decided to act like a whore.”

Your chest tightened and your breath hitched, trying to hold back tears. Suddenly Aemond slammed both his fists into the table and drew his sword. Otto grabbed Alicent by her arms and pulled her away.

“Say that again.” Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister and the two blades met across the table. Rhaenerya grabbed your hand and led you out the chair.

“Now you believe what's best for her?” Daemon says and Aemond cocks his head to the side.

“I'm not threatening to send her away uncle, I am a far better man than any in the realm.”

“Oh stop this madness, I am your Queen!” Alicent says but neither man stepped down. “Y/n is of age, if she chooses to marry Aemond, then I will allow it.” Tears were running down your cheeks but you nodded furiously.

“Yes. I will marry him.”

Aemond gave Daemon a sly smile with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“So be it.” The older Targaryen man walked away. Aemond let out a satisfied “Mmm” before putting his sword away.

“Aemond?” You say from the other side of the table.

“Yes my lady.”

“Thank you.”

Mushroom would write that it was Lady Y/n and Prince Aemonds lust for each other that kept Princess Rhaenyra on King's Landing. Just after the betrothal of the Lady and Prince, it had been announced that King Viserys had passed. Otto Hightowers plans were thrown from the window as he witnessed the coronation from the crowds with a mighty scowl noticeable by all.

As for the Lady and Prince. Their wedding was in 4 months, but in just a month in a half. The wedding was quickly rushed to happen in two weeks from when the Lady discovered she was with child. The child who would be Rhaegar Targaryen.

A/n- don’t worry daemon and y/n’s relationship does eventually fix itself as we see they are very close later in the series.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen smut #daemon targaryen

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