#THE DORNISH DRESS LOOKS SO GOOD ON HER!!

[elysesium]

ART GOALS!! LOOK AT HER!! THE SUNSHINE! MY REASON FOR BREATHING!!

My brain chemistry has been altered again~

back outing myself with what fanfiction I read! please update ;)

I used refs of sai bennet from the spanish princess bc without refs it looked like ~crap~ @xxpeppermintxx109

[entitled-fangirl]

Snowfall.

Cregan Stark x Dornish!wife!reader

Summary: the reader is feeling a bit out of place as the Warden's wife.

A/n: Based on an ask w/liberties taken!!!

Masterlist

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"Things are quite cold here," she admitted aloud as they sat at breakfast.

Cregan smiled as if the thing she stated was the most obvious thing he'd ever heard, but he would never mock her for it. "Indeed. And when summer ends, the snow will return. Have you ever seen snow, dear wife?"

She stared at him for a moment, wracking her brain at the question. "I've read it in novels, I think."

"Novels?" He chuckled. "Aye, I suppose it's nice when it's only in pages while you read it in the sun of Dorne." He takes a long sip from his cup before continuing. "When winter comes, the chill settles into your bones." He looks at her, clearly going somewhere with his choice of words. "I mean no disrespect to you, but tell me you've packed warmer dresses than the one you have on."

Her cheeks flush as she looks down at her dress. 

"It's not that it's not a beautiful dress," Cregan is quick to correct as his smile falters. "In fact, it's quite stunning on you. But it has no place here. It will not keep you warm." He sits on his words for a minute before a thought came to him, "Are you not cold now?"

She tugged at the sleeve of her dress, becoming insecure of her clothing. "It is sufficient, my lord."

His smile falls, "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Seems the cold has indeed gotten to you, for your heart is becoming chilled as well." He leans forward, placing his arms on the table, "My name is Cregan. You know that well. Do not become formal if I offend you." 

She quickly shakes her head, "You've not offended me."

He stands up, his chair forced back with a loud noise. His fingers begin to pry at the top of his cloak, pulling the strings apart that keep it on his shoulders.

She stands as well out of respect. He's confused by it- ladies don't stand for men. Quite the opposite. But he doesn't question it as he moves to her.

"Here, try this," Cregan smiled as he wrapped the cloak around her frame. Warmth enveloped her body as he tied it on her.

"You don't have to do this for me."

"I know, but I wish to." His smile turned teasing, "Will you deny a Lord his wishes?"

She grinned, "Never."

"Good." He kissed her forehead, "I wouldn't want my lady to feel the chill."

He gestures for her to sit again, pushing her chair in for her. He sits down as before. "Let us finish this meal, and I shall call for a seamstress." His grin grew. "She will have Stark patronage for a long time."

…

"Something the matter?" He asked quietly.

Y/n looked up at him, "Hmm?"

Cregan reached down and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. "Something is bothering you. I can tell."

She shrugged lightly.

He let out a sigh, pulling her hand up and placing a kiss on the back of her hand. "When you're ready, you can speak to me. I hope you know that."

"It's just," She looked around the courtyard and leaned in, "the stares."

"The stares?" He repeated. He looked around also, his brows furrowed. "It's only the people getting used to you."

"It's been almost seven months."

"I suppose it has," He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, "Perhaps your beauty is just distracting. Surely the stares don't truly bother you?"

"It's not just the stares, Cregan. They all whisper, too."

"Well, you don't look like them. Most northerns never journey outside of their cities. You intrigue them."

"Cregan-"

"-My love, please. Don't let such a thing take up space in your mind. You're my lady of Winterfell. The rest does not matter."

"Perhaps they think me a spectacle."

"They do not think you a spectacle."

"Then why don't they speak to me?"

Cregan sighed, "I don't know, my love. I don't know."

…

Cregan made it his mission to ease his wife's worries. 

"I believe they're just intimidated to speak to her," the maester tried to ease to Cregan.

"How so? She's sweet spirited."

"Aye, but they do not know that when you're constantly casting a shadow over her." The maester chuckled. "Perhaps you're the intimidating one yourself, my lord."

Cregan grinned, "Perhaps indeed." He takes a moment to think. "What shall I do then?"

The maester thinks for a while himself before reaching a conclusion. "Show them that she is human as well," his eyes lit up, "Show them she's approachable."

"No," he quickly denied. "I don't want people just… approaching her. She's the lady of Winterfell."

The maester let out a sigh. Cregan held the same stubbornness as he did when he was young. "My lord, if she does not feel welcomed in her new home, she shall be miserable."

"The new is wearing off, and I'm afraid misery is inevitable if I don't do something." He let out a frustrated groan. "The North is cold and miserable on a good day. I'm running out of ideas."

"You cannot force the people to bend to your will, nor her. Perhaps you just… focus on your relationship with her, and the rest will fall into place?"

Cregan sighed in thought. "Yes, I believe I shall start there."

…

Luckily, their bond was quite well developed at this point, the two going as far as to say that they love one another. 

"I've been thinking about what you said," she finally spoke up.

Cregan looked up from his papers to her. "And what's that?"

"About the snow. I do truly wish to see it."

He nods, "Be patient, my dear. Winter is close at hand."

She stands from her chair, walking towards him. "But how close? How long must I wait?"

Cregan considered her question. "Less than weeks, I'd assume at this point. He eyed the warmer dress on her frame, "You've noticed the change in the air, haven't you?"

"I have," she nods. "It's quite frightening. I didn't know the air could bite so hard."

He grinned, "You will adjust, I swear to you. Your dresses are warm enough, yes?"

"Quite so. Thank you again."

"I'll make you a promise, little wife." Cregan leans back in his seat. "The first snow of winter, I shall personally introduce you to it. How does that sound?"

A bright smile came to her face, "You'd do that?"

"Of course. Consider it done."

…

True to his word, the first snow came at an unexpected moment. 

Cregan had left for the day, but the second the first snowflake fell to his cheek, he forced his horse to turn around and head back to Winterfell.

"Get Lady Stark for me," He barked at a servant as he handed the reigns off to a stable boy. "And make sure she's properly dressed."

 Minutes later, she walked through the doors of Winterfell to the Courtyard. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cregan with his hair covered in snow. 

"I had a promise to keep, my lady," he said with his hand extended to her.

She stepped out into the yard with hesitant feet, her body uncertain of what to make of this.

The people in the courtyard watched with curious gazes at their lord and lady.

When she reached Cregan, she took his hand. "It's not dangerous?"

"Not like this," he grinned. "When there's a lot of it, yes. But for now, you may enjoy it."

Her other hand reached up to his shoulder where snowflakes lay on the furs of his cloak. She paused centimeters from it, unsure. "May I?"

He nodded, "Of course."

She reached out and touched a flurry, watching it melt into liquid against her hand. Her brows furrowed. "Is it water?"

"Yes. Merely cold water."

She tried again, pressing her entire hand to his cloak and flinching back at the sudden intensity of the chill. She let out a gasp and tucked her hand back into her cloak. 

"Easy," his grin grew. "It's only the chill."

"You did not tell me it hurt."

"That is the nature of it. The more there is, the more likely it may hurt." He reached out and takes both hands now. "Do not give up on it. Try again."

She hesitantly does so, reaching out again, this time aware of the feeling that will come. The flakes melt on her palm and instead she lets out a breathy laugh. "And how long does winter last, Cregan?"

"Longer than it should, dear wife." He reaches up and caresses her cheek, "Have you had enough?"

"No, I could never!" She smiles. 

Cregan looked around, noting the people around them that tried to hide their obvious gaze. He was used to it at this point. 

…

"Cregan, you will never believe what has happened!" She grinned widely as she marched into their chambers. 

He quickly gave her his attention in worry. "What? What has happened?"

"I have been invited to eat with northern ladies tomorrow!"

Cregan brows furrowed, "Have you?" His panic turned to relief as he took her in his arms. "That is wonderful news."

"The woman who invited me was so kind! Lady M…" She tried to recall her name. "Morn…"

"Mormont?" He finished with a smirk.

"Yes! Lady Mormont! I promise, I won't forget again! She asked about Dorne as well! No one has asked me of Dorne. It was so refreshing, Cregan!"

"Lady Mormont is kind indeed, sweet girl. You are safe with her."

"So I may go?" She asked in shock.

He was stunned for a moment that she was asking his permission. "My love, your Dornish may think me a brute, but I will not hold my wife away from what makes her heart the fullest."

Her arms wrapped around his neck and her face pressed to his chest. "You are wonderful to me, Cregan," her muffled voice sounded against his chest.

He chuckled, "I've only done my best to make a home for you, my girl."

"Perhaps being northern is not all bad," she teased. 

He pulled her away from him with a confused look. "What do you mean?"

Her smirk grew, "It's not all bad. It's got… kind women… and… beautiful mountains… and… handsome men."

He pulled her to him, bending down to speak lowly in her ear, "Handsome men? Are there more men fighting for your attention?"

She giggled, "I misspoke. Handsome man. Just one. Their leader."

A low chuckle came from his throat, "Aye, there are pretty women too."

When she looked confused towards him, he grinned. 

"One, at least. And she's Dornish."

He pressed a heavy kiss to his lips, groaning when she returned it fervently.

…

He would never tell her how earnestly he had prayed to the Old Gods for that first snowfall to be a kind one for her to enjoy.

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Taglist: @twinkletwinklenotastar, @kidd3ath,@yujyujj, @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @8812-342, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn, @callsignwidow, @a1lexh-blog, @alyssa-dayne, @ethereal-athalia, @ashovertheriver

[barbieaemond]

Lykirī

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

WARNINGS: loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), handjob, we ride him bitches, dom/sub tones if you squint

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

Author's note: an early Christmas gift for those who celebrate!! For those who don't, just a regular smutty piece. This was based on a request where wife!reader rides Aemond. Merry Aemondmas :)

MASTERLIST

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @arcielee

"You are to marry the King's second son. Prince Aemond Targaryen."

Those were your father's words. Your sister had looked at you almost with pity and a hint of relief since that fate had befallen you and not her. You had simply nodded, accepting the fate decided by your father, just as thousands of other daughters before and after you would have done.

Your mother had come to comb your hair before going to bed, and without much ado, she had told you what would happen after the wedding, after the banquet.

"All you have to do is try to relax your nerves, and I promise it will be less painful.”

The thought had stuck in your brain until the wedding day. And the aura emanating from the prince didn't help. He was stoic to the point of looking like a statue, his posture rigid as a spindle, and there was something unsettling about him that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand when he took your hand to recite the wedding vows. Fear, but also a foreign giddiness prickling your skin upon feeling his calloused fingers around yours.

The banquet had not helped either. Prince Aegon had behaved like a court jester, drinking to the point of wondering how he could stand upright, poking his brother with cruel jokes about his eye and a whore who had made Aemond a man many years before.

You didn’t know what kind of unpleasant memories your good-brother had just summoned in his brother’s mind. That woman and her cheap perfume, that way it had clung to his skin, to his thoughts for days after his only ever trip to Flea Bottom.

Then the elder Prince had approached you with his breath stinking of Dornish and it was then that Prince Aemond broke his icy silence, standing up abruptly and looking down at you. "Come, wife. It is time for us to retire."

Prince Aegon had clapped his hands as if in front of a hilarious show, saying "Finally some fun! The bedding!"

The entire crowd present at the banquet had escorted you to the prince's chambers. The servants had removed your dress, leaving you in your underskirts; you had unconsciously covered your chest, crossing your arms to hide from the greedy eyes of the men peering in the doorway, Prince Aegon in the front row with yet another cup of wine clutched between his fingers.

Master Mellos invited you to lie down on the bed, and you obeyed, swallowing, while a host of servants shielded you from view as the Maester made his humiliating inspection.

"All is in order, your Graces," the Master informed the Prince and Queen. And that was enough for Aemond to completely slip the iron mask off his face and go straight to the door. "The show is over. Get out."

"Oh, come on, little brother. Let me watch, at least. I could give you some tips."

Aemond had towered over his brother, and from your seat on the bed, you were able to see the eldest brother shrinking by the moment. "This is not some common whore you're speaking of.” Aemond seethed “She is my wife, and you will owe her the respect she deserves. One more lewd word from your mouth, and I will rip your tongue with my bare hands. Am I being clear?”

"Gods, brother, are you already so cunt-struck?"

He never got an answer, only the door being slammed right into his face.

You stood in the middle of the room, torturing your hands as he looked at you from the door. He seemed unsure of what to do, until he cleared his throat and took a few tentative steps in the room.

“You could have some wine, if you wish. It may…help you.” He said, but as he said this, he seemed to regret his own words, given how his mouth twitched as if he had just tasted something sour. Memories could come just like that, sudden and sour.

“You must relax, my prince. Have some wine, maybe? No need to worry, I will take care of you just as a prince deserves to.”

“I’d like to keep my mind clear, my Prince.” You said, keeping your gaze down, hearing his fast and deep sigh. “Fine.” he said, straightening his back as a soldier. After all, wasn’t this just another duty?

It wasn’t just that though. You were his wife now, the future mother of his children. It was his duty and his right to claim you as his own.

“Lay on the bed.”

With your heart pounding in your ears, you did as you were told but when the mattress dipped under his weight, you did not expect to see him with his clothes still on, the eyepatch firmly in its place. More so, you did not expect the harshness of his gestures as he held your waist to turn you around. The air hitched in your throat as your face met the mattress and a strange sorrow gripped your heart. Did he not want to look at you? Did he not like you?

“Try to stay still and it’ll be over shortly.” he said. He was trying to sound reassuring, but his voice came out cold and flat. His fingers latched on your underskirts, hiking them up, filling you with embarrassment as you grow completely exposed beneath him.

Aemond knew what to do. He may not have been as depraved as his brother, but he was still a man. And once in a while, when his hands would not suffice, some maid or servant girl would’ve had to bear, quite keenly on their part, his intimate attentions.

As his hands began to glide on your thighs, you shivered and said “Wait…”

Slowly your head turned to look at him, cheeks red and breath slow and anxious. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

Your words seemed to stun him for a moment. The mere thought of you wanting to look at him made him realize how wrong he was behaving. You were his wife, not a common whore to bend over and have his moment of bliss. He had even told Aegon. That was not his intention, but there was a gap between how he felt and how he acted, a limb severed by years of pity looks and feelings trapped in his mouth and swallowed.

Almost gently, he made you turn but once you were facing him, he pinned your wrists on the mattress, unable to touch him even if you had gathered enough courage to do it. You tried to brace yourself for what your mother had told you. But she had not told you that he would touch you there, that all your senses would go numb except for that one brand new feeling between your legs. But he seemed enthralled by it just as you, his mouth parting to let out slow puffs of air as you grow wet and swollen against his fingers.

Your breath was labored, coming out in soft pants that made your cheeks purple. More so because he kept circling his deft fingers on your core while looking straight into your eyes, reveling in the way you were answering to his call, in the way he was shaping your need, your desire.

“You never touched yourself, did you?” he asked in a husky voice.

You barely shook your head and his eye glinted with something dark as he brought his face close to yours “Good. I shall be the only one inside you.”

He swallowed your shaky breath with this mouth, kissing you for the very first time, apart from the shy, almost prude peck exchanged after the wedding vows. Your lips moved shyly, trembling with the coiling pressure between your legs. And just when you thought this heat, this delicious aching couldn’t grow more unbearable, he sticked a finger inside you, spilling a loud moan right against his mouth.

One of your wrists twisted in his harsh hold, willing to touch him, to grip on something, but he didn’t let you. “Easy…” he blew on your lips “Relax. It’ll feel good, I promise…”

It surely felt good to him, to feel the tightness of your cunt squeezing his finger. He curled it and you squinted your eyes, choking a gasp that made him smirk proudly against your jaw. “Gods, you’re so tight…” he breathed as he kept rubbing slowly against your walls.

“It’s—it’s too much—“ you cried out with pain and pleasure running together, breathing his scent of ash, leather and a hint of something minty.

“How will you take my cock if you can’t even take my finger?” He whispered with benevolent cruelty, moving his finger faster and deeper.

Certainly your mother had not told you of the obscene wet sounds you would hear, of the uncontrollable moans coming out of your mouth, of his soft growling next to your ear when his breeches became too tight.

He had lined the tip of his hard manhood to your entrance, catching your breath away as tried to still your nerves, but the pain came altogether. You felt like he was cutting you from the inside. Tears filled your eyes, squinting for the painful stretching. You knew he was restraining himself; he didn’t want to hurt you more than he already was. And you almost felt affection for him, most men would not have bothered.

Then he had started to move, you felt that stranger body rubbing over and over against your walls, and finally the pain soothed, but not completely. You could tell he was enjoying it, his ragged breath and faint moans told you so, as well as the curses hissed through his teeth in a language you guessed was Valyrian. And then he had stilled completely, gripping your hips hard and firm while you felt a hot wave pulsing through your core.

The next morning, you could barely sit down for breakfast, and your aunt had looked at you with concern and a hint of amusement in her eyes. She was a veteran at court, a long-time widow, and quite happy to be so. It was her who suggested your betrothal to the Prince.

"How are you feeling, sweet niece?"

"Awful." you said promptly, shifting your weight on the seat.

"Well, this is the kind of anguish all women must go through."

"I thought that was giving birth to another human being."

"Oh Gods, no. That is the ugly part. This is the good one," she said with a sly smile "I suggest you enjoy it as much as you can."

At the time, you didn't really understand what she meant. The first night with the prince had gone...well, you thought. But he certainly enjoyed it more than you.

The second time was better. Your muscles were still sore, but the pain was but a faint discomfort compared to the pleasure you felt for the very first time in your life.

The third time he went down on you, bringing you so close to the edge only to deny your release, with cruel enjoyment on his part, making you whine with shame at the loss of his mouth and tongue on your folds.

The fourth time he bent you down on the breakfast table, all things falling in a mess of cutlery. He had pulled up your skirts and lowered his breeches just enough to thrust in, unraveling a special spot deep inside of you that had you mewling like some primitive beast.

The fifth time he had you writhing in bed, hair stuck to your head with sweat and hands clenching the sheets while he had you peak three times in a row.

It was then that you started to think your aunt was right.

That was indeed the good part.

“Are you afraid?” he asks, with a soft taunt on the tip of his tongue. You drag your eyes away from the gigantic beast before you and almost scoff. That is enough for him to laugh, quietly, but still not quietly enough for you to not notice and wonder at the view.

It’s been merely one moon since you’ve been married to Prince Aemond, and you could count on the fingers of your hand the times you have seen him laugh. It was eerie at first, you feared all the things you heard about the One Eyed Prince were true. That he was cold as stone and just as hard. And he was. But the more you spent time together, the more you were able to make cracks, and let light through.

“I’m equally afraid as any little mortal of right mind would be in front of the largest dragon in the known world, my dear husband.”

His lips stay quirked up, but his eye widens, as it always does when you call him that. He steps close to you, a few of his long strides are enough for him to tower over you, and the ground below your feet shifts.

“Come.” He says, taking your hand, “I promise she won’t eat you.” This time you deliberately glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Do you need some other kind of persuasion to trust me? Perhaps like the one I used this morning?”

The early afternoon sun makes his face almost hurting to watch, or maybe it's just his bold gloating that makes his appearance so exhausting.

“That was not persuasion.” you remark, hiding the tinge of red on your cheeks “It was coercion.”

“Hmm. You didn’t seem so hostile when I made you come twice before breakfast.”

"I was hostile to the chance of the maid assisting with what we were doing."

"The maid should know better than to enter while my wife is undressing."

His eye roams over you just as he had done that morning, hunger clouding it, making your insides shrink. "Perhaps it's best if she knew. Someone must be aware of how cruel my husband is." there's a soft tease in your tone—something you are still learning, but true nonetheless.

He had ripped your nightgown with his bare hands when the maid entered to help you dress. She fled hastily, but you barely spared a glance at her, already lost to the fierce claim of his hand between your legs. He had taken you, twice, and then ordered you to dress, forcing you to have breakfast with the Queen and the Princess with your thighs still sticky with sex, sticky with him.

And he had been there, sitting just in front of you, with a piercing and delighted gaze.

He pulls your hand, and you follow, getting closer to that living relic that is Vhagar, Queen of All Dragons. She raises her monstrous head and looks straight at you with her amber eyes.

It is the first time you step so close to her, and even if you thought about it a lot, your heart is pounding fast, and your breath comes out slow and labored. She's a dreadful wonder.

She flares her nostrils and smells you, making a low rumble which results in a gust of hot wind that ruffles your hair and skirts.

“Lykirī, Vhagar.” Aemond says quietly “Issa ñuha ābrazȳrys. Kostā pāsagon zirȳla.”

You look at him questioningly, and he answers. “I told her you are my wife. And she can trust you.”

You cast a curious look at the dragon and then back at him “Is that all it takes? You tell dragons to trust you, and they resist the urge to turn you into their meal?”

Aemond curves his lips and makes you step closer, standing behind you and guiding your hand on the old green scales. “It takes much more than that.” he whispers in your ear “You have to surrender to them, completely. A dragon is no slave.”

You feel the heat beneath your palm, but it’s not that that makes you swallow; it’s the heat of his breath on your neck, right into your ear, scorching his way into your brain and inflaming every thought.

“What does Lykirī mean?” you ask, and you hate how your voice cracks on the edges.

He smirks because he knows, he always does. But he does not answer. Instead, he pulls your hand again, and you follow, circling the beast until stopping before the intricate ropes that lead to the saddle.

“Aemond, I don’t think—”

“You are my wife and you will ride with me on dragon back.” He said, commanding.

Truthfully, you gladly want to obey; there is just a slight difference between picturing riding a dragon and doing it.

Even the climbing to get in the saddle is a challenge on its own, but he helps you until you firmly seat yourself in it. Aemond sits behind you, and you look around with widened eyes, as if you are looking down from the highest tower ever built, except this is a living one, made of fire and breathing fire.

He leans over you to grab the reins, and you tense, waiting with bathed breath.

“Dohaeras, Vhagar. Soves!”

She lets out a loud screech that makes your ears hurt, but you have no time to even register it because she's already moving. You grip Aemond’s arms and brace yourself against his chest when Vhagar lurches onward and opens her huge wings to take flight.

She goes up and up, above the clouds, and your head is dizzy, with fear, with euphoria, until you are laughing like a child, like you never did in your entire life. Aemond lets go of the reins and laces his arms around you, angling his head to look at you, his silver hair violently ruffled by the wind. “How does it feel, my sweet wife?”

There are no common words to describe it. Now you know why they say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. No man could claim a dragon or rule the skies.

“I feel like I’m close to the Gods.” you say, and he tightens the hold on you “Dragons do not answer to Gods.” he says, burying his nose in your hair “Where does this leave us?”

You turn your head to look at him, and you feel like you are looking at one of them. And yet he looks like he’s beyond any God.

“Above them. Above the Gods.”

“Hmm.” He croons, breathing your scent through his nose, and then his right hand grabs your skirt and dips underneath, until you feel his cold fingers grazing your skin. “I will make you feel like one.”

He cups your core through your small clothes, and you whimper, gripping his arm harder. He feels your heat through his palm, hotter than Vhagar’s own fire, and he sets the fabric aside to properly touch you. “My sweet wife.” he whispers, sliding a finger between your folds “Always so ready for me.”

“Aemond.” You say, holding your breath, trying to oppose but your voice cracks, and your body with it, already answering to his call. You see clouds before your eyes, but it’s all a blur, all your senses are enslaved by his touch, rubbing lazy circles on your bud. Too slow for your liking, for your need. Your hips arch and buck, chasing his hand for more friction, and he laughs, darkly. “What is it? What do you need, sweet girl? Tell me.”

He takes your chin with his free hand and forces you to turn your head and look at him. His hold is ruthless, but his tone is almost pleading. “Tell me.” he orders and you feel like he’s smothering you, sweeping away all the air from your lungs. “I-I need more…”

“More of what?” he asks, stopping altogether. “Show me.”

You look him in the eye and swallow, heat inflaming your cheeks, but there’s no place for shame, not here. It is just a faint ghost passing through you, and then it’s gone. Your hand pulls the gown up, and you place it on his, like a feather. “Here.” You breathe on his mouth “Inside.”

The howling wind does nothing to muffle his growl, and then he’s kissing you, harshly, teeth clashing and biting your lips as he accepts your plea, sliding a finger inside of you.

A strangled moan escapes you, and he swallows it, darting his tongue in every corner of your mouth. He releases your chin only to grab your leg to further open them and then he adds a second finger, moving them deftly until reaching that special spot. Your head falls back on his shoulder, gasping loudly, digging your nails into his hand.

Your breath is ragged and fast, and you uselessly try to stifle moan after moan even if there are only the skies to hear.

“Don’t.” he says grazing your lobe with his teeth “I want to hear you. I want you to scream for me.”

Your mind goes blank, as does all your restraint. You feel the tide coming to crash you, hips moving on their own accord, chasing and chasing. And then you’re drowning in it, mouth falling open and flesh and bones clenching and trembling.

He grunts softly when your nails scratch his skin and his fingers slip out, glistening; he raises them to his lips and tastes every drop of you. Still panting, he takes your chin once more with his sticky fingers and licks your lips, so you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your head is still dizzy when Vhagar lands in a clearing in the King’s Wood, but this has nothing to do with altitude. Your limbs are heavy when he helps you dismount, your legs buckle. There is a tautness knotting your bones, itching your fingertips.

You wish to touch him, because you have never, not as a wife would touch her husband, not as he has done with you.

It is only a moon and yet he has taken you almost every night and every day. He has touched you everywhere, he has molded you to his liking, and you let him do it with giddiness, undoing yourself like clay in his hands. He had put his mouth on you, and you have discovered he particularly enjoyed it, because he has done that at the most inopportune times, even in some dark corner of the corridors.

And you wondered if you could do the same with him—not because you have to, but because you want to. You want to claim him just as he claims you, relentlessly.

And he really is. He is relentless, he doesn't give you the time to wander with your hands, to discover, to touch. Fire burns him quickly and you are ashes before you realise you are burning with him.

“I didn’t know my wife had claws.” He says at one point, while you are going back to the Keep.

You wake from your thoughts and turn, watching him raise his hand to show the red marks on the back of his hand, and the sight makes you almost proud—proud to have left a mark of you on him. But you want more, and he wants more. You know it; it takes a brief look at his breeches to know that he wants more.

You dart your eyes around, but there's no one. So, you stop. Trying to gather all the boldness you never had, you step closer to him and take his hand in yours. Your eyes look up slowly, glinting with uncertainty and bravery. "Then let me soothe your pain, husband."

Aemond’s eye widens, and the air around you turn heavy, forcing you to open your mouth to breathe. You take one more step and bring the back of his hand to your lips, kissing it gently while your eyes stay fixed on his face. The other hand goes tentatively to his chest and then slides down, and for once, just once, he’s the one answering your call. His eye darkens and his lips part when your hands bashfully grab the laces of his breeches.

But you should have known better. Targaryens and their desires. Doomed to take whatever they want, whenever they want, answering neither Gods nor men.

You barely blink and he grabs you by the wrists and forces you to the ground. Cold grass and bushes stinging your back make you gasp, but Aemond is already on you, watching you like a century-long thirsted man who takes a glimpse of a water spring, as if you could evaporate from his sight at any moment.

“Aemond, please.” you beg “let me—“

But his tongue is in your mouth, hot and scorching you alive. Your eyes flutter shut, and he hikes your skirts up, taking hold of your hips. You feel his bulge against you, hard and ready, and you can do nothing else than wait, pinned down like prey, all bravery a distant memory.

Suddenly he lowers himself down, lifting your skirts with haste until you’re completely bare half down. “No—Aemond, please I want to—”

“You want what?” he asks with a wolfish grin “Deny me your sweet taste? Iksā ñuhon, ābrazȳrys.” He said that already, you know what it means. You are mine.

“You belong to me. And this…” he swears placing your legs on his shoulders while looking at your aching core as a man who found the greatest treasure in the world. “This belongs to me as well.”

He runs his tongue up and down your wet folds, humming with delight as he tastes you and sees you squirm, arching your back on the stingy bushes. You moan loudly when he slowly swirls his tongue, not able to keep track of your hips starting  to move on their own, thrusting into his mouth and the sight of you like this, makes him even wilder, pushing him to open his mouth and put it entirely on your cunt, sucking harshly until anything before your eyes becomes blurred.

Your legs on his shoulders begin to shake and curl, caging him further against you, but just when you are about to come straight into his mouth, he pulls back. A weak sob leaves your mouth as your hips keep bucking against nothing and he smirks at that, untangling your legs from his shoulders, running his tongue over his lips, to taste what's left of you on him. You look at him through dazed eyes and a tinge of annoyance for the denied release. “What?” he has the boldness to ask with a sly smirk “Did you not enjoy it?” he runs his thumb on his glistening chin and swiftly licks it. "Hmm. I most certainly did."

“Aemond, please.” you claw desperately at his shoulders and forearms, forcing him to lie on you, feel something that could soothe the aching between your legs. He seems keen to grant you this mercy, molding his crotch against you so you can feel how hard and desperate he is.

“Please.” you beg in a thin voice.

“Speak it plainly, my love. I want to hear it from your pretty mouth.”

You look at him straight in the eye and what you say next is not a request nor a plea. Your mother would be ashamed of you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You are not begging. You are demanding. “Fuck me.”

He doesn’t need more than a few moments to get his cock out of his breeches, and not a moment later he’s pushing inside of you, your back arching on the bushes and your throat fighting for breath. He groans and starts a relentless pace, lifting his weight from you just enough for him to look at his cock going in and out, the sight only pushing him to thrust harder and harder. “Look at you.” he croons, sweet and rough “You were born to take me, to be mine.”

Your face twists with pleasure, teeth biting your lower lip while he takes you higher and higher, higher than any sky a dragon could ever take you.

He soon becomes messy and sloppy, cursing under his breath, but you can barely hear him. Your mind is sluggish and everything comes muffled: him, the birds chirping on some tree, your wet flesh slapping against his in the lewdest and most blessed way.

He curses some more, and then he’s spilling inside you, his arched mouth opening and his eye closing like a man absolved.

And yet, he does not stop. He has not claimed enough.

“Māzis, dōna ābrazȳrys. Come for me.”

Your hand clutches something on the ground, something with thorns that pierces your skin with pain, but you can’t even feel that, because you are falling, legs trembling around him, and heart stopping for an endless moment of pure breathtaking bliss.

“Gevie.” he coos with his lips on yours, falling with his body on you, still clenching and pulsing around him. He stays right where he is, nesting inside of you, and now it is the only chance you have been granted to touch him. You put an arm around his shoulders, catching your breath, and look at the skies above, thinking you are indeed above them.

It was easy to explain the dirt and grass stains on your dress. It was a little less easy to explain the twigs in your ruffled hair when you and Aemond returned to the Keep only to meet the Queen Mother along one of the corridors. Alicent merely smiled at you with a tight smile and did not spare from giving a look full of daggers to her son.

"Seven Hells" you mutter when you go back to your rooms and catch a glimpse of the mess you are in the mirror.

Aemond stays on the threshold to close the door and grins, or rather, gloats.

You step out of your muddy shoes and start to pull the laces of your dress.

"What are you doing?" he asks, and you playfully glare at him. "Am I allowed to take a bath now? Or do you want me to go around all sullied? I fear there are no believable excuses for the state I’m in."

"You can tell them the truth." he says, walking to you and replacing your hands with his to help you pull the intricate laces.

You smile softly with your back turned before raising an eyebrow, asking "Which is?"

He keeps his eye focused on the dress, a slight furrow in his brow, and stoically serious, he says "That your husband fucked you in the King's Wood."

"I could tell the maid. I'm sure she won't be stunned after what she saw this morning."

He makes you turn so you can look at him, and the sight before you makes your heart sing. His eye roams on your face softly, a rare sight on him, always stoic, always sharp, like all the angles composing this beautiful sculpture of black glass.

You always thought of marriage as a strategic deal for men, and a way for women to prove their value to the world, giving those same men sons and daughters. But you care for him. And he cares for you. That look on his face is enough for you to know that he cares for you, not merely as a brood mare.

“Gevie.” he says, quietly, and he touches your cheek, softly, making you wonder how those same hands can be so delicate and yet so merciless at the same time.

“What does it mean?” you ask, even if you are sure he will not answer. You observed that when he speaks in High Valyrian he does it almost to himself, as if to protect something he does not wish the others to know.

But this time, he meets your eyes and lowers his hand. “Beautiful.”

You look at him with your heart pounding in your throat, and then you stand up on your toes, crashing your mouth against his, almost catching him by surprise. But he is all too deft at turning the game on his side, and a few seconds later, his hands are gripping your hips and his tongue is licking the roof of your mouth.

When the door suddenly opens, you pull back, spotting the same maid from that morning who, this time, can do nothing but suffer the Prince's wrath.

"Can't you just fuck off for once?!"

You hold back a laugh against his chest and the poor maid flees in a hurry. But when he pulls you to him, tilting his head to pick up where he left off, you step back and say, "I'm afraid the Queen has requested your presence. You should go, my dear husband. I promise that by tonight I will be completely clean."

"Tonight?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "What is happening tonight?"

You shrug your shoulders and hold back a smile. "Innocence doesn't suit you, my Prince."

"Neither does you."

"I'm afraid this is your fault. You are sullying my soul as well as...everything else."

"You won't be of the same mind when you have my child growing in your womb," and he smirks, looking at you as if he's taking a sacred oath, and then walks away.

You finally manage to take a bath and change clothes, and then you go to visit your aunt. She spends most of her time alone, sipping tea in the gardens, partly because she can't stand the other court ladies, partly because the court ladies can't stand her. Truthfully, you cannot blame them, your aunt speaks plainly—too plainly at times.

You sit down with her for tea, which you end up swallowing like salt, because your aunt takes it with a whole squeezed lemon, and no sugar.

"I saw you with your husband earlier. I may be too old for new fashion but mud on your skirt and twigs in your hair seem a bit too brazen, even for me."

You stifle a smile, recalling what happened. If only she knew he was brazen enough to have you utterly undone on dragon back, thousands of feet up.

Your eyes go distant while you fumble with some tablecloth threads, but your Aunt stares at you piercely, and grabbing her cup of tea she says "I love that look on you."

"What?"

She sips the sour liquid and puts the cup down. "That look. The I'm in love look."

"I am not!" you counter, cheeks going red.

"Of course you are. I've watched you two. I dare say he's falling way faster than you."

You look at her puzzled. Many things have changed in a moon. And you are sure you are utterly infatuated with him. But you did not know what to think of what he actually feels for you, if he even feels something. You know he cares for you, you know he loves spending time with you. You know he's passionate, possessive, almost soft at rare times. But in love? That seems too soon to consider, or to hope for.

"It is too soon to talk about love."

"In fact, I did not, my sweet niece. Falling in love and love are beasts of different species. Why do you think we say "falling"? You can't stop from falling. To love a person is an entirely different matter. Love is a choice."

You let those words sink but you prefer not to question your heart right now. There is a reason you have come here to talk to your aunt, even if you don't know how to address the matter without melting from embarrassment.

But in the end, who could you ask for advice? Your squeamish maids? The Queen Mother? Definitely not.

"Listen, I...I wanted to ask you something..." you start "It is uhm...a matter of somewhat intimate nature."

"Ah, my favourites." your aunt says, beaming "I am all ears."

You shift uncomfortably in your chair and swallow another sip of that dreadful tea "My mother...she explained to me what would happen between husband and wife to...consummate the marriage. But she didn't tell me...well, everything else."

Your Aunt is quick to raise her eyebrow "I gathered that your marriage had been consummated by now. Thoroughly."

"Y-yes, of course. But I...discovered...that there are other ways for a husband to please his wife...and I was wondering if...if I could…do those same things to please him."

Your aunt looks utterly puzzled for a long moment, and then, almost stunned, she says "Oh Seven Hells, child. You are telling me you never sucked your husband off?"

A few court ladies walking near turned their heads, going white as sheets, while you, on the contrary, take a nice purple shade.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, prissies. We all did it eventually." she dismisses them, waving a lazy hand, and looks back at you. "You should do it, if you wish. Men love it. Your uncle used to ask—"

"I don't want to hear that, auntie, I'm begging you." you say squinting your eyes.

"Listen to me, child. Men love to think they rule everything, everywhere. But it is not always like that. And if you want to rule your husband's heart, you must rule in his bed first."

That evening, Aemond wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his room with his wife and forget all the hateful political talk he had had to endure at dinner.

You had not attended, and that had bothered him. Never would he have thought of marriage as anything more than a duty, yet there he was, wondering where you were, who you were with, and why you weren't in his rooms when he set foot in there.

"Where is my wife?" he asks the maid, and she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, saying "The princess spent the evening in the library, your Grace. She told me that she would be—"

"I am here," you say, appearing behind the young maid.

You see his chest sag as if a weight is leaving him, and he casts an icy glance at the poor maid "Out."

He is rarely kind to servants, but you can tell by his tense shoulders that something is wrong.

"Aemond, what is the matter?" you ask as soon as the door closes, walking up to him with a hand behind your back.

"Where were you? Why weren't you at dinner?"

"I was in the library."

"For four hours?"

"It was a tough read—"

He grabs your arm, gripping hour wrist harshly, and you flinch. "Aemond, I swear to you.” you say watching his eye on fire and a sneer twisting his mouth “You can ask Maester Mellos." 

Suddenly he lets you go, and looks down, closing his eye for a moment. But he doesn't apologize, he never does, and not because he is a Prince. It's just the way he is. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't say thank you, he doesn't say please.

"Aemond, what's going on?"

"I don't want to talk about it now. In fact, never. Not here."

You watch him carefully, and you nod as he moves to pour wine into a cup. You watch him gobble it up greedily, which is unlike him. So, you get close and move your hand from behind your back and say, "Anyway, I wasn't lying. I really spent four hours in the library...trying to decipher this."

You show him an old book, and the title catches his eye, cup held in midair. "Tales of the Dragonlords?" he asks frowning. "This is in High Valyrian."

"It is." you confirm as you move closer, and you steal his cup before saying, "Would you read it to me?" and you take a sip, of wine and courage.

He watches the liquid flow down your throat and then accepts the invitation, taking the book—the one he has read so many times he can recite it by heart. He opens it to the first page, but you say "No. Page 72."

There is a slight imperative tone in your tone of voice, and it thrills him, given how his eye glints under the candlelight. He drops it on the table, looking at you from head to toe, and says, "I'll read it to you later, sweet wife."

He steps closer but you back away saying, "Fine, then. I'll tell you what I understood so you can correct me or not." and at the same moment your own hands go up on your corset and you start pulling on the laces.

The gesture catches his eye like a moth to a flame and he stays silent as you pull all the laces and then slip off your dress, remaining in your underskirt. His gaze roams over you slowly, and with a soft smirk, he decides to play the game.

“Page 72, you said. How Dragonlords claimed Dragons.”

“Yes.”

"And why did it capture your interest? Do you wish to do it? Do you wish to claim a dragon?"

"I wish to conquer, not claim."

He comes closer and looks at you, breathing through his nose, restraining, always restraining, and then he's raising his hand to reach a lock of your hair falling on your shoulder, but you stop him, air as heavy as moss.

"The Valyrian sages say a dragonlord must surrender himself completely to the dragon. But it works both ways. The dragon must submit his will to their rider."

He looks at you without blinking, and you take his arms, guiding him closer until you turn and push him lightly on the bed. He sits and you slowly climb on his lap, knees caging his hips, heart is pounding in your throat like a hammer. You hear him taking a swift breath and pride pools in your bones because for once you have caught him off guard.

You can feel his crotch hardening by the moment, but the look on his face is not one of hunger or lust. It is pure and blessed devotion.

You wonder at the view, and your eyes roam on his face until...

"Can I take it off?"

There's no need to say what. His face goes hard as stone, eye looking away with discomfort, with shame.

"Please, Aemond." you whisper. "I want to see all of you. I want you to bare yourself to me as I did to you."

"It is not pleasant."

"I don't want pleasantness. I want you."

He stares at you for an eternal moment and then he caves.

A flash of sparkling blue catches you completely and you can do nothing but watch with lips parted, while he keeps his eye down.

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and lean your head against his to breathe one single word in his ear. "Gevie."

His arms are all around you, holding you so tight you might gasp for air. Instead you are smiling, breathing through his long silver hair. You are not sure if you aunt is right, if love is indeed a choice. You can't bring yourself to care because you are doing it already.

And then he's kissing you, seizing your tongue with his in a fierce consuming way. He slightly hikes up your hips, and his hand tries to slide between your legs, but you lace your fingers around his wrist, breaking the kiss with panted breath.

"No." you whisper, and he looks at you almost questioningly, mouth open and chest heaving.

"Lykirī."

His eye widens and you smile, secretly. "I know what it means now."

He smirks at this and does not miss the chance to be the ever diligent scholar. "But you said it wrong. The R is hard."

“Lykirī.” You say again, following his lesson, and in the same moment your hand leaves his wrist and goes down to his breeches. He dips his chin to look at it, at your hands unsure, and he too looks unsure.

“You don’t have to—“

“I want to.” You say, and your voice comes out firm and clear. “Please, Aemond. Let me…let me touch you.”

He realizes now that in all the times you have been lying together, you never managed to lay a hand on him. He likes to keep people at distance. Too many wrong hands have been on him. The Maesters’, inspecting, debating, healing without healing. That whore, taking what it was not hers to take, not yet.

But he wants you to touch him. He has dreamed of it, in any way a man could dream of a woman’s touch.

He looks at you for a moment, chest rising slowly, and then, without taking his eye off you, he pulls the laces of his breeches and guides your hand around his cock. You look down, exhaling a long breath at feeling his hard and hot flesh already pulsing.

He knows you don’t know how to do it, so his hands guide you at first, going slowly up and down, and the air comes out of his mouth slowly and labored. You look up at him, his eye is pitch black, lid growing heavy with pleasure, and your core clenches, desire pools in your belly and flows down.

He must hear the call of your body, because he releases your hand, still stroking him, and goes right between your legs. You gasp loudly, and he hums, delight dripping from his voice just as you are dripping on his fingers. He starts to pump his fingers and you can do nothing but moan, clutching his shoulders with your free hand, the other still around his cock, but the act is growing lazy, your mind can’t focus properly on what you are supposed to do.

“Listen.” he orders you, fingers moving faster and faster, and you do listen. Your soaked flesh coming undone at his scorching touch. “Who else has you like this?”

But this is a question he’s asking himself. Because no one else will ever have him bare like this.

“You. Just you.” you say hoarsely, eyes closing and hips rocking on their own accord.

“And who am I?” he whispers just as hoarsely, and yet his voice is like a whip on all your senses.

“My husband.” you cry, feeling the wave ready to drown you “Ñuha zaldrīzes.” My dragon.

You cannot care less about how you said it, because then your mouth falls open, nails digging into his shoulder while your trembling hips keep riding his fingers, clenching them like a vice.

Your head falls onward, leaning against his forehead, and you try to catch your breath. You watch his wet fingers go straight into his mouth while he looks at you, humming with pleasure. “You look so pretty like this.” he says with the ghost of a smile on his lips “I should fuck you in Throne Room with the whole court watching, so they know how pretty you are when you come for me.”

You laugh with your cheeks flushing, and he slides an arm around you, and you know he wants to pin you down on the bed and fuck you until you are muffling nonsense in the pillow. But this is not his game. This is yours, and even if you don’t know how to play, you will win.

“No.” you say, climbing down from his lap, and he looks at you with hunger and a tinge of thrilling curiosity. “It is my turn to claim.” You say with all the bravery you possess.

Not a moment later, you are going down on your knees.

Another small victory, because his eye widens as he had never done before, and you can see that this, the sight of you on your knees before him, is something he has been craving for, even dreamed of it.

His breathing is slow, and you are not even touching him.

You place yourself between his knees and you lean closer and closer, anxiety twisting your insides, but you want to do this. “Lykirī, nuha zaldrīzes. Surrender.” you take him into your hand, tugging slowly, and your lips linger on the tip, heart pounding in your ears and eyes fixed on him. “Lykirī.” You say one last time and then you are swallowing him.

He hisses loudly and his lips part, hands clutching the covers until his knuckles go white. He’s like burning metal inside your mouth—hot and hard. At first, you just taste him, running your tongue over the head, and he’s cursing under his breath. His hands twitch on the covers, restraining and restraining, but there’s no need. You take his hand while looking at him and you release it from your mouth to say “Teach me.”

It’s like you have just poured fire on more fire. His eye goes wild, he takes hold of your head and starts to guide you again, making your mouth engulf him once more and deep down to the base and then up to the tip again, filling the room with a wet gagging sound. You get the gist of what you’re supposed to do, so your head starts going up and down and up and down, and he actually moans for you, head falling back for just a moment before looking back, he can’t help but watch as you fiercely claim him.

You watch his chest heaving fast and your jaw is starting to hurt but you don't care, you are too absorbed by the view before you. You are too thrilled by the fact that, for once, you have made him speechless.

He's always so bold in the bedroom, so cruel in deciding when and how to give pleasure, and now he's utterly speechless. He can only curse without breath, and gasp and groan.

“Kelītīs.” he manages to say at one point, voice all husky and cracking. You don’t know that word, and you have no time to ask because in a blink, he’s slamming you onto the bed and he’s hiking up your skirt, but you get on your elbows pushing him on his back and climbing on him.

“I’m not done, valzȳrys.” you say feeling his hard length inflaming your core, so you lay your hips on it as firmly as possible. “I claimed, but I did not conquer.”

“You are fucking torturing me.” he points out, bucking against you.

“Conquests could last for centuries, dear husband. You above all should know that.”

“All I know now is that I need to fuck you.” he says placing both hands on the sheets to pull himself up.

“No, I will.” you promise, rocking your hips once more “This is my conquest, not yours.”

You keep rubbing your drenched core on his length until a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, and he's so hard he's leaking from the tip. "You are twisted, wife." he says with a dazed tone and you smile even if you can't take it anymore, but you rock some more, saying "I'm a quick study. And I'm learning from the best."

Finally, when you are so wet you are dripping on him, you raise just enough to slide his cock inside of you.

You gasp together and you brace on his shoulders to start moving. You both know you are not going to last long, so you start rocking your hips slowly, taking him to the hilt until you struggle for air.

“Move…” he orders but you just take the opposite road, slowing your hips in a delicious torturing way. “Do you know what else the Sages said? A rider must know their mount, feel their heat below them.”

But Aemond does not have a single drop of blood in his head right now to give you an answer, let alone play your game; he's just fire that burns and burns and burns and just like the Sages said, you can feel his heat, burning below and inside you. He grips your hips and starts to thrust inside you like the wild beast you are supposedly claiming, until you are moaning so loud your throat hurts.

“Yes—” he growls as you bounce on him “Just like that—you’re gripping me so well—fuck"

You both turn sloppy, a mess of sweaty limbs and teeth biting, clutching at each other with bruising grips, pulling at the roots of his hair when you’re about to fall from the highest sky.

"Come on, my sweet girl. Let go for me." he breathes into your mouth, forcing you to move even faster "Let go fro your dragon. Seal your conquest." And you do.

He follows right after, spilling inside while digging his teeth into your neck like fangs on a prey, muffling his loud groaning.

And you are smiling like a fool, a lovestruck fool, but most of all, a conqueror. 

Thank you so much for reading!! 💞💞

[mrscarpenter]

BED CHEM

Jacaerys Velaryon x Dornish!reader

Summary: The Prince gets send to gain a powerful alliance that the house targaryen has wanted for a long period of time, and he stumbles upon you. A gorgeous dornish queen.

Includes/warnings: dornish!reader this is probably horribly written so thats a warning in itself, not proof read but i believe Y/N has been used on multiple occasions. Did not give reader a description other than female & dark black curls. There is an age gap in this (reader is 16, jacaerys is 19, but it is never actually mentioned) like i said, not proof read, if you see any spelling errors feel free to point them out!

🪐notes: idk much abt the dornish, especially not in this timeline/au so please ignore any mistakes. Jace is not engaged to baela in this. :)

from my short & sweet collection

You were standing in the hall of your castle in SunSpear. Waiting for the arrival of the prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the iron throne and prince of DragonStone. Or he would be, had King Aegon Targaryen not usurped the iron throne.

The weather in Dorne was always exceptionally hot, so you wore a sheer gown. One thing about the Dornish was that you were not ashamed of anything, especially not what the gods had given you. The dress was a dark blue, with red and gold detailing, your long black curls hanging loosely over your shoulders.

Once you saw the prince arrive, you stood up straighter, clearing your throat silently, allowing a faked smug expression to fall upon your face.

“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, to what is the pleasure of your presence owed?”

It was all a different environment to what he was used to at DragonStone. The strong breeze of hot air, the lack of thick winter-like clothing, the more exposed body, the tanned skin... it was all such a strange sight to a prince accustomed to the cold. He bowed gently towards the young Queen of Dorne, and looked at her dress. He admired the work that her seamstresses had to do to look so good on her.

“A pleasure indeed, my lady. May we chat inside? It is quite hot here, I confess.”

you nod curtly. “Of course. i am afraid i am in a bit of a hurry though, many important matters to attend.” You point out a hand, allowing him to walk beside you as you walk up the steps into the castle.

Jacaerys follows you, watching the way you walk and the environment surrounding the palace. The hot air, the sun, the tanned skin.

He looks over at you, trying to figure out more about the queen of Dorne. “You are quite young, my lady. Not that I'm much older, but tell me what's it like being queen so young?”

“I am quite used to it. I have been Dorne’s ruler since i was 6 summers old. The Dornish are respectable people, and very direct. It hasn’t always been easy, but it felt natural.” You spoke.

Jacaerys nodded as you walked, thinking it was somewhat impressive someone that young could ever rule. He smiled slightly at your comment.

“I can see the directness in you already, if you'll forgive my boldness. You don't seem like you're the type of woman to beat around the bush, are you?”

Jacaerys was trying to figure you out, as any man with an interest in women would do. He walked beside you as you both spoke, trying to gauge his chances.

after a few seconds you speak up “No, i indeed am not. And i do not expect anyone else to either, if i step on anyone’s toes with my words, they are not company i should keep.”

That comment made Jacaerys smile, appreciating your honest nature. He couldn't deny how attractive blunt honesty was, especially in a place where everyone was so used to keeping secrets and making alliances all the time. “So you speak plainly?”

He knew women with bluntness often became some of the most interesting ones. And a queen, with an attitude like that, made a very intriguing proposition. As curious as your boldness made him, he couldn't deny his physical interests.

That dress... Gods...

You bring him out of his thoughts with your reply. “Yes i speak plainly, and so should you, Prince Jacaerys.” You spoke softly, almost gentle-like. It was very refreshing.

Jacaerys took a long look at your body, his eyes slowly glancing at the details of your dress. The way the skirt of the dress swayed with your movements and how the gown itself left little to the imagination. The way your curly locks dangled and moved. The way your skin shone with the sun's blessing...

His gaze finally returned to your face, the soft features combined with the dark eyes and long wavy hair. He couldn't deny what was crossing his mind right now. Your blunt nature, combined with the way you looked, was certainly making him wish for things.

He couldn't help himself, as he took another look at you, before finally speaking. “That must come in handy for a queen like you, my lady. You're much less... complicated than one would expect from a ruler.”

Jacaerys approached one step closer, his eyes still locked on yours.

“If I may ask, are you married or betrothed by any chance?”

Your blunt words, your direct manner, and your pretty face only encouraged his desires. And it seemed the prince was rather blunt with his intentions as well.

Your eyes locked with his, as he asked the question you were certain was coming.

Of course, he must be interested in some deal. Just like any man, the prince wouldn't be able to simply let a beautiful young queen pass by.

You took a moment to think, wondering what to share.. or perhaps hide. "No, my prince. I am unmarried."

The corner of Jacaerys' mouth curled into a small, cocky smile. "Oh, is that so?"

A hint of teasing was clear in his voice, his eyes still looking for something in yours.

"Well, I suppose that does have some upsides."

He took another step closer, until he was at an arm's distance. The young prince could smell the scent of the air in Dorne, the sun-kissed skin, and the expensive perfumes of a queen. "Tell me, how might a man catch the interest of the queen of Dorne?"

The prince's voice had the tone of teasing, making your eyebrow raise slightly. His sudden proximity also caught you slightly off guard, his physical interests becoming very clear to you.

You couldn't deny how handsome he was. And you guessed perhaps you could use a bit of fun, considering you were unmarried and in your youthful prime.

You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him, his eyes burning a hole through your face. "Hm... What are you offering? Your family is at war, are they not? your visit is political.”

The prince let out a quiet chuckle, letting his eyes wander over your body for a moment.

The dress was certainly eye-catching, the way it hugged your curves, allowing his imagination to let loose...

The words you spoke only made his eyes find their way back to your own, and the smirk he had on his face only grew.

"Is the possibility of a political alliance enough to catch your interest, my lady?"

You watched the prince's eyes as they caressed your body, the boldness in his gaze, and the clear interest that you knew was there. You knew how to take advantage of an opportunity..

"Depends on what kind of a deal you're suggesting, my prince." There was an undeniable flirtation in your voice, your own subtle way of teasing him.

The prince didn't hide the smirk that spread across his face after that statement. His hand slowly reached over to your waist, his touch feeling the silky fabric of your dress.

"Would a marriage perhaps suffice?"

Your dress, as thin as it already was, provided no barrier against his touch. You could feel each stroke of his fingers, his thumb moving in circular motions against the thin fabric.

The marriage proposal was expected, but it seemed the prince had a more hands-on approach in mind.

You kept a straight face, not to give away how your mind was beginning to wander with the possibility of a marriage. "What would I gain? And what would you expect in return?"

He didn't let your serious expression stop his hands from wandering over the silk of your gown, his hand moving across your waist and down your side. "You would gain protection, support, and a powerful alliance."

"And I would gain..." He leaned closer, his breath against your skin, "A gorgeous Dornish queen as a wife..."

Your heart began to race as his words and his hand continued it's exploration of your side, the anticipation of where those hands might end up was growing.

The prince's proximity and the way he slowly looked at you, expecting some kind of reaction. You stayed firm, holding back the subtle reaction you felt with his words.

"Hm... We might have a deal, my prince."

And with that, his lips ended on yours.

Requested by: @avatar4life

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© mrscarpenter, 2024.

[sansaorgana]

— LADY OF THE ROSES (III)

PART ONE || PART TWO || PART FOUR

PAIRING — Ser Gwayne Hightower x fem!Reader // Tyrell!OC

SUMMARY — Six moons of marriage have passed and an unexpected visit of Lord Jason Lannister causes Ser Gwayne and the new Lady Hightower to have their very first disagreement. Not long after, she gets pregnant with their first child.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — It’s written as an usual x Reader fic without describing anything about the Reader’s looks but I still classified it as an OC as well since she is a Tyrell. + You don’t have to know the previous chapters to understand this one. I wanted to include Gwayne and Reader having their first child in the previous part already but it was too long and the time skip would be too big so I decided to turn it into yet another chapter of the story. Since the pregnancy and birth would be quite boring, I added some drama with Lord Jason aka Reader's previous suitor from the first chapter (but the details are not required to be known if you haven't read the first part!). There will be one more part to this story for which I am very excited! 😊 Thank you for all the nice comments. 💚

WARNINGS — Lord Jason being himself, pregnancy, birth

WORD COUNT — 6,130

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

LADY OF THE ROSES (III)

First six moons of your marriage had passed by quickly and peacefully. You couldn’t believe it was half a year already and you were very pleased with how everything you had been so scared about turned out to be not so bad – performing marital duties was nothing but pleasure and fun, meanwhile running Oldtown could be exhausting sometimes but you still enjoyed it most of the time and you proudly held your head high while helping your husband with all his obligations around the city and the castle.

Having your own property with your own servants to order around was a good feeling, too. Not that you wanted to abuse the power that had been given to you but it was simply nice not to be someone’s daughter but your own Lady. Well, your husband’s – but he had never made you feel like that. Ser Gwayne Hightower was a chivalrous knight who was treating his duties and honour very seriously. He knew that being a husband did not only mean getting but it also meant giving. He was your protector and a shoulder to cry on, a strong hand to hold you and lead you and fight for you. You trusted him with your life and you would never doubt his loyalty to you.

Sometimes you wondered why had gods blessed you with such a good husband as you doubted if you had deserved him. Not that you were a bad person but you had your flaws – your pride, your stubbornness. Yet, you had not fought even once yet with your Lord Husband.

Well, once, nearly. Gwayne had suggested that perhaps you should start wearing more modest clothing because The Highgarden fashion was a bit too revealing for Oldtown. You had scoffed at that and he had not brought that up ever again.

You knew that The Highgarden fashion was considered too exposing for lots of regions of Westeros. Only Dornish women liked even riskier gowns but Oldtown was a part of The Reach so its people were not shocked to see a Tyrell Lady in a revealing dress. You had a feeling it was your Lord Husband’s personal preference because his own sister was known as a woman of strong faith and modesty like her mother before her.

Despite being Lady Hightower now, you still felt a very strong bond with The Tyrells. You always wore a golden ring with a rose on it and you loved all sorts of ornaments and decorations in the shapes of roses. You were corresponding with your Lady Mother and sisters every week and sometimes you were still signing the letters as Lady (Y/N) Tyrell – out of habit that was visibly saddening your husband whenever he’d catch you doing that.

Just like right now as you were sitting by your desk and Gwayne was handing out letters for you to sign them. Those were some official matters that he was supposed to send out to his vassals but ever since he was married and Oldtown had a Lady, he insisted on you both signing them even though it was not a popular custom for husbands to insist on such things.

You didn’t even read those letters since you trusted him as you mindlessly kept signing a letter after a letter. You gave him back the last one and he sighed, which made you look up and raise an eyebrow at him.

“What is it?” You asked.

“Lady (Y/N) Tyrell,” he read out loud and you felt bad at the sight of his sad expression.

“I am sorry,” you reached out to squeeze his wrist. “I was not focused enough,” you admitted.

“I shall rewrite this one,” Gwayne waved the letter in the air.

“No, I shall do it,” you took it from him gently. “Or will it be seen as something inappropriate when they realise it was the wife’s handwriting?”

“No, it won’t be,” Gwayne smiled at you and allowed you to take the letter. “Can I stay here and watch you work?”

“What kind of husband asks such a thing?” You chuckled at him. “Of course, my love,” you leaned into his hand as he caressed your cheek and you placed a soft kiss upon his fingers.

Gwayne sat in the armchair by the window inside your chambers. You would spend some of your days here but all nights so far you had slept with him. However, the chambers he had prepared for you were so beautiful that it would be a waste to never spend your time inside them.

You rewrote the letter and handed it for him to sign and then you could start working on answering the letters that were addressed to you specifically. Gwayne kept sitting in the armchair and looking at you, occasionally staring out of the window. It was peaceful and quiet and you wished that moment could last forever.

The next envelope on the pile of letters made you furrow your brows. It was red and the golden wax seal had The Lannister lion on it. You checked twice if it was really addressed to you and not to your Lord Husband but no, it was very clearly addressed to “Lady (Y/N) Hightower of Oldtown”.

“Weird,” you hummed to yourself when you opened the envelope with a small dagger, without breaking the seal.

“What is it, my darling?” Gwayne turned his head around to look at you since he had been gazing out of the window and staring at the water.

“It is from Lord Jason Lannister and it is addressed to me instead of you,” you told him. It felt quite inappropriate so you wanted your husband to know for you would never hide anything of such a matter from him.

Perhaps you would not be so suspicious about it if you didn’t have a history with Lord Jason. He had been one of your suitors and your father’s favourite. In fact, he had been plotting with your father behind everybody’s back to win the tournament for your hand and he had been playing dirty by using his knight brother to pretend to be him.

“And what does he want?” Gwayne crossed his arms.

“Well, allow me to read the letter first,” you rolled your eyes playfully as you began reading.

Gwayne was trying to be very patient but from the corner of your eye you could see that he was tapping his arms with his fingers and you found it pretty amusing so you read the letter three times before putting it down and taking a deep breath in as you laid your eyes on your husband.

“He wishes to visit us. He claims he was around for his friend’s wedding and he wishes to stay at The Hightower for the night on his way back home,” you explained.

“What friend, I’m wondering?” Gwayne snorted. “Oldtown is never on anyone’s way. It is usually a destination, not a stop.”

“He says his friend is Lord Bulwer, they are our vassals from Blackcrown. He must reach Oldtown to get on the Rose Road. It is a faster way to get back to Casterly Rock than to travel alongside the shore,” you explained because, sadly, Lord Jannister’s excuse sounded very realistic. “Well?” You asked Gwayne. “We must give him an answer.”

“We are not in a state of war with The Lannisters, are we? We shall let him stay for the night,” your husband sighed and stood up to read the letter himself as if he wanted to make sure there was nothing inappropriate in it.

In the meantime, you began working on a reply letter to Lord Jason Lannister. Your husband kept standing behind you and examining every word you were writing down. He had never done that before, even when you had been writing letters of much bigger importance.

“I don’t mind you being in the same room as me while I work but this is a little uncomfortable, my love,” you tried to make him realise calmly when you were about to sign the letter.

“Do not forget your surname this time,” Gwayne reminded you and you furrowed your brows at the tone of his voice. It was not rude but certainly harsher than usual.

“Lady (Y/N) Hightower,” you signed silently, “of House Tyrell,” you added, just to spite Gwayne and you didn’t have to look up to know that he rolled his eyes. However, he did not say anything.

Lord Jason was supposed to come three days later in the evening, right in time for the supper. You wore a green dress for that occasion but you had a rose-shaped jewellery that your husband usually did not mind but on that day he seemed to be bothered by it.

“This jewellery is beautiful, dear wife, but are you sure it goes well with the dress?” He asked during breakfast as you froze.

“Since when are you an expert?” You turned your head around with widened eyes. Well, Gwayne knew quite a lot about fashion but his comment had irritated you.

“Since I am a married man,” he cracked a nervous smile at you.

“Yellow roses always go well with green for those are the Tyrell symbols,” you reminded him with a forced, ironic smile.

“Is this how you wish to greet Lord Jason in Oldtown? As Lady Tyrell?” Gwayne raised an eyebrow at you.

“I have been walking around this city in this very dress and jewellery many times before and you have never said anything!” You protested and Gwayne blushed a bit because he had no idea what else to say.

You went back to eating because you didn’t want to torment him more by pointing out the flaws of his argumentation, however he did not choose silence at all.

“The dress is also quite low-cut,” he mumbled.

“Yes, it is, my beloved Lord, and what about it?” You clenched your fist around the fork you were holding.

“I suspect not many Lord Husbands would want their wives to greet their previous suitors in such a dress,” he commented.

“I have never treated Lord Jason as my suitor,” you scoffed. “And what is wrong with the dress?”

“Nothing,” Gwayne quickly fixed himself. “Nothing is wrong with the dress, my beautiful Lady,” he assured you and went back to eating.

“Are you perhaps jealous of Lord Jason? Do you wish to impress him or show me off as your property?” You asked after the sudden realisation as you laid your eyes on him again.

“Property? No. My wife,” Gwayne clenched his jaw as he explained. “I want to show you off as my Lady Wife.”

“My darling,” you smiled and shook your head as your anger subdued. You leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I would have chosen you as my champion during that tournament even if you were a beggar knight from a peasant family. I would love you even if you were a miller, a carpenter, a fisherman. And no amount of Lannister gold would convince me to go with Lord Jason anywhere,” you assured your husband and fixed his hair gently. “I want to show you off as my Lord Husband in front of him just as much.”

That seemed to calm Gwayne down for now as he nodded with a small smile and even stole a little kiss from your lips. You were alone by the table and the few servants walking around would not scold you for that anyway.

The sun was slowly setting down when you were standing by Gwayne’s side in the courtyard of The Hightower and awaiting Lord Jason Lannister. Your arms were brushing and you kept looking at each other once in a while as if you were giving each other courage. Not that you needed it but Lord Jason was rather insufferable and you knew that losing temper around him would not be good for your relations with The Lannisters. The relations were pretty fragile already anyway.

Finally, you heard the horses and saw a big, elegant carriage with the Lannister lion ornamented on its doors.

“I thought he would travel on a horseback,” Gwayne mumbled.

“Well, he is not a knight. He is used to certain comfort,” you whispered and wore a fake smile that very moment when one of your servants opened the door of the carriage and you saw Lord Jason walking out.

He looked around as if he could not see you nor your husband at first. Then, he faked a smile as well and approached you.

“Lord and Lady Hightower,” he looked you up and down and kissed the palm of your hand when you bowed your head down.

“Lord Lannister,” you greeted him.

“Ser Gwayne,” he nodded at your husband.

“Lord Jason,” Gwayne nodded back. “You must be tired after the journey. Come, the supper is ready and your chambers have been prepared.”

“Thank you. I have never been to The Hightower, I must admit,” Lord Jason followed you inside. He kept looking around like a curious cat.

“How did you get to Blackcrown, my Lord?” You asked him curiously since you and Gwayne had been wondering about it earlier – why was he asking you for a room to stay on his way back only.

“I went there by a ship, Lady Hightower, but the ship was the wedding gift for my friend,” Lord Jason answered and you nodded.

“Your wedding gifts are very generous, my Lord,” Gwayne pointed out.

“Well, I can afford such,” Lord Jason grinned at him as you reached the dining hall. “You must forgive me for not sending one to you, Ser, but in my position of a failed suitor, it would have been pretty humiliating,” he explained and you pretended to understand his point of view.

And it was not like you cared about any gifts from him anyway.

“Please, let us not dwell on the past,” you showed Lord Jason an empty chair by your husband’s side and he took it after you and Gwayne had sat down as well.

“I am not meaning to, my Lady,” Lord Jason informed you proudly. “I am a married man myself now.”

“Oh, are you? Congratulations, my Lord,” you smiled at him even though he had never congratulated you on your union. “To whom?”

“Lady Johanna of House Westerling,” Lord Jason answered and you hummed to yourself.

“Well, she is a lucky Lady,” you tried to be kind.

“Thank you, that is very flattering, Lady Tyrell,” Lord Jason bowed his head and Gwayne shot him a deadly glance. “Oh, do forgive me, Lady Hightower. The colours you are wearing have misled me,” he explained with a grin and you faked a smile but you began to feel guilty for not listening to your husband earlier.

“Green is the colour of House Hightower,” your husband reminded Lord Jason.

“Indeed but the roses…”

“My wife is not forbidden from wearing the emblems of her father’s house,” Gwayne interrupted Lord Jason and it was rude enough to make all of you sit in silence for a moment after that.

“Lord Jason,” you started quickly to change the subject, “why isn’t your Lady Wife with you?”

“It was not recommended in her fragile state. Lady Lannister is expecting,” Lord Jason straightened himself and you could see pride and smugness about him.

“Congratulations, my Lord,” you nodded at him.

“Aren’t you afraid of leaving your pregnant Lady Wife alone for so long when it is no matter of life and death keeping you apart from her, my Lord?” Gwayne asked and you clenched your jaw before kicking him slightly under the table.

“Ser Gwayne, there is nothing in this world women do better than give birth. She does not need my assistance,” Lord Jason found it quite funny, though, as he laughed but he was the only one doing so. “Speaking of, I’ve expected to see Lady Hightower being swollen already. How long has it been now since the wedding? Six moons?”

You froze at his question. It was incredibly rude to be up in other people’s business like that.

You had been discussing the matter of children with Gwayne in the very beginning of your marriage and you both had decided you wanted some time for yourselves before having children and to enjoy each other’s company first. You were regularly drinking teas prepared by The Hightower’s maester to prevent you from getting pregnant and so far it had been working. But if it had failed, you wouldn’t be sad about it either, for you couldn’t wait to have your babes soon anyway.

You exchanged a meaningful look with your husband, not knowing what to say. If you told Lord Jason the truth – that you wanted to wait and enjoy each other’s company – he would only scoff at that and find it hilarious.

“And who has told you that I am not swelling, my Lord?” You answered swiftly before Gwayne opened his mouth.

Lord Jason looked you up and down before humming to himself.

“Well, congratulations, Ser,” he patted Gwayne on his back.

“Thank you,” Gwayne gritted through his teeth and gave you a scolding look. “It is still very early news, though,” he added.

“May the Gods bless Lady Hightower and her offspring,” Lord Jason nodded at you and it somehow felt very sincere.

“Thank you, Lord Jason,” you gave him the very first genuine smile that evening.

The rest of the supper went pretty boringly and you said goodnight to Lord Lannister before the servants took him to his chambers. You and Gwayne went upstairs in awkward silence.

On your way to your husband’s room, you passed the door to your chambers. They were a floor below Gwayne’s chambers that were located at the highest level of The Hightower.

“I shall join you later,” you only mumbled out and he nodded, watching you disappear inside your room.

Your maids were already waiting there to help you into your nighttime attire. You kept sighing and they were exchanging looks.

“How was it, my Lady?” One of them asked. She knew your backstory with Lord Jason because she was one of the girls you had taken with you from The Highgarden.

“Lord Jason is insufferable as always and even though he is married now himself, he finds great enjoyment in tormenting my Lord Husband,” you told her.

“Well, my Lady, I doubt Ser Gwayne is angry at you,” her eyes widened.

“I do not know anymore. I have worn a dress he did not approve of and it indeed caused trouble. I have also said something… Something I should have not said and I have said it to defend his honour but he might not see it this way,” you confessed.

“Ser Gwayne is a very understanding Lord Husband,” the girl assured you and smiled while she brushed your hair.

You kept looking at yourself in the mirror’s reflection but you weren’t sure of her words. That supper had gone worse in the beginning than you had even imagined.

You thanked your maids and they left you alone but you kept sitting in the armchair and staring at yourself and at the candles slowly burning out instead of moving up and joining your husband as you had promised.

For the first time during your marriage, you simply blew out the candles and went inside your own bed. It even felt weird to lay there since you were not used to it but it just felt like the right thing to do on that night.

You couldn’t fall asleep though. And after a while of tossing and turning, you heard the doors open as the wooden floor squeaked under someone’s feet.

“Who is it?” You sat up immediately.

“And who do you think, my Lady?” A familiar voice made you sigh out of relief.

You reached your hand out in the darkness and Gwayne grabbed it as you led him into your bed.

“Why didn’t you bring a candle with you?” You asked.

“I felt a little adventurous,” he chuckled. “And I know my way to you by heart, my beloved Lady,” he added. “Why haven’t you joined me?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to, my Lord,” you admitted when he laid next to you under the cover. You cuddled him immediately by curling up next to him and putting your arm around his waist. “I thought you were cross with me.”

“I am not cross. I simply do not understand why you lied,” he confessed and kissed the top of your head.

“Is it the lie that you’re upset about?” You furrowed your brow. “I do value your honour but…”

“Not the lie itself,” Gwayne interrupted you. “Why didn’t you allow me to inform Lord Jason that we do not wish for children yet?”

“Because he would not understand and find you weak or assume you are unable to produce an heir and it is nothing but an excuse. I wanted to spare you further embarrassments,” you explained. “And… I am sorry for the dress…” You added, looking down.

“Do not be. I am sorry for insisting,” Gwayne rubbed your back. “And thank you for wanting to spare me embarrassments but now we are facing quite a challenge, aren’t we, my love?”

“What do you mean, my Lord?” You looked up, finding his blue eyes in the darkness of your chambers.

“I mean that Lord Jason now believes that you are expecting, my darling,” Gwayne smirked a little and you furrowed your brows.

“Oh no,” you gasped, faking the dramatic aspect of it. “And what shall we do about it now?” You wondered theatrically.

“Well, I have quite a few ideas,” Gwayne leaned in to join your lips together in a kiss as his hands pulled you even closer by your waist.

“Are you sure?” You breathed out between one hasty kiss and another.

“Only if you are,” he assured you.

“I am,” you nodded. “I am, I am, I am…” You kept repeating, suddenly realising how eager you indeed were to have your own little babe before you allowed your husband’s lips to devour yours with yet another passionate kiss.

Thankfully, Lord Jason was supposed to leave Oldtown after breakfast. You greeted him in the morning in another green dress and even though this one was pretty low-cut, too, you decided not to wear any roses on that day. Instead, you wore a necklace with The Hightower that had once belonged to Gwayne’s late Lady Mother.

Lord Jason kept staring at your chest and the necklace until it became a little uncomfortable and he cleared his throat before looking up to meet your cold gaze that you were gracing him with.

“I must admit I have not expected The Hightower to be that grand. It really is as tall as they say,” he bowed his head at you.

“We Light The Way, Lord Lannister,” you reminded him with a forced smile.

“Of course, Casterly Rock remains taller,” he added and you put the cutlery down, irritated. Gwayne gave you a look to remind you to stay polite.

“My Lord, why the remark? Is it a contest?” You asked him, trying not to sound too angry. “It is not the size of the castle that proves manhood. I do believe that you have already shown yours during the tournament for my hand in marriage,” you reminded him of his shameful behaviour and cheating. “The tournament which my husband has won fairly and justly,” you added.

Lord Jason did not say anything. He looked down and went back to eating while his cheeks' colour started to resemble The Lannister emblem.

You squeezed Gwayne’s hand under the table and the rest of the breakfast went pretty smoothly. You went outside to the courtyard to watch Lord Jason ride away. His farewell was pretty short and official. He was not trying to make any jokes anymore.

“My darling, you have acted as if you were a knight and I was a lady in distress,” Gwayne chuckled at you once you were finally free of Lord Lannister.

“Sometimes you are, my Gwayne,” you smiled at him sweetly and leaned in to steal a kiss from his cheek.

“Shall I get you a sword, my sweet?” He teased you and you rolled your eyes at him.

“Perhaps another time, Lord Husband,” you chuckled at that.

Two moons later you were watching Gwayne training with his sword as he was teaching a young squire on the courtyard. The day was quite hot but you had nothing else to do and you loved to watch him train anyway so you were sitting on a wooden bench, trying to remain in the shadow but you felt awful nevertheless. The sun felt too warm, the corset seemed to be too tight no matter how many times you had asked your maids to loosen it and you were hungry but too nauseous to eat. You blamed your condition on the weather and your upcoming monthly bleeding, which was late already but the soreness of your breasts could only mean that it would come very soon.

Gwayne kept looking at you from the corner of his eye with a worried expression because he could see that something was not right – you looked exhausted and your skin was a shade paler than normally. There were bags under your eyes and your voice sounded weak whenever you cheered for him or his squire.

He knew he was most likely overreacting but he was panicking deep inside that you could be seriously ill like his mother had been. The beginnings of each illness looked the same and losing you so fast after marrying you would surely kill him, too.

You were too exhausted to even notice the worried look on his face. You raised your head to shield your face from the sun and you felt a sudden dizziness that made you flutter your eyelids as your head grew heavy before losing consciousness for a short while.

When you opened your eyes again, the very first thing you saw was Gwayne’s furrowed brows and blue eyes filled with worry and fear. His cheeks were so pale that his freckles were more visible than ever and the strands of his auburn hair were tickling your face. His squire was standing behind him with widened eyes.

“Wh-what happened?” You asked and looked around while your vision was slowly coming back.

“You have fainted, my love,” Gwayne swallowed thickly.

“It must be due to the heat,” you tried to explain.

“Mayhaps. But I shall not underestimate your condition,” he picked you up the bridal style, carefully.

“What are you doing, my Lord?” You chuckled weakly at him.

“I am taking you to the maester,” your husband answered with all seriousness.

You didn’t protest because you knew he was worried and to be honest so were you. You only hoped that the maester would confirm that it was nothing serious.

Gwayne’s squire opened the door leading to maester’s chambers in front of you both and The Hightower’s maester stood up to bow his head. He had been sitting by his desk and working on something before you came inside.

“My Lord, My Lady,” he greeted you. “Is everything alright?”

“No, maester. My Lady Wife has fainted,” Gwayne laid you down gently on a bed.

“It is because of the heat!” You protested.

“Mayhaps,” the maester hummed to himself and approached you to examine you with his hands as Gwayne stood above him and watched worryingly. “Have you slept well, my Lady?”

“Oh, I can’t sleep for about two weeks now,” you admitted and yawned a little at the mention.

“I understand. What have you had for breakfast, my Lady?” The maester furrowed his brows.

“I was too nauseous to eat,” you confessed.

“May I ask you when was your last bleeding?” The maester raised an eyebrow.

“It should come any day now for it was more than a moon ago… I am sure it is going to come, though. My breasts are sore,” you lowered your voice a little, feeling uncomfortable with the way he was looking at you and Gwayne’s presence hovering above the both of you.

“May I?” The maester lifted his hands and you opened your mouth to answer but you noticed that he was looking at your husband and not at you.

“I mean, if you must…” Gwayne cleared his throat. “And if the Lady agrees,” he added and only then the maester laid his eyes on you.

“Go on,” you nodded and your heart skipped a beat when he grabbed your breasts gently through the fabric of the dress and squeezed them carefully. You hissed at the feeling.

The maester hummed to himself and moved his hands away before looking up at Gwayne again. Your husband shook his head out of anticipation.

“And?!” He asked.

“Lady Hightower is expecting. Congratulations, my Lord,” the maester informed and you opened your mouth slightly at that revelation.

“I… I am with child?” You inquired and sat up, feeling the sudden outburst of energy.

“I am quite certain of it. Too many symptoms confirming,” the maester nodded. “And when was it that my Lady stopped drinking the tea? Two moons ago, right?”

“That is quite right,” Gwayne answered and took you by your hand. He squeezed your fingers gently and sat on the edge of your bed. He placed a gentle kiss upon the palm of your hand and looked deep into your eyes with such a loving expression that you felt butterflies all over your body even though you had been married for more than half a year now.

The maester walked away and sat back by his desk to give you some space but you completely forgot about his presence anyway for all that mattered was your husband and his child you were apparently carrying under your heart.

“Oh, Gwayne…” You stuttered out as your eyes filled with happy tears. “So it is happening… And to think we have Lord Jason Lannister to thank…”

“My Lady!” Gwayne frowned and chuckled. “Do not say such things. Some people might get ideas…”

“That is true, I guess,” you laughed at his comment. “Are you still certain that you will not mind a daughter if it is a girl?”

“All I care for is your safety. And the child’s. In that exact order,” he answered and you gave him a faint smile.

“Whether they’re a boy or a girl, I just wish for them to be like their father,” you squeezed Gwayne’s hand lovingly. “That is my greatest wish.”

A slight blush covered his cheeks and you smiled at his reaction. It was quite easy to make him flustered with such compliments for he had not been getting many in his childhood. He had been left alone at eight years old, raised by all the septas and maesters of The Hightower alongside older knights teaching him the craft and chivalry. His life had been quite a lonely one but it no longer would be for you would fill the corridors and courtyards with tiny little Hightowers running around.

Your screams could be heard on every floor of The Hightower – a monument taller than The Wall itself – at least that was what your husband had claimed with a chuckle when you nearly crushed his hand while squeezing it tightly. You gave him a deadly look and he lovingly wiped your sweaty face, pushing away all the hair strands that got stuck to your forehead.

You knew that Gwayne was trying to distract you with his jokes here and there but overall he was very worried – perhaps even more than you were since your pain was too overwhelming to focus on anything else. The septas were busy around you, wiping your sweat away, helping you to drink water and telling you when to push as they monitored the birthing process.

You had not expected your Lord Husband to actually be there for you but he had not disappointed you. You had been conflicted at first for you had been told once that wives should not allow their husbands inside during labour. But you were too scared to go through this alone and the pain was much greater than what you had imagined as well. Gwayne’s presence was bringing you great comfort even if sometimes he was annoying you.

The birth had started after breakfast and the sun was slowly going down already but the septas were assuring you that it would not take long from now on. Gwayne had not left your side even for a moment throughout the whole day.

“I did not mean to upset you, my love,” he explained, caressing your hand as if it was the most delicate thing in the world and not a deadly machine that had nearly crushed his hand on several occasions that day. ���You are the bravest woman in the Realm to me. In all the Realms of this world, in fact,” he assured you and you just couldn’t be angry at him any longer.

You smiled and wished to tell him something equally sweet when a sharp pain distracted you and you turned your head around while wincing and squeezing your husband’s hand tightly again.

“I can see the head!” One of the septas screamed. “Go, fetch the maester!” She ordered the young girl who was only getting her training but seeing her pale face and terrified expression, you wondered if she regretted her decision to become a septa.

On the other hand, as a septa she would never have to go through what you were going through at the moment.

The girl ran out of the room and you kept taking deep breaths in and pushing like the eldest septa was instructing you. Gwayne kept holding your hand throughout that but seeing his face, he needed the breathing instructions as well.

The maester entered the chambers in a hurry with the scared young septa after him and in that very moment the child’s screams and crying filled the room. The sound was so loud and determined that you immediately knew that there was nothing to worry about for only a healthy and strong child could make such a fuss.

The maester hurried to the newborn baby and Gwayne was trying to see as much as possible through all the septas swarming up around you to clean you up a little and wipe your face from all the sweat.

“It is a boy,” the maester informed and you couldn’t help but sigh with relief.

You knew your Lord Husband could not care less about it but you did care – you loved him and you wanted to give him an heir.

“Is he alright?” Gwayne asked with a raspy voice.

“See for yourself, my Lord. He is a perfectly healthy babe,” the maester approached you two and handed Gwayne his firstborn son. He showed your husband how to hold the little head up and you watched with a loving smile the little bundle of joy staining your husband’s clothes with blood as he was screaming his lungs out.

“He is beautiful,” Gwayne mumbled and moved closer to you as you reached out your weak hands to hold your own babe as well. He placed him gently on your chest but his eyes were fixated on the boy. “Thank you for him, my love.”

“I thank you, my Lord,” you answered but you did not look up at him either since you kept staring at the screaming child. But when he felt your skin and your heartbeat, he stopped crying immediately and just kept staring at you with huge eyes. You chuckled at that and cried happy tears. “How do you want to name him?”

“Lord Edmund Hightower?” Gwayne suggested. It was no surprise to you that he did not propose his father’s name and you liked the sound of Edmund Hightower, so you nodded. You could not care less about the name, you were just glad to have a son and you thought it was only fair for the father to choose his heir’s name anyway.

“I like the sound of that,” you assured your husband as you looked up to meet his gaze.

“So do I,” Gwayne nodded. “And the sight, my Lady,” he added and you felt your cheeks heating up.

Only Gwayne knew how to make you flustered still, after over a year of marriage and right after giving birth to a child, dirty with blood and sweat but to him you were nothing but a victorious warrior that had just survived a battlefield and he admired you now more than ever before.

MASTERLIST

[arabellasleopardcoat]

The girl with the pearl necklace (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You marry Daemon to secure an alliance. But surprisingly, you find a haven in him.

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Oral (F receiving) Talks of race, colorism, racism, and self-esteem issues.

A/N: This has to be my most personal fic. It might not be as universal because it is part of my personal experience with race as a mixed person living in what is essentially a mixed region. I hope I do not get a bad response, but I will remind you what the title of my blog says.

“YOUR HAIR IS ugly.” The girl says, displeased. She is trying to comb through your hair with some coconut oil, but instead of curling prettily, your hair just falls flat. She has been at it for at least half an hour, her tugs to your hair getting increasingly more painful.

This time, you cannot hide the flinch. Pain, you had excused with being her first day. Making a mess, with her being unused to your hair. But calling you ugly? She was but a serving girl, she had no right.

The girl looks horrified at what she has just said. She is barely fourteen. But yet again, you are too. You have never called anyone ugly to their faces. You keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself.

“She is young, milady.” The older maid, the one that is supposed to supervise her, says. She smooths your hair back, trying to fix it. Her touch gets more and more desperate the more she tries. Your hair will simply not obey. The younger one has put so much product on your hair, it looks greasy and unwashed.

You stare at your features in the mirror. The lighter skin, the shock of unruly hair, not quite a wave, not quite a coil, but rather something in the middle. Bad hair, your previous maids called it. You wonder why you bothered trying with maids again.

It is your cousin’s wedding. A lovely young woman, with beautiful dark hair that you bet never reacts this way.

“I am sorry, milady.” The younger maid offers.

Your eyes are still fixated on your mirror. You wonder if your mother ever has these troubles too. With her sleek hair, and foreign features, you doubt anyone dares call her ugly. She may not have a title, as you do, but she was once regarded as the most beautiful woman in Lys.

But you. Oh, you. With your too wide nose, but too upturned to be a dornish one. With your high cheekbones in a short face. With dark eyelashes, purple eyes, and hair that is not quite right.

It screams outsider. It screams, not here, not there. Not a famed beauty in Lys, not quite the Sword of the Morning.

“Get out.” You say, to the serving girl. “Get out, both of you.”

You need to wash your hair three times for all the product to come out. You are late to the wedding.

The serving girl is relocated to the kitchens, where no one needs to talk to her. The older one is sent to tend to your father. You pass her sometimes, in the hallways of Starfall, and wonder if she is thinking your hair is ugly too.

You wonder the same thing on the day your fate changes. You are getting dressed when you see her, an ill omen in the middle of Starfall. Prince Qoren has summoned all the unwed noble ladies of Dorne to Sunspear, wishing to announce something. You think it can’t be anything good, considering he has refused to use a royal proclamation to do so.

The travel to Sunspear is taxing. You travel to the capital accompanied by your mother, a day before the actual meeting is set to take place. It allows the two of you to spend the night in a manse before having to meet the royal family.

She doesn’t know how to fix your hair. Your mother’s hair is pale silver, easy to manage and twist in the ways women up north prefer. She had tried hard to tame yours as a child, spraying it with water and stretching the curls with a brush so it laid flat. It never seemed to work as it did in hers.

You pin your hair up, a clip made of pearls and amethysts keeping it up. You do not have the same texture most women here have, that ensures gorgeous volume, so you play to your strengths, showcasing the deep color you have and using it as a backdrop for gorgeous accessories.

Your dress is chosen with great care. A deep lavender, with a tasteful cleavage, held at your shoulders by twin brooches of falling stars. Not even hearing your mother say you look beautiful eases your anxiety. You had seen her, the servant. She only appeared in your life when something was about to happen.

You are not the superstitious kind, but when you stand in a line in front of Prince Qoren’s throne with all the noble maidens of Dorne, you know you were right. That woman was a bad omen.

Prince Qoren smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I am glad all of you chose to accept my invitation.” He stands. All the women in the room drop into a curtsy. “When I look at you, I see the best this Kingdom has to offer. It makes me proud. And it makes me confident enough to know I can ask this of you.”

You tense. Whatever he is going to ask is something bad, you can already tell. Some of the more clueless girls in the room look flattered by the delicate compliment, but it is a tactic you know well. You have been mocked enough to know that when someone compliments you so elaborately, a but usually follows. And it tends to be devastating.

His kind demeanor isn’t fooling you. Not in the least.

“We have never coddled our women, as the other Kingdoms do. War is coming for us, and we need strong allies. The Iron Throne offers us their support, but as always, it comes with a price.”

War. Of course it comes down to it. You have heard your parents whispering about it when they think you cannot hear. How Prince Qoren is thinking of sending his troops, instead of his money. How he expects your brother or father to lead them, sometimes against the Triarchy, sometimes against the Iron Throne.

It seems he has made his choice. Against the Triarchy. Your heart is seized by the sudden terror of the thought of your father going to war and not coming home. His sword, Prince Qoren called him.

Your house has been Dorne’s sword for decades. Ever since the first Dayne picked up their sword from the heart of a flaming star, you have defended the Kingdom against their enemies. Your very home once burned because of it.

Amongst the tales of flaming swords and fallen stars, you had never thought war would touch your home. Your brother was the current wielder of Dawn. Your father the head of your house. They would have to fight.

“A marriage pact. From a daughter of Dorne, to a Targaryen Prince. To bind our kingdoms, to ensure peace in this new alliance we embark. Dorne must remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken. House Martell has no daughters of their own to offer, so we ask one of you to go on our stead. It’s us who will pay your dowry, and you shall always have a home here.”

His words barely register as you brood about the upcoming war. You have heard of the Crabfeeder, and his brutality. You think of your kind, kind brother, and his sweet smile. He is a few years younger than you, untested in battle yet.

Some girls cheer. You look at your mother and notice she has the same stricken look you must be sporting. Some of the other parents talk animatedly between themselves, calculating the potential such a match offers their daughters. None seem to realize what it means.

War. War will come for Dorne, and the situation might turn out so bad, proud Prince Qoren will need the dragons’ help. The once unbowed man is being made to bow so low his forehead is touching the floor.

Prince Qoren raises a hand, quieting the hall.

“I am not asking for volunteers. I simply wished to gaze upon you myself, and decide who will marry Daemon Targaryen.”

Mumbles start again, some girls sounding disgruntled. Others preen and titter, trying to attract the Prince’s gaze. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the wall in front of you.

You would rather not marry this Daemon Targaryen. The politics in the other kingdoms are not your forte, but you have a vague notion of him being the brother to the current King. He must have a dragon, of course. And you think he is the one who has been in the conflict at the Stepstones, so he must be some sort of warrior.

No matter how much of a catch he might be, you wish to stay. If war is truly coming, you cannot bear to think of being separated from your family. Your mother will need you, when your father and brother are called away. And you don’t imagine yourself in a foreign land, waiting for news about them on your own.

Prince Qoren makes his way down the line of maidens. You barely spare him a glance, your mind thousands of miles away. But he pauses in front of you, looking at the shooting stars in your shoulders, the deep lavender of your dress.

“I hear Daemon Targaryen likes his women fair.” He comments. “And you are the fairest of us all.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. It takes all of your willpower not to fidget under his gaze. You give him an awkward smile.

Prince Qoren reaches to touch the brooch. His hands are elegant, fingers long and lean. He is about your mother’s age, and wears it just as well.

“Lady Dayne, is it?”

“Yes, my Prince.” You say, meeting his eyes. You may not be a classic dornish beauty, but you were still raised by the most charming woman in Lys. There are hardly any other women with manners as refined as yours, and you know all about the games men in power enjoy playing.

You cannot fawn over him. You cannot show him weakness. Because if you do, you will be common in his eyes, unespecial. It is not about beauty. It never is. That thought has given you great comfort during the years.

“How fitting. My dearest sword will be the one to defend her kingdom.”

Your hands begin to sweat. His choice is predictable. It is the same thing you had been thinking about your father and brother, House Dayne is the sword of Dorne. And swords, even more feminine ones, are only useful when war comes.

It doesn’t make it easier, that you should have expected it. It only makes your chest hurt. You do not dare look at your mother.

Instead, you drop into a curtsy and look at Qoren Martell as if he has made you the happiest woman in the world.

“I will be honored, my Prince.”

He smiles.

“Please, call me Qoren. We are to be family now.”

You look at your mother, insides turning to ice. You wonder how long until he takes you away from her.

In the end, it only takes a month. Qoren had been eager to depart and fix the realm’s issues. You now know plenty about the war in the Stepstones. Apparently, your future husband had secured the victory, giving the killing blow to the leader of the opposing army. But while won, the threat to your Kingdom remains. The Triarchy shall always reform, and not even the death of the Crabfeeder can stop them. Like one of those awful serpents from myth, you cut off its head and two more appear.

Pulling your support as the Triarchy was losing had been a bad move. They blamed Dorne for their defeat, and the Iron Throne thought the dornish were cowardly, only making their choice when it was clear who would lose. To avoid petty revenges and more bloodshed, Dorne needed new allies. And you needed them fast.

“We negotiated a new title for you.” Qoren tells you, as the carriage takes you from the docks and towards the Red Keep. “When you marry, you will become a Princess too, instead of remaining a Lady.”

“That sounds exciting.” You give him a bright smile. It's a very genuine one. Hearing yourself announced in such a manner would please you. “It will be strange, of course, changing it.”

“Nonsense.” Qoren laughs. “Only the best for my daughter.”

You falter, and decide to peer out of the window to hide your expression from him. You do not want him to think you are ungrateful.

The night is awfully cold, but you barely feel it. You are dressed in a purple velvet dress, still amazed by the material. You had never worn something so expensive, or made of such a warm fabric. It has the traditional dornish cut, with a plunging cleavage, but you find the added long sleeves fascinating.

The royal family had spared no expense in preparing your trousseau. As a daughter of House Martell, only the best would do. Obviously, all in their colors. This purple velvet gown was one of the few purple items you had been allowed to bring. It saddened you, having to forsake the color. You had always felt pretty in purple, since it matched your eyes.

You weren’t too sure how you felt about everything. Being sent to protect your kingdom and, by extension, your family from war was a great thing. But you were also being asked to leave your identity behind.

Never having left Dorne before, the journey had excited you, but also made you feel acutely lonely. And the thought of having to let behind your family, your colors, and even your name, only served to make you feel worse.

Your father would not be the one giving you away during your wedding, nor would your maiden cloak be the one of House Dayne. Instead, you would wear the sun and spear of House Martell.

But at this moment, as Qoren gets out of the carriage and extends you a hand, you are a Dayne. The purple dress acts a beacon, attracting the gaze of every servant in the vicinity. You stand tall, a star pendant hanging between your breasts.

You will enter decked on your colors. You will greet your future husband as you are, dressed in royal purple. Be a Dayne one last time, before war takes even that from you.

You breathe in and out, the polluted night sky so different from the beautiful stars in Dorne. This is it, you think, a chance to start over. To be whoever you wish to be. These people do not know what a dornishwoman should look like, or how she should behave. They do not know your hair is odd, and so are your eyes. They will only know what you want them to know.

“Go change, my sword. Your maids have selected a dress.” Qoren places his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the Red Keep. Your smile falls. For a second, you had thought you could attend the feast as you were, draped in your familiar purple and silver. “Make us all proud.”

You should have known better. But it is no matter now. A new life awaits you. Not even Qoren can sour your mood. You square your shoulders and smile.

So focused you are on your inner motivational speech, you do not notice the man watching you, his features covered by a black hood.

The day of your marriage, Daemon presents you with a beautiful pearl necklace. It is made of the purest pearls, with the biggest one you have ever seen right in the middle. It is bigger than the fingertip of your thumb, a perfect circle, roughly the size of a gold dragon.

“My cousin helped me commission this.” He says, during the wedding feast. He presents it to you in a small box, insides lined with velvet. As you reach for it, Daemon closes it, nearly catching your fingers with it. You laugh, startled. He grins at you. “Ah, I want to help you put it on.”

Your fingers fiddle with the simple silver chain you wear, star pendant hanging between your breasts. The hesitation must show on your face because Qoren, at your side, answers for you.

“She is honored, I am sure. Such a gorgeous jewel, to sit in the neck of the greatest beauty Dorne has to offer.”

You smile, trying not to let the sudden flare up of bad memories the words bring you. You remember a young girl, calling your hair ugly. Your grandmother’s face, sneering as you passed her in the hallways. Half-breed, she says, after having too much wine. Not quite right.

The subtle, more hidden, cruelties of girlhood that made your heart ache. When you did not make the list of the most beautiful girls some page was making. How much of a late bloomer you were, by dornish standards. How you had to wait so long for your first kiss, when it seemed like all the other girls were having them already.

Will this be all your life will ever be? Looking for the poison dripping from each word? Doubting every compliment?

You give Daemon what you hope is a seductive look, from beneath dark lashes. You are not good at seduction, having been an observer most of your life. But you are good at pretending.

It has worked, so far. Your arrival, on Qoren’s arm and with an honor guard fit for a Queen, had made people look at you differently. Men, specially, look at you as something exotic. They whisper about your Lyseni mother, and the tricks you must know how to perform. It fills you with dread because once again your looks set you apart, and you don’t quite feel like a person. You had hoped things would be different here.

And they are. Their attention is different, but it’s still wrong and you don’t quite believe them. They only want you because of the novelty, because of rumors about dornishwomen, about how your mother trapped your father. Not because you are beautiful or desirable. It’s sickening.

“Come, husband. Take my necklace off.” And Daemon obeys you, coming to stand behind you. Before he can begin to fumble with your hair, you reach for your hair on your own and lift it to expose your nape. You twist it into a pretend up do, holding it up with your hand.

The gesture is as languid as you can make it, highlighting the curve of your arm, and the elegance of your movements. The cold air hits your neck, making the hairs there stand up.

You both feel and hear Daemon’s sigh. He blows a soft puff of air against your hair, the noise very loud in the small table that seats only Qoren, Daemon, and you. The Queen has already retired, her sickly husband in tow. The Princess and her husband are dancing merrily between the tables.

When you had met Daemon, your first impression of him had been that he was very Valyrian looking and surprisingly whole for someone fresh out of war. And then, he had looked at Princess Rhaenyra and you had understood what Qoren meant when he said he liked his women fair.

Your stomach had turned, back then. Valyrian indeed. Rhaenyra was all milk white skin, light lashes and soft features. You couldn’t compete, you had thought. But then, you had noticed how his eyes followed little Laena Velaryon and you had known there was a chance for you to succeed too. It wasn’t skin color, but Valyrian heritage.

You have been trying to seduce him, with various degrees of success. The attention men pay you is helping you, and so are your purple eyes. You hope tonight goes well. You think you have just about enough Lyseni blood in you to keep him hooked.

His hands gently unclasp your pendant. He pockets it, you think. A memento or because he intends to give it back to you? You feel as his fingers whisper against your collarbones, and this time it’s you who sighs.

You are dramatic about it. Your lips part, as if about to be kissed. Your head tilts back.

“Beautiful.” Daemon whispers, in your ear. He kisses the shell of it.

“It is a gorgeous necklace.” You reply, feeling your face heating up. You feel drunk already, and you have not drank a single goblet of wine yet.

“No. You.” And the kiss against your ear becomes open-mouthed, his heavy breath filling your hearing. His hips brush against the backrest of the chair, searching for closeness. This is something that cannot be faked, you think. Not this kind of desire.

He wants you. He wants you, and you only wish to close your eyes and let him take you right here at this table. You are no blushing maiden, for sure, but you still are new to intimacy. Too many hang-ups about your body and not quite pleasing attempts have not contributed to building a vast knowledge of it. The fact that he wants you so badly makes you wild.

“I think that is my cue.” Qoren says, breaking you out of your stupor. He drains his cup, clearly in preparation for leaving. You had never felt such a connection with someone, not even in Dorne, where pleasure was loud and open. You press your hands to your face, ashamed of having forgotten he was there. Daemon simply chuckles.

“You don’t have…”

“Dearest sword.” He says, as he plants a kiss to your forehead. “You are as tempting as your husband is selfish. He doesn’t seem in the mood to share you.”

“I am not.” Daemon agrees, squeezing your shoulder. He exchanges a look with Qoren over your head. You can only see Qoren’s answering smirk.

“I think I should call for the mummers early.”

You and Daemon slip away as a company of puppet masters from Dorne make their grand entrance, throwing colorful powders in the air.

Later that night, as he sleeps in your shared rooms, you slip on a robe and stand in front of the mirror. Daemon has a massive one, right at the foot of the bed. Mirrors have always scared you, and sleeping so comfortably as he does with one reflecting him is unfathomable. You only intend to cover it.

Mirrors are supposed to be portals to other worlds, your mother used to say. The thought is stuck in your head, so you have grabbed a linen and are ready to place it over it when something catches your attention.

Your reflection. She is glowing, barefoot and in a simple robe, but still wearing the necklace your husband has given you. It should look gauche. It should look too much. But somehow, the necklace looks just right in your neck. You remember Daemon’s eyes, filled with desire when you had bared your neck to him. The sensual way he had touched you tonight, cradling you in his arms, rolling around in his bed. The necklace on the nightstand.

You look at the way the pearls light up your face. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You make your first mistake a few days after.

It’s the first day of the week, and the Queen has asked you to have tea with her. You go, happily. After Qoren’s and the guards left, you began to feel lonely. There is not much to do here, either. Most of your usual entertainments are considered too sinful or crass. You can not even go for a walk around the city because they deem it too dangerous.

The meeting with the Queen is sour. She is trying, you can tell, but you still hear the disdain in her voice when she talks about your customs, or your people. She eyes the necklace you wear with distaste.

You get the feeling she buys the tales about you. That you are some dornish beauty, exotic and trained in the arts of seducing men. She comments on your mother, on her luck for marrying up, and you have to remember yourself to bite your tongue.

From what Daemon tells you, she is very lucky herself. Going from Lady to Queen is almost as impressive as going from merchant’s daughter to Lady, and you know which one of them did not need to spread her legs for it, and it’s not her. Not if you judge by her plain face.

You look at her, scandalized and pious as she is, ranting about acceptance of bastards of all things, and you surprise yourself at your own cruelty. You should not have thought that. But you are just so angry…

You take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down. It is then you notice. In the door of the solar, standing to attention, is a man who looks like you.

He has inky dark hair, and olive skin. His eyes are dark, and he has a light stubble, probably because when you have hair as dark as he does, it is difficult to hide body hair. He wears armor and a white cloak. Kingsguard, you think. Why hasn’t anyone told you there was someone else from Dorne here, too? How could you not know?

Queen Alicent follows your eyes, suddenly noticing you are not paying attention. Your eyes are glued to the knight. She frowns in disapproval.

“That’s Ser Criston Cole. My sworn shield.” She stresses the word my. You grab your teacup and take a sip, to hide your smile. Is the pious Queen in love with her knight? “And a member of the Kingsguard.”

She is reminding you of his vow of celibacy. You almost laugh. If she wasn’t so repressed, she would realize she is the one who wants to jump his bones. The only interest you have in him is the fact that he might become a friend.

“Do your guards always stand inside your rooms?” You ask her, doing your best to sound puzzled. “The King’s guards stand outside his, and so does the sworn shield of the Princess.”

“…” Queen Alicent blushes, and averts her gaze. There are no further invitations to have tea with her.

You spend a lot of time staring at Ser Criston. He never returns your gaze. You seek him at mealtimes, you greet him in the corridors, but he always manages to evade you before you can properly start a conversation.

Daemon notices. He always does. He is finely attuned to you, his perfect wife. His prize after the war, his star. A study in contradictions, brazen and bold one moment, shy the next. He seems to like you even more for it. What he doesn’t seem to like is your sudden fixation on Criston Cole.

“You should stay away from him, star.” Daemon whispers, when he catches you staring at him once more. His voice sounds irritated. Accusing. As if you have done something wrong. It makes you bristle immediately.

“I am doing nothing wrong.”

“No one said you are. But Cole is….” Daemon shakes his head. “It is unwise. That’s all I mean to say.”

“What is unwise?” You scowl. You are glad that the table is long enough that no one else overhears you. Knowing Daemon, things are about to get nasty. He will throw in so many insults, Ser Criston would beat him into a pulp if he heard. No matter how competent your husband is, you still worry. “Trying to talk to him?”

“He is a cunt.” He says, cutting your meat for you as if you were a child. From your place in the dais, you seek him once more. Ser Criston is standing on the entrance of the hall, watching carefully as his Queen dines with the King and the two of you.

As if sensing your gaze, he looks towards you. Then, he quickly averts his eyes.

“I merely wish to speak with him.” You say. “He is like me. Dornish.”

“Ser Crispin will only disappoint you. Both in personality and in prowess.” Daemon warns. He pushes his goblet closer to you. “Here, try this. Arbor gold. How does it compare to the swill you like to drink?”

You take a sip of his goblet. You scrunch up your nose, The wine is cloyingly sweet, lacking the strong notes Dornish Reds always have.

“Ugh.” Your lips pucker up in disgust. Daemon laughs, and steals a kiss from you, licking into your mouth for good measure. But before you can begin to properly enjoy it, Queen Alicent coughs. You push Daemon away, even though you are doing nothing scandalous. “You taste like it too.”

“And you taste of that swill you dornish call wine. Yet, I am not complaining.” He takes a sip of his goblet.

“Are you jealous of him?” You ask, suddenly. You have heard about the rivalry between the two of them. Everyone knew of how Cole had obtained his position. He had been a simple knight, until Daemon had lost to him during a tourney. The act had caught Princess Rhaenyra’s attention, and secured him a white cloak. “Ser Criston?”

The thought of Daemon thinking you want to invite Cole to your bed is enough to amuse you. While in Dorne, paramours are more common than here, you are finding monogamy pleasant. You had never been much for sex without love, after all. Only one taste had been enough to satiate your curiosity.

“You shouldn’t toy with fire.” He growls, perhaps confusing your amusement with a deliberate attempt to tease him. It only makes your smile widen.

“Did you know…?” You begin, with an airy tone. Daemon sets down his cutlery. He turns to look at you, licking his lips. “My ancestor, Ser Joffrey Dayne, crossed paths with Queen Visenya. She burned Starfall, after he attacked Oldtown.”

“House Targaryen has always defended the Highcunts, it seems.” Daemon’s brows furrow together. It is no surprise he knows about it. One of the things that have bonded the two of you together is the fact that both of you are obsessed with family history. What he doesn’t know is why you are referencing it now.

You smile. One of your hands goes to toy with the necklace he has given you and that has become your constant accessory, bringing attention to your neck. It is a deliberate move. You intend to be ravished tonight

“I do not fear fire. We Daynes got Dawn from the heart of a falling star. “

Daemon kisses your temple.

“Oh? And I cannot wait to see you burn.” And he is pulling you to your feet, and you are slipping outside with a hurried curtsy.

Despite Daemon’s warnings, you still decide to approach Criston Cole. It takes you almost a week to build up the courage to do it, and another more to mention it to Daemon.

You do not want him to feel blindsided, so you include him in your planning. It is only when he shows up at the Sept that you realize Daemon intends to go with you.

Even the Septon pauses when he sees the two of you enter the Sept. Considering the court thinks you a temptress, and him a rogue, you are not surprised.

You are not particularly pious. While you had been educated on the Faith of the Seven, Dorne practiced a much diluted version. You had not attended a service in quite some time, but you try to focus on it to keep your nervousness at bay.

The plan is to intercept Ser Criston when the service ends. Daemon is under strict instruction to remain sitting, as to not unnerve the other man. But of course, things do not go according to plan.

As soon as the Septon gives his last blessing, you sprung up and step closer to the knight.

“Ser Criston, a word?” You ask him, your voice soft and nonthreatening. It is not as if you want to impose your presence on him, but you are unsure of why he flees rooms when he sees you. Perhaps he is shy, or perhaps you have offended him, but you will never know if he doesn’t speak to you.

“Do not talk to me!” He snarls, getting up from the bench. You try to reach for his arm, but Cole is quicker than you, grabbing your wrist tightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Daemon getting up from the bench where he was waiting for you.

“Ser… I only wished you to invite you to have tea with me.”

“I will not get into your bed, Lady Targaryen.” The man snarls at you. “Perhaps it is allowed in Dorne, but I assure you, here we do things differently than your people. Propositioning a man is…”

“I am not propositioning you!” You say, hotly. The words he is spewing at you leave you bewildered. You have never heard another dornishman speak so. “What do you even mean by that? Your people! You are dornish too.”

“I am not.” But before he can give you an explanation, Daemon is stepping in, and unsheathing his sword. He places his body between Ser Criston and you.

“I would suggest you unhand my wife.” His voice is cold. “Or you will lose the hand.”

“And you! You support her… Her… She should be sent back to Dorne, but she doesn’t even belong there, does she?” And Ser Criston stomps off, clearly unwilling to engage Daemon in what would probably end up as a fight to death.

Daemon looks willing to go after him, but you make a pitiful noise that is a cross between a sob and a whine. The rejection hurt more than usual, having grown unused to cruelness during your stay on King’s Landing. And the remark about you not belonging in Dorne?

It stung. You had not heard that insult in ages. It made you think of the serving girl, and your grandmother muttering you had bad hair, of your odd little features and strange coloring. Not quite Andal, not quite Rhoynar, not quite Lyseni.

Ser Criston looked like you. Of everyone, you would have expected him to understand. To see you.

You had only wanted a reminder of home. Careful with what you wish for, indeed. Your eyes feel suspiciously wet.

“Oh, that cunt. I’ll cut off his dick and feed him to Caraxes…” Daemon mutters, a thunderous look in his purple eyes. He then presses his forehead to yours, giving you an impish grin. “Not that it would be much food, would it? Like a worm, I bet.”

It makes you laugh, despite yourself.

“There you are.” Daemon smiles, brushing your tears away. “Come. I need you to see something.”

He takes your hand and leads you towards your shared rooms. You frown, slightly. Does he have some sort of present to give you? It’s unusual to be going there so early in the morning.

When Daemon opens the door, a maid is still sweeping the room. He barely spares her a glance, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The girl looks disgruntled. You offer her a silver dragon for her troubles as she leaves, noticeably cheering her up.

The bed is freshly made, and the room smells of lavender. Outside the windows, the birds chirp. You see nothing unusual.

“What was I supposed to see? You interrupting the maid? Poor girl.” You mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Do try to make her life easier.”

But he doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull out the chair in your vanity. It is a rarity, the whole set a gift from Qoren to furnish your new rooms. It has a beautiful mirror attached that reflects you from the waist up when you sit in front of it.

“Come.” Daemon says, simply. So you do. You know better by now than to disagree with him when he is in one of his moods.

You sit in the chair, dutifully. Your reflection looks a fright, so you try to avoid looking at yourself too much. He stands behind you, hands caressing your shoulders lighty, prompting you to look up.

“I have noticed.” Daemon starts, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “That you are always self-conscious when I look at you for too long. Or when I take your clothes off.”

You avert your eyes. It is true. You feel strange when Daemon looks at your body. The awe he holds in his gaze is both exciting and humbling. You never feel worthy of such worship.

“I would say we are past the maiden’s modesty.” He chuckles. “We made sure of that, didn’t we?”

“I…”

Daemon begins to unlace your gown. The presence of the mirror is making you self-conscious, so you reach for your bodice, and hold it up with one hand.

He pauses. He studies your expression, before dropping a kiss to your curls.

“Don’t cover yourself, wife. I love looking at you.”

You take a deep breath. You want to tell him the truth, for once. Daemon has started to suspect that despite how much you enjoy intercourse with him, something is wrong with your self-esteem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have staged this intervention.

“I just don’t like how I look much.” You keep your voice low. Shame begins to freeze you up, making you tense and unable to speak. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“Madness.” Daemon laughs. He kisses you, slow and sweet. His lips move tenderly against yours, coaxing you out of your shell. You wonder how such an impatient man can have such infinite patience when it comes to you.

The thought makes you melt. Daemon smiles against your mouth and pulls back. He comes back to standing behind you.

“Look.” He orders. And you, helpless under his spell, cannot disobey.

You look at your reflection. Your hair is in even more disarray than before. Your lips are red and kiss swollen. And your eyes… You look dazed.

“We are just getting started.” Daemon promises, his hand coming to caress your collarbones. This time, when he pulls down the bodice, you do not fight it.

He kisses your head.

“You asked me once, if I was jealous.” You turn towards him, confused at the sudden change of topic. Daemon shushes you, squeezing the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving pup. You look at yourself again, knowing there is no point in disobeying. Daemon always gets his way.

“I am jealous.” His voice is firm. He leans in, and kisses the top of your hair. His talented, skilled hands, take the pins off from it, so it frames your face once more. You fight the urge to fix it, to give more volume to your roots. You don’t like how limp it falls sometimes. Daemon presses a kiss to your earlobe, and whispers. “Of the very breeze against your hair.

Your eyes widen. You do not dare take them away from the mirror. On it, you watch as he presses a kiss behind your ear, as he mouths at your neck, just barely reaching the necklace that sits there.

“Of the pearls you wear, for holding on to your neck. “ You feel his words against your skin, making you shiver. He wraps it around one of his fingers, the pearls tensing just so to feel more restrictive against your neck.

Your lips part in a sigh. The tension of the pearls makes you think of a collar, and his deft handling of them a leash. Ownership.

“Sometimes, when I see you around court, I imagine this.” He tugs the pearls upwards, placing them between your lips. You watch, in a daze, as your reflection parts her lips more, welcoming him in.

He places the biggest pearl between your teeth. You find yourself mesmerized by this stranger you are watching, being turned into an artwork in front of your very eyes.

“You are exquisite.” Daemon gives the pearls a tug, pulling them slightly up. They catch on your hair, contrasting beautifully with the dark curls. There is something haunting about the image, something that tugs at you and makes you see yourself from his eyes.

Like this, with him calling you exquisite, pearls adorning your face and hair, you can almost believe it.

“Do you know what I think of more, when I see these pearls?” Daemon chuckles. It’s a dark, masculine sound. You are unable to form a word. “Hm. Perhaps I should show you.”

He finishes pulling the necklace from you. Over your head and out they go. Suddenly able to speak, you find yourself at a loss for words.

Daemon kneels behind you. He meets your eyes in the mirror, again.

“I am jealous of the moon, and the sky, and this damn mirror even.” It sounds like nonsense. It should sound like nonsense, but somehow, it is disarming, this newfound honesty of his. The one where he stumbles over words in his eagerness, in his need to call you beautiful, to call you his. “Because you want to gaze at them. Your eyes should be only for me.”

He cradles your face in his palm, forcing you to keep eye contact with your reflection. His thumb brushes over your lips. You just stare.

“And even of the wine you drink, when you wet your lips.”

You kiss his thumb. Your eyes sting. This is quickly turning unbearable.

“Daemon… Please…”

“Oh, but your eyes.” He praises, sounding almost drunk. He begins to kiss a path down your collarbones and towards your breasts. “I love your eyes. They are maddening to me.”

He continues to kiss your skin, inhaling deeply. The closer he gets to your breasts, the hungrier he becomes. Daemon is gorging himself on you, biting and nipping at your bosom, sucking at your nipples until you cannot help the moans coming out from your mouth.

Liquid, molten pleasure, begins accumulating at the base of your spine. Warming up your body, making you sweat with the exertion of keeping still.

“You are so beautiful, I fear anyone will want to steal you away.” Daemon whispers, grabbing your hips in an almost bruising grip. “And I fear if I don’t hold tight, it will be my fault.”

You look at yourself. At the half lidded eyes, the softness of your chest. At the attitude of surrender, as your thighs part, and you feel him bury his nose on the roses of your mound. As he inhales, trying to memorize your touch, your smell, your sounds. As he decides to drink from you, making your face go slack, brows pinched together, eyes glassy and absent.

Beautiful, you think, as you reach your peak with a scream so loud you fear the rest of the Red Keep might have heard.

Daemon laughs, doing his best attempt to suck a bruise on your thigh.

“And you haven’t even seen what I plan on doing with the pearls.”

[adragonprinceswhore]

Celebratory Dinner

Aemond Targaryen x Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Aemond wants to try something new for your one year anniversary.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, fluff, lovestruck Aemond, oral (f. & m. receiving), 69, spanking, manhandling, rimming (f. receiving)

A/N: This is straight up porn lmao. A request by anon from last December, enjoy! 🩵

Word Count: 1800

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“What time did you say we have reservations?”

Observing your reflection, an annoyed huff leaves your lips as you try to pin your hair back for what feels like the 50th time.

Uncooperative, it seems like your locks stubbornly refuse to wield into the style you have in mind.

Fuck it.

You throw the pin into the sink and sigh loudly, hands coming up to harshly unravel your hard work.

Before you get the chance to do more damage, Aemond appears behind you and gently places his hands over yours,

“In 30 minutes”

He leans to the side and picks up the hair pin you’d thrown into the sink.

“Let me help you”, he says softly, inspecting your hair before sliding the pin between your strands to effortlessly accomplish what you’d spent a good 10 minutes fussing over.

You roll your eyes when the cocksure smirk you’ve come to expect appears in the mirror.

“You’re insufferable”, you mumble, inspecting your hair. He had a habit of being unexplainably talented whenever he tried something out, especially tasks that required him to work with his hands. It was equally enchanting and infuriating.

“You love me”, is all he retorts. He’s still standing behind you, watching you through the mirror with an intense glint in his eye, “You look beautiful”

He ducks his head down to press a kiss to your cheek while his hands grabbing your hips. You lean back against him, smiling as you regard the pair of you in the mirror.

One year today.

When you first met Aemond, he didn’t give the best impression with his stern demeanour and one-worded answers. But as you got to know him better, you soon learned that his stoic appearance merely worked as a façade for him to hide behind. He doesn’t hide from you anymore.

“What kind of place is it? Dornish?”, you ask as Aemond places kisses down the side of your neck.

He hums in reply, lips refusing to leave your skin.

“Did your mum recommend it?”, you tease, knowing that anytime you two ventured outside of the regular rotation of restaurant Aemond deemed worthy a visit, it was by the influence of his mother.

You feel him smile against your skin, and it’s all the confirmation you need. The hands on your hips begin to caress your sides slowly as his mouth moves down to your exposed shoulder.

“So, celebratory dinner. What about the rest of the evening?”, you ponder aloud as Aemond’s attention stays on exploring your softness with his lips.

“I have a few ideas”, he murmurs, mouth coming up to nibble at your ear, “But I prefer showing you over telling you”

You feel a bolt of excitement travel through your body at the thought. He’s ridiculously skilled at rendering you a wanting mess, and the brief attention he’d offered you now had already left the apex of your thighs delightfully sticky. Maybe there’s time for a quick pre-dinner treat?

You push your ass against him, slightly wiggling your hips in provocation, hoping he’ll take the bait.

He does. Aemond traps you in the embrace of his strong arms as he roughly pulls your body against his, the hard proof of his arousal pushing against your backside.

“You want me to show you right now?”, he lowly inquires against the shell of your ear, and the sudden husky tint to his voice sends you deeper into the trenches of desire.

You grind your ass against him in reply, head rolling back to rest against his shoulder. You tilt your head slightly to the side, careful not to ruin the styling Aemond had helped you achieve.

Impatient, a state you often find yourself in around your partner, you start pulling at the form-fitted evening dress you’re wearing, visions of him taking you against the vanity unit flashing before your eyes. Even after being together for a full year, the effect he has on you is potent, if not a little worrying.

Aemond’s hands find yours as he once again restricts their movement, grabbing your wrists in one hand as the other moves down to land a smack against your still covered ass.

“We’re not celebrating our anniversary with a quick fuck in the bathroom”, he chides, voice low and still calm, “Get on the bed”

You feel giddy with excitement as you rush out of the bathroom, moving to quickly sit on the cotton-clad duvet adoring the bed.

Aemond’s right behind you. His fingers move swiftly to undo the buckle of his belt while his gaze stays trained on you. The familiar clink of metal makes your core clench in anticipation as you look up at him, now standing right in front of you. You’re determined to get him as worked up as you are; to balance out the power.

Your hands come up to assist him, grabbing the belt buckle and pulling the leather band out of the belt loop. Your expression is innocent enough, voice overly sweet as you look up at him and ask, “Can I suck you off, baby?”

Your rousing proves successful. Aemond’s jaw tightens, one eyebrow rises as the corner of his mouth slightly twitches to fight off a smirk.

“Why should you have all the fun?”, he questions as he gestures for you to move further up the bed. You comply, allowing Aemond to manoeuvre your position so it is to his liking. He places you on your side, surprising you by lifting one of your legs and laying his head down on your thigh, facing your core.

He revels in your softness for a moment, nuzzling the smooth skin of your inner thigh before pressing trailing kisses up to your centre, teeth biting into the flimsy fabric of your lace thong, moving it to the side.

He wastes no time in devouring you, diving into the apex of your thighs without restrain. The tip of his pointed nose pushes pleasure from your swollen clit out through your entire being, causing you to moan his name and arch your back, pushing yourself further into his face.

He brings a large hand up to grab the flesh of your ass, encouraging your previous movement. His tongue comes out to swipe over your bundle of nerves in confident strokes, and when you let your hips absentmindedly rock against his face, he moans unabashedly into your heat.

Eye-level with his crotch, you watch as his length strains against his trousers in neglect.

Your fingers move skillfully to undo the buttons, releasing his cock with one swift motion before indulging as quickly as your lover had, tongue collecting the pearly proof of arousal from his red tip.

Aemond moans again as you take him into the warm wetness of your mouth, letting your tongue explore the veins of his cock. His hips begin to match yours; both of your bodies moving in a slow rhythm as you give and take pleasure.

His tongue finds your entrance, slightly stretching you out as it searches for that special spot inside you that makes you see stars. Aemond finds it in seconds, erupting a choked moan from you, causing you to vibrate around him, eliciting a moan from him.

Aemond, set on having you peak before him, continues to fuck you with his tongue as the sharp point of his chin bullies your clit. Though the build up is exquisite, it is nothing compared to the peak that he suddenly pulls from you, causing the muscles of your thighs to press against the sides of his head as your walls capture his tongue like a vice.

Any attempts at pleasuring him falter as you're consumed by electric satisfaction, senses fully consumed. You selfishly throw your head back in pleasure, neglecting his aching want as you cry out your own.

Aemond’s face moves away from you as well, looking down to observe your bliss-filled features. He’s breathing heavily, face flustered pink and wetness adoring almost every bit of skin visible.

“Turn over”, he commands breathlessly, manhandling you so that you lay on your stomach before you even have a chance to oblige on your own accord.

He impatiently moves his hands over your pliant body, grabbing your ass in an instruction for you to keep it in the air.

Pleasure is still ebbing inside of you, yet you try your best to yield to his silent command, weak legs folding underneath you so that he can access your backside.

He swipes two fingers through your folds, making your body jerk slightly in overstimulation as they grace your clit before sliding inside you, finding your sweet spot instantaneously yet again.

He’s really learned every single way to give you pleasure; either as an act of love or ownership.

His fingers move slowly, clearly on a mission to steal another peak from you, while you’re still basking in the bliss of the first one. He moves towards the exposed cheek of your ass, teasingly biting the smooth flesh, soothing it with a kiss as you yelp in surprise at the sting.

“You taste so good, baby”, he praises you, “so fucking perfect for me”

You close your eyes and push your flustered face into the duvet on the bed as you feel Aemond’s tongue swipe over your ass, moving closer to the cleft, leaving teeth marks and saliva in his wake.

Your hands fist the bedding next to you as his tongue moves closer to your puckered hole, gently caressing the sensitive skin surrounding it.

His fingers persistently bully the most responsive spot inside you and paired with the slow movements of his tongue, you’re consumed by another forceful orgasm.

You cry out, voice muffled against the bed. Your walls contract rhythmically against Aemonds finger as he works you through the high, moaning loudly behind you. You’re almost certain he’s climaxed too by the sounds of his ragged breath behind you. It shouldn’t surprise you, there’s nothing he loves more than having you at his mercy.

A giggle escapes you, muffled by the duvet your face is still pressed against. You don’t have to lift your head to know that Aemond’s crooking an eyebrow at your unexpected laugh, and before he has a chance to ask, you tell him,

“I think you’ll have to fix my hair again”

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[amartworks]

Elia Martell, princess consort of Rhaegar Targaryen, and her children, Rhaenys and Aegon

I like how while Elia isn’t in the books, she haunts the narrative just as much as her husband – down to her daughter’s kitten literally haunting the Red Keep.

Artist notes below cut for freaks who like that

Oh god this took so long. Oh god why did I let it go this far. Here's the original sketch. Referenced from JookPubStock… I think. It's been so long.

This painting is quite blatantly inspired by Franz Xaver Winterhalter’s The Royal Family. It's decidedly rococo/neo-classical and wayyyy too late for ASOIAF but I don't care.

Elia Martell is described as flat chested and quite sickly. I see her being easily exhausted and therefore wearing dresses that do not weigh much, so as to not put pain on her shoulders and tire her out. I also gave her a strong nose because I am very fond of Pedro Pascal’s Oberyn, Elia’s brother.

Elia is wearing a simple ambigious renaissance dress with small sleeves and a light corset. Kind of cobbled together from looking at Hans Holbein the Younger’s works. The fabric the dress is cut from is however meant to be Dornish – I drew inspiration from this beautiful Ottomanian textile.

Her crown is completely made up. I searched “sun crown” and was greatly inspired by the works of jewelry maker SunFlames.

King Aerys refused to touch his granddaughter Rhaenys because she “smelled Dornish” which tells me Rhaenys probably favored her mother.

Rhaenys was difficult. I looked up what renaissance children wore, and the answer is they wore exact copies of what adults wore. I don’t know how, I feel like the moment you were done with a sleeve the child in question would’ve outgrown it. I decided to freestyle it a little.

Aegon is wearing a christening gown. As far as I can tell the Faith of the Seven doesn’t mention baptisms… but considering the catholic inspiration I think it makes sense. Also I think it's sweet.

They both have deep indigo eyes. My personal headcanon is that Targaryen eyes are purple in the same sense that Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes were purple. Moreover the definition of colors change over time. During the Middle Ages, there was no word for the color “orange” – instead you would say red or yellow. Similarly a lot of languages will use the same word for blue and green.

HOWEVER, this is something that has come with later generations – the first Valyrians had inhumanly violet eyes, which I will be doing concept art for… sometime.

Finally here’s what I know you're REALLY here for, and the part of the painting which I am the proudest of – the 3D model of the chair and table which I made in Blender because I couldn't find a good reference for a renaissance era chair from the angle I wanted.

[afro-hispwriter]

My Dornish Love(3)

Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader

Summary- you and aemond discover you have some common interests 

Warnings- mentions of poisoning, some sexual thoughts? 

ferronniere- a headband that circles that forehead and will usually have a gem of sorts in the middle(or plain depending on where)

wc- 2.3k

1 2

-

Aemond waited patiently in the Library. A plate of food and a cup was next to him and a book opened. Another plate was across from him as well as a cup. 

The doors pushed open and you came rushing in, starting one of the other maesters. You wore a vibrant violet dress that made Aemonds own violet eye widen. You looked absolutely gorgeous. And the ferronniere really tied it all together.

“Good morrow my prince, I’m sorry I’m late.” You say and pull a chair out and sit down.

“It's alright, and no need for formalities. You called me by my name all yesterday.” Aemond gave you a tiny smirk.

“Yes, but we were around people who don’t particularly care, here in the Keep it is best to keep up appearances.” You lifted your hands onto the table. “Can we eat? I'm hungry.” 

“No need to ask, my lady.” You didn’t have to get told twice as you grabbed the biscuit and took a bite. Aemond caught a glimpse of your hand and forearm and he shut the book. “What happened to you?” He pointed at your arms and you looked up at him.

“Oh, I'm alright, it's just me and Thea discovered how much cats don’t enjoy baths.” You laughed nervously.

“Your handmaiden could have done that for you.” He says bluntly. 

“It’s alright, I like getting my hands dirty.” 

“Hmm. I should get the maester to check them.” He pushes his chair back and you grab his wrist. 

“Nonsense, eat first.” He yanked his wrist out of your grip and you drew your hand back. 

“It can wait.” He walks past the table.

“No, it can’t, the first meal of the day is very important. Especially for a prince and swordsman such as yourself.” Aemond stopped in his tracks and his jaw tensed.

“They could get infected.” 

“I’ve been poisoned before, this is nothing.” Aemond turned around with a shocked look on his face. 

“Poisoned?” He sounded intrigued now.

“I can tell you about it if you sit back down and eat with me.” You fluttered your eyelashes at him and he sighed. Aemond made his way back around the table and sat down. He grabbed the grapes and popped two in his mouth. His actions satisfied you and you cut the sausages in pieces. “So when me and Deziel were younger, we snuck into the storage where they keep the poisons because we just wanted to see them, but Deziel being Deziel. He grabs manticore venom and the twat drops it on me. I scream and end up getting cut which lets the venom go into my body.” 

“How did your parents react?” You laughed and Aemond dipped his spoon into his oatmeal. 

“There was a panic, my body had already weakened by the time they retrieved the antidote. Deziel didn’t see the outside of his room for almost two months, my mother was so angry.” You hunched over in a laugh and Aemond let his face relax and smile. You had such a pretty laugh but then you stopped. Aemond’s eyebrow furrowed in confusion until he remembered.

“I'm sorry.” He says.

“It was a long time ago.” 

“And still fresh on your mind.” You huffed and leaned back.

“No need for all this sadness, this is about you so how is your morning so far?” Aemond took a sip of the contents of his cup.

“I trained with Ser Criston and visited Vhagar.”

“I’ve heard stories of how big she is.” Aemond watched a glint in your eye of interest.

“Would you like to see her?” You drew back and your eyes widened. 

“I don’t think that's wise.” He finished his last grapes and grabbed his spoon again. 

“And why's that, princess? Are you scared?” He looked at you mischievously and you frowned.

“Of course I'm scared, I've never seen a dragon, and what if she knows?” You pouted.

“Knows what?” You sighed.

“That I'm Dornish.” There was a pregnant pause between the two of you. Then you heard it. A tiny little giggle and Aemond’s shoulder moved up and down. You frowned and scoffed. “It's not funny.” Your face burnt in embarrassment.

“What do you think Vhagar would do if she sensed you were Dornish? Eat you?” He asks and you shrug.

“Maybe! Dragons are smart, she fought in two wars against Dorne! My people had killed her own sister in arms.” Aemond kept an amusing look. “You’re mean.” You flicked a blueberry at him, hitting him in the cheek. 

“How unladylike of you.” You rolled your eyes. “But at least you know your history.” 

“Did you think I was stupid?” You cock your head. 

“Not at all, but not many ladies pride themselves on learning these things.” 

“Well, there's not much to do on Dorne rather than watch people fight to the death, drink, fuck, and eat. So I have picked up a book and I did pay attention in my classes.” You swirled the contents in your cup and swung a leg over the other.  

“Mmm. You should join me for a ride on Vhagar.” Your eyes widened in fear. 

“M-Maybe another time.” 

“Suit yourself, but I will still send you the proper attire.”

“The riding I know of requires no attire.” You cross your arms and pretend to be annoyed. Aemond let out an airy chuckle.

“In due time princess.” 

“Cute. Eat your food Prince Aemond.”

-

Breakfast was long finished. In the time after, Aemond asked you about Dorne. He wanted to know about it from a native's perspective. He also found joy in hearing you talk. 

“As you know it's always hot but here?” You laughed. “I actually had to cover up pretty decently last night but the sheets were quite scratchy, I thought there was a manticore crawling on me.” 

“You weren’t scared?” 

“I know how to extract their venom so they’re really nothing.” 

“Is it true you coat your weapons in venom?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“How do you do that?”

“To collect the venom we use vials and to hold the creature we would hold them with a large set of tweezers and a small set for the actual venom. For a manticore, the small tweezer would hold the stinger of the tail and you would just squeeze. Then we kill whatever it is and eat it.” 

Aemond grimaced at that. 

“What? They’re good, you should try one.” He chuckles at that.

“I am sure I will be alright without it.” You put your elbow on the table and pointed a finger at him.

“You’re going to try one.” He gave you a mischievous smile.

“I'm not easily persuaded.”

“We will see about that. Is there anything else you would like to know about, my prince?” You ask and the tips of your shows push against his boots. 

“No, I'm sure I have enough information to start a book of my own.” He says with amusement and you scoff.

“Hey! You could have asked me to stop at any time.” 

“A simple tease, I enjoy hearing your voice.” 

“Fancy me already?” 

“Is that a crime?” You shook your head and smiled. The edges of Aemond’s mouth curved up and he looked down. 

“How do you feel about the night sky?” You leaned forward. 

“I think it’s beautiful, when I ride Vhagar at night I try to get as close as possible to the stars.” There was a glint in his eye the second he mentioned Vhagar. 

“I have a book about it in my room, come with me?” You asked and stood up. You held a hand out to him and he pushed his chair back. He walked around the table and he grabbed your hand. 

-

The walk was short and no words were said between you too, but it was not awkward at all. Comforting even. 

You opened your chamber door and you let Aemonds hand go. He checked the hallways and when nobody passed he stepped through the door.  

You were already bending over to dig into a drawer. Aemond froze and his eye was trained on your ass. He was thankful he wasn’t like Aegon. 

“Here it is.” You hold up the brown book and show it to him. 

The Mysteries of the Sky by Maestor Elkin 

“He has traveled all over the world, he has even gone to The Wall and he reported on these bright lights in the sky.”  You say when you open the book to one of your saved pages.

“Fascinating.” Aemond stepped next to you, with hands behind his back, and skimmed over the page you were at.

“He doesn’t know exactly what causes them but he does believe it's the work of the gods. Can you believe if the gods do create what's in the sky, that they share their beautiful creations with us?” You wouldn’t see the smile on Aemond’s face as he solely looked at you.

“I do and they might be too generous at times.” 

“Hmm, I think they give us what we need.” You looked up at him by tilting your head back slightly with a smile. Aemonds heart started racing and his cheeks dusted pink.

“We should continue this back in the library.” Aemond starts walking towards your door when a white fluff walks in front of him. She passed along his boots and slid down onto her side. He crouched down and gave the cat some scratches making her purr.

“Or your room.” The cat hissed at you, still very mad about the events of earlier. Aemond looked over his shoulder and his eyes were met with the diamond that was pierced into your belly button. What he would do to just run his tongue along it.

Fuck that stupid (beautiful) dress

He stood up to his full height so he could tower over you.

“If someone catches us-.” 

“We are a very anticipated betrothal amongst many. I’m sure they will be more happy that we are getting along than mad that we were alone together.” Aemond couldn’t help but agree. 

“Follow me.” 

-

Aemond pushed the door open to his room and he stepped out of the way for you. You walked in and looked at all his furniture and all the paintings. 

“It's like everything I imagined. Dark but beautiful.”

“Hmm.” Aemond grabbed a book off his table and sat down in a chair and kicked his feet up on the small table. “Join me?” You gladly sat in the long chair next to his. 

“There is more Targaryen heraldry in your room than the rest of the keep.” The painting of a dragon setting ablaze to what seemed like Harrenhall caught your attention.

“That is what happens when the king grows ill and two devout members of the seven take over.” He cracked open his book. 

“How is the king? I have not seen him.” 

“Dying, slowly.” Aemond really should have said ‘too slowly’. 

“I can’t imagine wh-.”

“Not everyone has a relationship with their father as you do.” He cuts you off quickly. “A good one at least.” 

You decided not to push forward. 

“What are you reading?” 

“Political philosophy.” 

“Interesting.” You opened your book and kicked your flats off to lay down on the couch. A silence fell over, it was comfortable to an extent. There was a slight tension but you slowly forgot about it as you got deep into the book and your eyes slowly started to droop.

-

The book clattering on your chest made Aemond direct his attention to you. Book pages were folded on your chest. One hand on your chest and the other dangling. Your head was turned to the side and eyes shut. Aemond chuckled and stood up to a chest that held blankets. He grabbed the softest one and grabbed the book from your chest. It closed on the material of the dress and when he pulled it, the bottom of your breasts exposed themselves. 

“Fuck.” He turned away and his cock made a sudden throbbing sensation. Gods, he was acting like a boy again, the mere sight of a woman's body making him hard. He closed his eye and tried to think of anything else. 

He tossed the book on the table turned around and quickly splayed the blanket over your body. Aemond sat back in his chair and the material around his crotch down. Reading should make it go down.

-

You slept until the sun was almost gone. Aemond had finished a couple of chapters and did whatever else he needed to do. 

You sat up straight and rubbed your eyes. Aemond shifting caught your attention and you looked back. 

“Sorry.” You mumbled and swung your legs so your feet touched the floor. 

“Don’t apologize, you’re still tired from your trip. I should be the one apologizing for taking you out so quickly.” 

You yawned and stretched, a breeze hitting your nipples suddenly made you very aware that they had slipped out and Aemond had not taken his eyes off them. 

“If you wanted to see them, all you had to do was ask.” You teased tiredly and Aemond looked down at his now closed book. “I should get back, me and my brothers are going to see a play in the cities.” 

“Then I will see you later, princess.” You stood up and did a curtsy. Aemond frowned at your action but relaxed when you giggled. He even let himself laugh. He did this cute thing where when he laughed his head would shake slightly.

“I hope we continue these meetings, I think something good can come of this.” You say walking toward the door and Aemond stands up to open the door for you.

“I agree, I hope you enjoy the play.” He opens the door and you reach up to kiss his cheek. His face turned pink with affection. 

“See you tomorrow Aemond.”

You did not

-

Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated. I love hearing people’s thoughts🥰

[chibsandchill]

Simple pleasures (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (house of the dragon)

Pairing: Aegon II x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aegon, brothel, talking, wine, more wine, sex, that’s it. Need I say more?

MDNI 18+

Warnings: p in v sex, Aegon, canon typical themes, grammatical and spelling errors (english is not my native language), slow start, not proof-read

Masterlist

-:-:-:-:-:-

The room smelled better than most brothels. It was a welcome change, as was the surprisingly expensive and tasteful decor. It was homely; soft, comforting, warm even. All it was missing was a hearth and Aegon might have believed it to be someone’s home. 

“Remove your shoes please.” 

Aegon wanted to protest, for who were you to command him? The need to disobey, to dig his feet so far in the ground he could never be moved, was ingrained in his very bones. What would you do, he wondered, were he to step onto the pristine fur with his muddied boots? Would you turn red in the face as you screamed? Would you simply ignore it and move on, aware that any and all wrong steps may instead lead you to the black cells? He almost salivated at the endless possibilities. Alas, the carpet looked like it would feel heavenly under his feet, and so he kicked off his shoes. You thanked him with a voice dripping with honey, sugar and all things sweet. It made his teeth ache. 

He stepped further into the room, onto the carpet. He dug his toes into it. Heaven, just as he imagined. It is soft, and warm, and the strands feel like silk against his skin. Another step, like walking on water. There was not a stain on it, nor a patch of fur bent out of turn. Twas like wading through clouds. 

You pulled the drapes shut. 

“Please sit.” You made a sweeping motion to a group of furniture. “Would you like some wine?”

Sit? Aegon was here to get his cock wet. But he was parched, and so he nodded. 

You balanced two pristine silver chalices on an equally shiny silver platter in one hand and an overflowing silver flagon in the other. Expensive, for a whore at least. Did you have a set for each customer? There was not a scratch on any of it, not a spot of dirt or smudged fingerprints. 

“Dornish red,” you told him as you filled his chalice exactly half-way. 

His throat tightened. 

“In my experience Dornish wine is quite… bitter. Less suitable for pleasure.” 

You chuckled. He was pleasantly surprised by the sound. Most of the whores had rougher voices and were not as quick to laughter. 

“‘Tis an acquired taste, aye, but I do believe you’ll enjoy this one. It’s sweet and yet rich in flavor. Truly there is none who make wine quite like the Dornish.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were a whore, not a wine merchant.” 

 ���I do not spend all day on my back.” You took a sip from your own chalice, resting a hand on a cocked hip. “A good whore knows her clientele, and well, mine prefer… simple comforts.” 

He looked at the room again. There were large tapestries nailed to the stone walls, though he was unsure what they depicted. Fourteen of them in particular, all in different colors and vague figures. Interesting choice, he thought, but at least it would serve to lessen the echoes of your pleasure later. If the other whores had half the taste and coin for interior decorating as you then perhaps his head wouldn’t ache like a horde of Dothraki screamers had ran him over, when he left the establishment.

Perhaps simple was not the word anyone would use to describe the would-be safe haven that you had created. Twas clear your clientele were highborn, and in Aegon’s experience they rarely longed for simple things, be it wine or decor. Even you were not simple; your hair was well-cared for and shone of oils and had strings of precious stones fell between strands, your dress was not of Westerosi make and clung to you. Even your perfume was nothing short of expensive. A silver necklace clung to your throat, and your fingers were heavy with rings. No, nothing about your craft was simple. 

“They pay you well for these simple comforts.” He said between sips of wine. You spoke true; he did care for it. 

As if reading his mind you spoke again. “I’ve already sent a bottle with one of your guards, it should be in your chambers well before you return.”

“The crown thanks you.” 

“Sarcasm is a family trait, I see.” 

You refilled his chalice with wine, voice as nonchalant as if you commented on the weather. And for Aegon, who’s very core dripped with debauchery, well, you might as well have. 

“As is the want for simple comfort, I assume.” 

Your smile is coy. “Aye, I’ve found that the more riches one possesses, the more they long for, well, simpler things. Comfortable furniture, conversations with a friend,” you move closer, your fingers brushing against his shoulders. Your breath is hot as it fans over the shell of his ear. “A hug. A…” your hands move over his shoulders, down his chest, “mother’s love.”

And then you’re gone. 

“Simple things for simple men.”

“I’m not a simple man.” Aegon scoffed. And he didn't long for his mother’s love. He’s experienced it plenty, as he had the back of her hand.

“No,” you say, “I don’t suppose you are. The blood of the dragon rarely is simple.”

Aegon drank the rest of his wine. 

“You talk a lot, for a whore.” 

“I’m not a simple whore.” 

“Perhaps not, but you end up on your back all the same.”

“And your coin ends up in my pocket. You claim not to be a simple man, Aegon Targaryen, and yet, you drink, whore, and sulk like any other man, only your features are not so plain.” 

“I could have your head for saying such things.” Aegon raised his chalice and gave it a wiggle. “If you insist on nagging my ear off I need to be far drunker than I am.”

You brought a different flagon. It’s decorated with green and red stones, and there’s words engraved along both the bottom and the top of it. It’s Valyrian glyphs, but Aegon cannot read it. He averted his eyes. 

The wine shimmers in the candle light. It’s gold in color and smells heavenly. 

“From the Jade Sea,” you said as you returned his chalice to him. “The Dornish are excellent wine makers but even their finest vintages taste like vinegar compared to the golden wines of Yi Ti.”

Aegon swirls the wine inside his chalice. Never had he seen a wine so… appealing; so mouth watering. He brought it to his mouth. It felt like silk as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, and a pleasant warmth followed it. There was none of the awful burn that came with the household wine back in the Keep, and neither did it feel like a stone in his stomach. 

“I assume a bottle of this will be waiting for me in my chambers,” he jested. 

“It’s already there. I had it delivered yesterday. A… preview of our evening of sorts, though now it will be a memory of it.”

Doubtful. Aegon would hardly have the time to reminisce on his one-off evening with the oddest whore in all the known lands whilst drinking his body weight in wine. No, the bottle of Yi Ti gold would be one of many bottles strewn across his chamber floors when he would inevitably be sent into another week-long bender. Besides, you served it in a flagon, and thus Aegon would not notice which bottle was which sober, much less drunk. Though perhaps it would soothe his body’s protests, as it was currently soothing him now. He sipped at the drink like a babe sucked at his mother’s tits, not that Aegon had much experience with the latter. 

“What wine did you give my brother?”

Your lips quirked into a smile. It fit you. Yours was a face made for smiling. “One that fit him.”

“That’s awfully vague.”

“You don’t last long in this business if you’re loose-lipped.” 

He chortled. “The one-copper whores beg to differ.” 

There’s a tightness to your smile. “You’d be surprised at the secrets they possess. Those one-copper whores could topple dynasties if they so wished.” 

“And you?”

Has his brother confided in you? His uncle? His father? Did you keep secrets that could rattle the foundations of the world as they know it? Aegon was almost tempted to give you more, to feed the fire burning under his feet until even he burnt. There were cracks in his family’s rule– of every rule– small as mice, but plenty big for secrets and deceit. 

“Perhaps if you behave I shall tell you some.” 

A hot flash of something rushed up his spine. 

“And if I do not?”

“Then you shall leave with nothing.”

“I could command you to tell me.”

“You could.” You inclined your head. “But as some of my… friends are also of noble birth then your command will simply be a waste of breath, and I would rather you save it for what is to come. You will need it.” 

There it was again. That thrill; that heat that licked at his insides. He should have you punished for your insolence. Whipped perhaps, or maybe he would have your tongue. But Aegon admired fire, but even more so he admired those who looked upon him as you do; as if he is more than a rusted sword fit to be wielded as his family saw fit.

“You’re bold.” Aegon pushed himself off the armchair. He walked up to you, moving as if to touch you. You glanced down at his hands, at his arms, then at his face. His fingers trailed up your arm, your shoulders, over your collarbones and the column of your throat. Aegon’s touch was gentle, teasing almost, he wanted you to want his touch. And judging by how your breath hitched when he reached your throat, his caresses are more than welcome. “I like it.”

His hand cupped your face. You were soft and warm. A healthy blush spread up your chest from the hem of your dress. 

How far did it reach, Aegon wondered. Were you as pink and lovely and soft and warm- 

You leaned into his touch. And then you were gone, leaving him cold with his hand still held high in the air. He dropped it quickly, but the feeling of you remained. Aegon adjusted his clothing but it did not lessen the memory of how you felt pressed against him. 

How odd, he frowned, to feel as such over a mere touch of his hand against your face. It was not at all intimate. Like a blushing virgin seeing a glimpse of a woman’s ankles he stared after you, which is altogether odd for a man such as Aegon who cloaked himself in sin and lust. He who had visited the brothels so oft even the whores’ whelps recognized him by the sound of his fancy boots. Scarce were the mornings he did not wake with one hand on a warm cunt and the other on a supple breast.  

“You’re eager,” you said to him with a slight smile. “I like it. It makes one feel wanted… desired, does it not?”

“Do you have more wine?” 

A flash of something passed through your eyes. “Of course.” 

“Go on then, fetch the next one.” 

You offered your hand to him. You didn't demand his answer, nor his thoughts. You took only what he freely offered. It left him feeling strangely full, and less like the hollowed out stranger he oft saw at the bottom of his bottles. 

He took your hand. Warmth flooded back into him. 

Pushed into a corner of the room was a large bed. It was similar to the one he had in his chambers, a bit too similar. Still, it looked comfortable enough. It certainly didn’t suffer from a lack of pillows, nor had you spared any expenses on neither the frame nor the make of the mattress. 

You gestured for him to sit down before you walked over to grab a third flagon of wine. Gods, Aegon was sure to be stumbling back to the Keep following your night together if the pace you were handing him drinks was to be considered. Still, Aegon sat fell down on the bed with a lack of grace most unbecoming of a noble. It was even softer than he imagined. 

He cared for conversation, he did, truly, but his cock had been aching for relief since you opened the door and any longer and he thought it might burst. Did you not see the lust in his eyes? Did you think to quench the burning desire in him with expensive wine? Nay, Aegon reckons his mother will have to collect his charred remains were you not to touch him. 

At last, after what felt like an age, you turned. Have you always walked as such? The sway of your hips were almost hypnotizing. A smile lit up your face, though he could not tell what kind of smile it was. He had no need for more wine, for his mind was buzzed and his hands longed to trace you. 

You didn’t bring the flagon you’d been observing. Mayhaps it was a bad fit. Aegon doesn’t care. 

“Are you familiar with how the wine merchants of Yi Ti make it?” You asked. 

He shook his head. Why in the hells would he know that?

You’re close enough that he could smell you again. Your touch is soft as you cup his face, thumb swiping over his bottom lip. “Wine is fermented grapes, as I’m sure you already know.” Your voice is a touch lower, more seductive. Odd, considering the subject, Aegon mused. You moved to straddle him, and he welcomed you with his hands falling onto your hips, his legs separating to bring you closer. ‘Tis a dance he is familiar with, finally. “The type of wood that is used is different with every maker,” one of your hands fell on his thigh. He swallowed a hiss when your hold tightened. “The merchants from Yi Ti? They use a very particular breed of tree to make the vintage I just served you. It is a known…” your hand released his thigh only to brush over his crotch, “aphrodisiac.”

“Uhuh.” Aegon nodded. So long as you kept your hands on him he’d feign interest in wine making. 

Pathetic. A brush of a hand makes him harder than he’s ever been before. 

The brush turns into a flat touch, which then turns into a caress. ‘Tis all teasing, in the end. Like the smell of a pie wafting out from under the gaps in the kitchen doors; ‘tis there, and yet, it is not. It’s a promise of a future reward. 

Aegon tightened his hold on your hips before pulling you forward until you sat as close as physically possible. And still did he want you closer. It’s a crippling need of his; a dark pit of emptiness that can only be temporarily filled with the closeness of another. It came back stronger, deeper, each time. Still, it gnaws at him, like a gnat buzzing in his ear. 

Closer, it whispered. 

Closer, it shouted. 

He would crawl inside your skin and live there, and yet it would not be enough. Nothing ever was. The voices would remain, and the abyss inside him growing ever larger, like a looming shadow spreading its rot to every interaction. Soon, Aegon would be as rotten as his thoughts, as his desires. He would be the failure of a man his mother believed him to be. 

You showed no signs of seeing his struggle for you pressed yourself ever closer until he felt your heart beat against his. Aegon surged forwards, slotting his mouth over yours in a dance that was oh so familiar to him. This, he knew how to do. If you’re surprised by it you don’t show it. 

You’re a whore, of course you’re not surprised by him kissing you. 

Briefly Aegon wondered who out of them were the best kisser, him, his brother or his uncle? How many Targaryens had warmed your bed? Had his father stumbled into your arms and sampled all that you had to offer? Had you woven tales of wine merchants and the likes to them as well? 

Did he kiss like his uncle? 

He knew he did not fuck like his uncle, for the whores spoke often of his uncle’s talents, and his obsession with taking them from behind like a hound. Aegon found he did not care for that, but he reckoned his uncle’s fancy came more from a desire to dream of fairer features than the pleasure of it. 

You pulled away from his lips. Strings of saliva connected the two of you together, and Aegon would never admit it, but he found himself chasing after your lips. 

“Undress.” You said and pushed at his clothed chest. 

He raised a pale eyebrow. 

“If you insist.” 

He shrugged off his tunic easily enough, but his trousers, well, he’d have to move you to remove those and Aegon found himself very reluctant to part from you or your body. Aegon tapped your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He stood from the bed and pulled down his trousers, kicked off his shoes and then fell back on the bed. 

“Fuck.” Aegon grunted. 

You laughed. 

“Lay back.” You told him. 

Aegon did as you asked. The pillows were harder than he thought, but in a good way. His head didn’t sink in, but rather rested on it. They reminded him of his own pillows. Strange, but he was too horny to care. 

He’s already hard when you grab his cock. Aegon gets nothing from your expression apart from desire. No surprise at his size, but neither disappointment. Not delighted at finding him hard and ready for you, nor dismayed. Curious. His heart skipped a beat at the uncertainty of it all. With common whores he knew how to act – where to touch, what to say. They swooned and gushed over every aspect of him, slobbered on his cock whilst moaning about his size and girth like they had never seen a cock before. But this? This silent appraisal, the almost tender hold of him as you swiped across his tip, as you traced the vein and cupped his heavy balls? This, this was unfamiliar even to him. 

“Are you ready?” You broke the silence. 

“W-what?”

It was an odd question. For as long as he had visited brothels, for as long as he had laid with others there had never been this out-of-place pause in… affairs. It all followed the same pattern; greetings, some petting, then sex, and then he’d leave. He didn’t know what to do with your question, what did you want? What answer should he give? 

Were you going to sit on his face? Many of his conquests enjoyed that, and while Aegon wasn’t overly fond of it and was prone to feeling trapped if it went on for too long, it was never a question asked out loud. It was the moving of hips, of knees closing in around his head and a warm, wet cunt dropped on his mouth. 

You swiped damp hair off his forehead, there’s a strained expression on your face. Aegon doesn’t like it.

“Are you ready?” You repeated. “Do you want this?” You clarified. 

Gods yes, he wanted to say. I think I’ll die if we don’t, he wanted to say. 

“Oh. Yes.” Aegon said instead. The odd expression on your face didn’t waver. 

Curious. 

You released his cock, and he shuddered. Instead you brought your hands forward and gripped his shoulders, leaning forward. Your eyes never left his as if searching for something. You scoured his face, watched his every microexpression. 

He just wanted to be inside you already. 

But he laid frozen beneath you. 

‘Behave’. Echoed through his mind. 

Then, your hand is back on his cock. You bring your hand up and down, loosening your hold and then tightening it. You seemed acutely aware of him – of his reactions. As if reading his mind you adjusted your hold, your speed, the pressure, even the angle as his pleasure ebbed, grew, and lessened. 

Odd as you were, you were a good whore. Skilled, certainly. But odd nonetheless. 

His toes curled, and a familiar warmth grew with your movements. Aegon wasn’t silent, he was a man proud of both the pleasure he felt and the pleasure he gave. And so he moaned, and he shuddered, and he groaned. It echoed far louder than he’d thought, and were it not for the gleam in your eyes he’d surely fall silent. 

He was about to tell you to stop; that he was seconds away from spilling into your hand, when you pulled away. 

Perhaps you were a mind reader after all. 

Your grip on his cock is loose but firm as you guided him inside you. Heavenly warmth enveloped him, and your walls felt akin to silk. Aegon knew little of love, but if he knew anything, it was that love surely felt like this. Like two pieces connecting. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you bring yourself down. By the time you’re flush with his pelvis Aegon has started to pray to all the gods to let him last a little longer. It is too much and yet it is not enough. His body ached for release; beads of sweat formed on his forehead from trying to stave off his orgasm. 

But you seemed like you were above it all, like something ethereal. In the throes of your pleasure – as you forced yourself to rise and then fall on him like it was your gods given duty – you shone, and Aegon had never seen anything more beautiful. Your sounds of pleasure are music to his ears, and yet it is whispered. 

Aegon pressed a thumb against your clit, and you trembled at the sudden touch. Then you moved ever faster, and Aegon tried to match your pace. He alternated pressure as you had before, he pressed circles and squares, and he spelled his name, and all others he could think of. 

Aemond. 

Daemon. 

Viserys. 

Jaehaerys? 

He’s soon lost to his pleasure as well, in the way you impale yourself on his cock and force him out of his thoughts and into the present. He knew not what names he pressed into your clit, not what names or family he used to elicit more and more moans from you. It is not enough. He ate up your pleasure as if it was his own. 

You batted his finger away from you before forcing his hands above his head where you held him by his wrists. 

“Behave.” You told him through your teeth. 

Redness spread across his face and a thrill rushed through his body. 

“You’re still dressed.” He realized. How he had missed that, he would never know. It feels like a sin to have been so caught in his own pleasure, or rather the chase of it, that he had neglected even that. 

Aegon blinked and you’ve ripped your dress over your head without missing a beat. 

He blinked again. Too stunned to react. 

Breasts. 

‘Twas like an out of body experience watching himself reach for your breasts, to feel the soft flesh under his fingers. He cupped them, thumbing at your nipples. 

He knew not what to focus on; your body, you, or the delicious torture of your hips slapping against his. Aegon felt in that moment like he was one and ten and he stumbled into his first pillow house. 

Aegon shook his head. 

“Focus on me,” you said as if sensing his thoughts. You tore his hands from your breasts and held them above his head again. It brought him back to you, and he gulped. He thought he might have felt small with the way you loomed over him, but he found that he did not. 

Fighting against the whirlwind of pleasure was a losing battle, and the hand you laid flat against the side of his face was his undoing. He burrowed his face in the crook of your neck as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. It’s not a quick affair. He feels as if there’s no end to the white hot pleasure that shot through him. You didn’t stop your movements, instead you slowed down until you rose and fell in slow languid strokes. 

Aegon’s eyes burnt. 

“Did you finish?” He asked whilst panting when he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore. 

You looked as if you were glowing, like the mother unveiled smiling down at him. 

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” 

“Fuck.” He let his head fall back. “You didn’t. Fuck. Give me a moment and I’ll-”

“Nay, Aegon.” You laid beside him. He felt empty as he slid out of you.

Not close enough, the voices started again. 

“There will be other nights.” You soothed his bruised ego. 

“You truly are the oddest whore I’ve had the pleasure of fucking.”

You laughed. 

Aegon moved closer to you, though his skin crawled as the sheets below his sweaty skin seemed to tear at his skin. He pressed himself into you, resting his head almost tentatively on your chest. It felt good, he realized. And safe. Aegon melted into your embrace as you reached over to play with his hair. 

“So about that secret,” he glanced up at you, “what wine did you give my brother?”

“Myrish fire wine.” 

Aegon roared with laughter so loud that his chest ached. 

[15-lizards]

What kind of embroidery do you see each kingdom doing?

This is the good shit right here

Goldwork embroidery is so Lan-coded but is also very Tyrell-pilled and even Faith of the Seven-celled, so I believe that this is a big western movement, which makes sense as all the big houses and the faith can afford to splurge on literal cloth of gold thread so they can make their vestments and dresses and coats look all pretty with painstakingly accurate flowers and lions and seven pointed stars

Whitework would probably be common all over Westeros, but is especially popular in the Vale, as the overall look of this type of embroidery is more light and airy, less heavy than beads or thick goldwork stitching. And in my head Vale fashions are very flouncy and flowy, moving with the wind. So delicate and pretty suits them

I really like needlework and needlepoint for the Stormlands. It looks sturdier and is often on thicker fabrics, looking like it will last longer than silk and thin linen stitches. And it almost tends to look worn and a little rough, as if it’s been passed down as an heirloom for so many years, and as if the hand that stitched it was not as careful or delicate as the gentle hand from a lady from the Vale might stitch it. This was made by a rough stormlands woman who needs to keep her children warm at night

Stumpwork again is something that is probably popular all over the kingdoms but particularly in the riverlands idk the riverlands vibe is just so textured like I can just grab onto it so their clothing and embroidery should also be textured I have no real reasoning behind this other than vibes. Also I’m pretty sure Cat wears stumpwork in the show and Sansa does at certain points too so it has some show basis if that means anything at all

Gota Patti is so perfect for most Dornish customs. There is no room for thick and heavy embroidery to weight down their clothes, as the fabric is too thin for that, so they opt for lighter threadworm instead, nothing bulky. They might use cloth of gold or silver but will not make it textured like the westerners. It’s lightweight but still complex enough to show off artistry and wealth

[writingsofwesteros]

https://www.tumblr.com/writingsofwesteros/745865089016627200/rhaenyras-sister-being-the-spitting-image-of?source=share

May I please request maybe a longer version of this prompt?

AN: Hi, I hope you like it <3

Viserys did not mean to continue looking. The guards had allowed him into his daughter's chambers and he was greeted with the sight of her undressing. Those soft, sweet breasts on display. Fuck, he needed to clear his head, Viserys thought whilst his cock was hardening. "My love..." He called out in pretence as he turned his head away. "Father?" Gods, even her voice was as sweet as the Dornish wine he enjoyed. Viserys could not help but wonder if she was sweet everywhere. “I’ll be a moment.” The Princess continued as the King stared at the mirror he had gifted her; allowing him to watch everything. “There is no rush, sweet girl.” Viserys hummed; eyes trailing her exposed body. The expensive perfume littered the room; brushing over him with ease as his eyes nearly fluttered closed. “Father…I need help.” A giggle escaped her and Viserys thought the Gods must be smiling down at him as he took his chance. “The buttons..I do not know where my ladies are.” The Princess whispered over her shoulder. Of course, he could not tell her that he had dismissed them all. “It is no bother.” Viserys hummed; stalking closer with his prey in sight. “I have missed you.” She whispered, a lovely smile gracing her face as she placed her thick, bright locks over one shoulder. The majority of her soft looking back was now on show and she was so close…too close. “I heard uncle has returned.” She began to converse whilst Viserys desperately tried to concentrate on her words. Thankfully, the new medicine from Meereen was seemingly causing his disease to disappear completely; the maesters had given a couple of moons as a timeline for his recovery. “I believe so..I think he is keeping his distance from me.” Viserys hummed. His hand gently stroked her back and a smirk tugged on his lips at the feel of a shiver running down her spine. “I am sure he will come back and apologise.” Her innocence shined through her words, just as her image did. “I do not know if I should forgive him.” Viserys whispered into her ear, subtly placing his head on her shoulder. The dressing of his Princess was forgotten about. “Oh but you have to..you are a just King.” Those big, doe eyes of hers locked with Viserys as she gracefully turned around. Viserys did not know where to look as she continued speaking; those soft, pouty lips were inviting but temptation grew inside him. The dress was still untied and hardly covered her sweet, ample breasts. “I do not think I am.” Viserys whispered, how could he be with such thoughts rushing through his mind at corrupting his lovely girl. His hand rested on her waist now; gently rubbing circles as she shook her head. “You are!” A pout came over her pretty lips and he had to smile to himself before ducking his head at her words. She wrapped her arms around Viserys and rested her head; the silk material of her dress hardly a barrier between them. “You are too good to me.” The King hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head as his larger hands slowly moved up and down her sides. His thumb brushed past her sweet nipple that began to pebble. Not that the Princess understood such reactions and Viserys planned to take complete advantage.

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Spill My Blood For You (Aegon x Reader)

Now was this requested? No, but it’s been itching my brain to write something toxic for Aegon also in this story Aegon is not a rpist just fucked in the head and a drunk. T.W mentions of self harm

(Y/n) knew Aegon loved her, at least that is what she told herself to make the pain of betrayal go away. Aegon and (y/n) had been betrothed since they were young so it was only natural they spend most of their youth together all the way until the wedding.

Aegon was not a bad man but he had his vices, he made attempts to be a good husband and most of the time he succeeded, yet he would always find his way back to filthy whore houses at the street of silk, spending his night with whores and dornish wine, on the morrow he would come back to their shared chamber and plead for forgiveness on his knees to (y/n), she always forgave him what else could she do? He was her lord husband, her Aegon he might not have meant his vow on the contrary (y/n) meant it when she stood in front of the Sept and declared her love and loyalty to him “until the end of my days”

When (y/n) became with child Aegon was thrilled, he lifted her and spun her around as he showered her with kisses and words of encouragement, for months he was at his best behaviour that even had his own mother rubbing her eyes in disbelief, everyone seemed to be able to take a breath after Aegons change of character.

The main reason was how frightened (y/n) was at the thought of childbirth, as she had confessed to him the same night she announced her pregnancy to him she sobbed in his arms, shaking like a leaf as he hugged her. (Y/n) had listened to one to many stories of Maesters gutting women like a fish for the babe to get out, the mere thought brought shivers down her spine.

Aegon tended to (y/n)s every need, basically he was her shadow he always escorted her for long walks in the garden under the order of the maesters that walking was going to help her prepare for her labour, he made sure she ate lots of fresh fruit and drew her baths at the night of the owl since it seemed to be the only remedy that worked for her aching back that made her restless.

(Y/n) was delighted at how Aegon had stepped up to assist her during this important time, she relished how his hand was always in her growing belly and laughed when he would try to talk to the babe for hours on end, she felt relieved she even thought this was certainly the end of his visitations at the pillow houses.Their family was going to grow and she wanted her children to blossom in a family full of love, for the little babes to look up to their parents and smile.

It was prince Aemonds name day and the feast was marvellous, (y/n)s belly had grown big and round to the point that the sept indicated it wasn’t only one babe making (y/n) shake like a leaf from fear, childbirth was already a painful procedure let alone pushing out two of them. Alas she brushed it off, (y/n) put on her finest and most comfortable dress to escort her lord husband.

It was well into the night when (y/n) lost sight of him, again she tried to reason with herself and think that he was probably out for some air or had been distracted and started a conversation with some lord. That changed when she slowly got up from her chair and let out a yelp as a sharp pain occurred at her lower belly, at an instant she felt a gush of liquid between her legs making her eyes grow wide. Queen Alicent was the first one to notice and rushed over to the girl, holding her hand tightly

“What is it sweet (y/n)?”

“I’ve started my labours”

The queen had send the guards to find her son while she stayed with (y/n) who was wailing from the pain, crying and begging for mercy as her entire body felt like it was burning, the room was full of women and the Maester who was doing his best to help poor (y/n).

“Push my darling”

“I can’t, I need Aegon”

“I know dear but you must, come on you can do this”

Finally after hours upon hours of effort (y/n) gave birth to two beautiful babes, a boy and a girl, both of them healthy. (Y/n) almost buried herself in the pillows from exhaustion as she was covered with sweat, however she was smiling. Everything had gone well, the babes were heathy and she was alive, in pain but alive, when she held them it was the most blissful moment in her life if she had to describe it she felt like her heart got cut in three pieces and two of the parts went to the babes.

“What are their names?”

“Maegor and Alicent”

Alicent gasped at (y/n)s decision. (Y/n) had grown font of the queen, she had done mistakes but she wasn’t cruel and (y/n) could tell that she had done the best that she could with all her children, as well as being the only person to hold her hand through the labour.

“Thank you”

Alicent stayed with (y/n) as the young mother slept, waiting to hear back from the guards and her irresponsible son, as she watched the girl sleep her anger rose more and more, how could he leave her when he had known (y/n) was going to go through labour any minute now, he ran away like a coward to go sin and once again embarrass them.

The sun had started to rise when Ser Arryk had walked in and dragged Aegon with him, Alicent thanked the knight for his service and instructed him to leave the half conscious Aegon laying on the floor. She went to check on (y/n) to make sure she is still sleeping, brushing away a few strands of hair from her face and placing a kiss on her forehead before she walked to stand over her son.

“Mother? Where am I?”

“You are a disgrace do you know that?”

The spoke in a low tone yet it was harsh and cold. The scene that was playing in front of her eyes infuriated her, her own kin, her first child on the floor dirty and reeking of wine while his wife had just given birth to twins, she felt responsible for his ridiculous actions and she could not take it anymore.

She kicked his side in anger making him groan and curl up from the pain, he coughed a few times as he started to understand where was his mothers wrath coming from.

“What did I do?”

“What did you do? I will tell you, you wasted your night away with whores and wine while your wife gave birth”

“What?”

His mothers words made his blood ran cold, in a blink of an eye he had sobered up from the shock of the news he had just heard. No, it couldn’t be, he had been there this whole time she could not have given birth tonight, he looked up at his mother even if it hurt his eyes and Aegon could swear he saw steam coming out of her ears.

“Certainly you are jesting”

“Get up and look at your wife, how she is laying after giving birth to twins”

Twins! Two babes! Several thoughts raced through aegons blurry mind, was she alright? Was anyone with her? Was she scared? Are the babes alright and healthy? As got off the floor he felt a mixture of guilt and humiliation take over him, rightfully so if he could add. He had done the best he could and yet when the time came he proved everyone right, he failed just like how all of them expected.

Silence fell while he looked at his wife who had drifted off to dreamland, her belly had deflated and that was the sign he needed to understand this was not a dream like he secretly hoped.

“Where are the babies?”

“ With the wet nurses, a boy and a girl, (y/n) took the liberty and named them-”

“Maegor and Alicent”

He whispered, a few nights ago as she laid in their bed and let Aegon rub her belly she mentioned the names she liked. At first Aegon laughed at how they would repeating the cycle of Aegon and Maegor, after a while he reached up to place a sweet kiss on his wife’s lips and told her what a pretty name Alicent is also how his mother would jump from joy.

“I knew you are a low life but this is a new low, missing the birth of your children”

“You think I wanted this? I wanted to be here”

“you left, you rushed to your whores and fleeted from your wife’s side like a dim wit, do you know that she was asking for you? Poor thing was begging me to run and get you, telling me again and again how scared she was”

“Stop mother please”

He pressed his mother as he felt close to breaking down.

Aegon had his back turned to (y/n) and Alicent was too furious to notice that (y/n) had awoken a while ago, moreover she chose to remain silent and view them from afar. She listened to Alicent harass Aegon and watched Aegon get eaten by his own pain and guilt, a side of her was happy that this caused such a reaction out of him on the other hand she felt like she should stop this and she did.

“Where are the babes?”

Her voice was hoarse from sleep and exhaustion, she had slept for only a few hours and it was not enough to help her recover. Alicent once again went to her side and held her hand while the other went on the girls cheek to caress it as her eyes scanned for any signs of pain.

“It’s alright my dear (y/n), they are with the wet nurses, you should rest my girl go back to sleep”

“No no, I want to see my children”

She protested as she struggled to raise her chest and sit up on her bed, Alicent tended to her and fixed (y/n)s pillows for back support. It was the first time that (y/n)s eyes were met with Aegons, Aegon locked his gaze for a second before he went back to starring at the floor, embarrassed by his actions and appearance.

“Your grace could you please go and ask the wet nurses to bring my babes?”

“Of course, as you wish dearest”

Alicent left the girl and gave one last disappointing look to Aegon before she left them alone, shutting the door behind her.

As they were alone, Aegon did not know what to say, there was nothing that he could possibly phrase that would make this better, (y/n) was silent, she wanted for him to break first since he was the one in the wrong and it wasn’t just a small mistake, he broke his promise, he had done such big acts to make her believe he had change just to prove her wrong at the very end, bitterness and anger made her chest hurt.

“I’m sorry”

He whispered, only to be met with a pillow thrown at his face with force from (y/n). It did not hurt but once he raised his gaze he saw the anger that she was experiencing how her rage took over her.

“Where the fuck were you?! You fucking left me”

She barked at him, pain rushed through her due to her sudden move since her abdomen and private part hasn’t fully recovered from

Childbirth, she ignored it as fury towards her husband was her main focus.

Aegon could count the times he had seen (y/n) be cross with him in his one hand, none of them were like this. Her face had changed as her eyes threw daggers at hum, she was unrecognisable as something took over her and it sunk in how he couldn’t get away with this, she had been tipped over the edge and he was the one that pushed her.

“Please my dove”

“No! I do not wish to hear you speak! Shut up for once you fucking moron! I trusted you, I have been nothing but a good wife, a trusting companion an honourable match and this how you repay me? I have stood by you when no one else was there!”

As madness wrapped her up tightly her curse words and harsh truths being her only weapon as she could not physically attack him. Her voice louder than Aegon has ever heard it, he flinched at her outrage he did not try to protest because deep inside he knew he was the villain.

(Y/n) spoke truthfully, Aegon could blame his family all he wanted it would not change the fact that (y/n) was the one ray of sunshine in his darkness and he dimmed her light until she was also eaten up by the dark. Silent tears streamed down his eyes as she kept throwing pillows at him as a way to cause him pain, she could throw a brick at him if she craved then again it would be her words that made him crumble.

“I have put myself at the sword! I went through the seven rings of hell for you! I’ve been ridiculed by everyone at court due to your lustful sins and wrongdoings for you to be absent at our childrens birth, what if I were dead Aegon? What if our children did not make it?”

“Please don’t-“

“What? You don’t want to think about it? You would feel shame if I were to lay dead yet now that I’m alive everything is fine? I might be well Aegon but this put our marriage to rest”

The last declaration was the one that made his eyes snap away from the carpet and look at her, she could not do this? She could not leave him? No, they just had their first babes she could not deprive him of them.

Aegon, quick on his feet went on her side and fell on his knees in front of her, (y/n) had seen this before, once again Aegon would beg for mercy, whisper sweet promises and express his love to her and like a fool she would believe him.

When Aegon went to grab her hands (y/n) reacted before she could think and landed a strong slap across his face, making his head turn to the side. Aegon shocked by the slap stood still momentarily, she had never reached the point of physically assaulting him yes she had been upset but now she was ruthless, nothing could stop her.

“I tried Aegon, oh how I yearned for you to become a man of honour, a man that could be a good husband and a father, you have once again disappointed me. The servants will pack your belongings we are not to share chambers any longer”

Something in Aegon snapped, as (y/n) spoke of their new set of rules in their marriage he inspected the dagger he had left on their nightstand he had left it there when (y/n) had asked him to peel an orange for her.

With a swift motion Aegon was on his feet and had taken the dagger in his hand, cutting his arm all the way down from elbow to wrist.(y/n) gasped at the sudden cruel harm he had caused in himself, it felt like time had remained still as they eyeballed one another, Aegon still crying felt the pain although to him it was nothing that what his heart was experiencing.

“I spill my blood for you, my heart beats for you, you are my wife, my life, the fire in my soul, the breath in my lungs (y/n) you have kept me alive, without you I might as well wither away”

“Aegon”

“I will do anything you wish, I will gut myself if that will bring you comfort, my heaven, if you leave my side I will be stuck in the endless cycle of misery and hell, there is no reason for me to walk amongst the people once the light of life is not here”

His blood dripped on the carpet, Valyrian steel cut clean and Aegon was starting to understand the consequences of his actions as he started to wobble when he was fighting unconsciousness. (Y/n) had opened her mouth to say something when Aegon collapsed, at an instant (y/n) jumped off the bed forgetting her own suffering to sit by her husbands side and place his head on her thighs.

“Aegon! Aegon! No no don’t do this to me Aegon”

Alicent had heard (y/n)s cries of agony and bursted in the door with Ser Arryk thinking that something had happened to her good-daughter and to her disturbance she couldn’t have been more wrong. (Y/n)s white night gown ruined with her child’s blood as she screeched in agony, Ser Arryk being the only one that had kept his composure lifted the prince as his hand hanged from one side leaving drops of his blood as a trail all the way to the bed, (y/n) had not seen Alicent scurry away from the room, she just heard the woman yell for the maesters.

(Y/n) jumped on the bed next to her lord husband, cupping his porcelain face with her bloody hands, staining his flesh with his own blood that he had shed as a desperate declaration of love and devotion, “how peculiar” she thought, hours ago she was covered in her own blood as a minor sacrifice for life to be brought into this world, now she was smearing Aegons blood who attempted to take his own life, a life had been created and a life was being taken.

“It’s alright, it’s alright he is going to be alright”

Requests are open

[humanpurposes]

Come So Close That I Might See, part iii

Aegon reflects on his marriage // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

Warnings: angst

Words: 3800

A/n: Okay, um... surprise? Sorry this took so long but I lost interest in this completely for a hot minute :) This part is from Aegon's pov as a finisher to this mini series. Also available to read on AO3.

Aegon may have been a burden to his family, but he certainly was no fool. He knew what it would mean if his wife gave birth to a son, the position it would put him in, put his family in. He was less of a challenge to Rhaenyra, so long as his wife bore no children.

So learning Lucia had come to be with child hit him like a blow to his stomach in a tavern brawl.

He had a few vague memories of waking up beside her with no recollection of the night before. He would ask if he fucked her and she always said “no”.

With the expectation of just one morning. 

What a fool am I that I hadn’t even realised I fucked my own wife?

Now he felt similarly to how he had when he had woken to find Lucia in the bed beside him, head pounding, the burn of last night’s liquor lingering on his tongue and a retching feeling twisting in his stomach. He had dragged himself to a balcony overlooking the gardens and draped himself over the balustrade, hoping the air would ward off the nausea. So far it wasn’t working.

He could still see the moment he had reached for that damning bottle of whiskey, the one that had pushed him over the threshold of his usual limits. He supposed it was a special occasion afterall, and he had been keen to celebrate his wife’s condition on his own terms.

The air wasn’t doing him much good and the sunlight was starting to hurt his eyes, but just as he was about to head back into the castle a pair caught his eye.

His dutiful wife seemed to float through the greenery in a loose sitting gown of dark green silk. All of her gowns were like that now, in anticipation of her swelling stomach. Aemond walked beside her with his hands behind his back. The garden was otherwise empty.

On instinct, Aegon shrunk behind a pillar as he watched them. He didn’t truly need to hide, their backs were turned to him and they shouldn’t have had any reason to look up to his particular balcony. He hid himself all the same.

They didn’t walk very far. By the order of Maester Orwyle she was not to engage in any ‘strenuous activities’, and sadly for her that included walking down to the rose garden, so instead they circled the fountain. 

Lucia placed a hand on Aemond’s arm as she whispered something into his ear, and he smiled. Not the murderous grin that precedes a kill on a hunt, or a scathing smirk before he humiliated a sparring partner. He actually smiled.

She first arrived at court as Lucia Westerling, a timid little thing, clinging to the arm of her aunt, Lady Lannister. She had been dressed in a red gown and adorned with dainty gold jewellery as she was paraded before the King and his court. Aegon remembered little else of that first meeting, having ensured he was appropriately inebriated to meet his future wife, but he remembered her eyes, dark brown and wide, like a doe staring at a hunter.

She was of little use to him. He was a man and she was barely a child, a year younger than Aemond. She spent the first year of their marriage under the watch of a septa, studying history and scripture.

She grew into her title of Princess as though she had been born to it. Knights fell at her feet at tourneys, vying for her favour. Women of the court fawned over her constantly, complimenting her silky dark hair and her affinity for Dornish fashions. The Queen sang her praises and even the King seemed to delight in her company. The whole realm seemed to be enamoured with Princess Lucia, except for her husband.

But while he found they had little in common, her love for books and frequent visits to the library ensured she and Aemond became companions of some kind. Thank the Gods, it saved him having to entertain her.

Two years into their marriage, on the morning of Aemond’s eighteenth nameday, Aegon woke to find himself in his wife’s bed. 

He asked the usual question.

“You did not ask for my assistance,” she said of the stain on the back of her nightgown.

She bathed and dressed quickly while Aegon waited for the daze of sleep to wear off. It was unusually early; her handmaidens hadn’t arrived to wake her, and yet there she was making quite the fuss over her pale blue gown and her hair.

“What are you…” he trailed off, watching as she rubbed perfume into her wrists and dabbed a few drops of rosewater onto her cheeks.

Before she left she went to grab a small black box from a drawer. 

“I’m going to give Aemond his gift,” she said as she made her way towards the door.

He frowned. It was a pitiful size for a gift. “Why?”

Her fingers curled over the box. “Because I should like to,” she said with a voice that seemed to sharpen every time they spoke. “He is my husband’s brother after all.”

He learned what the gift was some weeks later. He couldn’t quite remember why he had gone in the first place, but one particularly sweltering afternoon, he had wandered down to the training yard, where his brother was sparring with Criston Cole.

Aemond’s movements were starting to get sloppy and before long Cole had the Prince on his knees.

“Do you yield, my Prince?” Cole asked, blade resting against his collar.

Aemond nodded, hardly able to catch a breath. He hauled himself to stand and pulled off his eyepatch to wipe away the sweat on his drenched brow. 

Aegon’s eye was drawn to something blue, glinting in the sun. A gem, he realised, set in the empty socket and the scar that sliced down the left side of his face.

“When did you start wearing that?” He asked as he stalked towards his brother.

Aemond had only just noticed him. He was already glaring on account of his defeat. “What do you mean?” 

“This.” Aegon pointed to the jewel and grinned. “It’s horrific but I think it makes you look rather formidable.”

Aemond huffed and slipped the eyepatch back over his head. “If you must know, your lady wife gave it to me as a gift.”

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “She gave you a sapphire and you put it in your empty eye socket?”

“T’was her suggestion.”

He pondered the gesture for days. Aemond and Lucia read together in the library from time to time, rode out into the Kingswood every so often, exchanged a few hushed words during formal appearances at court, but she had always been more affectionate with Helaena and her ladies maids, and more lively with Daeron than she ever was with Aemond.

There was something different about seeing them now. They came to sit at the edge of the fountain. He was too far away to hear Lucia’s voice, but he watched her lips move as her fingers started to trail over the surface of the water.

Aemond was unrecognisable with his shoulders relaxed, head tilted towards her, ankle crossed over his knee and his hand absentmindedly tapping against his leg.

Occasionally one made the other laugh, and he couldn’t decide which was the more impressive feat, Aemond saying something funny or Lucia being able to crack the facade of the revered one-eyed Prince. 

Before they walked back towards the castle, Aemond took her hand in his, placing a light kiss to her knuckles.

A gesture between friends. Like their little glances and smirks across the dinner table. Like their rides to the Kingswood. Like her gift of the sapphire.

It was the Queen who delivered the news to the Small Council, some months later, on one of the few occasions Aegon had been invited to sit at the table.

“A son!”

Jaehaerys was large for a newborn with wrinkly skin and a powerful set of lungs. He wailed constantly, but Lucia adored him. She insisted on feeding him herself and that his nursery be in the room next to hers. She said it was important that she and the child be allowed to bond. 

The presence of an heir was cause for celebration. His birth was marked by a tourney and a whole week of feasts by the order of Otto Hightower. Everyone was keen to remark how beautiful the boy was, how healthy and content, how much he resembled his father. His mother visited the child daily, as did Aemond.

Aegon found his appetite for fucking became insatiable after that. He longed to see his seed dripping from the cunt of every whore in King’s Landing and to see the streets overrun with white haired bastards.

Every child he had sired was of no consequence. But one boy had changed everything. Why? Because he had recited a few words in a Sept. Because Jaehaerys had been born from Lucia and not any other woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

He thought at least he might indulge his wife after she had begged him for a child for so many years, but she refused him, claiming her body was still recovering from the birth.

And shortly before Jaehearys’ second name day, she was with child again. She had announced it rather abruptly as they took dinner with the Queen.

“A few months along, so the Maesters say,” she said, resting her hands on her stomach under the table. “It’ll start to show soon.”

“Wonderful news!” The Queen proclaimed, rushing to give the Princess a warm embrace.

Lucia took Aegon’s hand. “Are you pleased, husband?”

Aemond was sat across the table from him, beside where their mother had been sitting. His expression was blank, but Aegon knew when his brother was keeping a secret, he could see it in his eye.

The child was a girl. Lucia named her Visenya. Aegon could only bring himself to chuckle into a goblet of wine when he heard. Surely she could have chosen something a little less obvious, unless it was done out of spite.

“She is the image of Helaena,” the Queen cooed into the bundle Lucia held in her arms, “save for the eyes.” Dark brown, like little onyx stones.

While his mother fawned, Aegon remained slouched on the settee before the fire, fiddling with his ring of Valyrian steel. He had hardly worn it since their wedding, but these days he found himself reaching for it more often. 

The King might have been delighted with the new addition, but the pain of his condition had become unbearable. He could hardly manage to keep himself awake, let alone acknowledge the world around him. The milk of the poppy didn’t help in that regard.

“Named in honour of her dear uncle?” Alicent asked suddenly.

Aegon looked to Lucia. There was no flinch in her expression and her eyes did not leave the babe. “Rather fitting I thought, one child named for a consolidator, the other named for a warrior,” she said.

“Perhaps she will ride her namesake’s dragon one day,” Aegon added dryly.

She finally looked at him, and smiled, so sweet and innocent. “I am sure her uncle would be willing to accommodate such a request.”

He held her gaze and resisted the urge to sneer, but she did not back down. He’d never noticed how gifted of a liar she was, eyes completely vacant and free of any guilt, remorse or even amusement. She spared nothing for him.

He turned towards the fire, digging his teeth into his lip. It was so rare Aegon ever found himself to be angry. Losing a bet at the fighting pit was a nuisance, but he could easily steal himself some more gold from the royal treasury. Being woken before noon often put him in a bad mood, but that was often remedied with a few cups of wine. 

But then there were those moments, the mournful look in his mother’s eyes whenever she looked at him, the tight lips and silent glares from Aemond, the obvious disgust of his wife… his father hadn’t so much as said his name in years. It was in these moments he felt true, unrelenting fury burning through his blood.

And the worst of it was that the feeling was inescapable. He couldn’t drink enough wine or fly far enough on Sunfyre to escape his mother’s ire, his father’s apathy, his grandfather’s ambition or Aemond’s jealousy. Sooner or later he would always have to sober up or return to the red stone walls that made up his prison.

He had never asked for this. Behind closed doors, the Hightowers often whispered of the will of the gods. They said it is the gods who decide the matter of our births. It is they who elect Kings to govern with their guidance. The same gods who had made Kings of Maegor, Aenys and Viserys.

Still, for more than two decades, the Hightowers had told Aegon that his ascension would be the will of the gods. Why? Because the son of Queen Aemma had not lived longer than a day. Because Rhaenyra was a daughter and not a son. 

And perhaps he might have escaped it, the burden of the crown and the war it would surely inspire, were it not for the silver haired children who whined and wailed constantly. His wife’s children. Bastards. An observation which had cost Aemond his eye.

Alicent did not stay for much longer. Lucia placed her daughter into the arms of a maid, to be brought to the nursery. She followed the Queen to the door and huffed a heavy sigh once it was closed.

Aegon drew his tongue over his teeth. He had a mind to reach for the decanter of wine before him but refrained. “I don’t suppose I’ve properly congratulated you on the birth of your daughter,” he mused.

Lucia’s footsteps tapped softly against the floor as she moved towards the bed. He glanced over his shoulder to see her running her hands over the already smooth throw and attempting to adjust the particularly placed pillows. To fill the silence, he realised.

“Do you think yourself clever, wife?”

She kept her eyes down. “Whatever do you mean?”

He couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh, but hummed in mocking disbelief as he came to his feet. “Your children are bastards, are they not?”

She paused, then steadily straightened her back. When she turned to face him, she still had that same look on her face. Indifference. But there, in the smallest frown of her brows, he saw something a little more concerned; a quiet loathing and a flicker of fear.

Finally the facade had cracked, just a little. He held his breath, desperate to see if she would try to keep up the lie.

She cleared her throat oh so delicately. “Our children are the blood of Valyria–”

“But not sired by me,” he said, coming to stand.

Her fists clenched by her side. She took a slow breath. “I have done my duty–”

“By whoring yourself out to my brother?” he exclaimed, taking a step towards her.

“Lower your voice,” she hissed, “I am sure the rest of the city do not wish to hear your drunken ramblings.”

She made for the door and his rage rook over. He quickly followed behind her and yanked her back by her shoulder, took hold of her wrists and pushed her back into the bedpost, despite her struggling.

“You seek to humiliate me, is that it?” he snarled.

“Aegon! Let go of me!” she cried.

“You’ve played right into their fucking hand! You’ve given Otto Hightower exactly what he wants, and you’ve given Rhaenyra another reason to hate us–”

He let one wrist slip and suddenly her fist had collided with his jaw. He staggered back, already feeling the bruise blooming under his skin.

She straightened her spine and stood tall. “Do not seek to blame this on me,” she said with a deathly calm. “You wish to speak of humiliation? Do you have any idea what I have had to endure as your wife? I was worthless to the eyes of the court until I gave you a son. Now I have done what has been asked of me and it still isn’t enough.”

Aegon dabbed his fingers to his lip, surprised to see blood until he realised the stinging sensation in his mouth, where his teeth had met his flesh.

“Have you ever considered that perhaps I did not ask to be your wife any more than you wanted to be the firstborn son?” she said.

Aegon knew he was not born for this.

Aemond was a weak little thing. Everyone made a fuss of his birth, the Queen’s third child and her most difficult, Aegon just remembered the Maesters saying how lucky he was to be alive. “He is half the size you were,” his mother said to him as he peered into his brother’s cradle. 

Studious, sombre, stubborn Aemond, who followed his brother and nephews to the Dragonpit to sulk at his own shortcomings. 

Vaghar had changed everything. In the space of one night, Aemond found himself with one less eye and the most powerful living dragon.

He was the perfect Targaryen Prince, dedicated to his studies, his training, so attentive and sharp-minded. He saw how his brother looked at him. Their roles should have been reversed, just as his father often said Prince Daemon had always lusted for the throne far more than he.

He wondered if Aemond would be the same man if he had not had to make something of himself. 

Of course he would. He would have been a good, faithful husband. He would have meant it when he made love to his wife, and Lucia would have loved him back. 

He looked up at his wife and the silent tears glistening in her eyes.

Perhaps their union was a lapse in judgement on the part of the Gods, but that was a foolish explanation. Their marriage was a scheme, made to seal together two great houses looking to consolidate their own influences. And of course, the only people who would suffer for it were the only people who never had a say.

“I want to offer you my protection,” he said.

Lucia scoffed. “As if that means anything to me.”

“My silence then. I will continue to claim Jaehearys and Visenya as my trueborn children. If your secret should be uncovered, it will not be by my indiscretion.”

They glared at each other for a moment, but Lucia’s face began to soften. 

“Thank you, husband,” she said. 

Aegon hung his head and left her with a hopeful look in her eyes.

He sauntered through the quiet halls of the Holdfast with a sinking feeling in his chest. Perhaps he could have tried harder to love her, and to make her love him, but none of that mattered now. Lucia had what she wanted, what she needed, and their fates were sealed.

When the time came, the Hightowers were quick to secure the throne for Aegon, for his son after him.

Lucia was by his side in the Dragonpit, as he was coronated with the conqueror’s crown. His mother then stepped forward, to place a silver circlet on the new Queen’s head. Hers fit perfectly, while his was was heavy, and a little too wide.

Helaena, Martyn Hightower, and Aemond lined up to Aegon’s left. His sister couldn’t look at him and her husband kept his head down. Aemond on the other hand never took his eye from him. 

Aemond stared at him with a thousand emotions. Aegon singled out hatred and pity, but there was acceptance too.

It should have all been his. The crown, the duty, Lucia.

But that’s not what the Gods had decided. They had made Aegon the firstborn son of Viserys, and the Hightowers had made him King on that belief.

He felt it for the first time, as he turned to face the crowd gathered to witness his ascension. He raised Blackfyre above his head and the people cheered for him. 

They cheered for him.

And it was all gone in an instant, as the ground rumbled and the dragon Meleys erupted from the very ground, sending dust, rubble and bodies flying in her wake.

And Lucia went to Aemond. When she thought she was going to die, she ran nto his arms and he placed her behind him, clutching desperately to her hand. His eye was wide and his face determined, as if he could protect her from a fucking dragon. Oh but he would try. Years of being bonded to Vhagar had made him as stubborn as he was fierce. The world would fall to ash before Aemond let any harm come to someone he loved.

It was suggested an alliance with Storm’s End would be desirable for their cause, to be sealed with a marriage pact. Aemond put up surprisingly little resistance when he was told. 

On the evening of his departure for Storm’s End, Aegon went to his wife’s chambers. He found Lucia by the window, with little Visenya in her arms, pressing her lips to the babe’s delicate head. Beyond the glass, Vhagar soared over Blackwater Bay, headed west against the sunset.

Aegon came to stand beside her. Silent tears streamed from her eyes and as she pulled her face away from the babe, he saw her lips were downturned in a mournful frown.

There was little doubt Borros Baratheon would pledge his banners to their cause. Still, they would need all the support they could get in the face of the threat of Rhaenyra and Daemon.

And if Aemond was successful, he would return with a wife. 

There was no outcome which would lead to her happiness, he realised. 

“I fear you might have been right,” she uttered.

He frowned. “What?”

“Rhaenyra will not give up her birthright so easily,” she said, the fate of Vaemond Velaryon was still fresh in her mind. She stared into empty space with the same horror in her eyes as when Dark Sister had severed Vaemond’s head from his jaw.

“It will not come to war,” he said. He promised his mother it would not. The Kingdom had to be secure, his family kept safe. “You will not be harmed. I swear it.”

Suddenly the child started to squirm, letting out little grunts that were dangerously close to cries.

“No, no, no,” Lucia whispered, trying to rock her back to sleep, but the babe began to cry in earnest. 

Aegon winced instinctively. He couldn’t stand the sound, but regretted it when he saw Lucia frown sadly at his reaction.

“Apologies, I’ll see her to bed,” she said with a slight curtsey, and moved towards the nursery.

Aegon let her leave without protest.

Vhagar was a spec on the horizon now.

He imagined Aemond was thinking of her and the children, and would think of them every moment until his return.

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy

Series taglist: @padfooteyes @darkenchantress @kezibear143

[becauseicantdecide]

The Harder They Fall

Aemond Targaryen x Reader x Aegon II Targaryen

Warnings: Non-Con/Dub-Con, Smut, Oral (F receiving), Knife Kink, Spitting Kink, Biting Kink, Enemies to Lovers.

Summary: Aemond and Aegon both yearn for their mother's approval. It angers them when she immediately meets and favours the Princess of Dorne. They come up with a plan that ensures their mother never says your name out loud again.

Dedicated to @pluvialpoet, @bitch-biblioklept

Merry Christmas 😘😘

"I wish she'd choke on that olive and die." Aegon utters viscously.

From his spot beside his brother, Aemond almost spits his mead. If he was a man with any less self control, he might have laughed.

Instead, he turns to where his brother is watching sourly, to his mother, talking animatedly with the Princess of Dorne.

He can't deny your beauty, though he may hate you with every fiber of his being, he cannot deny that dornish dress was made for you, that your expanse of exposed skin and well done hair is anything other than breathtaking.

It's a shame that he indeed, also wanted to squeeze the breath out of you.

"Mother lets her get away with too much," Aegon continues, breaking into his brother's thoughts, "She tried to suggest to me how I should ride my own dragon."

Aemond raises a precarious eyebrow in shock and amusement.

"The worst part is the fucking bitch was right."

You were truly, proof that the gods had a sense of humour. Why else would they send someone so blood- boiling and so beautiful?

Though Aemond doesn't supply any verbal agreement of his dislike for you, he acknowledges it silently. He ached to wipe that smug smile from your face.

~~~

You liked to torment, and the Princes of the seven kingdoms had made themselves easy targets.

Like now, Alicent had promised you her younger son would accompany you through the shopping districts of King's Landing, and you were having a fun time reminding him at every moment that he'd been lent out like a hired sword.

You stayed beside him, looking up with triumphant smiles as he looked needlessly bored.

"What do you think of this colour?" You say, raising a light blue fabric to your face so that Aemond could compare them.

The Targaryen simply sighs, doesn't glance at you and turns away.

You pout.

"You're not being a very good help, Prince Aemond." You say, walking around to stand in front of him. Under his eye twitches once in annoyance.

"Ah, perhaps the import of wine and rare fruits are not as important to the Royal Family as I thought." You say in sorrow, turning away, only to grin when you feel Prince Aemond grip your upper arm to pull you back.

"Is that a threat, Princess Martell?"

"Gracious no!" You exaggerate with a smile, "I'm simply pointing out that Dorne's supplies can't be that important with the way you treat me."

You think you could hear his teeth crack with the frustration.

A shiver of pleasure floats down your spine.

Finally, he looks at the fabric in your hand.

"I hate it." He says finally, releasing your arm.

You hum in appreciation, putting it back.

"What is your favourite colour?" You ask, moving to keep up with his lengthy strides, shaking your head politely when someone tries to beckon you into their shop.

Again, he doesn't respond.

"Prince Aemond-"

"-Princess Martell." He says in a clipped tone, stopping to turn to you, "I am just a protective hand. If you require an opinion, I suggest you ask your ladies in waiting. It is their purpose."

Oh, you loved playing games.

You keep your eyes on his, wondering what's under his eyepatch.

"Leila," you call to one of your ladies' maids, you hear her step forward expectantly, ready to assist.

You don't stop looking at Aemond.

"Can you inquire as to the Prince's favourite colour?"

If only looks could kill.

There's a moment before Leila decides to open her mouth to speak on your behalf.

"Pardon me, my Prince-"

Aemond cuts her off with a look.

Pushed too far, he turns, and leaves you in the streets, disappearing into the crowds before you can say another word. You admire the sway of his hair as he walks away.

~

Aemond wasn't surprised that you'd told his mother. Sitting in his room, staring out at King's Landing, he's not fazed by his mother's sudden intrusion.

"I can't believe you," she starts, "the Martell house is a well respected and important family, the least you could do is treat her accordingly."

"You're lucky I didn't kill her." He says easily, studying the people below. Her silence speaks volumes.

"I had sought to make a match of you two, but maybe I should spare her the trouble." Alicent informs.

Aemond swivels on his mother.

"You would wed me to that spoiled brat?" He asks in disbelief.

"She is nothing of the sort!" Alicent's voice heightens as she approaches, "She is kind, and well learned and incredibly creative and if you could see that you would-"

"-Never. I would never." He spends a moment deep in thought before quietly asking, "Why do you like her so much?"

Alicent moves to his side, tucking her hand under his chin to tilt his head up from where he's sitting. He allows it to happen, because this is his mother, his blood.

She looks at him, Aemond watches some type of sorrow move over the planes of her face.

"I think she could love you. Aegon- has been forced to marry for duty, and you get the chance to marry for something else."

Aemond rolls his eye.

"I would have been happier marrying for duty." He responds.

Her grip on his jaw tightens.

"Consider it your duty to me then."

"I'll think about it." He appeases. He'd already thought about it. He would marry you when hell freezes.

~~~~

Aegon was not faring any better with you.

He'd been having his merry time with a serving maid when you'd walked into the small nook they'd been hidden in.

You'd cleared your throat, and the maid- whose name he couldn't care to remember- had slipped away and ran past you with a rushed excuse.

An annoyed sigh slips past his mouth, looking at you with droll irritation.

You didn't even flinch, smiling at him when he approached you to walk past.

"Can I ask, Prince Aegon," you blurt, humour deepening when he pauses to give you an annoyed glance, "Have you ever been with a willing woman?"

The silence is both amusing and poisonous.

You don't expect it, but it doesn't surprise you when he grips your shoulder tightly, slamming you into the same wall he'd had the other maiden pressed against.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" He growl, leaning into your space, till your breaths intermingle, "I am a Prince of the seven kingdoms and you will not speak to me as if I am your equal." He hisses, and not for the first time, the anger in his violet eyes stirs something delightful within you.

You soften your voice, tilting your head up and continuing to meet his eyes in an attempt to look more alluring.

"I meant no disrespect, Your Highness, but there's only so many times you can have your cock sucked by an inexperienced, unwilling woman before it gets boring."

He moves a hand from pinning your shoulder to the wall to wrap his fingers around your throat. Your eyes flutter with the pleasure it brings.

"Perhaps I like my women unwilling and inexperienced."

"A shame," you hit back, "When the opposite could incite pleasure you've only ever dreamed of."

His fingers tighten around your neck.

"Are you offering?" He asks, reducing his grip to allow you to speak.

"You wish." You respond, and before another word can be said, you're raising your hands to knock his away from your body, pushing him back to a respectable distance.

He hits the opposite wall with a muffled thud.

"I'll remind you, Prince Aegon, that I am a lady, and I am capable of removing your hands from your wrists should you touch me again without permission." You move to walk away, pausing in afterthought to turn back to him.

"So, have a nice day, Your Highness." You say, bowing your head respectfully, giving him a small smile, before backing away.

Aegon doesn't understand how he feels for hours after. On one hand, how dare you threaten him? On the other hand, why did it make him feel giddy on the inside?

He blames it on his mother.

~~~~~

He knows what's coming when Alicent storms into his room while he's taking a bath.

"You will not touch Princess Martell again, do you understand?"

Aegon huffs, wiggling his fingers in the warm water.

"It was harmless really, I can't believe she told you that."

"Except that she didn't tell me, the maid you'd been forcing yourself onto did."

Aegon can't help the smile that grows on his face.

Alicent leans forward angrily to dash water into the prince's eyes. He grunts in displeasure, wiping at his stinging eyes.

"I am trying to create a union between her and Aemond, I would appreciate if you would keep your filthy hands to yourself." Alicent hisses.

Aegon laughs long and hard.

"Aemond will kill her the second they are wed, mother, she is a nuisance- so- well- wait- I don't know what I'm saying, go right ahead and wed them." He smiles deviously.

She frowns, sighing, she leans against the bathtub, deep in thought.

Awkwardly, Aegon looks down at his cock, thinking that having his mother here did not inspire the debauched activities he was hoping to get along with.

"Why do you both dislike her? She is exactly the type of person I'd hoped for."

Which was the entire premise of the problem. That you had walked into the castle and earned the favour of the Queen, affection her sons could never hope to attain.

What could Aegon say? That he despised you because she loved you? The words would only get him slapped harder.

Instead, a dangerous idea rears its head. One so dark and twisted that the very thought of it had probably damned his soul.

He waits until dinner, to speak it aloud to the only other Targaryen who understands.

~

You sit at the opposite end of the table, clothed in emerald green. A colour that emphasised the way Aegon and Aemond felt about you.

Aemond hated the way the jewels sat on your skin, he wanted to cover them in your blood, slit your throat open and watch in satisfaction as you struggled to speak another word.

You laugh at something King Viserys says, and Aegon yearns to watch you cry.

Finally, he turns to his brother.

"Killing her is not enough. I want her very name tainted." Aegon whispers.

Aemond smiles at the thought.

"What do you have in mind?" He asks.

Aegon thinks for a minute.

"What's worse that getting her pregnant out of wedlock?" Aegon asks.

Aemond already has the answer prepared.

"Making her want it." Aemond supplies easily.

Aegon looks over at his brother in surprise.

"I don't know why I get called mother's worst child when you're more devious than me."

Aemond sips his mead, deep in thought.

"That's because you always get caught."

Aegon laughs.

~

You'd managed to ignore the princes tonight, having tormented them enough for the day, you only sit back and enjoy dinner peacefully.

You listen to the stories Alicent's father, Otto, weaves, and you smile along or laugh politely where necessary. You explain the landscape of Dorne when asked, and you tell them about some of the customs.

You leave out the customs you know they'd find appalling, they could never hope to understand the way Dorne holds the pleasures of the body as an important aspect of life. That you'd read books on pleasure enhancement alongside your history books when you were ready for it. Your virginity had only remained intact because of your status, as a formality to your future husband, should he be someone outside of Dorne. You knew that these people would never understand that. There was too much currency placed on a young woman's maidenhead for your liking.

You blink, refocusing, realising that your eyes have been locked onto Aegon's face the entire time. He smiles, leaning in to say something to his brother while still looking at you.

It makes you a little nervous. What could they possibly be talking about? No doubt some plot to get back at you.

You liked the idea more than you cared to admit. Aemond was gorgeous and calculating, Aegon made you burn with your desire for him. You shouldn't be thinking this way of either man.

When dinner is finished, you find your way to the library with a cup of ale. The place is almost empty at this time of night, and you enjoy the feeling of being alone and reading books by candlelight.

The words are funnier when you're inebriated, and you enjoy reading the thoughts of maesters who have clearly missed the points of the subjects they're speaking about.

When you hear the door to the library close and locks, you look up in surprise.

"Prince Aemond." You greet, standing, bowing your head in acknowledgement. When you notice his older brother behind him, you nod your head again, "Prince Aegon."

Both men look like they're up to no good.

"Princess Martell," Aegon says happily, "reading so late at night?"

"Uh, yes, I'm- actually I was just finishing up." You say, looking back at the books sitting on the table.

"Oh, there's no need, sit with us, we'd like to see what you're reading."

You don't get a chance to protest, finding yourself sitting on the wooden bench with Aemond on your left and Aegon on your right, both men closing you in.

"Is this yours?" Aegon asks, gripping the half filled cup of ale, taking a sip before you can open your mouth to affirm. He puts it down beside you, and you swallow when he leans closer.

You try to lean away but Aemond is a solid wall behind you, and you find that you can't move too far away from Aegon.

"Don't you hate when people don't know their place, Princess?" Aegon asks, and you swallow when he rests his warm hands on your knees. You don't push them off, not wanting to be disrespectful too soon.

"I'm not sure what you mean." You say softly.

"No? I can give an example." He sighs, smiling still, when you try to turn away from him, his fingers hold onto your knees harder to keep your attention.

"Aemond here is a Prince of the seven kingdoms. Third in line to the throne, rides the largest dragon in the world." Aegon's eyes illuminate with amusement, "Do you think he should act as a sellsword because the Princess of little shithole wills it so?"

You swallow, the level of trouble you're in finally sinks into your head.

"I only asked-"

"-You only asked," Aegon hisses, "and my mother agreed." He reaches up to grip your jaw, "What sway you must have on her, what influence."

You raise your hands to push him away, but before you can, Aemond has grabbed your wrists and pinned them behind you. You make a little sound of surprise, wiggling in an attempt to get out of his iron grip to no avail.

You turn your head to the side, taking your jaw out of Aegon's grip angrily.

"How dare you put your hands on me." You say lowly, struggling still in Aemond's grip, his breath in your ear, "Let me go."

Aegon laughs.

"It's time you learned, Princess, that you cannot have everything you want."

When Aegon kisses your collarbone, you gasp in surprise. He tugs your night dress a little lower so that he can trail his mouth from one clavicle to the other.

"Stop this, Aegon." You plead, trying to pull away from him.

"What's the matter, Princess?" Aemond whispers in your ear, your heart picking up its pace at the sound of his voice, "Don't like being taken advantage of?"

You whine.

"A little help, brother?" Aegon asks, and you feel Aemond's hand grip your jaw, turning your head.

You make a quiet sound of displeasure when Aegon presses his lips to yours. You try to shake both men off but it doesn't work.

Aegon laughs into your mouth, clearly enjoying your discomfort. Automatically, you begin to kiss back, trying to grab any semblance of control you have.

Aegon's lips are soft and plush, he's gentle and commanding with his mouth all at once. It's easy to get lost in it, to forget where you are when you have his tongue pressing into your mouth to trace over yours.

You hum in bliss, getting lost and enjoying it,  only being brought back into your body when Aemond laughs in your ear.

"She likes it." He says when Aegon breaks the kiss, "What a whore." Aemond teases.

Your mouth drops open, you begin to struggle in his grip once again.

"Let me go." You grunt, and you try to pretend that hearing both brothers laugh lowly at you doesn't bring on a spike of arousal.

Aegon's eyes devour you, roaming over your body. His tongue traces over his bottom lip, and you feel like nothing more that a feast for the prince.

"Aemond," he says, eyes still caught on your chest, "Your knife."

Fear squeezes your throat.

"No way," you breathe, beginning to struggle when Aemond pulls a knife from his belt and gives it, hilt forward to Aegon.

You're panting, swearing, wriggling, but Aemond's grip is too tight, and you can't seem to get away.

It doesn't take much for Aegon to rip the front of your dress open. You suck in a deep breath to scream and Aemond quickly claps a hand over your mouth. You grunt behind it as you feel your nipples pepple in response to the open air.

"Fuck." Aegon breathes, and you close your eyes shut to avoid the way he admires you.

The knife drops on the table, you whimper behind Aemond's hand when you feel his brother cup your breasts.

"She is... as magnificent as I thought she'd be." He whispers in reverence.

You jerk when he pinches one of your nipples gently.

You don't see his head dip, but the next thing you know, his tongue laves lazily over your breast.

You can't resist a muffled moan.

You give another shake of your shoulders, not trying as hard to escape Aemond's grip.

You can feel your toes curl in your shoes, Aegon is gentle and precise and you shiver at the feel of his hands and his tongue on your body.

When you can do nothing more than relax, Aemond takes the opportunity to tilt your head to the side so that he can meld his lips to yours too.

It's almost too much, one Prince licking over your breasts, swirling his tongue over your skin, the other, delving his tongue deep into the hollows of your mouth, redefining every thought in your head. Your eyes closed shut, trying not to enjoy the rapt attention you're being given.

Aegon pinches your nipples firmly and you gasp in pain, swiveling your head to meet his eyes in betrayal, but all he does is lean forward and capture your lips.

"You don't have to do this." You whisper, as Aemond kisses your throat and Aegon kisses your lips.

"I do, Princess. You give me no choice." Aegon answers and you don't get a chance to respond as you feel Aemond's teeth sink into the skin of your neck.

Your entire body shudders, with bliss you can't process, you shake violently, pressed between both men.

"I think the whore likes being marked." Aemond observes. You whimper in disagreement.

Aegon cups your cheek, leaning in so that he's almost hovering above you. You look up at him with pleading eyes, he tilts your head so that he can see the mark Aemond has placed on you.

"What will they think, Princess," Aegon tuts, "When they see you all marked up tomorrow? How quickly my mother will cast you out."

"N-no. Please-"

"If only you'd been nicer, less of a brat. Maybe we could have gotten along."

He turns your head back to face him.

"Open your mouth."

You frown, shaking your head.

"Aemond." He says, and you feel a hand on your jaw, squeezing tightly and you can't help the little sob that leaves your throat.

Aegon reaches for the cup of mead. He takes a long sip just as Aemond works your jaw open.

Aegon leans in, and you squeeze your eyes shut as he lets the mead from his mouth slip past his lips and into yours.

Aemond chuckles behind you, clamping your mouth shut, and covering your mouth and nose with his large hand in an attempt to force you to swallow.

You do, gasping for air when he takes his hand away, not liking the sound of their devilish laughter at all.

"I'm going to kill you both." You hiss.

It only makes them laugh more.

"Hear that, brother?" Aegon says, reaching to cup your breasts in both hands and press them together, "She just threatened us."

"I do believe that counts as treason." Aemond murmurs.

"To which the punishment is death, but I'm sure we can come to some arrangement, can't we, Princess?" Aegon follows, his fingertips tracing down your ribs.

He grips the material of your skirt in his hands, bunching it up until it sits on your waist. Though you wriggle, he puts his weight on your legs, stopping you from kicking him away.

He pulls at your undergarments, reaching for the knife to cut them away, you whine, trying to garner some pity.

Next, he's pulling at your legs, until you're lying on the bench, Aemond holds your hands above your head, your body situated between his spread thighs.

You try to kick at Aegon, worried that he's about to take your virginity, but all he does when he spreads your legs is look.

After a moment, he laughs.

"How wet you are, Princess." He praises, you gasp when his thumb swipes over your little bud.

He takes his time, which is way worse that him being rough, his thumb rubbing at your center, pleasure swimming through your senses, until your thoughts are muddled. You sigh, mewling when he leans down, kissing the tops of your thighs.

This wasn't something you were aware men outside of Dorne could do.

Aegon is soft, doesn't rush his kisses on your skin and you wished you could pull your skirts out of the way to get a proper look at him between your thighs.

You definitely stop struggling when he presses his tongue to your center. Your mouth parts in surprise. Was this supposed to be a punishment?

You look up at Aemond, who hovers above, looking down at you with something akin to amusement. You close your mouth, trying to mask the way you feel from him.

As if that was ever possible.

"How does she taste?" Aemond asks, and you burn with the way he talks about you like you're not in the room.

It takes Aegon a moment to raise his head from between your legs.

"Like nectar." Is all he says, burying his face in your cunt once more.

He licks you till you're trembling, his tongue dancing on your heated centre, your thighs wrapped around his head. The candles that you'd brought in with you have been significantly burned down, and you can only speculate that it's somewhere near midnight, and yet, Aegon keeps tasting you, drinking from your centre in an almost desperate manner that makes you want to moan.  You bite your lip so hard to stop from making any sound that you can almost taste the iron of your blood.

All the while, Aemond looks at you, his eyes devour every expanse of your skin and you think that his eyes alone is stimulating enough, but then he's reaching out, fingertips tentatively grazing your soft breast.

His touches grow more firm, and he's rolling one stiff nipple between his fingers before moving over to the next.

You whimper, kicking your legs in useless frustration. Aegon's tongue begins moving faster and you can't fight either brother and at this point you don't want to.

Your orgasm knocks the breath from your lungs, you feel your womb clench deliciously as pleasure swims through your system. You make pitiful noises of pleasure, hands in tight fists, trembling as both boys pause their torment.

After a moment, you feel your senses slowly begin to come back to you.

"The way you gush Princess," Aegon murmurs, eyes still locked on your center, "puts whores to shame."

A sad, needy sound leaves your lips. You can feel an indent on the inside of your lip where you'd been biting a little too forcefully.

"What do you think, Aemond?" The prince asks, "Has she been used well enough today?"

The man in question looks down at you, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You don't move, confused at what they planned to do now. Would they take turns fucking you?

"I think she has." Aemond says, breaking you out of your desperate thoughts.

Before you can register anything, both Princes have stood, leaving the room with soft steps, closing the door behind them.

You sit up, confused and disgruntled and wondering what happened to make them stop. It takes you a moment before the horror of realisation overtakes you.

What had just happened?

.

.

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 29: Complete

MASTERLIST

Summary: Aemond's desires come to truth as Daemon and Naera wed in the way of old Valyria.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: NSFW Content! It's not THAT explicit, only vague kissing and fondling, heavy implications, suggestive themes, breeding kink, etc.

Aemond knocked tentatively on the ebony door, feet shuffling as he turned to his back, then each side, not at all calmed by the endless echoing corridors of the Keep. In his hand he held an ornate box that lay carved with ancient Valyrian runes—the result of his escapades in the King’s Stores, that he had taken it upon himself to deliver to his uncle and half-sister as a marital gift.

And then some. He had a question to ask, assistance to seek from the person he had grown to trust may understand. His half-sister was as selfish as he felt, he knew, and his uncle her husband even graver in his deeds. They were the perfect match, in a way—blood and fire, the epitome of what it meant to be Targaryen. The world would know no peace.

“Come!” He heard Naera scream from within, and he turned the heavy door on its hinges, silent. And entered the solar. It was strewn adrift with papers and letters, books and fresh parchment. Pots of ink sat beside collections of quills, ornate and rough-spun huddled alike, beside bottles of Dornish Red and some strange concoctions in twinkling glass bottles that ranged from the looks of curdled milk to liquid jade. He could smell ginger, at his first step, lemon at his second, and ash and embers when he sat.

Naera sat on her chair, eyes trained on a letter. She read it, expression bearing a soft frown that he realised was the natural way her lips fell, until she smiled, crumpled the pages in her hands and tossed it into the fireplace.

“Good morrow, Aemond.” Aemond turned to the window, one good eye watching the sun make its descent into the waters.

“It is to be evening soon, sister.” Naera followed his gaze to the window, to the haze that would soon be ushered with twilight. Her face glowed differently, he saw. Much had changed since they last met, even if only a moon had turned. As for him.

He’d made his moves carefully, spent stollen moments with the object of his every desire. He’d plucked her flowers she had never held before, told her tales of truth and sometimes even of valour, stollen kisses under the cover of shadowy night, and held to his stealth for protection. It wasn’t enough.

“Ah.” She turned to the door to her chambers, and said, aloud, “The sun sets soon, make some haste, dear groom.” He saw that she still wore a gown of black silk, not the garments of their tradition. He heard laughter from the other side, slurred words in their mother tongue that Aemond couldn’t quite decipher, but he recognised that Naera sat blushing and silent afterwards.

Blushing, for all her warrior-like ways. It was rather different from his sweet true sister’s blushes. Naera seemed scandalised, mischievous, a light flush of red on her cheeks, an embarrassed smile on her lips, but Helaena, Helaena blushed so red he feared he’d have to fetch a maester, turned so high and brilliant, eyes sparkling, lips chapped together that he--right.

He set the box down on the table, “A gift to commemorate your union.”

Naera smiled, inching the box closer to herself for a look. “Thank you—” but the door opened with a shudder.

Aemond’s uncle walked in, scuttered, rather—his steps were hasty. He was dressed in traditional garbs—red and cream, his silver-white hair left free to hang an inch above his shoulders, Dark Sister in her scabbard in his hand.

“No,” Naera covered her eyes, “A Tyroshi priestess once told me that gazing upon your betrothed on your day of marriage is considered ill-luck.” A burst of laughter left her lips.

“And a Valyrian book once told me that I may gaze at my wife as often as I wish.” Daemon left his sword on the table, snatched his wife’s hands away from her face and kissed her lips, with lust and haste, then kissed her forehead, and ran out the door. Aemond watched his back as he left, baffled as to when he had retaken the sword.

“I closed my eyes!” Naera screamed after him. Still laughing, she turned back to Aemond, “What can I do for you, brother?” Brother. He smiled back at her, unable to stop himself.

“Tell me, sister,” he breathed, licked his lips, hesitant. That is why he’d come, he knew. Sure, pay respects to his favourite family members after Helaena, congratulate them on their union, but there was always the other cause. “How can I take her?” Her, her, her; his Helaena, splendid, ethereal beauty wrapped in a promise of treason.

Naera sighed, and he was glad that she’d understood without him having to spend more words.

Naera poured him a cup of wine, water the colour of blood settling into a silver cask, like rubies spilling from a dark slate. Naera froze as she filled it, eyes distant, lost. Then, she asked, voice betraying her dreamy loss of the moment, “Does the Trident have Green Waters?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, handed him the cup and returned to her chair.

Aemond swallowed the wine in a breath, eye not leaving his sister’s face. She had paled, that sickly palour returning to her face. She blinked frantically, sipped a cup of water.

“You cannot take her, Aemond,” Take what you want, she had told him some moons ago—and he realised his folly. It was akin to a jerk to wake him from a long sleep.

Gods, what had he been thinking? He couldn’t take her, how could he? Where would they go? What would they do when men came seeking them? Had he been so blinded by his love, that he’d forgone all practicality? He’d hoped that she’d have an answer but—“You can maybe ask her.” He furrowed his eyebrows, a ghostly pain returning from under his eyepatch.

Naera sighed, “A maiden’s word must be your shield if you intend to have her.” Rapers went to the Wall at best, to the headsman at worst. Disgraceful.

“I do not mean to defile her,” Aemond defended, “I wish to wed her—to—” to see her wear the garbs Naera would at dusk, to drink her blood and hold her hand and vow to protect her for all their lives. That was what he wanted.

Naera refilled his cup, “I know, and she knows. The world does not.”

“You could—”

“What?” His sister’s eyes grew cold and cruel, her voice tuned to injure, to pick at his folly and tear him a regretful wound, “Tell the world that you love her? It isn’t so simple.” Aemond looked down, unable to meet those crystal eyes. Every word she spoke was true, and that hurt. Leave the world, he thought, Mother is the one we need convince.

“You can only love for so long without being loved, brother,” Naera sighed, chin dropping to her palm, elbow banging against the table, “You can only run if she wishes it also.” Run with me, Helaena. We’ll wed in the faith of the Seven or that of the Valyrians. We’d be one heart, one soul—just say the word.

“She wants me, I am certain of it.” She hates Aegon, and knows well that their days near quickly. If only mother saw through her schemes.

“It is only mother, even the King—”

Naera shook her head, “Fuck the King,” he smiled at her brashness, “fuck your mother and your cock of a grandsire,” he felt a pang of shame after the moment passed. He hadn’t defended them, he realised. He agreed with his sister. His mother, fuck Alicent, who wouldn’t see past the grey shroud of duty to gaze at the world in all its colour. Love, was the colour he wished to see, he reminded himself. He had caught a glimpse, now he wanted a full look. “Aemond,” she summoned his wits back to her, “Ask her, confide in her, and run, together.”

Dusk hung heavy in the isle of Dragonstone, a curtain of fog descending on the shores as fires were lit and the Blood of the Dragon gathered near the volcanic crypts. It was a cacophony of red and black, the colours of their heritage—silver hair and purple eyes, fire in their veins, all gathered in respect or obligation.

The priest fanned the coal and flames, ornate chalices and candles gathered by Rhaenyra arranged on a block of rock marbled with red and yellow—it was slab of frozen fire mined from the haunted crypts of the Dragons.

Daemon could hear them murmuring through the fog from where he stood on the sandy beach. He could make out the Hightower cunt’s voice, could see her black gown flapping in the breeze even through the fog, and it only irritated him. The Blood of the Dragon had gathered, so why, pray why had the stupid lanterns joined in? His robes were scratchy and cold, the calm breezes did nothing to allay his urgency. The sun was falling into the sea, a streak of gold and saffron following it, and the mists grew pink and red as though the sky itself bled. It was time

The waves rustled the sands calmly as she took his side. Wrapped in a robe nearly identical to his—cream and ruby, adorned with gold, an ornate headdress laid between her braided silver locks. Beautiful. The curve of her nose, the pink flesh of her lips, her eyes—crystals clearer than diamonds painted blue and red, gods.

His ire vapourized, that familiar panging of his heart returning, thud, thud, his heart now beat only for her, it seemed.

He took her hand wordlessly, her chilled touch sending shivers through him, and in his mind, he spoke a prayer.

Let me hold this hand forever.

The rocky shores bristled against her bare feet, reminding Naera of the time she had scaled the ports of Asshai from the rocky ends. It hurt, but it was worth it. Daemon’s hand was warm in hers, his grasp tight and binding, as they crossed the threshold to where their family waited.

The fires flared when they made it to the clearing, the sky reddened like a maiden’s blush—if the Gods could betray more of their intentions, she did not know how. With the cold of the fog, and the warmth of his hand, the serene calmness of this event came a gradual understanding that this was right. She was meant for this—to be his, to hold his hand, to wield her sword for them, to sleep and wake and live beside him. Her uncle who had never cared for her, but now he cared not what the world said as long as he could have her.

Her family stood around the flames; the two branches of the house split over the priest. Viserys stumbled close, wilting hair and face, though he had a guilty smile on. He’d done this in some hope of companionship, but it had grown into a sickly sort of love, he knew.

He took her hand, clasped it in his cold damp one, and pressed a shuddering kiss to her forehead. Naera smiled at him, watched him return to Rhaenyra’s side—Rhaenyra, who smiled in a way most disillusioned, who stood with her husband, her sworn guards, her children, her court, choosing war even in that moment. Across the priest was Alicent, face contorted in distaste for such old ways, her children at her side, all in red and black, a treaty of peace. Aemond gave her a curt nod when she met his eye, a tingling smile on her lips.

The priest—one of the old Keepers of the Dragonpit who still followed those old doomed gods—began his droning, hymns sung to Meleys, the goddess of love and fertility, to Teraxes, to Balerion—to nearly every god, but Naera cared not. This had been the scene, she knew—Daemon shrouded in fog, silent and still, calmness in his eyes.

The priest handed him a blade of obsidian, a shard of glass as black as night that glowed in its shadowy beauty. He ran it down her lower lip, skin splitting instantly, blood pooling. He dabbed his thumb on that red, red, red beauty, and smeared a straight line on her forehead.

I name you woman, fire in your veins, it meant.

She took the blade, and did the same for him, his blood warm against her thumb as she drew three bent lines on his forehead.

I name you man, blood in your nature.

He traced the dagger over his palm, striking a wound deep and true to stand out amongst all thousands scars that he brandished. A line of red dripped down his skin. Naera traced the same wound on her own palm—Of my own will, I thus give you myself, and their hands joined in a flash of pain and flame.

The priest began, “Hen lantoti ānograr va syndroti vāedroma,” Blood of two joined as one, lifeblood dripping to mingle and mix, tethering them to each other.

The priest wrapped a ribbon the colour of night and light over their held hands, blood dripping down through the binds.

“Mēro perzot gīhoti elēdroma iārza sīr,” Ghostly flame and song of shadows.

He handed Naera a chalice of stone and glass, as dark as night, and she tilted the vessel till salt and iron flooded her tongue. Our blood to bind.

“Izulī ampā perzī prumī lanti sēteski,” Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires.

Daemon mirrored her acts, his face twisting as their blood laced his tongue. He swallowed it bravely, and watched Naera’s eyes. Close, so close.

“Hen jeny māzilarion, qēlossa ozūndesi,” A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.

Naera breathed, breaking into a delicate smile again, “I shall be your side forever.”

He took her other hand, eyes never leaving—lilac and lilac, crystal clear and shallow pools of glass. “I shall hold your hand forever.”

“Synroro ōñō jēdo ry kīvia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time of Darkness and Light.

She inhaled, cold, wet air flooding her nose in a rush, and she gazed, gazed, gazed at him, his eyes that refused to leave hers, the wealth of his wisdom yet to be cultivated, the gift of his existence forever claimed by her. She said, “I will defend you.” Against the night, against the light, against whatever was to come. Against every wish to exile, every spat with the greens, every ill word with the King, she will stand by him, she will protect his honour as though it was her own.

He smiled, though both love and mischief twinkled in his eye, “I will warm you.” When the night was dark and full of terrors, when the end came and her will faltered, he shall be with her, he shall give her fire and light. He will warm her bed and hers alone, warm her body when the cold came, warm her spirits over every loss and share her joy over every victory.

Naera said, “I will give it all up for you.” Dorne, Volantis, Pentos, the Dothraki Seas, Asshai, and her dreams—Yi Ti, the Jade Sea, whatever lays east of the Shadow, the very wonders of the world could be laid abandon. She loved too easily, but even the gods had proclaimed this union as perfection.

“I will never hurt you.” Not as he once had, no, never. He will never disappoint her, never let her down, never leave her behind, never let her think that he could survive without her.

“I will love you.” Daemon’s heart lost a weight he did not know he bore, a delightful, fiery blaze in his chest, a joy uncontainable. His, his, his. She was his, every flicker on her eyes belonged to him, every mocking word his, every act of bravery, every witted word. He loved already, but he could love better, now that she loved him also.

His hand flew to her face, thumb smearing the blood at her lip, red, red, red, and to show that he cared, that he loved, that he was willing to understand, he said, “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

She leaned on her toes and kissed his lips.

His laughter would be her lifeblood, she realised as his heaving breaths reverberated through her chest, made her feel warm, made her feel him, his spirit and not just his body.

“D’you know what they’ll all say,” he spoke into her neck, his nose breathing cool air over the red mark of his bite, “When you grow round and great with my child, again and again?”

She laughed, a fleeting giggle morphing into a ridiculed laugh, “What?” He pulled her into a different corridor, away from their chambers.

“The Princess must really love her uncle’s cock,” the vulgarity made her roll her eyes.

“Maybe they’ll think that the prince has no control over himself,” Naera challenged, “Keeps getting his sweet niece with child, the poor woman.” He pushed her against a wall, cold stone of the corridors of the Keep making her flush and hum, and his hands roamed her flesh like a man starved.

Their lips met, tongues melding, breaths fading until the newly wedded couple panted for breath.

“Poor woman?” His eyes twinkled with the sort of courage that came with deeds best not committed.

“They needn’t know,” she kissed his cheek, arms winding around his neck. “They needn’t know that the idea of bearing her uncle’s seed fills the niece with a selfish joy that she cannot account for.” With a deft flick of his hand, her robes parted, rough linen tearing aloud.

“Oh, but the uncle knows,” he descended on her neck again, “He knows very well how much his niece loves having his spend in her womb.” He hoisted her legs up, lips falling to her breasts.

“Yes, oh, yes he does,” she moaned, wits departing her, fingers tugging at his hair, leading him to the other breast. He complied greedily, nipping, licking, kissing the flesh, leaving red and purple marks on every patch of free skin.

Her garbs were torn and ruined; her headdress abandoned in the hands of Laenor before they had scurried to the corridors in some mad bout of lust. Gods, lust was only one word for what she felt. She felt charged, as though lightning had struck her very soul. She felt fiery, as she often did when he stood beside her.

One kiss to his lips and the sentiment had caught on as a candle-flame blazes into an arsonist’s dream.

Now her swelling flesh was in his hands. She had lapped away the drying blood of his lip, sucked at the tear in his skin till the wound was raw, and now, she was at his mercy once again.

“Daemon,” she called, making him stare into her eyes with his own, lilac flowers and bloody amethysts. Beautiful. His hair was tousled, red streaking his forehead, but his eyes, those eyes that were over a decade older than her own yet were livelier than she had been just moons ago.

“Naera,” he called back, as had become their ritual, and she recalled the sweet bliss of hearing her name from his lips again. Completion, he made her sound complete, made her believe that she could conquer this new land that was marriage and slay this new demon that was mistrust.

Footsteps.

And the moment broke, but he was smiling as he leaned his face close to hers, covering her form from view.

“Fuck off,” he chastised behind himself, swaying his wife slowly. “Can’t you see—” but Naera put a finger to his lips, her eyes trained over his shoulder. Daemon turned tentatively, half-expecting his brother or the Hightower cunt or the cunt lord of hands but no.

He hugged his sweet wife tighter as she gave a subtle nod to Aemond, her half-brother—his sister Helaena’s hand in his, her face caught blushing a bright red, as they rushed through corridors and passageways, hastened and cautious. When their footsteps echoed away, Naera laughed.

“The Hightowers fall on our wedding after all.”

To be, or not to be…

…continued

MASTERLIST