#aemond pov

[lola-writes]

One-Eye & the Dreamer

(Aemond's POV)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 2,2k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Written from Aemond's POV.

More chapters

Gravity had nothing on us, my dear. 

You can’t untie red strings of fate. 

This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere. 

The world surrendered to a symphony of wind.  Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic. I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn. 

Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command. We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.

As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down. 

Together, Vhagar and I, were limitless.

The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It was like walking penniless and finding a mountain of gold at your feet. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. Suddenly, I had no fear. Suddenly, I was not alone…

I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth and she folded her wings against me. We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins. My stomach lurched, and beneath me, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones. In that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadultered joy escaping my lips.

Never had freedom tasted so sweet.

The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like a crystal embellished blue silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water. 

In the distance, the seven huge drum-towers, proud sentinels of pale red stone, rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home. An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation, as nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding. They had all come through the gates by horse and carriage, none by sea. 

Traders perhaps? Coming just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder. 

So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of house Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits? It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.

If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar. But mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse. We were to be on our best behavior, a euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, to ensure he does not imbibe every wine cask in the keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings. 

One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.

But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He already had an inclination of getting unreasonable drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.

Unease filled my gut.

But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.

As I drew close enough that I could make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all. I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels. 

Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind. 

It could only mean one thing…

The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring impact to Vhagar’s thorax threw me off my saddle. Her earsplitting roar resounded across the blackwater, as I tumbled down her back. Instinctively, I snagged my wrist through a loop in her saddle ropes, dangling precariously until she steadied herself. I hauled myself back up, heart hammering in my chest, adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. I scouted the skies for an attacker in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty. 

What in the Seven Hells?

Another blow. It knocked me aslant, and I felt fury consuming me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the reins twice ‘round my forearm, and perceived every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge. 

Who would dare challenge me?

A flicker of movement caught my eye. A shape, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. But the beast was miniscule in relation, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods. 

Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon, Vhagar!” Kill. I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city. 

Fucking craven.

We went after them. Their descent was swift and inaudible, while mine was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows. I pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit. 

Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my dagger sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form. My anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiled over. I closed the distance between up, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal.

“You!” The word barely a breath before my blade bit their throat. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. A Kingsguard’s alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater. 

“The Stranger requests an audience.” The contiguity drowned my voice into a whisper. I took pleasure in that I towered over them, and felt their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.

“My prince!” Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, came running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention. But it wasn’t his timber which stirred me this time. “Let her go!” 

His words carried me out of my raging inferno.

Her?

I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye, as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time. A tug, a rustle, and their hood fell back and settled around their shoulders. 

A wave of ice ran down my spine. 

It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me. 

Aylana Velaryon.

Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. She seemed to see right through me, demanding answers I could not provide. Then, a knowing smile played on her lips.

“Skoros iksos pirta, kepus?” What’s wrong, uncle? A sardonic edge laced her voice. “Gaomagon ao daor gīmigon issa?” Do you not remember me?

The words hit me like a physical blow. I swallowed, stunned by her High Valyrian.

For a moment, I believe I stood petrified, unable to tear my gaze from her, unable to utter a word.

A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed.

She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. I had to take it all in. Her voice, saccharine and laced with a hint of mockery, was a stark contrast to the playful child I held in memory. Her once youthful features had sharpened, cheekbones higher, lips fuller. Then, my gaze, fell upon the one jarring element – a crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin. Years had passed, yet the wound looked fresh.

The accident.

My jaw tightened as venom seethed through my veins.

I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.

And I was holding the bloody rock.

Shame coiled in my gut like a suffocating weight. I could not bear to look at her.

“Some things never change,” she said facetiously. “Don’t you agree, uncle?”

Shit.

I was still holding my knife to her throat. I recoiled with such force that the effort pushed her back as well. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit. 

I reviled myself. I had tried to kill her. Again. 

But she just smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.

I realized I had been holding my breath when a gasp escaped my lips and air rushed back into my lungs. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy.

“Aylana.” I spoke her name derisively without intending to, as I sheathed the knife at my waist where my gaze lingered a moment, dreading to meet hers. 

My stomach turned. I never used to call her that. It sounded so formal and distant on my tongue, just like ‘uncle’ on hers. But that’s what we were to each other now - our friendship no more than a distant memory. I no longer assumed myself worthy of her alias. I had lost that privilege. Just as I had lost my friend. 

The weight of the past pressed down on me, suffocating.

Agitation infiltrated my mind and my whole disposition must have come off as reticent and hostile. I watched her pull her gloves off finger by finger and release the clasp of her cloak. There was an attitude in her movements and a poise in her posture. Beneath she was dressed in sable flying leathers that clung tightly to her body. 

I averted my gaze. 

Frustration clawed at my chest, and whatever other feeling it was that made my mouth dry and my palms clammy. 

“You look well, nuncle,” she said. 

My eye met hers and I noted them briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. Growing diffident, I looked away. 

“Hmmph,” I said, my favorite expression of disdain. 

I knew what she was implying. That if I had only listened to her that night, instead of acting like an arrogant scoundrel, I wouldn’t be looking like a eunuch with one eye at present.

And she was right in mocking me. If her insults were the currency for my betrayal, I would gladly become a spendthrift.

My breathing shallowed as I gazed at the damage I’d caused. I had to get out of there. 

“I hope we did not frighten you earlier,” she said, interrupting my escape. “I only thought I might test the mettle of the largest dragon in the world. She truly is remarkable. A fair exchange, to be sure.” 

I turned to look at her, and I didn’t know what I must’ve looked like, because the playful smile that had been dancing between her lips our entire encounter, vanished. There it is, I thought. The realization. The Aemond you knew is gone. This is the monster you forged.

“Ser Harrold,” I said. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. And make sure she does not test the mettle of anyone else in the city.”

“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow.

I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching Aylana and Nymax blur into mere specks on a canvas. 

This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…

More chapters

[asumofwords]

Aemond POV: Your return to the Red Keep

A/N: I saw that a few of you wanted an Aemond POV, and as I am a benevolent ruler, I thought I would give the people what they wanted. I wanted to do the the first couple of times he saw you after the years you were separated. This is all from Aemond’s point of view and from the time where you and your family all returned to the Red Keep.

This is a Dark!Aemond POV from the fic Smoke, Fire and Ash.

Enjoy !

TW: Aemond POV. Dark!Aemond. Murder, Incest, thoughts of violence, thoughts of sexual activities. 18+

Words: 4k

Character pairing: Dark!Aemond X Reader, HOTD characters. Dark!Aemond POV.

He swung his sword roughly at Ser Criston, who leant back to dodge the edge of the sharp blade, as he and Aemond moved in tandem in the training yard. Aemond was fast on his feet but knew Ser Cole to be just as quick. 

Each swing was met by a duck, or deflection by the chain of the flail Ser Cole swung at him, the loud clanging of the chain and whistle in the air as it moved towards him, guided him back. And soon Aemond found himself dancing in a circle as he waited to make the next move, to swing the blade back down onto the knight and make him yield. 

Ser Cole swung the striking head once more towards Aemond, and he dodged, before spinning to hold the tip of his blade against Ser Cole's neck, hitting the flail away. They both breathed deeply as they watched each other, and Ser Cole finally conceded. 

Applause rang out from those who had gathered to watch the two men train, and Aemond felt the prickling sensation of three sets of eyes upon his form.

Ser Cole dropped the flail to the ground heavily, “Well done, My Prince,” Ser Cole breathed, “You’ll win tourneys in no time.”

Aemond did not lower the blade, “I don’t give a shit about tourneys.” He spoke, before allowing his gaze to roam the space to where he felt eyes watching him. Lowering his sword, Aemond let his eye land on a pair of brown headed boys, and the silver hair of a girl.

Who is she?

“Nephews,” He called out, enjoying watching the two Strong boys stiffen as they were addressed, faces suddenly uncomfortable, “Have you come to train?” 

Jacaerys mouth opened and closed like a fish, as Lucerys looked up to the girl, no, woman, beside him. How she had grown. No longer the gangly limbed child, who’s hair could rarely be tamed, but now stood a woman of the court. 

Her hair was braided neatly behind her head, as she wore a tight all black gown that hugged her curves. Grown, indeed. Her cheeks were dusted a light pink. He felt his lip twitch as he watched her, small excitement bubbling inside as he remembered fond memories of their youth together.

Was she nervous?

As he caught her gaze, she blinked, looking down and then back up at him, stoney faced and chin held higher. She looked down to Lucerys, whispering to him before moving the two Strong boys away with her, back into the Keep. 

All those fond memories came crashing down, and the bitter rage in which Aemond had tried in vain to keep in order, bubbled up inside of him. There she was, the Princess who he had been so close to, his niece who he had shared so many memories with, so many secrets, once again choosing her brothers over him. 

He could remember vividly, sitting in that room, as the Maester stitched his eye shut, feeling the sharp pain of the needle as it threaded through. No milk of the poppy was given to him. He was too young, it was too dangerous. And so instead he tried to seek comfort in someone he always had.

You.

And what had you done? 

Stuck by Lucerys, checking his face for injury, and standing firmly alongside your mother, watching him as he was berated in front of all, by his father. That was when the love shared between the both of you died.

He would do well to remind himself of that.

Aemond could not believe how much she had changed. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he watched them walk away, the Princess throwing a curious look over her shoulder to glance at him one more time. 

He supposed that he had grown too. His cheeks no longer held the plumpness of young adolescence, and his face had grown sharp and angled. Even the way he held himself was different.

He had changed, and so had she.

You were all in the Iron Throne room, listening to Vaemond Velaryon put forward a motion to be heir of Driftmark, questioning the four of you and your legitimacy, voice loudly ringing into the court.

Aemond would remember it for the rest of his days. 

You stood, back straight, head tall, hair braided tightly up, with none flowing down. A black and red gown hugging your figure with an off the shoulder look, similar to your mother as you stood beside her, mouth turned down in the corners. 

Such rage, Aemond noted.

He watched with glee as Vaemond argued with your mother, watching Jacaerys shake his head and mutter under his breath whilst his assaulter, Lucerys looked nervous. You had pushed Lucerys beside you, using your body as a shield to keep him out of Vaemond’s line of sight.

Still protecting him.

Aemond felt that bitterness curl through him as he watched. 

“Her children... are bastards!”  Vaemond yelled into the court, and yet despite it all, Aemond could not keep his eye off of you. As soon as the words left the Velaryon’s lips, he watched as your face calmed. 

It was eerie, Aemond thought. 

Your hand had moved the slightest of bits towards your side, and Aemond watched as you swayed forward, as though ready to pounce. There was no blush on your cheeks, no sneer on your lips, just a fire burning in your eyes as you watched your Velaryon uncle. 

“And she…is…a whore.” The man sneered.

“I, shall have your tongue for that.” Aemond’s father called out to the court, standing roughly as he unsheathed the blade from his side. 

Aemond would not give the old man a second glance, he knew that his father would do nothing, as he had done nothing for years. And would do nothing as he was too weak from sickness, and too faint of heart.

Movement caught Aemond’s eye, as he watched Vaemond Velaryon’s corpse fall loudly to the ground, the sound of a blade and the loud thud echoing through the chambers. 

If Aemond could laugh, he would. But it would not be proper of him. 

“He can keep his tongue.” Daemon purred, looking down at his handiwork.

Aemond flicked his sight away from the corpse and up at you. You had not jumped, nor looked away from the body on the floor. No. Instead you glared at it with rage, before suddenly your lips pulled into a small smile. 

No-one else in the court would have witnessed it, too busy looking at the body of the man slain in front of them. Your lips looked as though they were fighting to hide the sheer joy and pleasure you got from watching him be killed. A small line of blood was flecked across your cheek, but you did not notice, or if you had, you did not wipe it away.

Such a beautiful smile. 

And then suddenly your eyes were on him. And Aemond felt the air be sucked out of the room. You watched him in delight, no longer hiding your smile as you watched him. Such a smug and proud look upon your face. A threat some would say. 

The sight made his cock twitch. 

There she is.

Aemond felt awe as he watched Daemon move back, wiping his sword on his robes before he came to stand beside you. You took your gaze from your uncle, and looked up at your mothers husband, smiling proudly. 

He watched as Daemon ran a finger along your cheek to wipe the Velaryon blood away lovingly, and Aemond felt a pang of jealousy. 

Aemond noted that Vaemond was wrong when he said that they wouldn’t know what Velaryon blood looked like, because now the whole court did.

Aemond had been running late for his family feast, something that he had never done before. He prided himself in upholding his duty and being the son that Aegon should have been.

In truth, Aemond had gone straight to his chambers after the events at court, and had pulled roughly at his cock at the thought of you. He wished to touch you, to hold you, to claim you. He wanted to mark you so that everyone knew that you were his. He wanted to watch you swell with his babe.

He had never thought of you this way before and it maddened him. He found his release in his hand three times that day, picturing you on your knees before him, pleasuring him with your soft lips, or him thrusting deep into your cunt. 

You had bewitched him.

He had brushed his hair more roughly than he should have, the frustration rolling through him as he prepared to walk down to the feast. And although he had brought himself to climax three times already, he still was not satisfied. He told himself as he walked to the Dining Hall to ignore you, to breathe, to not get caught in the trap of a bastard. 

But he was already trapped.

When he entered the room, he noticed all were praying before the meal, his mother Alicent giving him a stern yet disappointing look. It made his heart sting to disappoint her. And this sting, he blamed immediately upon you.

As he walked to the table he let himself gaze at you. 

You wore quite the scandalous dress, as though you were purposefully teasing him. No. He was sure you were doing it on purpose. To get a rise out of him. To tempt him into your space.

The neckline was plunging and he could not help but let his eyes linger upon the breasts you had developed. They looked so soft, and Aemond wanted nothing more than to run his tongue over them softly, or bite them roughly.

He could not decide which one he liked the thought of better.

Aemond asked his mother for forgiveness as he sat at his seat, at the opposite end of the table facing you. He held your gaze firm, and when he saw the light blush crawl over your cheeks, he let himself smirk in victory. 

Perhaps he affected you the same way you did him.

He watched you carefully that evening, eye roaming your figure wondering if you had been spoiled yet by some man, or woman. He wondered why you had not been betrothed yet, surely a woman of your age should have been promised to some Lord by now.

And then he could not help but think perhaps the Gods were on his side for once, and the reason that you were not engaged yet, meant that you would be his. 

Aemond found that he had no hunger that evening, except for a hunger for you. He could not bring himself to eat, nor could he bring himself to take his eye away from you. He still could not believe how much you had grown. 

Your lips were fuller now, and had the softest curve to them, than you did when you were young, and the longer he looked, the more he found it difficult to look away. He wondered if you hated him. The way you caught his gaze and sneered, made him assume so. 

How could she hate me? He thought. 

What had he done to deserve this? She was the one who abandoned him. She was the one who chose her bastard brother over him. She was the one who let him take his eye, and did not care for his pain after. 

He felt that anger prickle in the back of his head as he watched her. 

He watched his niece dance, and laugh with his sister. He watched them break each other's cold masks and for one second, he thought he was looking back in time, from when they had all been children. Back to when Helaena and Y/n had been inseparable. 

Or so he had thought.

He found that as he watched them dance and enjoy each other's company, he could no longer sneer. He could no longer hold such disdain and anger. It gave him a lick of hope. A disgusting, fickle piece of hope that perhaps one day, he could have her, and she would want it.

But then Jacaerys took Helaena to dance, and suddenly he felt that anger redirected.

How dare the dirty bastard touch her like that. How dare he make her smile. How dare his disgusting Strong hands touch Helaena so gently, hold her as though he knew her intimately.

He didn’t.

His nephew could never know just how beautiful Helaena was, just how beautiful she could be. 

No one deserved her. 

Not even Aemond himself.

And as he found himself scowling at his nephew he heard the soft, yet sharp call of your voice, turning his attention back to you, hackles on his back up and ready to fight from your tone. 

You were mocking him.

“Prince Aemond, were you riding Vhagar this evening? I thought I saw her soaring up into the sky. When you didn’t arrive on time, I worried that a storm had come and taken you.” She inquired, fake concern lacing her venomous tongue.

You little bitch.

Aemond had to school himself, and so he reached out to hold his goblet, taking a sip of the spiced wine to give him time to think before reacting. He had been reacting to her all day, and found that if he did it again, he would have to take her, right there and then, before their family to show them who she truly belonged to.

“I was merely enjoying the night sky, dear niece.” 

Lie. He was thinking of your soft thighs, and sweet lips and warm-

“It's not everyday you have the world's largest dragon, and I make a habit of reminding myself of that.”

And Gods, he could not lie that when your next words spilled from your lips, and the cruel smile you gave him, he had not really listened to your words. He had not even given thought to your attempt to goad him into a fight. Because he was ready, and he had been all too ready since the day you came back. 

Since the day he saw you in the training yard. 

Aemond had been ready to lash out at you for what you had done to him. For abandoning him. For choosing your bastard brothers and whore mother over him. For ruining what could have been. For what you had made him feel. For how weak he had become.

He was almost as bad as Aegon, and that was what made it so much worse. 

He had planned to leave it, he had planned to not give in. To show who was superior, to show the grace of a true Targaryen, not a bastard of a disgraced whore Princess, who would never sit upon the throne. He clenched his teeth so hard in his mouth, that all he could do was hum in response.

But then the Gods were cruel, and fate was even crueler, and he watched in horror as a roasted pig was placed before him. He knew it was coming, he knew the cards that were about to be dealt, and he felt the slightest itch of his scar as his lone eye looked upon a stark reminder of his youth.

He listened as Lucerys snorted, just like the pig at his expense, and it all came flooding back.

The taunting, the mocking, the cruelty, his eye.

All of it. 

But losing his eye did not hurt nearly as much as watching you abandon him for them.

“Is that not your first dragon, uncle Aemond? What had you named it again? The Pink Dread?” You teased, smirking at him and Aemond heard as the others giggled from the table, even Aegon. 

Aegon was the worst of them all. 

And despite everything he had done for his brother, the years of protecting him, the years of coddling him and allowing him to be the disgusting man that he was, it still wasn’t good enough. Aegon still called Aemond a twat, and mocked him. Made a mockery of their position as Targaryen Princes. Forcing him to a Pleasure house at ten-and-three, telling him it was ‘time to get it wet’.

But he hadn’t wanted to.

And there it was. 

That anger that he tried so desperately to push deep within him. That anger his mother had tried to school out of him, the anger that only Helaena seemed to soothe with her kind words and comfort. She was the only one in the Keep who did not treat him like a monster. She was the only one he had left.

Fuck it.

Aemond slammed his hand on the table, feeling the wood sting his palm as he stood to his full height, holding out his goblet to her, watching her shit eating grin slowly fall from her face.

“Final tribute.” He began, directing that anger carefully into his next words. 

He watched as she stiffened, eyes flicking about the table, gauging the other's reactions.

“To the health of my nephew's, Jace, Luke and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise,” He paused, watching her as she began to anticipate the next words, “Hm… Strong."

Watching her face turn to frown at him, to scowl at him, to burst with such hatred, made his blood rush through his body and into his cock.

And so he continued. 

What a rush.

How good it felt to hurt her the way she had hurt him. To make her feel just as lowly as she had made him feel. How her brothers had made him feel for years. 

He heard his mother say his name but he ignored it. He would deal with the repercussions later, though he doubted he would. She had never stopped him before, and in fact was brazen with discussing the illegitimacy of the Strong boys, so why start now. 

“And to my darling niece, some cast doubts about her strength, but I can see that she is just as Strong as her brothers.”

She was simmering with rage by then and all he could think of was how glorious it would be to put her in her place. To bend her to his will, to snuff out that fire inside of her.

"Let us raise our cups, to these three Strong boys, and their Strong sister." Aemond purred, watching her clench her entire body, hands in fists so tight, her knuckles turned white.

Aemond heard the irritating growl of his nephew Jace, “I dare you to say that again.”

Aemond could not help but smile. This would be little challenge. Though Jace had grown, Aemond was still older and bigger, and doubted the younger boy trained as hard as he did with the sword.

"Why? 'Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”

Aemond felt the dull ache on his cheek, his head whipping to the side as Jacaerys laid his fist into his face. His hand still held his goblet, and he noted to himself with great pride, that he had not spilt a drop of wine on the floor.

Turning back, Aemond used little effort to shove his nephew to the floor, watching in his periphery as Lucerys tried in vain to help, as Aegon slammed him into the table by the scruff of his neck.

Down boy.

And then you did something that had not shocked him in the slightest. You grasped the fork from the table, calling out to him with a voice that was laced with venom.

“Say that again. Say that again I dare you!” 

Seeing that tiny fork in your hand made him smile even more. He doubted you even trained yourself, and his size and strength could certainly overpower you.

And how he could not wait to bend you over the table and f-

“No. I want to hear what my uncle has to say.” She heaved a breath, “Speak Aemond, so that we may hear your treasonous lies again.”

My little dragon. Such fire.

He felt an overwhelming sense of pride as he watched you heave angry breaths, eyes wide as you clutched the pathetic fork. So proud in fact, that he found himself grinning. 

He had only seen this side of you a handful of times as a child.

Defending Helaena when Aegon would question her intelligence or sanity.

Defending Lucerys and Jacaerys when he and Aegon would call them bastards together, or taunt them once their mother Alicent had told them of the threat of Rhaenyra ascending the throne and her bastard children.

Even defending him.

It made his lips pull wider.

It was not often that Aemond grinned. Sure he smirked, and occasionally smiled, but rarely did he show his teeth. Those sharp incisors that he would have no issue using to bite down on the soft flesh of your thighs, or the stiffened bud of your nipple.

As soon as he bared his teeth to the room, you were moving and he watched in awe as you charged straight for him, much like his mother had done to Rhaenyra all those years ago. 

It was uncanny, the wildness in your eyes. Such devotion.

Such love.

And then you were before him, breasts pushing against the confines of your dress as you heaved angrily, eyes dancing across his face, demanding he answer you.

Commanding him to answer.

He felt the prongs of the fork underneath his neck and could not help but feel himself begin to harden under the tight confines of his pants.

You were so close to him, the closest you had been since you were children. He could see the purple of your eyes, and the blush on your cheeks from the wine and your anger. He could see the small freckles you had on your face, and smell the oils on your skin.

You smelt sweet, earthy, musky. It was addictive, it was arousing. It was everything he had hoped and dreamed of that day, cock in hand. It took all of his strength to not dip his head down and capture your lips with his. To taste the spiced wine that would surely be on your tongue. To drink down your essence and be full of it.

He wanted to be full of you, to taste you. To lick at your weeping cunt as you cried beneath him, begging him. More, more, please Aemond, please uncle, more. He wanted to drink your release as it leaked from you, as he brought you to climax, time and time again.

“Say. That. Again.” The little dragon spat.

If he did not preoccupy his lips with something, he would kiss you. He could not help it. You were magnetic. And enigma. A force to be reckoned with. The Gods had taken their time with you.

And so he lifted the goblet to his lips to sip, but your small hand swiped it away, causing the wine and goblet to spill onto the ground. 

As soon as your hand brushed against his, he felt an electric jolt. It had been so long since you had touched him.

Touch me again.

And then Daemon was behind you, whispering in your ear and Aemond watched as your strength wavered, as contemplation flickered across your face. As all the emotions flashed quickly and disappeared as he continued to urge you to stand down. 

How had his uncle tamed you so well?

How had this man made you so pliable? Aemond found himself more and more jealous of the relationship the two of you had. And the more he looked at you both, so close together, as you had grown into your face, the more he recognised certain features. 

Certain mannerisms. 

And then his uncle was staring him down, as he crowded his niece in front of him, whispering so lowly, that no-one else but the three of you would hear.

“Issa ñuha tala.” (She is my daughter.)

And then it all made sense.

That fire, that rogue air about you.

The way you held no fear around the Prince, the way you did not flinch, and leant into his touch. The way Daemon doted on you more than any of his other children.

You were his. 

You were not a Strong bastard.

You were fire. 

And that made Aemond more determined than ever to have you.

And he would have you.

No matter the cost.

Argh so here it is, a lil blurb of Aemond's POV from 'Smoke, Fire and Ash'. I thought it would be best to show you the beginning of his descent into pure obsession with the reader. Sure there had been a possessiveness from the start as children, but it had been innocent, until the reader came back to the Keep fully grown. The pair truly force each others hand, neither one knowing when to stop and only making things worse. It's beautiful :')

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @marihoneywk @snh96 @sanzu-s

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter One

“You have each other. It would be nice if Helaena had a companion too.”

His mother’s words echoed in her chamber as the family sat down to eat their dinner. The King was not present of course. On the evenings he was well enough, he dined with Rhaenyra and her brood. Other times, he remained in his chambers being attended to by the Maesters. Aegon, engulfed in his cups, exuded the air of a habitual indulger, even in his young age, his shimmering silver locks catching the candlelight. Meanwhile, Helaena remained withdrawn, her violet gaze fixed on a tome detailing insects, intermittently glancing up between bites.

In stark contrast, Aemond’s unwavering focus on his mother painted him as the epitome of diligence, his attentiveness a testament to his filial devotion. It did irk him though. Aegon and Aemond did not have each other. Far from it actually, they could not have been more different. Aemond spent most of his time in his history and philosophy books, or with tutors attempting to master High Valyrian. Aegon, however, spent most of his time abed. And even when he was awake, he would terrorise the servant girls, secretly making his way down into Flea Bottom, or stealing wine from the kitchens.

Aemond wondered if things would have been different if Daeron had remained in Kings Landing, alas he was destined for Oldtown. From what he understood, it was a political strategy to ensure House Hightower maintained power as hosting a Prince of the Realm was a high honour. The brothers exchanged letters sometimes, but it was not like a physical friendship in the Keep.

The second son often found himself at the butt of his elder brother’s jokes, relentlessly teased for not having a dragon of his own to command; an injustice in Aemond’s eyes. Why should Rhaenyra’s very obvious bastards have dragons yet Aemond did not? Even Helaena had a dragon! Granted, she never spent a great deal of time with the beast. But still, they were Targaryens, and Targaryens were meant to have dragons. Nevertheless, Aemond just wanted to belong. They were supposed to be a family. Their father ignored them enough so they should at least stick together. Yet Aemond always found himself the odd one out.

“I need you to make her feel welcome and be on your best behaviour. Aegon,” Queen Alicent commanded with a warning, her brown eyes glaring at her oldest son.

Aegon rolled his eyes. “Why me?”

“Because you treat the servants horrendously already,” Alicent reasoned, taking a bite of her food. Aemond looked ahead at the empty chair in front of him, the chair that was meant for Viserys, but was mostly always empty. Perhaps it would be nice for the chair to be filled.

In the vast expanse of the throne room, every corner was adorned with intricate craftsmanship and lavish ornamentation. Gilded pillars rose to meet the high ceiling, where frescoes depicting ancient legends stretched across the expansive canvas. Golden sconces cast a warm glow upon the marble floors, reflecting the flickering light of the numerous candles that lined the room.

Alicent and her children, resplendent in their fine green attire, stood in a line, awaiting the arrival of their guests. Alicent's gown, intricately embroidered with delicate patterns of ivy and emerald thread, spoke of her Hightower lineage and refined taste. Aegon's doublet shimmered with silver accents, catching the light with every movement, while Helaena's gown, adorned with subtle hints of amethyst, complemented the violet hues of her eyes. Aemond, ever the dutiful son, wore a crisp green tunic embellished with subtle motifs of dragons, a symbol of his family's legacy.

As the grand doors creaked open, the imposing figure of Lord Jasper Wylde strode into the room, his presence commanding respect and deference. His short dark hair was meticulously styled, while his neatly trimmed beard added an air of gravitas to his countenance. Dressed in robes of turquoise and gold, embroidered with intricate patterns reminiscent of ocean waves and sunbursts, he exuded an aura of authority befitting his station.

Beside Lord Jasper, a young girl emerged, her presence a stark contrast to the solemnity of the room. Her dark brown curls tumbled in tight ringlets down her back, framing a cherubic face alive with curiosity and excitement. Clad in a matching ensemble of turquoise and gold, her dress sparkled in the ambient light, accentuating her youthful exuberance. With hands clasped together in anticipation, she approached Alicent and her children, her eyes alight with the prospect of meeting her new companions.

“Podgy thing, isn’t she?” Aegon snickered down Aemond’s ear as they approached, earning a smack on the back of his head from his mother. As they neared, Lord Jasper executed a deep bow, a testament to his reverence for the crown. The little girl, following her father's lead, curtsied gracefully, her demeanor mirroring his humility.

“Lord Wylde,” Alicent's warm voice echoed across the chamber, her regal presence welcoming them.

“My Queen, My Princes, Princess,” Lord Jasper acknowledged with reverence, his voice carrying a note of gratitude. “I must thank you again for this tremendous honor. May I present my eldest daughter, Lady Maera.”

Maera's face lit up with a radiant smile, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement. “I am pleased to meet you all,” she said with youthful exuberance, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Alicent returned the smile, her heart swelling with joy at the sight of another young girl in the castle. “How old are you, sweetling?” she inquired, her tone gentle and inviting.

“Nine, your Grace,” Maera replied, her voice steady and polite, a reflection of her upbringing.

“She looks big for nine,” Aegon remarked with a mischievous smirk, his voice laced with playful teasing as he leaned towards his brother, Aemond.

“Aegon,” Aemond chided firmly, his gaze shifting to Maera, empathetic to her plight as she navigated the unfamiliar courtly environment.

However, Maera seemed unfazed by Aegon's jest, her composure unshaken as she turned towards him, curtsying once again with a twinkle in her eye. “And you must be Princess Helaena. I will be delighted to braid that unruly hair of yours,” she quipped, her words causing Aegon's smile to falter and even coaxing a giggle from Helaena, a rare and precious sound in the solemn halls of the throne room.

Lord Jasper's firm grip on Maera's shoulder sent a jolt through her, prompting her to whirl around and shoot her father a reproachful frown, silently demanding an explanation for his sudden intervention. “Forgive my daughter, my Prince,” Lord Jasper interjected, his tone carrying a hint of apology as he addressed the royal family. “Her mother has passed, she has no older sisters, and my wife has her hands full with her own children.”

He leveled a stern gaze at Maera, silently conveying his expectations. “Having many older brothers means she does not know the ways of a Lady. I am hoping that is something she can learn under your care, my Queen.”

Alicent nodded understandingly, her expression sympathetic as she regarded Maera. “Most definitely, my Lord,” she assured him with a gentle smile, extending her reassurance to the young girl.

Feeling the nudge from her father, Maera snapped back to attention, realizing her duty as a representative of House Wylde. With a graceful curtsy, she turned towards Princess Helaena, her movements guided by her father's silent cue. “Princess, in honor of our new friendship, I have brought you a gift you may enjoy,” she announced, her voice tinged with earnestness.

Lord Jasper's gesture summoned a squire who presented a small wooden box, a token of House Wylde's regard for the royal family. Aemond couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight. What could a minor house possibly offer to a Princess of the Realm?

As Maera opened the box, revealing its contents, Helaena approached with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, her violet eyes alight with wonder. “Ugh, is that shit?” Aegon blurted out in disgust, earning a reprimanding dig from his mother.

“No!” Maera retorted defiantly, her cheeks flushing with indignation at Aegon's crude remark. She watched intently as Helaena reached into the box and delicately stroked the elongated brown lumps nestled within.

“They are chrysalises,” Helaena declared with a mixture of fascination and delight, her initial skepticism giving way to genuine intrigue.

Lord Wylde's laughter rang out awkwardly, breaking the tension that lingered in the air. He bent down to Maera's level, his expression a mix of amusement and mild reprimand. “What happened to the bracelet you made her?”

Maera shrugged nonchalantly, her tone matter-of-fact. “That? Oh, it was awful,” she declared with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Also, why would a Princess need a bracelet from me? I bet she has hundreds!"

Aemond couldn't help but chuckle to himself at Maera's boldness and unfiltered honesty. She was a refreshing departure from the usual courtly decorum, clearly intelligent and unapologetically herself.

Before Lord Jasper could issue a warning, Princess Helaena's voice cut through the conversation. “I do not recognize the pattern on the shell,” she observed, her curiosity piqued.

“They are called Perisomena. I do not think you have them in King's Landing,” Maera replied with a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We have lots of them in Rainwood, so I thought I would bring you some. I understand you have a keen interest in insects.”

Helaena's face lit up with genuine excitement at Maera's thoughtful gesture. “Yes, I do,” she admitted with a shy smile, her fingers brushing over her cheeks in a subtle display of uncertainty. “I have accumulated quite the collection.”

Maera's enthusiasm was palpable. “Truly? That is incredible! Do you have any beetles from Essos? My brother says in his letters they are much more colorful in the East.”

“Indeed. Would you like to see them?” Helaena offered, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“Yes, please!” Maera replied eagerly, her excitement evident in the way she bounced on her heels. Helaena seized her by the forearm, leading her away from the throne room to her chambers, the excitement evident on both girls’ faces as they shared a secret moment. Glancing over her shoulder, Maera waved goodbye to the others with a warm smile. Her gaze lingered on Prince Aemond, who returned her smile shyly, their eyes meeting briefly before she turned away.

As Maera’s head turned, Aemond’s attention was drawn to the striking silver streak entwined with her dark locks. He had never seen anything quite like it before, and though it was unusual, it only served to enhance her unique beauty in his eyes. A sense of intrigue sparked within him, igniting a newfound curiosity about the enigmatic girl who had just departed.

A chuckle escaped the Queen’s lips. “Gods be good. That went better than expected.”

“Indeed, my Queen,” the Master of Laws smiled. “I know my daughter is a little rough around the edges. But she will be a good companion to the Princess. Hopefully she will be able to bring her out of her shell.”

The days passed swiftly, and Aemond found himself immersed in the solace of the library, a break from the company of his brother or tutors. Rows of towering bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scholarly volumes. The scent of leather-bound books and parchment permeated the air, mingling with the faint aroma of beeswax candles that flickered on ornate brass sconces.

Aemond settled into a cozy alcove, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the pages of a tome written in High Valyrian. The book, its pages weathered with age, contained intricacies of the ancient language spoken by the noble houses of Valyria. With furrowed brow, Aemond traced the elegant script with his finger, committing the words to memory as he jotted down notes in a leather-bound journal beside him.

His quill scratched across the parchment, capturing the nuances of pronunciation and grammar, as he diligently practiced the tongue. With each stroke of the pen, Aemond delved deeper into the mysteries of High Valyrian, his thirst for knowledge driving him to master the language of his ancestors. He was not sure if this was genuine interest, or a way to prove himself, but it was a skill that would surely make him stand out as opposed to just being labelled ‘the second son.’

Delving into the intricacies of dragon commands, he was interrupted by the soft patter of approaching footsteps. Glancing up from the pages, he beheld the sight of Lady Maera standing a few paces away, her presence unexpected yet oddly intriguing.

“Good afternoon, my Prince,” Maera greeted him with a radiant smile, executing a polite curtsy with practiced grace.

Returning her greeting with a nod of acknowledgment, Aemond couldn’t help but feel a sense of curiosity stir within him. Why had she sought him out? What prompted her to engage in conversation with him? Though he resolved to maintain his composure and politeness, a subtle wariness lingered in his demeanor. “Should you not be with my sister?” he inquired, his gaze returning to the pages of his book, his curiosity veiled behind a façade of casual indifference.

“The Princess is in an embroidery lesson with her Septa,” Maera explained, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the folds of her sleeves.

“And you do not partake?” Aemond questioned, his puzzlement evident in his tone.

A blush painted Maera’s cheeks as she emitted an awkward giggle. “Truthfully, I am terrible at it. I do not think I possess the fingers or patience for such a skill,” she admitted candidly, her vulnerability shining through her words.

Aemond couldn’t suppress a genuine laugh, the sound rich and warm as it filled the air. Lord Jasper Wylde’s intentions to refine his daughter’s ladylike qualities were evidently not misplaced, but Aemond found himself appreciating Maera’s candidness and authenticity. There was a refreshing genuineness about her that resonated with him.

However, what caught him off guard was the sudden closeness of the girl, who scooted herself into the alcove next to him, her turquoise skirts rustling softly as she settled into a comfortable position. Aemond’s cheeks flushed slightly, his heart skipping a beat at the unexpected proximity.

“What are you reading?” Maera asked inquisitively, her green eyes sparkling with genuine interest, drawing Aemond's attention away from the words on the page and meeting her gaze head on.

Aemond drew in a steadying breath, his violet eyes meeting Maera's as she leaned in, her curiosity palpable. “It’s called Fire and Blood: A full history of House Targaryen,” he replied, his voice steady despite the slight flutter in his chest.

Maera's eyes widened with interest. “You enjoy reading about your ancestors?” she inquired, her tone laced with genuine curiosity.

“I think it’s important to remember the past, as well as learn from the mistakes of old,” Aemond declared, his conviction evident in his words.

As Maera nodded in agreement, she leaned in even closer, her proximity causing Aemond's breath to catch in his throat. He couldn't help but notice the subtle scent that enveloped her – rainwater with a hint of vanilla – a comforting aroma that stirred something within him. He watched intently as she squinted her eyes, studying the text on the page with keen interest.

“It is written in High Valyrian,” she concluded with a determined nod as she leaned back, her observation leaving Aemond momentarily stunned. Even Aegon struggled to identify some of the words on the page, yet Maera seemed to discern the language effortlessly.

“How do you know that?!” Aemond asked, a frown of suspicion creasing his brow.

“I am learning,” Maera stated with a raised brow, taken aback by the Prince’s reaction.

“Are not,” Aemond challenged teasingly, shutting the book abruptly to shield its contents from her view.

“Am too!” Maera retorted, her voice rising in defiance as she stood up from her seat, crossing her arms in a display of determination.

“Prove it,” Aemond challenged with a playful smirk, his gaze locking with Maera's as they stood poised on the edge of a friendly competition of wits.

Maera’s initial reaction to Aemond’s challenge was one of outward fluster, her cheeks flushing with uncertainty at the unexpected request from the prince. Despite her momentary hesitation, she squared her shoulders and jutted out her chin with determination, accepting the challenge laid before her. “Nyke gūrēñagon kesrio syt issa muñnykeā ȳdratan,” I’m learning because it was my mother’s language, she stated confidently with a cheeky shake of her head.

Aemond’s initial shock was palpable, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, and his lips parted slightly in disbelief as he watched her form the unfamiliar words with ease.The flicker of curiosity that had ignited within him earlier now blazed into a roaring flame of intrigue, his admiration for the young girl deepening as he realized the depth of her knowledge and skill. Her smirk widened at his reaction.

“Impressive. But your accent could use some improvement,” the Prince remarked with a playful glint in his eyes, a hint of teasing in his tone.

Maera simply laughed, her amusement bubbling forth like a spring. “Such criticism, and yet I have yet to hear you speak it,” she countered, her tone light and teasing.

Aemond couldn’t help but bite back a smile before responding in High Valyrian, “Nyke sepār gūrēntan ao kostagon ȳzaldrīzes ziry rȳ,” I am just surprised you can speak it at all, his words laced with a mixture of admiration and surprise.

Lady Maera hummed thoughtfully, uncrossing her arms as she took a step closer to him. “Good, but I do have one improvement you could make,” she remarked, her tone shifting to one of encouragement.

Aemond’s brow furrowed in curiosity. “Oh?” he prompted, intrigued by her suggestion.

Maera leaned in, her playful jab in his shoulder accompanied by a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Speak it with more confidence, or else no one will be able to hear you. You are a Prince, and should be proud you can speak the language so well,” she advised, her words carrying a genuine sincerity that resonated with Aemond.

Aemond’s mouth practically fell open at Maera’s straightforward yet uplifting feedback. There were no veiled compliments or hidden agendas, just pure honesty and positive reinforcement. They shared a moment of laughter, the tension dissipating like morning mist under the warmth of their burgeoning friendship. As they stood there, Aemond couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it was like to have a true friend within the confines of the Red Keep – someone who accepted him for who he was and encouraged him to be the best version of himself.

The moment between the friends was shattered by the sudden clamor of books crashing to the floor and the sharp rebuke of the Maester echoing through the library. Startled, Aemond and Maera turned their heads towards the source of the disturbance, their camaraderie momentarily interrupted by the chaotic disruption.

Emerging from behind the shelves, Aegon staggered slightly, his state of slight drunkenness evident in the unsteady sway of his movements. Aemond couldn't help but sigh inwardly at the sight of his older brother, his heart heavy with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. If the natural order of things had prevailed, Aegon would be the heir to the throne instead of their older half-sister Rhaenyra. Thank the Gods that would never happen, Aemond thought.

With a careless disregard for his surroundings, Aegon reclined back in the alcove, propping his dirty boots on top of the cushions without a hint of respect or consideration. Aemond and Maera exchanged a knowing glance, their silent communication betraying a shared sentiment of disappointment and exasperation at the elder Prince’s behavior.

“What are you two doing in here?” Aegon slurred, his words dripping with mockery as he let out a drunken giggle. “Reading dirty books?”

Before Aemond could formulate a response, Maera interjected, her voice steady despite the underlying tension. “Prince Aemond has been kind enough to give me a tour of the library, my Prince,” she declared, her tone laced with a hint of defiance.

“Awww, that’s so sweet,” Aegon sneered mockingly, his theatrics accompanied by exaggerated batting of his eyelashes. “Have you got your eye on her, Aemond? Perhaps when she flowers, you could ride her like the Pink Dread. She’s certainly built like him,” he added with a cruel laugh, his words dripping with venom.

Aemond felt his frustration simmering beneath the surface, his cheeks flushing with indignation. He could sense Maera’s questioning gaze upon him, but the memories of the Pink Dread – the cruel jape gifted to him – stifled his urge to confide in her. Instead, he redirected his attention to his brother, his voice tinged with thinly veiled irritation. “What are you doing in here?”

Aegon’s response was dismissive, his tone dripping with arrogance. “I am bored, dear brother, so I have come to seek entertainment,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug.

“Entertainment? You do not strike me as the type of person to find that within a library, Prince Aegon,” Maera retorted with a teasing grin, her boldness and fire evident in her words.

Aemond’s initial grin widened as he observed Maera’s boldness in teasing Aegon, a rare display of defiance against his usually unchallenged older brother. Her ease and fiery demeanor in addressing Aegon sparked a sense of admiration within Aemond, who found himself silently cheering her on.

However, Aemond’s grin faltered and his heart sank as Aegon leaned forward and cruelly grabbed a fistful of Maera’s hair, pulling her close with a mixture of confusion and malice evident on his face as he studied the mixture of colours.

“What is with this silver bit in her hair?” Aegon demanded, his fingers still tightly knotted around Maera’s locks, his drunken haze masking any sense of empathy or restraint. Aemond’s eyes widened in disbelief as he witnessed the older prince’s callous actions towards his friend.

Watching Maera’s reaction, Aemond’s heart twisted with a mixture of anger and sympathy. Despite the obvious pain inflicted upon her by Aegon’s rough handling, Maera remained resolute, her jaw clenched and her gaze unwavering. Determined not to give Aegon the satisfaction of seeing her falter, she refused to utter a yelp of pain, though tears welled in her green eyes, betraying the hurt she endured.

Aemond felt a surge of protective instinct rise within him, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “Let her go, Aegon,” he demanded, his voice laced with barely contained anger.

His older brother simply laughed, his breath hot against Maera’s face as he leaned in closer. “Oh, my little brother is so taken with you. You are his delicate little flower. His Mayflower! Yes, I like the sound of that!” Aegon’s words were laced with mockery, his grip on Maera tightening despite her struggles.

Maera wriggled and twisted, attempting to free herself from Aegon’s grasp, but his hold remained firm. Aegon sighed theatrically, turning his attention back to Aemond. “If you can answer my question, Aemond, I will let her go,” he declared, his tone slurred with the effects of his drunkenness.

Aemond huffed in frustration, his mind racing as he searched for a response. He doubted his brother’s sincerity, but he couldn’t risk Maera’s safety by ignoring the demand. “She has a rare pigment condition. The reason the streak is silver is probably due to the fact she’s part Targaryen,” he stated firmly, his words carrying a note of authority.

Aegon’s surprise was evident in the faltering of his grip, allowing Maera to yank herself free and take refuge beside Aemond, who cast her a reassuring glance before turning back to his brother. He could still see traces of Maera’s brown and silver strands wrapped around Aegon’s fingers, a stark reminder of the confrontation that had just unfolded.

“You? You are part Targaryen?” Aegon questioned incredulously, his tone laced with skepticism as he eyed Maera with suspicion.

Maera could only nod in response, her composure regained as she stood tall beside Aemond, her gaze steady despite the lingering tension in the air. Aegon hummed dismissively. “I don’t believe you,” he retorted, his arrogance palpable.

“Have you not been listening at our dinners?” Aemond shot back angrily, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

Aegon snickered, his laughter tinged with disdain. “Of course not,” he replied flippantly, his disregard for their family’s conversations evident in his dismissive tone.

Aemond's frustration boiled over, irritation clear in the furrow of his brow as he realized he was the lone listener during their family's evening gatherings. “We all share the same great-grandfather, Aegon. Lady Maera is the granddaughter of Archmaester Vaegon,” he retorted, his voice edged with annoyance at his brother's ignorance.

Aegon's eyebrows shot up in surprise, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Oh, so you are not a real Targaryen then, are you?” he teased, directing his mocking gaze towards Maera.

“Neither are you,” Lady Maera hissed back, her voice tinged with defiance as she brought her hair around her shoulder, stroking it soothingly. “You’re part Hightower,” she added with a pointed emphasis, her words a sharp retort to Aegon's taunts.

Aegon's temper flared at her words, his fists clenching at his sides as he stood up from his seat, his towering form casting a menacing shadow over them. “I am more Targaryen than you,” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom as he advanced towards them.

Maera stood her ground, her stance defiant as she positioned herself protectively in front of Aemond, much to his shock as he attempted to pull her back. His heart raced with a mixture of concern and bewilderment at Maera's audacity, her willingness to stand up to Aegon both admirable and disconcerting.

“Only because of your ridiculous hair. You won’t even be the King,” Maera sneered, her words cutting through the tense atmosphere like a knife, her defiance unyielding in the face of Aegon's fury.

Aegon's anger reached a boiling point, his face contorted with rage as he struggled to find words to match his escalating emotions. “You insolent little-”

“Enough!” a voice boomed from around the corner, cutting through the heated exchange like a sudden gust of wind.

From behind the shelf emerged old Maester Mellos, his weathered features etched with annoyance at the disruption of his previously quiet library. Aemond and Maera clasped their hands together, their heads bowed in a display of respect and contrition, each feeling a pang of guilt for their role in the altercation. Aegon, however, scoffed at the old man's interruption, his defiance evident in the dismissive curl of his lip.

“My Prince,” Maester Mellos addressed Aegon calmly, his tone tinged with authority. “The Queen knows you are back. And she is looking for you,” he added sternly, his words a clear indication that further disobedience would not be tolerated.

Aegon huffed in annoyance and stormed out of the library, his departure leaving behind a palpable tension that hung thick in the air. Maera and Aemond released a collective breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding, their shock giving way to nervous giggles in the aftermath of the altercation, but their levity was short-lived as they were promptly chastised by the stern old man.

“This is a place of study, not a nursery. You must keep noise to a minimum,” Maester Mellos admonished, his tone carrying a weight of authority that brooked no argument.

“Yes, Maester,” Maera replied with a sickeningly sweet edge to her voice, her contrition palpable as she met the maester's stern gaze. “It will not happen again.”

The old man huffed in response before retreating back to his desk, leaving Maera and Aemond to pick up the fallen books scattered by Aegon's drunken stumbling, restoring order to the quiet sanctum of the library.

Once the books were back in their rightful places, Maera broke the silence, her voice soft with gratitude. “Thank you, my Prince, for sticking up for me as best you could,” she murmured, her eyes reflecting a mixture of appreciation and lingering unease.

Aemond smiled sadly and nodded, his gaze flickering with a hint of regret. He wished he could have done more to protect her, but the reality of his brother's towering aggression loomed large in his mind, rendering any attempt futile.

He watched as Maera made her way over to the alcove, gathering Aemond's scattered belongings before approaching him with a quiet determination. “And thank you... for remembering my mother, and our shared blood,” she confessed softly, her vulnerability shining through in the tremor of her voice. “In truth, I don’t get to talk about her often. I don’t think my father likes it.”

Aemond accepted the items from her, their fingers brushing in a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through him, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his composure. “Like I said, it is important to remember history,” he replied earnestly, his words carrying a weight of sincerity as he met Maera's gaze with a shared understanding of the significance of their shared heritage.

As they exited the library and made their way down the corridor, Maera couldn’t contain a mischievous giggle bubbling up from within her.

“We should get him back for that,” Maera chortled with a twinkle of mischief in her green eyes.

Aemond watched her with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “What do you suggest?”

“Well… the Princess has a millipede we could use.”

Before he could fully comprehend her intentions, Maera grabbed his hand, sending a jolt of nervous excitement coursing through him. Feeling her touch, Aemond’s palms grew sweaty with anticipation as they ran down the corridor together, their fingers intertwined in a silent pact of solidarity.

Despite the lingering tension from their encounter with Aegon, Aemond couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope blossoming within him for the budding friendship he shared with Maera. In that moment, as they raced through the castle hallway hand in hand, Aemond dared to believe that perhaps the pair of them had found a kindred spirit in one another.

Notes: Thought we could all use a break and have some fluffy baby Maemond as well as Aemond’s perspective on everything. But to do that we gotta go right back to the beginning. So I’ll be posting these intermittently, probably maximum get about ten chapters out of him. But yeah, this was nice to write. Aemond POV chapter three though is going to be back to our usual nasty dark horrible shit 🤣 Also points to everyone who can point out callbacks from previous chapters 🖤

Tags: @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @0eessirk8

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[the-death-of-duty]

got fed today

[flowerandblood]

Glass Cuts Deepest Chapter 6 today 💐💐💐

[the-common-cowgirl]

Chapter 35: Venom, Blood and Undying Love.

[frost-queen]

Revenge tastes sweet // part 1 (Assasin!reader x Aemond Targaryen)

Requested by anon Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @alex--awesome--22, @ellie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve , @queen-of-books , @glimmering-darling-dolly , @denkisclown , @wildieflower , @meyocoko , @justanothercoco, @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23 , @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr , @swampything07, @melsunshine , @panhoeofmanyfandoms , @venomsvl , @the-uncoordinated-house-cat , @rosecentury , @imagines-by-her, @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 , @erikasurfer @slythetic, @p0nycurtis

Summary: You are Daemon's half child. When the death of Lucerys happens, you swear to kill Aemond for it. With pleasure even as you never had a good relationship with him. Set out to assassinate him, you are rather caught off guard by him. Unable to stop teasing you with pleasure. Lying to your father was a hard thing, but encountering him again was even harder. Happy late birthday sweet anon [series]

Thunder roared loud. Rain clattering like buckets from the sky. With rushed feet, you went down the spiralling stairs. Knowing it only meant trouble to be summoned at this hour. A guard had come to wake you up from your slumbers. With each step your heart thumped louder with worry. The fires dimly lit as you pushed the heavy doors open. Panting loud upon seeing Rhaenyra by the fireplace. She sat down, staring into the fires. Hauntingly mesmerized by her memories. Your father not far from her by the table. You wanted to reach her. It didn’t a fool to read the room. Dark and gloomy with the scent of death.

Before you could reach her, Daemon had pulled you to a stop by your shoulder. – “Fa…” – you started silenced when he shook his head. Still holding you by your shoulder, he moved you back. Away from Rhaenyra and her grief. He led you out of the room. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw the last of her by the fireplace. Led away by your father. He came to a stop holding you by your shoulders. – “Y/n.” – he said lifting your chin up by his finger. – “I need you on your best.” – he continued making you slightly furrow your brows.

A strange feeling settling inside of you of what he was about to say. His fingers tensed in your shoulders, making you inhale sharply. – “Lucerys…” – lowering his head he didn’t know how to finish his words. He didn’t need to as you understood. – “Who?” – you asked in return, holding back the tears. – “Aemond.” – he simply responded.

Knowing enough, you shoved his hands off you. Taking off into the night. Knowing what was required of you. For you’d avenge Lucerys death. Sitting in your cold dark room. Staring out onto the balcony. Seeing the thin curtains dance with the soft breeze. Sharpening your daggers. A clenched expression tensed your jaw. For you’d come for Aemond. Quiet as the night and invisible like the wind you’d come for him.

For no one escaped your clutches. No ever target of yours have been able to live to tell the tale. For assassins never left any crumbs. Curling up a smile, you were somewhere relived it was Aemond. Now you finally had the motives to kill him. For he and you haven’t been what you call friends. Rather getting at each other’s throat. Toying and taunting with a clear hatred. Always mocking you. No more. For you’d make him loose more than his eye.

You’d make him suffer and let him bleed out slow with the last vision imprinted on his eyeballs your face. Laughing down at him. That was required of you. You knew your father’s hadn’t spoken it out. Yet is was what he wanted. Revenge for Rhaenyra’s son. He knew you’d be the one perfect for it. Knowing you’d go feral to taste his blood on your teeth.

So you waited. Waited for the right time. Waited for the element of surprise. Waited for Aemond to drop his worries. To stop sensing danger was around every round. Waiting for him to lower his guard. Have him accept no harm was coming to him. Allow him to feel at ease and have a sense of safety before you’d come to take it all away. You wanted to play with him. Taunt him. Showing just how much he should fear you. For he should tremble on his knees.

Dogs barked down the street, making you stop. Linger at a narrow alley. Glancing just around the corner. Seeing the dogs take a run for it. Scared off by a brothel holder. With a broom, he made them leave. The brothel holder glanced from left to right before disappearing back inside. Looking up, you stared up to the foggy clouds passing by the moon.

Narrowing your eyes a bit, you lowered your gaze a bit. Settling to the rooftops. Removing your back from against the wall, you moved away. Readying yourself for the jump up. Setting yourself off as you grabbed onto a lower part of the roof. Crawling further up to get to the higher roof. There you knelt down, observing the streets below. Face mostly covered up with black to conceal your identity at King’s landing.

You waited for the drunk men to turn their backs to you before getting up. Sprinting over the rooftop to jump over to the next one. With a thud you landed on the next roof. Without any brake of effort, you ran once more. Moving from rooftop to rooftop to reach the castle. Knowing Aemond would be sleeping peacefully under the covers with no idea that it were his last hours. Knelt down, you narrowed your eyes sceptically at the castle wall.

Counting the windows in your mind to where Aemond’s chambers were. Gaze fixated on them, you took a sharp breath. Trying to tone your anger down. Getting up, you stepped back. Taking out two daggers. Shaking your shoulders loose, you started running up to it. Speeding up. Leaping at the very end, arms in the ready. As you felt your body fall, you set your hands out. The daggers getting cut in the stone as it broke your fall. Making you grip tight to it from the sudden impact.

Not even once looking down, you unhooked one of the daggers from the stone. Arm falling down as with a grunt, you moved it upwards. Jabbing the dagger higher up in the stone. Unhooking your other one, you pulled your upper body up to jab it higher. Getting higher and higher to reach his window. Changing the positions of your daggers with much effort to rise up the wall. Hand grabbing onto the railing, you pulled your body up with one last effort. Landing silently on his balcony. The satin curtains gently dancing with the every so quiet breeze.

You quickly darted to the side, hiding one of your daggers. Kneeling down, you looked around the corner for any sight. There was the bed he was so peacefully sleeping in. But not for much longer. You rolled into his chambers keeping a close eye on your surroundings. By his bed end you rose. Dagger in the ready to strike your first warning cut. To wound him till you had your further pleasure with him. Taking down the mask from around your mouth and nose, you revealed your face as you wanted him to see it was you.

It was you who was going to make him bleed. With one strong motion, you slashed your dagger down. Gasping surprised when your dagger hit nothing but a matrass. Taking it back out, you saw it was clean. A sudden grip on your waist made your breath shock out of surprise. Turned round, you got shoved down on the matrass. Aemond smiling tauntingly when he held your hands above your head. His other hand pinned down on your waist.

“How nice of you to drop in…” – he started looking all smug. – “Halfblood.” – he whispered. You pushed against his grip around your arms and moving your hips up. Aemond looked teasingly down, clicking his tongue. He pushed his hand deeper onto your waist making you gasp quietly. He crawled onto the bed, setting his weight down on your thighs. Sitting down on you, you had no way out of his clutches. – “You snake!” – you bit back at him, wriggling with your body underneath him.

Aemond looked pleasantly up enjoying the friction for a moment. Seeing his expression made you stop. – “Tell me halfblood…” – he glanced down letting his hand slide up your chest to your neck. Sending a shiver up your spine, making you turn your head away. – “Did you come here to kill me?” – he asked leaning closer to whisper near your ear. Annoyed you pushed your hands upwards trying to break free. Aemond felt it as he used both his hands to strap around your hands.

Pushing them hard against the matrass to make you release the grip on your dagger. – “These are dangerous toys for a princess.” – he would tease taking the dagger from you. He admired it for a moment before letting the cold tip of it rest against your skin. He let it slide down your chest with no sharpness, awakening something in you.

By your waist, he threw the dagger behind him. It got stuck in one of his chairs as he had little care for it now. His gaze fully on you with pleasure. – “You deserve nothing more.” – you called back snappy. It made Aemond curl up a smirk. – “How cold of you Y/n.” – he lowered himself onto you, his face nearing yours. For a few seconds he kept staring into your eyes.

Feeling intimidated and strange, you turned your head away. He scoffed soft, letting his gaze lower. – “I’m almost tempted to let you try.” – he spoke by your neck. Eyes suddenly widening as his lips left the flutter of a kiss in your neck. A teasing bliss that brought up something unfamiliar. His head lowered to leave a blissful teasing kiss on your collarbone. The muffled sounds from you only riled him more up.

Seeing how hard you were restraining yourself from it. He kissed you just above your breast. Then lower on your stomach as you felt a warmth. Unsure how he was causing this to you. Before he could kiss you any lower, you shoved him off. Aemond rolled onto the matrass as you jumped off. Needing a way out, you ran towards the window. Aemond’s gaze wide as he watched you jump down.

You hated the morning. Knowing you’d have to lie to him. You already sat down at the table waiting for him and Rhaenyra to enter. Jacerys sitting beside you. The doors opened as it made you press your lips together. Daemon went to you, setting his hands down on your shoulders. You felt yourself grow smaller with his presence. He lowered his head to you. – “And?” – he whispered to you.

You shook your head slightly with a lie. – “Empty.” – you whispered back. Daemon left a kiss on top of your head before going to his seat. Keeping your gaze low, you didn’t want him to see the truth in your eyes. The truth that you had failed to kill Aemond. That he knew you’d be coming. That he aroused things deep inside of you, you didn’t want. The last thing you wanted your father to know was that Aemond had managed to awake something in you.

For the entire night, you couldn’t keep him out of your head. Trying to shake the dreams away as he was constantly there. Unable for him to leave. Every time you tried to shove him out, he kept coming closer. Teasing you in your own bed. Hovering over you. Hand pressed gently against your cheek. As his kisses went up your neck to your jaw. Constantly shaking your head to escape your dreams but your heart wouldn’t listen.

No matter how hard you screamed and pleaded with it. His gaze strong on yours. Trying to pretend he wasn’t here. Heart thumping loudly as his plump lips went down on yours. Your heart taking pleasure in the kiss till your mind brought you back to reality. Awakening with a loud gasp. Panting loud. Looking around if he truly wasn’t here in your bed. It was empty. Frustrated you pulled your knees up. Palms pressed hard against your eyes to cry in confusion.

You dreaded the moment you’d meet him again. Somehow he had managed to find you. Far away from the castle. All on your own. With nothing to guard you. The moment his dragon landed in front of you, your heart started to pant loud. Stumbling back as he jumped down. He came nearer, reaching into his inside pocket by his chest as you kept backing up. Bumping with your back against a tree that made you come to a stop with a gasp.

Your eyes widened when he revealed your dagger. The dagger that had been stuck in his chair. The dagger that you forgot to take with you. A mistake any assassin would never make. He grinned from ear to ear, stopping in front of you. – “You’ve forgotten something.” – he said admiring the dagger. Unsure how obvious it was that you were gawking at him. Heart thumping loudly out of your chest with his presence. Gaze locked onto his heavenly lips, watching them move with his speech.

Aemond chuckled briefly seeing how easily he could tease you. See how easily his last encounter has left a mark on you. How it had entangled your insides and put them poorly back together. He pressed his hand above you against the tree. Tilting his head just a bit. – “Do you wish to finish your kill?” – he asked eyeing your lips briefly. Noticing how flustered it left you. – “Or…” – he continued letting the dagger hover across your neck. – “We could finish what we started.” – he whispered near your ear.

Feeling your senses overheat, you couldn’t stop picturing last nights dreams. Those fever dreams you rather wanted to push out. – “So what is it going to be Y/n?” – he asked pushing your head a bit back by his hand by your throat. He showed you the dagger before lowering his hand to let it drop onto the ground. – “No one will hear you.” – he whispered letting his hand slide up your thigh up your side to just below your shoulder.

How you just wanted to make him shut up. All this talking was getting on your nerves. Certainly with his attitude. Aemond’s mouth formed the words as you took them right out of his mouth. Pressing your lips to his. The kiss came to a surprise to him, making him stumble back. It took him but a few seconds before moving back up to you. Grabbing your cheeks to turn you more towards him. Lips forcefully set down on you. Kissing you like his life depended on it.

-------------------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack]

command me. - aemond targaryen.

MINORS DNI- smut ahead you will be blocked <3

prompt- aemond has always been able to you get you to do his bidding, his voice brings you to your knees.

wanted to put something out as im so bored lol might start writing feyd rautha smut too (did NOT know i could be attracted to a bald person)

warning; nsfw, dual masturbation, no penetration, smut, cum eating, aemond being vocal.

You awaken as Aemond enters your chambers, his steps thunderous as he makes his way to you; standing at the edge of your bed. His flushed appearance and clothing let you know where he'd come from, training with Ser Criston usually got him heated. Aemond and you where by no means married, or even heading that way; but alas sometimes you two yearned for each other in a way only you two could sate.

Your nightgown hid nearly nothing as you stretched your arms around, a meek yawn as you rubbed your eyes. "Aemond... lekia(brother), what time do you call this?" You smile up at him as you crawl to him, your nightgown slipping down as you moved. Aemond smirked, letting out a hum of approval. you pushed your hair to one side, before wrapping your arms around his waist; inhaling his scent. Aemonds hand slipped through your hair, enrapturing themselves in your silver locs. His built frame leant over you as he pulled your head back, you let out a whimper at the pain; but your thighs clenched as you leaned back.

"Have you been well-behaved, mandia?(sister)" Aemond purred, smirking as he let go of your hair; moving his hand down to cup your cheek. Violet clashed with violet as his thumb traced across your lip, your lips parted as you smirked at him. Gods, had you tried to kill him? Aemond moaned at how sinful you were as you took his thumb graciously. Your lips trapped his thumb, taking it deeper as you wrapped your tongue around it.

"Lean back, sȳz riña (good girl)." Aemond groaned hesitantly, not even the gods could tear his eyes away from you. You let go of his thumb and leaned back, laying on your elbows as you watched him.

He went over to your fireplace and picked up one of the chairs at your desk, the leather of his shirt pulsed as his muscles involuntarily flexed. You felt your body get weak as he placed it across from the bed.

Aemond bit the hair tie around his wrist as he placed his hair in a bun. You sighed at the sight, he was simply so beautiful.

Aemonds eyebrow pinched, "Getting impatient, dear sister?" You watched as he fiddled with the latch of his eye patch, his fingers adept in many things. "No, just admiring; although confused."

His eyebrow quirked, as he placed his eye patch in his pocket. "Calm, ñuha jorrāelagon(my love). Undress for me." He smirked, watching as you immediately moved into action; fingers fumbling at your laces.

Aemonds snarky smirk fell when you eagerly pushed your night gown down, your nipples hardened at the cold air; Aemonds lack of smirk didn't go unnoticed by you as your fingers trailed down to your lacy garments. "What now, brother?" Your breathy voice cut off his thoughts as he watched you tease yourself. He grunted as he unlaced his pants slowly.

"Get yourself off, rene.(slut)" Aemond watched you as you pushed your garments aside, revealing your wet cunt. He groaned as he pulled his cock free from its confinements, a whimper left your lips as your fingers gradually crawled down to your sopping hole. Your slender fingers dug into your cunt, satisfying your carnal desires enough for you to let out a wanton moan.

Aemond seemed breathless as he fisted his cock at the sight of it all, your legs shaking as your fingers built up a rhythm, your silver tresses seemed to stick to you as your face pinched, and your other hand trailed up your stomach and to your breasts; leaving behind goosebumps as your pinch your nipples.

Aemond hisses out as he watches you come undone, your fingers shaking as you rub your pearl. A sight that makes Aemond move his hand faster along his cock; the sight before him making him cum. Your loud moans filled his ears as you squirted, panting and whimpering. He groaned as his fisting came to a halt as his pearly white semen landed onto his hand. His eyes turned to you, "Come here, beloved." His now quiet but demanding voice made you do as he said, your shaking thighs didn't help as you pulled yourself off the bed and into his awaiting presence.

"Kneel," He smirked as you sunk to your knees before him. You knew what he desired for you to do, so you took his messy fingers into your mouth - eyes closed as you swallowed his cum eagerly; a moan leaving your flushed lips as you taste his salty liquids.

"What do you say, girl?" Aemonds clean hand falls to your throat as he pulls his fingers from your eager mouth, you whimper meekly. "Thank you, brother." the words fall from your lips before you can catch them, his grip tightens, gently of course.

"Not quite." Aemonds stern voice and faux frown made you clench your thighs, "Thank you.. husband." You smiled up at him, as he released his grip on your throat. "Good girl," His praise sends you into a spiral as you lay your head in his lap, blissed out.

[aemcndtargaryen]

AEMOND POV MY BELOVED

when i say seeing the notif for this pop up (and reading it ofc) just made my entire week, im not even kidding

i knew i was gonna love the glimpse inside aemonds head and boy did this not disappoint, IT WAS EVERYTHING I HOPED FOR AND MORE

✨the highlights✨

not aemond thinking of lady L as some daughter of Lord Lannister and swearing to hate her and that she could never be his friend, boy has No Idea-

also aemond 30 seconds later:

He tells himself that he’ll hate her.

Then he meets you.

aemond going feral for her in that singular moment where shes scowling at him and wanting to bare her teeth at him for scaring her and making her spill water on herself

aemond being absolutely normal about the whole situation and in fact swearing to himself that he has control and hes being absolutely normal about all of this, then lady L says her name and its freeze frame, record scratch for our boy

i loved their first meeting and lady L being a lil smartass, the whole you could be aegon, aemond or even daeron who decided oldtown wasnt doing it for him and now seeing aemonds reactions to it all? Just Chefs kiss

being embarrassed to be wrong in front of lady L when homeboy doesnt even know what hes wrong about or why hes feeling that way

waxing poetic about her smile in his head, like I've seen many wonders of the world in my short years on this earth but none compare to the smile on your face

then immediately after; at least she isnt dumb💀

Well mannered. Pretty. A true lady. I’m the second son in a family where even the first son receives nothing. No one is excited to see me.

Viserys im in your fucking walls

ALSO otto telling aemond hes gotta make up for aegons weaknesses and aemond taking that personally, as in he has to study and be good at literally everything took me out😂💀

just lil aemond already simping for lady L, albeit cautiously🥺😭🤧💜

finding her beautiful, smart and kind and frankly too good to be true

when he couldnt believe she wanted to spend time with him? Just Aemond? i-🤧

ALL HIS BLUSHING AND LADY L WASNT EVEN REALLY TRYING LOL BOYS SO GONE FOR HER ALREADY AND I LOVE IT

You beam, bright and happy, and he wonders if the real treasure in the Rock wasn’t its gold or its wealth but rather the daughters it produced.

EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO SCREAM

lil babes already swapping notes on fav books and the mention of symeon star-eyes

also aemond basking in the sun/lady L’s voice as she read to them

my boy knowing he needs to stay focused so he can be the strength of his fam so theres no room in his life for distractions, not even in the form of a pretty lil lioness, so he hopes she will leave him alone BUT NOT REALLY HE DOESNT WANNA BE SO UNLUCKY I-

dominoes cascading in a line — the meeting

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

You beam, bright and happy, and he wonders if the real treasure in the Rock wasn’t in its gold or its wealth but rather in the daughters it produced. or moments in aemond's life with a lady of house lannister

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 2.1k notes: surprise! i'm starting a companion piece of oneshot moments in the pawn in every lover's game (my current ongoing fic) from aemond's pov! this will be updated sporadically so enjoy this first one (:

Aemond is ten when his mother announces that Daeron will be fostered in Oldtown by their Hightower kin. Daeron is seven.

As an adult, his memory of the incident will fade like an old picture; the colors will lose their shine, details will vanish, the pain will dull. But one thing he will never forget is how Daeron hadn’t cried.

He had trembled, his eyes had gone wide, and he had seemed so small, even smaller than he already was.

But he hadn’t cried.

Daeron didn’t cry when they had packed his things or even Mother had gotten the habit of bursting into tears at the mere sight of him. He hadn’t even cried when their father had shrugged off his leaving, merely giving his youngest son a more than awkward pat on the head and empty platitudes.

He didn’t cry.

Not until Helaena had mournfully informed them all that she couldn’t go with them to drop Daeron off since some daughter of Lord Lannister was coming to King’s Landing to keep Lord Tyland Lannister company and to be her companion. She had to stay to greet her. Mother had insisted.

Daeron had sobbed then. Big, glassy tears had poured down his face as he had gasped loudly for breath. Helaena, fighting her usual aversion to touch, had wrapped her small arms around him, awkward and stiff, but Daeron hadn’t minded, burrowing himself into her arms and wailing.

Aemond had sworn then and there that he would hate the little lady of House Lannister coming to be Helaena’s companion. She could be his sister’s friend. She couldn’t be his.

During the entire trip to Oldtown and his entire stay, Aemond had created a vision of the Lannister girl to hate. She’ll be mean. She’ll be snooty. She’ll sneer at Helaena and her bugs and mock her to the other ladies in court. She’ll laugh at him and his lack of a dragon, whisper about how he is no true Targaryen if he can’t claim his own House’s sigil.

Perhaps she’s only coming to the capitol to marry. That’s the only reason a noble girl would leave her family’s seat of power behind and travel after all. Maybe she’ll even marry Aegon and they’ll have cruel, nasty babies together and they’ll laugh at Helaena and Aemond for the rest of their lives.

By the time he returns to the Red Keep with one brother and without another, he swears that he’ll hate the daughter the Rock has sent and he always will. He repeats this in his head as he heads to Mother’s sitting room, where Helaena always spends her time, and he convinces himself that she won’t be there because she must be cruel and vapid and mean to keep Helaena away from Daeron. He tells himself that he’ll hate her.

Then he meets you.

When he slams the door open, prepared to comfort his surely heartbroken sister, he finds you. The slam of the door startles you and, with a small shriek, you nearly drop a jug of water, catching it awkwardly so that the water spills all over the front of your pretty gown, soaking it.

He stares. You don’t look at him for a moment, too busy staring down at the jug in stunned disbelief, but when he calls out to ask if you’re alright, you turn to face him.

And Aemond swears his heart skips a beat.

He’s seen pretty girls before. Of course, he has. They’re everywhere in the Red Keep. From serving girls to noblewomen, there’s beauty to spare in the capitol.

But you’re different. There’s a moment when he knows your mind hasn’t realized that he’s a Targaryen, when he’s just a boy that made her spill water on herself, and you scowl fiercely, looking as if you would bare your teeth if you could. It’s a short moment but a glorious one and Aemond feels his cheeks flare with heat against his permission.

Luckily, it looks like you’re just as caught off guard and you duck into a curtsey, calling him my prince.

The form of address has never sounded so nice.

“I think I’m at a disadvantage,” he says after a moment, feeling as if he’s failing a test he didn’t know he was supposed to take. “You know who I am but I don’t know who you are.”

“Oh!” You say, looking terribly flustered, and Aemond fights down a smile, struggling to stay focused. He swears he has control, swears he’s being absolutely normal about all of this, but then you do say your name and his mind freezes.

Lannister. Lannister. Lannister.

Your House name runs circles in his mind, mocking him, teasing him. You’re the lady he’s sworn to hate.

He barely has time to process when you continue talking and it’s only through years of etiquette training that he hears you.

“My uncle Tyland is your father’s master of ships. And… at the risk of sounding impertinent, my prince, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

He blinks at that, feeling that all too familiar humiliated flush creeping up his neck. The worst part is that he doesn’t even know why being wrong in front of you would embarrass him so badly. “How am I mistaken?”

Aemond has seen the Hightower in Oldtown, looming high above the port city, topped by a massive orange flame, an impossible wonder. He’s seen Sunfyre, gleaming and golden as he flies through the sky, a moving marvel rather than a ferocious beast. He’s seen the Iron Throne, the thousand swords taken from Aegon the Conqueror’s enemies, ugly but striking, the very seat of House Targaryen’s power.

And somehow none of them compare to your smile.

It’s humiliating, it’s shameful, it’s the truth. Your smile lights him up from the inside, warming him up entirely, and he wishes it wasn’t real. What if you’re cruel? What if you’re mean and selfish?

You keep smiling at him and, for just a few moments, Aemond tells himself that maybe you won’t be. He has to believe it, if only to just finish this conversation. “Now you know who I am but I don’t know who you are. I know you’re a Targaryen prince, that much is easy to tell, but there are three of those. Are you Prince Aegon? Or perhaps Prince Aemond? You could even be Prince Daeron, having decided that Oldtown isn’t to his taste.”

At least she’s not dumb.

He looks at you, looking for any sign that you’re setting him up, but, finding none, he finally smiles back. “I’m Prince Aemond. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

If he thought your smile was beautiful, it’s nothing compared to your laugh.

“Small mercies then,” you say after a moment, beaming at him. “Your sister told me that you and I would get along.”

“She did?” He asks, head spinning. “Me? And you? But you’re so…”

Well mannered. Pretty. A true lady. I’m the second son in a family where even the first son receives nothing. No one is excited to see me.

“She said you liked to read? And study?” You say, cleaning your hand with a wet rag, and Aemond notes with a start that your finger is bloody. “I’m no great scholar but I like to read the histories of the Westerlands and the other kingdoms. It’s important to know our past to be best able to predict our future.”

For a moment, Aemond hears his grandfather’s voice, lecturing as he hands him book after book about politics and the Seven Kingdoms.

You must succeed where Aegon fails, the Lord Hand says in his mind, stern and unyielding. You will be his strength where he is weak.

Aemond had taken that to mean that he must study everything.

Caught off guard, Armond can only manage out an awkward, “You like histories?”

“Of course,” you reply, wrapping your finger with a spare piece of cloth. “Perhaps you can share some of your favorite books with me? I’m about to go meet Princess Helaena in the gardens. You could join us?”

That shocks him the most out of everything.

Being smart was one thing. Being kind was another.

But asking him to spend more time with you? Knowing that he’s Aemond Targaryen, the forgotten second son? Perhaps if he were Aegon, the rightful next king, or even Daeron, sweet Daeron who hadn’t even cursed you when you had stolen Helaena away from him, but he was Aemond. Just Aemond.

He can’t help it. He blushes. He blushes more than he has ever blushed before in his life and he ducks his head, wishing he wasn’t. “I would be honored, my lady.”

You beam, bright and happy, and he wonders if the real treasure in the Rock wasn’t its gold or its wealth but rather the daughters it produced. “I’ll meet you in the gardens then! Please allow me to get changed and could you inform Princess Helaena that I’ll be late?”

“Of course,” he stammers, embarrassed at his own weakness, and you smile once more at him, giving him a curtsey as you leave in a swirl of soaked fabrics.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, feeling as if Balerion the Black Dread has bathed him in his flame, burning him away and leaving nothing.

Eventually, he does make his way down the gardens and, when he finds Helaena, crouched in the dirt with her hands cupped around an earthworm writhing in the moist soil, he forgets that he’s been gone for several moons.

“Is your companion kind to you?” He blurts out, skipping the emotional reunion completely in his daze. She’s lying. She has to be lying.

Sweet Helaena, however, doesn’t mind, looking up at him with glazed eyes. “Beasts of the sky, beasts of the rock, feed well the land,” she says in that odd way she always does. Before he can say anything, however, she blinks hard before smiling at him. “She’s nice. She likes embroidery. Whenever I ask, she reads me my favorites. I hope she’ll be my friend and not just my companion.”

Aemond watches her, looking for any hint of a lie, but Helaena never lies. Never ever.

He drops to the ground next to her instead, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as best as he can. He talks to his sister then, about Oldtown and Daeron and her bugs in their glass enclosures. He almost forgets.

Then you come again, carrying a heavy book, one that he instantly recognizes.

Mother had given it to Helaena on her eighth nameday — a Maester’s guide to the different beetles in the deserts of Dorne.

After getting the customary greetings out of the way, you slide to the ground, uncaring when your new dress gets covered in dirt and bits of grass. Head bowed over the book, you flip through with a practiced speed, landing on a chapter about the golden scarabs that crawl in the shadows of Sunspear.

You read with a calm and steady tone, perfectly enunciating every word, never faltering or stammering. Closing his eyes, Aemond leans back and listens, the words floating away so he only focuses on the sound of your voice, the melody.

He’s warm in the sunlight.

It ends too soon with the shrill call of Helaena’s septa ordering the pair of you to your daily lessons. Quickly, you snap the heavy tome closed, rising to your feet a beat faster than Helaena.

“Oh, before I forget,” you say, spinning to smile down at him. “What’s one of your favorite books? I’d love to get to read something other than just about the Westerlands.”

The answer pops out without his permission. “The Watchers on the Wall. Some of it is legends but it’s about the Nightfort. You know, the Rat Cook. Symeon Star-Eyes. The Night’s King.”

Your eyes gleam. “My mother used to tell me and my sisters about the Rat Cook to scare us into behaving. She said it happened to King Tywell II and if we weren’t kind to people, they might make us eat our children in a pie like him too.”

“Some say it was a king of the Vale instead,” he replies. “I hope it wasn’t your ancestor.”

“Aye,” you laugh. “I hope it wasn’t him either. I’ll be sure to read the story. Maybe I’ll be able to convince myself it wasn’t him either.”

As you leave, leading Helaena down to the frowning septa assigned to teach the both of you, he prays you won’t read the book. That you’ll take your pretty smiles and your quick replies off to Aegon to charm. He has to focus. He has to be the strength of his family and there’s no room or time for any lady.

Even still, a part of him hopes that he isn’t so unlucky.

[sukibenders]

Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron looking at Alicent after she washes her hands of a war, that she (and Otto) dragged them into, and the throne, that she (and Otto) forced them to grasp/fight over even though they obviously didn't want it, and goes off to live her best life while they are all still stuck in a cycle forced on to them without their input (obviously this is about the s2 final):

[lunamond]

Ever think about how much the Asoiaf books delve into the experiences of characters with disabled or non-conforming bodies? And how GOT went on to completely forget those? And how in Hotd Aemond's experiences as a disabled person are also completely ignored?

How after a childhood of being seen as deficient for being dragonless he will go on to face a life of being seen as deficient for missing his eye? How he might have chronic pain and permanent nerv damage? How he would have to work harder than anybody else to fight well despite his lack of depth perception and reduced field of vision? And how no matter how hard he works every opponents will still immediately know what his weakness is? How he changed from a timid and reserved boy to an aggressive and violent man? How his new persona was most likely crafted in an effort to protect himself?

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

Contents Page

[an-abyss-of-stars]

𖤓 Don't You Dare Do This Without Me 𖤓 Ch. 2

Pairing: Rhaena x Aemond

Warnings: None for this chapter

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Rhaena discovers what her husband flew off to do in lieu of laying abed with her...

.

Ch. 1 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ao3

—

With careful fingers, Rhaena plucked the small parchment scroll from the page and thanked the younger boy. Closing the door behind her, she broke the seal...pale orange wax, it looked to belong to a minor house, one she scarcely recognized. The symbol of a small sun perched in the top left corner of the wax seal, a triangular etched beam beneath it. 

A small noble House, but which one? 

Tentatively, she cracked the seal. Allowed her eyes to begin scanning the crooked ink script, it seemed to have been written in a rush as opposed to poor penmanship. Yet as she read on…her eyes slowly widened with horror. 

{Your royal Highness, Queen Consort, Rhaena Targaryen.

It is our expressed hope to inform you...}

She skimmed past the pleasantries. 

{...Vhagar was seen soaring above the valley. Following the river Red Fork,

her flames were seen to have left unimaginable devastation to the small village of Oxcross,

just over the plains...}

For fucksake, by the will of the Gods...not this again! 

He’s burned yet another village!

“Aemond, you blasted,” Rhaena had to catch her tongue, muttering to herself as she read on. 

Fucking, Gods- 

"NO, DAEMIE!! You do not eat a dragon! Dragons are not eaten by people. They chomp animals and fly! And breathe FIRE!! See! You're doing it wrong!" Aemon's squeals trailed off across the room as Rhaena still worked to digest the words written. Her eyes flickered up from the scroll only to ensure that her son's were still behaving. 

At two and twenty, she'd mastered the act of multitasking motherhood and her Queenly duties. 

She could see Elaya had plopped the young babe down upon the carpet with Aemon, allowing Daemion to crawl over towards the polished wood carved dragon figurines. Where he was currently attempting to gum and suckle upon one of Aemon's favourites. A little figurine of the great Black Dread himself, Balerion. Rhaena could see from the corner of her eyes that Aemon was prone to the fits of rage. Ever a particular little boy at times, surely an inherited trait, he was growing upset with the way his babe of a brother was interacting with his game. 

Yet even still, all things considered, her children were safe, well cared for and soon enough they could be sent to their nursery. The time was quickly approaching for their much needed afternoon rest. It was something that they often did together after Aemon's lessons, for as much as his brother bothered him at times, he still so loved to nap with his baby brother by his side.

That, however was a thought for later, as Rhaena's pale lilac eyes couldn't help but scan over the missive once more:

{...Though a rebellion was duly squashed in the area two weeks prior, many here wonder what could have earned the King's wrath.

The devastation is immense. We beg of you, our Queen. The people are desperate, we need your interference.}

Signed Lord Rallor Lefford of the Golden Tooth. 

A small inconsequential noble House to be sure, but a noble House nonetheless. It was not squarely their land that was burned, but as far as Rhaena knew the lay of that particular region of land. They would be the closest noble House to benefit from the taxes of the villagers there. 

Well done, Aemond. 

Fucking—class work there.

With a quick glance upon the unfurled maps left upon their rounded table, Rhaena could follow the river Red Fork and see exactly where her husband had gone. The village of Oxcross itself probably held nothing more than farmers and livestock dealers. But it was close enough to the city of Lannisport, perhaps a few days' ride away…which then made it rather close to Casterly Rock. 

The Lannisters may have words for this destruction. 

Then again, perhaps it was the Lannister’s own fault they’d allowed a revolt to brew right beneath their noses just a few weeks prior. In truth, Rhaena could care less about the traitorous House. They’d only sided with Aegon and the Greens to begin with, solely because Aegon was a man. And with that, they thought there was a promising future for one of their daughters to replace Helaena as Queen after she’d passed. And once that conclusion was forgone, they’d hoped to marry one of their own to Aemond as well…before he’d chosen Rhaena for himself.

They were forever reaching wretchedly above their station…

But that did not matter, her own personal feelings for House Lannister did not matter. What did matter was the realm was still working to pull itself back together after the devastation caused from the Dance of the Dragons . A rather glorious name for a war that only caused loss and pain...wasted spilt blood. And yet, here her husband was fanning the flames with unnecessary acts of force and violence. 

And sure, Rhaena knew husband to be a fickle man, he could be ever so petty. Ever so cruel and unfeeling at times. The lives of those who were stationed beneath them barely interested him at all, especially the lives of the smallfolk at times. For, while Aemond had surely feigned interest in them during the war and in the aftermath of it. It was still a falsehood, time had waned and his true nature had been made evident. 

If the mood struck him...he'd spill as much blood as needed to satiate the urge. 

‘Ondoso se Jaes’ by the Gods , Rhaena sighed heavily to herself, all she could do was pray and hope that neither of her sons would ever grow to be the same. As unfeeling of lesser folks, as eager to douse themselves in the blood of their victims…volatile as their sire. 

Although, as she made her way towards the chaise by the fire she couldn't ignore the intensifying agitation coursing through her eldest son at that very moment. He'd crawled over to Daemion only to shove him rather unnecessarily as he snatched the Balerion figurine directly out of the babe's hand. Clearly fed up with his favoured figure being used as a teething toy. Only the moment he had done it, her chubby little babe took a moment to observe his empty hand before bursting into tears. Screaming bloody murder as his little face turned red, a flood of tears tumbling down his pudgy cheeks. 

Lovely.

Just lovely.

Everything just kept piling on.

"Aemon," Rhaena had groaned her son's name as she moved towards them, displaying her maternal instincts as she placed the missive down upon the mantle before reaching down. Cradling her youngest to her chest, securing his cheek against her bosom as she rocked him gently, hoping to calm his emotions with the warmth of her embrace. Although, the small weight of her babe pressing against her chest, only helped to remind her of the sore pressure. She was sure her breasts were growing dangerously full yet again, within the hour she would leak through her gown. Though that was an issue to handle later on, for now, she pressed warm kisses to the youngest son’s forehead. Swaying him as she eyed her eldest, "you cannot strike your brother when he annoys you so, we've been over this. You must be far more gentle with him, he's still only a babe, you could really harm him." 

A sound amount of chastising as far as Rhaena was concerned, though it would seem her three-year-old took her words quite personally. He'd started to pout, his brows furrowing as he peered up towards his mother. Nibbling upon his lower lip in a near mirror image to the way Rhaena often nibbled on her own. 

She supposed.. .he'd inherited more from her than she gave him credit for. 

"B-but...but mama," Aemon had started breathing rapidly, his small chest heaving as he tried to find his words. Glancing over at Elaya, his beloved wet-nurse, she only bestowed upon him a kind encouraging smile. She had no authority over Rhaena, her sovereign, and the young woman had no wish to interject. As was her right, it was not her concern. 

But Aemon, he wanted someone on his side. 

Rhaena knew that look, she'd seen it often enough ever since Daemion had entered the world. Aemon adored the idea of having a sibling, he just disliked sharing the things he cherished the most. And that came in droves, whether it was his favourite toys…or even his parents at times. 

"Mama, he... it's not fair," he finally huffed, crossing his arms. 

Sweet thing, he'd given up so soon. 

Now, she did wish to hear his side of things, even though she was certain she already knew it. If Aemond had been present, he would have brushed past the pouting of their eldest son and zeroed in on the aftermath of it. The aggression he'd shown. He wouldn't have disciplined their child for it, per se, but his lecture would have hinged on the act and not the source of the matter. 

Rhaena, however, wanted her child to feel heard. As Daemion calmed and settled himself against her chest, softly cooing as he suckled his thumb. She kissed the crown of his head, his soft curly pale hair brushed her lips as she shifted her hold of him. Freeing one of her hands so that she could summon Aemon to her, "come here, sweet one," her voice shimmered softly. 

Proving to her son that he was not in any real trouble, she just wanted him close. And that was all it took really, Aemon's pale eyes stared up at her for only a moment before he began to carefully push himself up to his feet. His little legs only stumbling once before he hugged himself directly against Rhaena's leg. Pressing his cheek against her thigh as she placed a hand upon his head, holding his other cheek as she sighed, "come, let's walk to the nursery and you can tell me your side of things on the way, hmm?" 

It was such a powerful thing, to feel his little chest rise and lower with the heaviest little sigh he could muster. To feel Daemion’s steadied little lungs work against her. To think she'd created these little boys, she'd helped to bring them into the world and now here they were existing within it. 

Aemon nodded against her, looking up at her again with his lips twisting towards another pout, "okay...but he was doing it wrong. I didn’t mean to hit him…I didn't want him to...he was slobbering on my toys, mama. My Bawerian!" his pale indigo eyes had turned glassy and tearful. His cheeks flushing red, the tip of his nose burned the same colour as he sniffled. 

Although...'slobbering', that was impressive in itself. 

That was a new word for him to use in regular conversation. Even more so when considering he felt quite emotional at the moment. 

It was hard sometimes, being a mother, the fact that Rhaena found herself feeling genuinely proud that her babe's vocabulary was growing quite naturally. But to also have the wherewithal to know that it was not something he'd care to have acknowledged at this moment. So she found herself actively biting back a grin, ruffling her son's hair instead as she nodded. Fixing her expression to offer something far more sympathetic, "and that's quite understandable, darling. It really is, and I'm sure if Daemion was a bit older and understood that, he wouldn't have put your figurine in his mouth."

It seemed her words did not offer much in the way of comfort as Aemon's pout only set further. His little hands still clutching onto her velvety silk skirts, his adorable little disgruntled expression clearly demanded something be done for his inconvenience. Because as it were, his frown was turning into a full blown fret. 

Unfortunately, Rhaena did not have the time to placate him so. Smoothly as she could manage, she rubbed soothing circles upon his back as she guided him out into the hall with her. With Elaya treading along behind them, the two stationed guards followed them as they made their way to the nursery. 

"Ziry iksos mirre paktot, byka ñuha mēre," it's alright, my little one , Rhaena hummed down towards Aemon as they made their way into the brightly lit bloom coloured nursery, "I'll sing one of your favourite lullabies, hmm? How about that?" 

At that, Aemon beamed up her, wiping his eyes with an adorable smile, "the one about the dragon Prince and the water maiden!" 

"Yes, dear," she giggled back, letting Aemon run to his bed. He'd climbed up eagerly, letting Elaya undo the laces of his shoes so that he could climb in under his fur blanket. As he settled in, Rhaena placed Daemion down beside him. Let the boys lie close as she settled soft hands on their cheeks, tucking them in. Aemon's pale eyes blinked up innocently, as he instinctually nudged closer to his baby brother, “mama, when is papa coming back?” 

“I-” just as she had opened her mouth...Vhagar could be heard roaring in the distance. 

There he was, Aemond would be back soon. 

And truth be told, now that the initial shock of his exploits had finally subsided. 

All that was left was a deep sense of vexation for the man she called 'husband' .  

She was all too ready to face him now. 

“He should be home shortly, little one,” Rhaena caressed her son's chubby cheek, “you'll see him later. Now, settle in.”

—

Notes: LMAO at this point, I think Rhaena actually wants to throttle Aemond. Burning villages down for a lack of kewchie and tiddy milk is WILD fr. Chapter three is where is we will be switching over to Aemond's POV! And Ch.4 is most likely when the actual smut will begin! Although Aemond's a needy guy, the horny thoughts will still be there in ch.3.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (26)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of sex, incest, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Jace remembered perfectly the day his little sister was born. Laenor had led him into his mother's chamber that day, holding his hand, saying that she was very tired and they couldn't spend much time with her − he had insisted on seeing her because he was delighted to finally have a sibling, a brother to play with and be friends with.

His mother, the future queen, smiled softly at the sight of him, her white hair loose and in disarray, her face red from sweat and exertion.

She held out her hand to him and he hugged her, peering curiously at the infant she held clutched to her chest.

"He's so tiny." He said in disbelief, brushing the baby's finger with his own − he smiled when he saw the baby's hand clench into a small fist with its quiet purr.

"She. You have a little sister." He heard his mother's amused voice; he furrowed his brow at her words and rose, angry and disappointed.

"− wait, comrade −" Laenor called out after him, but he refused to look at her.

She was a disappointment to him.

For the first few months, he had pretended not to hear her cries or squeals from their mother's chamber − even though Rheanyra had spoken to him and encouraged him to meet her, he had refused to do so, recognising that no little girl interested him.

"It was supposed to be a boy." He muttered regretfully while playing with his large, wooden, black dragon, pretending that the stacks of books were the great hills over which he flew on Balerion. His mother smiled at his words and combed her hand through his dark curls.

"That is what the gods have decided. She may be your future wife."

Jace put down his toy, looking at her in surprise, not understanding what she meant.

"Am I going to have to kiss her?" He asked in disgust, recalling the stories Laenor sometimes read to him before bed, in which great knights freed beautiful women from the paws of monsters, only to fall in love with them later and be bestowed a kiss by them.

His mother smiled involuntarily.

"Don't think about such things until you're a grown man. No kissing for now." She giggled, pinching his cheek. He smiled lazily seeing her warm expression, the motherly love that beat from her.

That night he went to the chamber where she slept for the first time; he leaned over the cradle, glancing at her plump little figure wrapped in a white robe and a small headpiece. Her eyes opened suddenly and he was terrified that she would burst into tears − she, however, merely clutched her small feet and began to rock from side to side, looking at him curiously.

He smiled involuntarily at this sight and tickled her belly with his finger. Her squeal and loud giggle answered him, her eyes lit up in joy, her little body all the way up in euphoria. He laughed seeing this, repeating his gesture, thinking she was like a small animal, a puppy or a kitten.

He decided that at the end of the day she wasn't so bad and stopped pretending she didn't exist.

Until Luke was born he had treated her as if she were a boy, driving their mother to despair every time they both returned sodden with mud and sand after another battle with Aegon and Aemond.

He had always felt that his uncles disliked him, and even though they were of a similar age to him, he did not feel comfortable in their company − nor could he hide his jealousy at the sight of their snow-white hair, proof of who they were.

Looking at his father and mother, he could not comprehend why his hair was not that shade.

Rhaenyra explained to him that it was surely because of the Baratheon blood that also flowed through their veins, and although he was disappointed, the sight that he was not the only one, that his sister and Luke looked similar to him, comforted him.

The first time Aegon laughed sincerely at what he said occurred when he called his sister a hamster. The comparison came to his mind when she took air in her mouth and furrowed her brow − he uttered it thoughtlessly, and his uncle burst out laughing and patted him on the back.

"− gods, you're right − and those big eyes of hers −" He sneered, and although he saw that his sister lowered her gaze, embarrassed, he continued, eager to hear more words of praise from his lips.

"− she has just as much sense too −" He added, seeing his uncle throw him an amused, mocking look suggesting that he agreed with him.

He felt a squeeze in his heart when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that his sister had turned and walked away, passing through the cloisters towards their quarters without even giving him another glance.

He turned around and noticed to his surprise that he was not the only person to notice her leaving − his other uncle, Aemond, led her away with his eyes and then threw him a look full of despise, from which he felt discomfort.

He pressed his lips together at the thought that he was the heir to the throne and, unlike him, had his own dragon.

Who was he to look down on him with such superiority?

He decided to remind him of that and share that thought with his brother.

Aegon's involvement in their little joke surprised even him − his uncle thought it was an excellent idea. He argued that his younger brother was too sullen and serious for his age, that he was sapient and could use a little lesson.

As he listened to Aegon convince him that they had found a dragon for him, as he saw the hint of hope and the shy, embarrassed smile of excitement on his uncle's face, he felt for a moment that perhaps they should not do this.

However, it was too late to retreat − Luke ran deeper into the cave, and came out a moment later, leading by a rope a large pig to which they had attached self-made wooden wings early on.

"Behold! The Pink Dread!"

He saw that his uncle froze and turned pale as they burst out laughing, swallowing this humiliation with difficulty − his eyes glazed over and reddened, his gaze again blank and distant.

He knew they had broken him.

That same day he mentioned it to his sister, and her reaction angered him.

"You are cruel." She said resentfully.

Which side was she on?

"He's forever looking down on us because he has white hair. He's constantly making excuses and bragging about what he's read in those silly dusty books of his." He snorted, playing between his fingers with the gold coin their grandfather had brought him from another of his trips overseas.

He blinked when his sister simply rose from her seat and walked out, leaving him in a state of shock and displeasure − he decided, however, that these were just normal female emotions and would surely pass her until supper.

He loved his father, but he also greatly valued and respected Ser Harwin Strong. He was a stocky, tall, handsome man who could fight very well. He often spoke to him or helped him practice by sharing stories of his duels in tournaments and hunts.

He thought then that he would like to be like him one day.

He knew that he was a close confidant of his mother and often saw them together, however, his father seemed not to mind, so he considered this condition perfectly normal and did not bother.

After a few weeks, the will of their King fell upon them like a bolt from the heavens, and their mother informed them of it during one of their suppers together.

"− your grandfather and our King has decided today that, to strengthen our lineage, we will betroth your sister to your uncle, Prince Aemond − let us raise our cups for this −" She said, glancing towards her daughter, his sister smiling broadly at her words, happy.

What?

"− what do you mean? − why? −" He asked, feeling discomfort in his stomach and a cold sweat on his back.

They wanted to gift him his sister as a consolation because he didn't have a dragon of his own?

"− your grandfather wants peace to reign in the kingdom after his death − such a marriage in his eyes will strengthen our family and our bonds between each other − of course, the marriage will only happen when your sister is of the right age −" She said calmly, looking at her daughter with tenderness, taking an unruly strand of her dark hair from her face.

"− did you agree? −" He asked his little sister in disbelief, and she nodded quickly, as if it was the happiest day of her life.

"− yes − I'm very pleased − I'm fond of our uncle −" She said quickly, putting a piece of roast on her plate, describing how worried she was that she would have to marry someone much older than herself.

He stared blankly ahead, clenching his hands into fists, bitter and disappointed.

Had she really never considered him as her husband?

After all, he was her elder brother; in their lineage such marriages were obvious.

He dared not, however, defy the will of the King himself.

His resentment towards his uncle increased with each passing week seeing that, against his wishes, he was not being harsh and unpleasant to his sister − on the contrary, he seemed to have softened in her company, his face, though still pathetically proud, also expressing curiosity and affection.

He felt rage in his heart at the thought that they could really have wished to bring about this marriage.

However, the cup of bitterness overflowed the moment he saw his sister kiss him.

They were both too certain that no one could see them − he watched them from the corridor through a window overlooking the library.

His sister was standing by the bookcase, saying something to him, and he stood up and walked lazily over to her. He rose on his tiptoes and apparently reached for a book that stood too high for her. She smiled broadly as he handed it to her, her hand traveling to his shoulder.

He swallowed hard as her lips pressed against his, and as soon as she pulled away, her uncle grasped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her again, deeper and longer.

He fled to his chamber and burst into tears with rage, dropping all the objects standing on his table, disappointed and humiliated that although he was to become King in the future, someone else was taking away something that in his mind was his right.

He never wondered what kind of love he had bestowed upon her and whether it was the form of affection that usually bound married couples; he knew that he would care for her and be good to her and that was enough for him.

She was his sister and he would never hurt her.

She, however, looked only to her uncle and it was to him that she gave her heart and mind.

He didn't know what he felt when Luke slashed his face that night when their uncle stole Vhagar − horror, shame, satisfaction and relief all mingled in his mind into one.

On the one hand, he was overjoyed that he had taken back what in his mind should have been his, on the other he was embarrassed and distraught at the confirmation of his fears that had long smouldered in his mind.

It was Harwin Strong who was their father.

To his seed he owed his dark curls.

He was a bastard.

He tried to turn his thoughts away from considering what this meant for them, focusing on the fact that his sister would surely no longer want her uncle for a husband, and their paths would part.

This is exactly what happened.

Still, what he had planned did not happen, and his mother decided to change her plan and marry her off to their cousin, Lord Arryn's son, to strengthen her support in the North of the kingdom. Again, he felt a wave of disappointment, however, this time he was not so jealous − he knew that she had no love for their cousin and that he was certainly no threat to her.

"What's my little sister doing?" He asked with amusement, startling her completely, sitting bent over her desk − she quickly grabbed the parchment she had just been writing something on and tucked it under the table, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Are you writing a letter to someone?" He sneered, raising an eyebrow, standing over her with a smile. She swallowed hard and looked down, thoughtful.

"I write poetry. But I don't want anyone to read it." She muttered, and he sighed quietly and nodded, acknowledging that he wasn't going to force her to do anything.

"Would you like to go for a walk along the beach? It's beautiful weather." He encouraged her; she, however, shook her head, no longer bestowing a single glance on him.

"No, forgive me. I'm tired."

He pressed his lips together at her rejection, which he had faced again and again since they had moved to Dragonstone.

Even though he tried to get close to her, to understand her and comfort her, she still didn't want him.

He was ashamed to speak of his feelings with his mother or stepfather, much less Luke, however, to his surprise, his closest confidant turned out to be Baela.

"I don't understand her. It seems to me that she still misses him, even though he has certainly forgotten her by now. I have heard that he is a cold, vain, self-obsessed man. He's always been that way, treating her only as an object, a consolation prize. Now that he has a dragon he doesn't need her." He said angrily − his cousin sighed heavily at his words, looking at him with understanding.

"When people part in anger and don't close a chapter, it's hard for them to move on. Perhaps she knew him in a way that is unknown to us. He's always been withdrawn into himself." She muttered disapprovingly, fiddling with the wine cup in her hand, gazing thoughtfully into the blazing fire.

He smiled at the thought that he was certain she recalled the impetuosity with which her uncle had punched her in the face with his fist that night when he lost an eye. Baela looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

"What's that look?" She asked and kicked him under the table with her foot. He giggled at her reaction and shook his head, lowering his gaze to her fingers.

"I would have been better for her. I would have really cared for her. Maybe I wouldn't have given her everything she needed, but at least with me she would have been safe." He said with a tiredness from which his companion sighed heavily. He lifted his gaze to her as her hand grasped his and squeezed it.

"I know." She replied softly.

He swallowed hard, feeling a pleasant warmth in his lower abdomen as he saw her soft, misty gaze, feeling her warm thumb stroke his palm. He grunted as he felt his manhood pulsate in his breeches at the thought that, indeed, his cousin was a very fine woman.

He had always liked her sharp tongue and confidence.

"Have you ever lain in bed with a woman?" She asked him suddenly, and he drew in the air loudly, shocked, feeling that his cheeks had certainly turned red with shame.

He didn't know what to answer.

He didn't want to humiliate himself with words that he had absolutely no experience in these matters knowing that she had a more liberated approach to these affairs.

Daemon, as her father, had expressed no dissent, so who was he to lecture her?

She sighed quietly, seeing his reaction, or rather lack thereof, and rose from her seat, turning her back to him, gripping the ties of her bodice with her hands.

"I need you to help me."

Baela was a calm and patient teacher − it seemed to him that she took great satisfaction in his lack of understanding of what she was actually doing to him as she sank down on his swollen manhood again and again with a moan of delight − her brown naked skin glistened wonderfully in the light of the blazing fire, her white curls falling over her shoulders in disarray, her full lips parted in obvious desire from which he felt his fulfilment approaching embarrassingly fast.

She made sure he didn't fill her with his seed, letting him instead come down on her abdomen with his low moan of pleasure, his length pulsating and twitching in her hand for a while longer. He licked his lower lip dry with emotion, looking at her in disbelief, a soft, shy smile on her face.

"− you're beautiful −" He whispered, and she giggled under her breath and kissed him in a way from which he felt hot in his heart.

She made him forget, at least for a moment, what was happening around them, finding in her both friend and lover, the confidante of all his secrets.

She was not jealous of his sister − on the contrary, he had the impression that she understood the source of his anger and disappointment, herself having no intention of explaining to him what she was doing and with whom.

It seemed to him that their relationship and its freedom suited them both.

Of course, they both knew that in the end they would experience a marriage that would inevitably be purely political, and they understood what that entailed.

Then their grandfather was injured on one of his expeditions, and Vaemond Velaryon challenged his younger brother's rights to the throne of Driftmark.

Knowing the truth about his parentage and at the same time refusing to accept it, he became enraged, sad and depressed at the same time − Baela's words of comfort that they would find a solution and not allow themselves to be intimidated did not reassure him.

Once again, his uncle and his family were trying to take their inheritance from them.

His return to King's Landing was a shock to him; to his disappointment, he felt like an intruder there, and it seemed to him that was exactly how he was perceived by everyone.

He felt a drop of cold sweat run down his neck, his stomach twisting with discomfort when he saw his uncle in the distance, wielding his sword as if it weighed nothing, easily defeating Criston Cole, pressing its blade against his neck.

He was tall, muscular, his long white hair, proof that he was in fact a Targaryen partly tied at the back of his head with a black ribbon, his jaw long and sharply defined, his gaze wild and cold, terrifying.

He smiled mockingly at the sight of them, playing with the hilt of his sword between his fingers as if he wanted to devour them.

He felt ashamed at the thought that he was terrified.

And then his uncle spotted their sister in the distance − his heart beat harder at the sight of their expressions.

It seemed to him that this reunion years later had caused them pain, as they both froze, breathing heavily, looking at each other as if there was no one else around.

His uncle hummed under his breath and turned away, nodding at Ser Criston, taking another swing with his sword.

Even though he hadn't cared what happened to her for so many years, even though he had humiliated her at supper by calling her Lady Strong, she had confessed in front of everyone that her place was with him.

He looked at her in disbelief, wondering what she was doing, why she had stooped to courting him when it was obvious that her uncle had neither respect nor affection for her.

After a moment, he heard his uncle's cold, trembling, deep voice.

"So it is decided, father. We will marry."

"How could our mother agree to this? How could she let her stay there?" He asked furiously, circling around his chamber in Dragonstone; Baela sighed heavily, turning her head away. She looked at him finally, hesitation in her gaze.

"I didn't tell you because I knew it would only enrage you and you wouldn't leave her alone." She said tiredly − he halted in half-step, looking at her over his shoulder, feeling his heart pounding like mad.

"You didn't tell me about what?" He asked dryly, frustrated and concerned.

Baela let out a loud breath, shaking her head. They were now betrothed, and although he thought they both seemed to have accepted their families' decisions with relief, he couldn't rejoice.

"My father told me that she had been sending him letters all these years. That the same night we arrived in the Red Keep she spent the night in his chamber."

He stared at her dully, feeling that it made him sick to his stomach, as if he were about to vomit, his face taking on an expression of disgust.

So she didn't write any poetry then, he thought with regret and pain.

"− how could she do this − expose our mother to humiliation and gossip −"

"Jace. She never stopped loving him. I think she's naive too, but you'd have to be blind not to see that she never really accepted it all. I don't know what I think about it myself." She admitted, running her hand over her face.

"You don't know what you think about it? I'll tell you. Our uncle will play with her and take advantage of her, and then he will put her up to ridicule and hand her over to us. He won't marry her." He growled angrily, burying his face in his hands, wondering how she could be so foolish, how she could believe that he had sincere intentions about her.

"The matter of succession is on a knife-edge. Perhaps our grandfather is right? A union between our mother and the Queen could really ease the situation." She muttered, clearly looking for anything comforting in the situation, which he completely failed to understand.

Had everyone around him lost their minds?

"My uncle who thinks we are bastards is supposed to alleviate the situation? He will never agree to let me sit on the throne and I am supposed to give him my sister?" He asked in disbelief; Baela tightened her lips at his words, frustrated.

"You speak of her as if she were an object. It's always been that way."

He felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine at her words, every muscle in his body tensing like a string.

"What do you mean?" He asked coolly.

Baela sighed heavily, clearly trying not to explode and form her thoughts so as to be honest but not cruel.

"You think she was born to fulfil your whims? That the fact that you are her eldest brother gives you precedence to lie in bed with her?"

He felt himself blush with shame at her question, shocked.

Discomfort and arousal surged through his lower abdomen at the thought.

"Do you think that's what I mean? I'm just trying to…"

"Yes, Jace. I've never witnessed you ask her how she feels, what she needs. I am fond of you, but you are a selfish boy, not a man."

He felt ashamed at the thought as tears gathered under his eyelids at her words, a terrible, cold shudder shook his body, his heart began to pound like mad.

You are a selfish boy, not a man.

Her words so offended him that he stopped speaking to her despite her pleas, and then the thing he feared most happened.

The King was dead, Aegon had stolen her mother's throne and his uncle had imprisoned his sister.

They had made a mockery of them.

He had been right all along, but no one listened to him.

"Forgive me, Jace." Baela muttered, placing her hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him, sighing heavily, laying her head on his thigh, and he involuntarily stroked her hair, feeling superiority, feeling strength.

He was going to fight for his mother's crown and bring his sister home.

In order to do so, at the behest of their mother, he flew to Winterfell to ask Cregan Stark for his support in this cause, reminding him of the oath his father had taken before her.

The North seemed to him a beautiful and wild place, so far from what he knew − the snow-covered hills, the austere fortresses of dark stone, the robes that looked only grey, black or brown around him gave him a sense of modesty and space.

Lord Stark's nature appeared to be similar to his, and the few days he had spent in his company hunting and riding horses had actually made him feel good − he felt like someone worthy with him, a true heir to the throne, not a bastard.

It was this feeling that, seeing the young Lady Snow from afar, he allowed himself to be enchanted by her charms and lay in bed with her.

Like a real man.

When he arrived back in Dragonstone he learned that Luke had just returned from Storm's End and that he had seen their sister.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." Growled Daemon, shocked and horrified by his naivety, burying his face in his hands, unable to look at him.

"Daemon." Their mother rebuked him, all pale, her hand clenched on her womb. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." His brother muttered, and he felt his heart stop, he and Baela looked at each other quickly.

She had tried to take her own life.

Because of this bastard, his sister could be dead.

His hands clenched into fists at that thought.

"And then?" Pressed Daemon in an impatient voice.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." He mumbled and he slammed his fist on the table, feeling fury and rage boiling up inside him.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He growled red with anger − Daemon threw him a single, drawn-out look.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He continued, pretending not to have heard his outburst.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." Luke said. Daemon sighed heavily and leaned over, placing his hands on the top of the stone table, thoughtful.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

Baela followed him into his chamber in an attempt to calm him down.

"How can he want to pact with that fucking traitor? His brother stole my mother and his wife's throne!" He shouted in her face − his betrothed dropped her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Since he let them meet, maybe there is something to it. My father knows what he's doing, I trust him. I believe he will bring her home."

"You're naive. You always have been."

"And you're vain. You always have been."

He pressed his lips together at her words, feeling his heart pounding like mad, feeling like something was about to explode inside him.

"I met a woman in Winterfell who I took to my bed." He muttered finally, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Part of him wanted to hurt her, and part of him wanted to be honest with her.

That was what they had promised each other.

Baela laughed at his words in disbelief and shook her head − he had a feeling he saw a shadow of regret in her gaze, but he wasn't sure if it was because of his confession or because she understood why he said it now.

"If you wish, I'll relate to you how I spent my time in your absence, but I'm not sure you'll be able to look into this guard's face afterwards." She sneered, lifting her chin high, looking at him defiantly. He felt a wave of hot shame and anger surge through his body.

"After we're married…are you going to continue this?" He asked uncertainly and she cocked her head to the side.

"If you are not faithful to me, I will not remain faithful to you. You are dear to me, but don't think I will cry for you. Certainly not like your sister cried for her uncle. Part of me has always envied her that she experienced such a deep feeling in her life even if it burned her from the inside for so many years." She said with a kind of regret from which he felt a squeeze in his stomach, but he answered nothing to her words.

He knew that they did not love each other.

They were close and felt comfortable together, but they weren't mad about each other.

He believed it just had to be this way.

He waited impatiently along with his mother and the others gathered for Daemon to return from his meeting with their uncle, simultaneously terrified and angry that they were speaking with traitors instead of fighting.

When they heard the squeal of Caraxes in the distance his mother stood up, pale, holding her hand on her womb again, as if remembering the time when she had carried her only daughter under her heart.

His other sister had died before she was even truly born.

When Daemon stepped into the main hall everyone was already waiting for him; he sighed heavily, placing his Dark Sister on the table top, folding his hands in front of him, straightening.

"Your daughter married her uncle of her own free will. My nephew has conveyed to me that his brother-cunt will relinquish the throne he stole from you if it is your daughter's children and his who become heirs to the throne or, in the event they do not conceive a son, ours − Viserys and Aegon. He demands the exclusion of Jace, Luke and Joffrey from the succession." He said dispassionately. He looked at his mother seeing that she had run out of words.

"− mother − this is −"

"− leave us − all of you −" She ordered.

"− mother − this is my inheritance − mine −" He began, but felt Baela's grip on his arm.

"− Jace − that's enough −"

He sat in his chamber thinking only of the fact that his mother was just contemplating whether or not to agree to deprive him of his inheritance, to acknowledge that he was her bastard despite the fact that he was her firstborn son, despite the fact that Laenor Velaryon had acknowledged him as his heir.

"− Jace −" Baela muttered, seeing his condition.

"− leave −" He said. He heard her sigh heavily as she approached him with a rustle of her gown, kneeling at his feet.

"− Jace − I'm on your side − I always have been − don't you see me as your companion? − your friend? − your lover? −" She asked with a pained expression that startled him. He lowered his hands and looked at her − his palm rose to her cheek, which he stroked with a tender, slow gesture.

"− you resent me − you don't see me as a man, but as a child −"

"− that is not true −"

"− I don't want your pity −"

"− Jace −"

"− you were right − I don't want to frustrate you and I understand all the accusations about me that you've made − my whole life I've been trying to be someone I'm not −" He finally replied, his betrothed's fingers grasping his hand and squeezing it.

"− that's what I mean − stop pretending − be honest with yourself −"

"− do you want me to be honest? − very well then − my mother has never asked my opinion on any important matters − Daemon treats me as if I am an imbecile and mocks me − I am both a first-born son and a bastard − my uncle wants to deprive me of everything, he wants me to be a nobody and why? − because when I was a child I gave him a pig? − god, I regret it, it was a cruel joke − I regret that he lost an eye, I regret that a dragon didn't hatch from his egg − but even if I had said that, what good would it have done − he would have laughed at me saying I am a weak cunt −" He muttered and burst out sobbing like a small child, hiding his face in his hands. Baela embraced him and cuddled his face into her oil-scented neck, stroking his hair.

"− I am grateful to you − I am grateful to you that you are honest with me − I am grateful to you that you have never lied to me −" She whispered and he wept softly, tightening his hands on the material of her gown feeling that the closeness of her body brought him solace.

"− I am grateful to you too − forgive me for not being what you deserve −" He mumbled, sniffling loudly, trying to calm the convulsions of his body and his ragged breathing.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for your forgiveness −"

When his mother came to his chamber that evening, he knew what decision she had made even before she opened her mouth.

"− Jace −" She began, and he turned his head away, panting with rage, burning tears of humiliation under his eyelids.

"− after all this − after all you've sacrificed − are you going to let them win? −"

"− how would I be a just Queen if I thought only of myself instead of the good of the kingdom? − any other solution will mean war with our own kin − is there anything else more displeasing to the gods? −" She muttered in a breaking voice in which he could clearly hear that she herself was suffering immensely.

"− you let them dictate their terms −" He said in disbelief, looking at her at last. His mother pressed her lips together at his question.

"− no − I intend to impose my own demands on them – none of them will be allowed to sit on the throne − none of them will wear the crown − they will be rulers-regents until their son, the rightful heir, is born −" She replied, forcing herself to be calm.

"− and if no son is born to them? − will you exclude me from the succession then? − your first-born son? −" He mumbled in pain, hitting his chest with his palm. Rhaenyra drew in air loudly, her eyes red from tears of pain and grief.

"− it's my fault − not yours − me and Laenor really tried, but −"

"− I don't want to hear it − I won't listen to it − why did you let me come into the world? −"

"− Jace −" She mumbled − he heard the rustling of her gown as she took a step towards him, but he held up his hand showing that he didn't want her to come near him.

"− I will leave Dragonstone to you − it belongs to me and I can give it to whomever I wish − no one will challenge your rights in this case, you will finally be able to live the life you deserve −"

"− I was meant to be King −" He hissed, and she swallowed hard.

"− as was I − but perhaps we are not meant to be − pride steps before a fall −" She said drily, her chin lifted high.

"− what does Daemon have to say in the matter? −" He asked lowly.

"− he is furious, but he will do as I command − just as you −"

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Consequences | Epilogue

Word Count: 1.6k~

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading this story! The interactions with you all have been great and the comments, likes, reblogs, the insight you all have into this story, it gives me flutters, so thank you all so much. I hope this Aemond dies in a hole 😙

Series Masterlist 

They say Harrenhal was haunted.

 A most wretched, cavernous place. Said to have been built brick by brick with human blood mixed into the mortar.

 Originally, Aemond would have thought these the tales of lowly peasants, with nothing better to do with themselves than to incite fear amongst one another in the pursuit of something exciting. Something to fill their dull, miserable short lives with a sense of adventure and a morbid curiosity.

 It was true, the hallways had whispers, seemingly without anyone there. A thousand different voices, all merged into one distant, unintelligible breath. Calling out to whatever living soul had even dared to step within its walls.

 It was utterly maddening.

 Aemond knew better than to believe in ghosts and deathly whispers.

 The only whispers he listened to were those of Alys Rivers, they seemed to hold the only slither of truth, as vague as they were.

 Harrenhal had been abandoned when he arrived, and it was no wonder. If he knew, sitting right where he was now before the fireplace, what this place could do to a person, he would never have come.

 But he could not have stayed there, at the Keep.

 She was there. With her scathing, judgemental stare. As if she had any right to judge him, Aemond thought, the lowborn cunt.

 He wanted to wrangle her pathetic neck for the way she spoke to him. She was older, and more sure about her words than the other maidservants and was not afraid to show her disgust for him on her face at all times. Several times she spoke above her station and Aemond was wound tight, about to snap at any moment.

 And his mother…

 She was distant. Had been since the day she had stormed into Aegon’s chambers. Not only form her eldest but from him as well.

 Her distaste for Aegon’s actions was always apparent, though she loved him, she showed it with her hand and tongue. Several times Aemond had witnessed her strike him across the face, before he was King anyway.

 But with Aemond, she employed silence as her means to show her distaste for his actions, although she had made no obvious indication that she knew what he’d done.

 It was like being a child again. Aemond hated that.

 He was a man grown and yet here he was, being chastised by women wherever he went.

 Getting out of the Keep meant getting away from not only her and his mother. But from the memories and regrets that lived there.

 The memories of her life.

 The many, many regrets.

 He had hoped that amongst her possessions, she might at least have kept a diary. So that he might at least have known her thoughts and feelings, imagining her reading them to him in her sweet, soft voice. Only to be hit with the realisation that she, amongst a lot of other maidservants, could not read nor write. So he was further doomed into the awareness of just how far up in this hierarchy Aemond really was, compared to these meek, feeble women, who would toil for their betters ‘til their last breath.

 He would even have settled for a lock of her hair. Perhaps that one that was always free of her braids at the side of her face, curly and unbending to the will of the rest of it. All he had were the memories of reaching out and touching its soft strands, running his fingers through her tresses to her skin, warm and alive.

 Gods, he missed her voice.

 Sometimes, when he was alone, staring at the flames of the fireplace as he so often was, he would think of how she had referred to him.

 Your grace.

 Only once had she called him by his name. Clearly that is. The second time he had the poor girl underneath him, thrusting up into her. Even now, he remembered her desperate whines. But she’d said it with his title in front of it. Tainted by it.

 He so desperately wanted to hear his name from her lips, without prompting her, as if it was as natural as saying her own. All the times she had, she had been forced or obliged to.

 He missed her flesh. And how utterly perfect she felt, inside and out.

 But with her passing came another realisation. That beside her position as a maidservant, he knew nothing about her. And with how much time had passed between her passing to now, he was forgetting what she looked like, her mannerisms, her scent.

 Aemond tried so desperately not to forget her face. It was like watching someone drown. Looking down into the depths of the water at their face as they sank, until the water swallowed their features in its murky void. Until there was nothing left.

 He willed it into existence.

 But it also meant having to remember what he did.

It is a small mercy she died in her sleep. In peace. So that she did not have to look upon your face. That’s what Hedi had said once.

 He thought guilt would come to him, or perhaps a form of karma. Knowing perhaps that if this war had to end, perhaps he’d have to fight or die to end it.

 He’d done his part, as his King had requested, in slaughtering House Strong and taking Harrenhal for himself. There was but one survivor of House Strong, one he found multiple uses for since sparing her life. Alys Rivers.

 As well as using her as a vessel for his desires, he often sought her ability to see visions of the future. He hoped he could tell him what his fate might be and what would await him the longer this war carried on, but his tempers were starting to flare once more when she said she could only see obscurity. Her visions were dim, without real substance nor real clarity.

 It was like being stuck in the middle of a story, without the decency to have the plot to complete it.

 The maids came and went into his chambers, knowing not to speak to him and instead doing their various duties with caution in their step. Ser Criston had said he would deal with the staff, which could only have meant one thing.

 These girls were new to the job, having been rushed to employment from their various hometowns to start their positions, but ultimately having no choice but to be accustomed to it. They were quiet at least, went about their business with a softness in their fear of the One-Eyed Prince.

 They needn’t have bothered with their fear, he thought.

 He was long disinterested.

 Since her.

 He was vaguely aware of the maidservant in his periphery, adding more logs to the fire in front of him. It was a small victory that they did not try to speak to him. Aemond twirled the written and wax-sealed scroll in his hand, between his fingers, addresses to the King on what he had done.

 Once the maidservant was finished, she stood and brushed her sooty fingers on her apron. Her hair was braided loosely down her back which spoke to just how green the staff were, that prim and proper style adopted by the Keep was clearly not something that was adhered to in other regions of Westeros.

 He opened his mouth, holding the scroll out for her to take to the messenger, until she turned around.

 Your grace.

 Those eyes.

 Those lips.

 Her hair.

 His heart was beating fast in his chest, hot whips of panic making him break out into a sweat. And before he knew it he had retreated a few paces, the chair loudly scraping against the flagstone floor, his breathing laboured and tight against his leather doublet, insides fit to burst with utter dread.

 His eye quickly flew about her face, trying to make sense of this horror that had filled his stomach. Bile started to rise in his throat. Limbs felt as if they were not his own.

 Your grace.

 She had not said a thing and only stared at the prince with shock, wondering what she had done, the surprise of him reacting the way he did made her breathe heavier.

 Every time he blinked, behind his eye, he saw what he’d seen in his nightmares.

 But it was not her.

 But someone who looked so alike to her that it terrified him all the same. The only difference was her eyes and young face, still plump with her youth and her form which was smaller and not yet that of a grown woman.

 Aemond.

 “Your grace?” the young woman had said in a quiet, fearful voice.

He wanted to vomit. Those voices that carried down the hallways of this wretched castle had all formed into her voice. All he could see was her form, drenched in her blood as he imagined she was when she had died. The blood that he could not deny was on his hands.

 No. He couldn't face it.

It cannot be.

 “Get out”

 He was not sure who he was talking to.

 This girl.

 Or her.

 She did not move. Too paralysed by his flighty reaction. Flashes of her face and the other took his vision.

 “Get. Out”

 She eventually found her courage, almost tripping over herself to scramble to the doors. Doing as he had ordered and left.

 Aemond never saw her again.

 The shame, guilt, anger was all renewed. The flames had been fanned, and he was on the pyre. Burning alongside her.

 His hands gripped at Vhagar’s reins tightly, as if all his power and control on her would fade if he were to let go.

 He thought that by doing what he did, some of that power would come back. That perhaps some of that control would be restored to him as it slipped so effortlessly out of his grasp.

 Everything was fire.

 Fire and Blood.

 There was not a speck of green that Aemond had not burned.

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

Consequences Taglist: @iiamthehybrid @manitskatrina @dahlias-and-marigolds @okfashionista @the-common-cowgirl @toodlesxcuddles  @darkenchantress @magnificentdelusionr   @tinykryptonitewerewolf @tssf-imagines @mandiiblanche @xdeath-soulx  @daemonlover @iiamthehybrid @thedamewithabook @hiatuswhore @apollonshootafar @ladymarg0t @hopeless-addiction-love @leeleebabe101 @babyblue711 @croatianprincess @what-is-your-wish @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @garnetbutterflysblog @queenmizuki @tempt-ress @ithoughtulikedme @babyblue11 @qyburnsghost​ @heavenly1927​ @madislayyy​ @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @eddiemunsonsgroupie @iloveallmyboys @malynn​ @qorirah

*Bold means I couldn’t tag, if I can't tag you you can always turn on notifications for when I post. DM me if you wanna be removed besties

[jaimeslanisters]

dominoes cascading in a line — the library

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

You beam, bright and happy, and he wonders if the real treasure in the Rock wasn’t in its gold or its wealth but rather in the daughters it produced. or moments in aemond's life with a lady of house lannister

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 2.5k notes: surprise bitch. i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me i promised you guys a dominoes before pawn, didn't i? (: pawn will be coming up and i will be hitting 100k with the next chapter lol sos

Aemond had been six when he first realized his father didn’t love him. It hadn’t been a momentous occasion or anything like that. There hadn’t been an offhand comment or a particular action that had prompted this realization, no big dramatic scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He had just looked up one day and looked at his father, at the rotting king in all of his glory, and known that Viserys Targaryen would never care for any of his children with Alicent Hightower, that he would be a stranger to all but one of his children.

He had been six and it had been his birthday.

The children of Viserys Targaryen had had differing responses to that disquieting truth. Aegon lashed out, drinking and whoring and failing at being anything resembling a leal son. Helaena turned inwards, closing herself off from everyone except her brothers, focusing her attention on caring for her insects in a way their father would never do for her. Daeron was inarguably delusional about the whole thing. Father loves us! He’d used to cry, face bright and red, fists clenched at his side. It’s just really hard for him to show it! He loves us! He loves us! He loves us!

At least, he had been delusional. Across the continent in Oldtown, perhaps he had come to terms with it. Father hadn’t gone along to accompany him and say goodbye even if Lord Hand Lyonel Strong had tried to insist on it, had wanted to frame it like an act of goodwill and diplomacy.

Father had said no. He hadn’t given a reason or tried to excuse his behavior. He simply hadn’t wanted to.

Even Daeron couldn’t be foolish enough to try and twist that truth.

Aegon strayed. Helaena hid. Daeron lied.

Aemond couldn’t afford to do the same.

If his siblings couldn’t confront the truth, couldn’t face it, he would. He would be their shield, their sword.

That involved training with the knights in the yard, focusing rather than goofing off like Aegon and their Velaryon nephews. It involved learning all the warrior arts and practicing until he felt like he was about to collapse and then continuing to train past that point until he actually did.

But mostly it involved studying.

Otto Hightower no longer lived in King’s Landing - he hadn’t since even before Aemond had been born - but that did not mean he had relinquished his tight control on his family that still remained in the capitol. His grandfather must have exhausted the ravens and the couriers with the long journey from Oldtown to King’s Landing, sending a couple of letters every month. Sometimes there would be one for Helaena and those were usually accompanied by an ivory statue of a bug or a book that he bought her as a present. Rarely there would be one for Aegon and his brother would always read it as soon as it was handed to him and tear it to shreds as soon as he was done. Once, Aemond had managed to snatch it from him before he could and, in the seconds before Aegon had tackled him to the ground in an uncharacteristic fit of violence, he had managed to catch onto one line.

The greatest curse onto this family is that you were born before Aemond.

It had been easy to let Aegon snatch the letter away after that. He hadn’t tried to get a hold of another letter since.

His grandfather had plenty to say to Aemond directly as it was.

There was always a letter for Aemond from Grandfather. Otto Hightower was not an affectionate man and the letters were always dry and straight to the point, outlining lessons and books that Aemond needed to read if he was to be a good and faithful son of House Targaryen. Rarely did he ever express any emotions in his words and, if he did, it was always shadowed by a sharp reminder of his duty to his family and to the realm.

Still, reading his letters always made Aemond desperately wish that his grandfather was still the Lord Hand, that he was still in the capitol to personally supervise his studying, to give him critiques and the rare praise.

Otto Hightower was a cold father. A poor father if his mother’s neurosis was anything to go off of.

But a poor father was better than no father at all.

It didn’t matter at the end of the day. He didn’t need anyone to hold his hand through the process, certainly didn’t want anyone to. Years of being on his own with only books for company had trained him well. He was used to holing up in the library, hidden away in the back by stacks and stacks of books with only an old, half-deaf septon for company. People didn’t usually come looking for him but people never came looking for him in the library.

Which is why it was especially a surprise when you stumble onto his hiding spot, eyes wide like a doe.

Since the week of your arrival, admittedly, Aemond has been avoiding you. If he thinks back to it, about how his cheeks had flamed red with embarrassment, how you had smiled and he had thought there was never anything as beautiful in the world, he wants to throw himself off the highest tower in the Red Keep out of pure and utter shame.

As sweet as you are and as kind as you can be, you’re a Lannister.

People always said that there was no limit to Lannister pride or ambition and that certainly had to be true for even a little lioness like yourself.

You might be kinder and sweeter than Aemond had thought you would initially be but that didn’t change the fact that there was only one reason that a daughter of House Lannister would stray so far from the Rock.

You were looking for a husband and, if there really was no limit to Lannister ambition, you could only have one goal set in mind.

Aegon.

With the image of you turning your pretty smiles onto Aegon playing before his eyes, he straightens up in his seat as you slow to a stop in front of him.

“My apologies, my prince. I did not expect to find anyone else here.” You say, stumbling slightly over your words in your rush to explain yourself. In your arms, you clutch a book tightly to your chest and it’s only the fact that he’s read that specific book more than a dozen times over that he can recognize it without seeing the name.

His throat is dry and there’s nothing he wants more badly than to just nod and turn back to taking extensive notes on the history of the Andals landing in the Fingers and stubbornly ignoring your existence.

Instead, he rises to his feet, bowing his head, wishing desperately he didn’t feel that slight warmth inside of his chest. “It’s no problem.” He looks down at the book in your arms and, before he can stop himself, he blurts out. “Are you reading Watchers on the Wall?”

You nod, smiling, and Aemond wonders if this is how animals feel when they first stumble into a trap, when their feet land into the snare and they’re yanked upwards to dangle defenselessly.

It can’t be. He doubts they enjoy it as much.

He starts pushing you on the book, carefully and cautiously. You may have just convinced someone else to give you a summary of it, after all, in order to endear yourself to the royal family.

But just as you had when you had first met him, you catch him off guard again.

You’re sharp and quick-witted and, if the fact that you had asked Maester Rodrik to give you further insight on Brandon the Breaker meant anything, you were just as voracious with learning as he was.

He wants to resent you.

He wants to resent you so bad.

But he can’t, not with the way your eyes light up as you talk about the Wall, about the Night’s King and his corpse queen. You lean in close to him, closer than anyone who wasn’t a member of his family has ever done. It’s not inappropriate, nothing that someone would scold or deride you for, but it’s closer than anyone has ever wanted to be to him.

It’s intoxicating and, for once, Aemond understands why Aegon is constantly imbibing, why he drinks more wine than he does water.

If it feels as nice as this does, some of his brother’s behavior finally makes sense.

When you finish your conversation, and you rise to your feet to leave, Aemond feels an unfamiliar panic rise up in him and, before he can think it through, he speaks. “If you’re not busy, you can stay and read some more. There are other stories in the book that I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts on.”

You smile as bright and lovely as ever.

You settle back in your seat and Aemond turns back to his notes except now, he can’t think about the crossing of the Andals, can’t make his mind focus on all of the petty kings that had fought in vain against the invaders. All he can think is about how the two of you are sitting close enough that, when you flip a page in your book, the sleeve of your dress catches on his tunic.

It’s all appropriate. You’re both ten. You’re children sitting and reading in a library. Not even the most pious septon could find fault nor could the most insidious gossip find any fodder for their rumors.

But it doesn’t stop his heart from beating loud and hard in his chest.

No one ever wants to be this close, save his mother.

There must be something wrong with you. There must be. Perhaps you think that he’ll tell Aegon about your sweetness, about your cleverness, and your desire to learn.

He won’t care, he wants to tell you. He won’t care about anything except for what’s between your legs.

But he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits with you, listening to the sound of you turning the pages quietly and the rustle of your clothing.

Eventually, he turns back to his notes, forcing his eyes to focus on the book in front of him.

House Shell was only one of several Houses to ally with the Andals when they first arrived, believing that their only chance of survival was capitulating to the vastly stronger invading force. Their faith was ill-placed.

Eventually, he gets a fraction of his focus back but you’re still there, teasing at the periphery. Occasionally he’ll get a whiff of the fragrant oil that you must use in your hair or you’ll hum or mumble about something you read. You don’t just fade into the background. You seemingly are impossible to minimize, impossible to shove into a box.

Aemond sighs, wishing he was stronger. How could he be a loyal and brave son of House Targaryen if the first pretty girl to give him attention made his head spin like this? What would his mother say? What would Grandfather say?

He continues to read, burying his head deep into the book until the only thing he can think about is the Shells - the Shells and the complete and total destruction of their House. He focuses on the story of Dywen Shell, about how the Andal warlords roasted him inside his own longhall. He focuses until he can hear the screams and wails of the Shell family as they watched their patriarch burn, until he can almost feel the flames licking up his sleeves.

He scratches down his notes, pretending that he doesn’t notice you similarly keyed in on your book.

What part is she at?

If you had stopped at the Night’s King and his corpse queen… next up was the Rat King. After that was Symeon Star-Eyes. They were both popular stories, ones that people told to their children without ever having touched Watches on the Wall. The book went into slightly more detail, particularly with Symeon. The songs liked to say he was blind and that he had placed sapphires in his eyes to show his devotion to chivalry.

The maester who wrote the book had a starkly different opinion. Symeon Star-Eyes was, more likely than not according to Maester Lewys, a sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch, renowned for both his skill in combat and his abnormally bright blue eyes. Chivalry, the maester postulated, would not be introduced into Westeros until after the coming of the Andals, well after the death of Symeon.

You hadn’t been wrong when you had said that the truth was remarkably less interesting than what the singers liked to peddle out.

Far off in the distance, Aemond hears the belltower ring, indicating the turn of the hour. For the first time in his life, he feels a flash of relief that he has to meet up with his brother and nephews in the yards for sword training. While their words could be cruel, they at least were easier to understand than you were.

“I have to go,” he says, gathering up his books and notes as quickly as he can.

You hum, rising to your feet. “I should also probably go and meet up with Princess Helaena. Our septa can be awfully strict about punctuality.”

“It’s a virtue,” he replies, more out of instinct and a desire to fill the air with something than truly believing his words.

He regrets it immediately when you snort in laughter. “Perhaps you could teach us instead of her. You might be less inclined to rapping me on my knuckles when I slip up on a proverb.”

The words spill out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You can come to the library at this same time tomorrow if you want to avoid her. I wouldn’t mind.”

He would mind. He would mind very much if you showed up tomorrow with your easy smile and your bright eyes.

You don’t notice this internal conflict, though. You blink owlishly up at him, as if stunned by the offer. The silence drags on and Aemond feels that all-too-familiar sensation of humiliation and shame creeping up his neck and he opens his mouth to apologize, to take it back, but then you grin broadly at him. It lights you up entirely, brightening even this dark corner of the library.

“Thank you for the offer, my prince,” you quietly reply. “I think I might just take you up on it.”

You bow your head, dropping into a slight curtsey. Your manners are impeccable. Everything about you is designed to endear, to paint the picture of a perfect lady, one gracious and honest and kind.

He knows it's a lie. He knows that you’re hiding something fierce, something mean within you. He wishes he didn’t know that you were. He wishes he didn’t remember that snarl on your face when he had scared you, the way you had seemed ready to claw out his eyes.

He wishes you had never left the Rock.

Aemond doesn’t say any of it, doesn’t poke and prod until he can see that flash of rage that you had shown. He simply nods and prays that you don’t take him up on his offer.