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magmagicstyle · 7 months ago

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THE LITTLE GHOST OF HARRENHAL

In the haunting ruins of Harrenhal, Aemond Targaryen is confronted by the ghost of his nephew, Lucerys. But Lucerys offers something far more painful than vengeance—understanding and forgiveness. Ultimately, Aemond is left with only his memories and the phantom touch of the one he lost forever.

Hi, sorry if there are too many grammatical mistakes. Please be kind and remember that English isn't my first language. The IDEA for this one-shot came thanks to the wonderful @violetastridhotd! Thank you. IF YOU WANT TO READ IT ON AO3: here's the link

The ruinous hallways of Harrenhal stood early quiet, a deep and suffocating kind of silence that wrapped itself around the castle like the shadows clinging to its walls. The once-great fortress was a shell of its former self, scarred and broken by time, just as its current occupant felt himself to be. Aemond Targaryen sat near the hearth, staring into the last flickering flames of a fire that had grown cold, much like the rest of him. His long silver hair was loose, falling in wild strands over his shoulders, and his single eye—sapphire gleaming in the dim light—was fixed on the dying embers. The chill of the castle seeped into his bones, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when the true cold had taken residence within his heart, freezing him from the inside out, making him feel like he had died while staying in the world of the living.

Aemond's mind, once sharp and focused on war and conquest, now swam in the murky waters of regret. How long had it been since he had arrived at Harrenhal? Days? Weeks? Time had lost its meaning in this desolate place, where every corner whispered of death, betrayal, and madness. It felt like it had been a long time since he had claimed this haunted keep, yet he found no solace here. No glory. Only cold stone and darker memories, and the voices that haunted Aemond were not those of the thousands of souls who had perished within Harrenhal's walls. No, the voice that haunted him most belonged to the one person he could never escape.

Lucerys.

Aemond's jaw clenched at the thought of his nephew—the nephew he had chased through the storm, the nephew whose life had been cut short by the dragon he had once believed he could control. Vhagar had snapped him out of the sky like a wolf devouring a lamb, and in that single, terrible moment, Aemond's world had changed forever.

Vhagar... the dammed storm...

The image of Lucerys’ terrified face flashed before him, as vivid now as it had been when he last saw him alive when the storm howled and raged at Storm’s End. The boy's brown curls, his wide eyes filled with fear, and the moment everything had spun out of control. The moment Vhagar... no, the moment he had taken Lucerys’ life .

I didn’t mean for it to happen… That was never meant to happen.

The words echoed in his mind, a futile refrain. But they didn’t matter. Intentions were meaningless now. Regret was meaningless now. It wasn’t like his regret or heartbreak would bring his nephew back to the world of living. It wasn’t like he could have Luke back to hear his laughter, even when it was at his expense. Lucerys Velaryon was dead, and Aemond’s hands were stained with the blood of his kin.

He would never be able to wash it away.

He closed his eye and leaned back in the chair, the flickering light casting harsh shadows across his gaunt features. His body was as exhausted as his soul, but still, sleep would not come. How could it? Every time he closed his eye, he saw it again—the storm, the wind, the look of fear in Lucerys’ wide, innocent eyes. The sickening sound of Arrax's flesh being torn apart and the crunch of bones breaking, Lucerys was so small, so young and he along with his dragon had been torn apart by Aemond's lack of control over Vaghar. The dragon had acted on instinct and no matter how many times Aemond told her not to do anything, it was too late. He can still remember how terrified Lucerys looked...

Luke...

Aemond would always remember the way the young dragon's flesh and blood fell into the sea as he watched from the sky, knowing it was his fault, that he had ended his nephew's life in that horrible way. That image would follow him forever. That… and the terrible, final silence that followed.

Aemond remembered how his lips parted at the horrifying sight. There wasn’t much that would make him feel uncomfortable, after all, he was ready to be a warrior, but the view of the dragon falling and the fact that he had killed Lucerys had shaken him. His lips parted, but no sound came for a few seconds. He had no words left for the grief that was hollowing him out piece by piece, even now, in the middle of the night, in the desolated Harrenhal, he didn’t have words to explain the pain that crushed his heart when he thought about his nephew. He had chased the boy through the storm intending to frighten him—maybe even hurt him a bit, just a small revenge from the damage the younger boy had done to his eye so many years ago—but he never intended to kill him. Not his Lucerys.

“Lucerys…” he whispered in the cold of the room, the name breaking like glass on his lips, and for the first time in days, his eye burned with the threat of tears.

Lucerys, Lucerys, Lucerys… My Lucerys…

A sudden shift in the air made Aemond's breath catch in his throat, his thoughts stopping for a second. The temperature in the room plummeted further, a biting chill that sent a shiver down his spine. He sat up straight, heart pounding, as a faint light seemed to bleed into the edges of the room—a soft, otherworldly glow that he knew should not be there.

Along with the soft gleam that had appeared, the silence of the hall was broken by the faintest of whispers, so soft that Aemond almost thought he had imagined it. But no, there it was again, drifting through the cold air.

"Aemond…"

He froze, his heart hammering in his chest. The voice was achingly familiar—too familiar… And then he saw him.

The ghost of his nephew stood at the entrance to the hall, bathed in the pale light of the afterlife. Lucerys’ face was as gentle and innocent as it had been when Aemond had last seen him—young, with wide brown eyes, a small and kind smile playing on his lips. He looked as he had in life, but with an otherworldly glow that made him seem even more delicate, more fragile.

His small form was dressed in the clothes he had died in, though they were now unmarred by blood or the storm’s water. His hair, dark curls that Aemond had once tugged at in their youth, framed his gentle face. But it was his eyes that held Aemond captive—those same brown eyes that had once looked up at him with fear, now filled with something else entirely.

Forgiveness.

Aemond’s throat tightened, his breath frozen in his lungs. This was not real. It could not be real. But Lucerys—Luke��looked as real as he had the last time Aemond had seen him alive. His lips quirked up into a soft smile, one that made Aemond’s chest ache with a feeling of deep, unbearable sorrow.

Lovely foolish Lucerys… How can you smile in my direction when I’m the one guilty of your death?

“Lucerys?” Aemond’s voice cracked, barely a whisper, as though speaking too loudly would cause the boy to vanish like smoke in the wind. Right now, that was his bigger fear, for him to push away the only presence of Lucerys that he was being blessed with, even if this was probably part of his imagination. “Is it… is it truly you?”

The ghost took a step forward, and the soft glow that surrounded him seemed to pulse, like the fading light of the sun as it set on the horizon. “Uncle… Aemond,” Lucerys said, his voice as soft and kind as Aemond remembered from their childhood, before the war, before the hatred. “It’s me.”

Aemond rose to his feet on trembling legs, his body aching under the weight of his grief. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to stay, to bask in Lucerys’ presence, to beg for forgiveness and absolution from this vision… but at the same time, he wanted to run, to flee from this invention from his mind that threatened to break him apart. Still, he found himself rooted in place. As if sensing his hesitation, Lucerys came closer, his small hands hanging loosely at his sides. He got so close that Aemond could see him clearly now—his nephew, the boy he had killed.

“I…” Aemond’s mouth moved, but the words were stuck in his throat. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to breathe. This was too painful… Too cruel... “Why are you here?” His voice was a broken rasp. “Why do you haunt me?”

Lucerys tilted his head, his expression softening even further, looking at Aemond with sadness and love. “I don’t haunt you, Aemond. I’m not here to hurt you.”

The words stung, cutting deeper than any accusation ever could. Aemond’s heart twisted painfully in his chest. Why? Why would you not want to hurt me? He could feel the tears threatening to spill over, but he forced them back. No matter how much pain he was feeling, how much he felt that his heart was being pulled out of his chest and how he couldn’t breathe from the sheer pressure that he felt at being in front of Lucerys. He did not deserve to cry. Not for this. Not for the boy whose life he had ended.

“I don’t deserve your kindness, Lucerys.” His voice shook, and he looked away, unable to meet those gentle brown eyes any longer.

Why? Why do you look sad for me? Why do you look at me with so much love? I don’t deserve your love.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I took everything from you.” Aemond said almost desperately while looking at the floor, his voice breaking a bit at the last part. He couldn’t bring himself to look up, to look at Lucerys… He didn’t deserve it.

Lucerys stepped closer until he was standing directly in front of Aemond, his presence as gentle and calming as a spring breeze. He couldn’t help it and he looked at his nephew, noticing how the younger boy’s eyes were filled with a warmth that made Aemond’s heart ache in ways he had never imagined.

“You didn’t mean to,” Lucerys said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I know you didn’t mean to kill me.”

Aemond let out a broken, humorless laugh, his shoulders shaking with the weight of his guilt. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his eye burning with unshed tears. He would not cry. He wouldn’t allow himself to cry. “I still did it. Vhagar still—”

“I know,” Lucerys interrupted softly, his tone full of understanding. “But I don’t blame you, Aemond. I never did.”

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt as though the ground beneath him was crumbling. How could Lucerys stand there, looking at him with such love, such forgiveness, when he had stolen everything from him? How could the boy he had killed be the one to offer him the absolution he had so desperately longed for?

“I… I thought I wanted revenge… but I just wanted… I wanted you to love me,” Aemond whispered, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His voice cracked under the weight of his confession, and his hands trembled at his sides. “And I ruined it. I ruined everything.” He said, bitterly. He wanted to scream, cry and curse at the gods that had condemned him to destroy the one person who could truly love him.

Lucerys’ eyes softened, and for the first time since his death, Aemond felt the warmth of another’s touch as the boy reached up to cup his cheek. It was faint, like a breeze barely stirring the air, but it was real. He was real.

Oh… He’s really here.

“I do love you, Aemond,” Lucerys whispered, his thumb brushing softly against Aemond’s skin. “I always have.”

Aemond’s heart shattered. The thread keeping him calm and composed had finally snapped in two. And without being able to stop himself, the tears he had fought so hard to keep at bay broke free, spilling down his face in hot, silent streams. His chest heaved with the weight of his sorrow, his grief, his regret. He had longed for Lucerys’ love, had yearned for it with every fiber of his being, and now he would never know it—not truly.

“I’m so sorry,” Aemond choked out, his voice breaking with the force of his sobs. “I’m so sorry, Lucerys. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Lucerys said gently, his eyes filled with an endless, unconditional love. “I know, Aemond.”

Aemond fell to his knees before the boy’s ghost, his body wracked with sobs as he clung to the hem of Lucerys’ cloak. He could feel his heart breaking all over again, shattering into a million pieces that would never be whole again. He would never know how would it feel to wake up beside Lucerys, to feel his small body between his arms, to kiss his lips. He would never hear his laughter again, his teasing voice, he would never see the pout that he made when he was annoyed at something, and he would never be able to grow old with the love of his life.

Still, Lucerys stood there, his presence a quiet comfort, his love a balm for Aemond’s shattered soul.

“I forgive you,” Lucerys whispered, his voice soft and soothing. “I forgive you, Aemond. You don’t have to carry this burden anymore.”

But Aemond couldn’t let go. How could he? He had taken everything from Lucerys—his life, his future, his happiness. Not only that, he had taken away the possibility of a future together. Because knowing his lovely Luke, he would have found a way to stay together… Aemond didn’t deserve to be free of this regret… And now, his adorable Lucerys was in front of him, offering Aemond the one thing he could never forgive himself for.

“You deserved better,” Aemond whispered, his voice broken and filled with sorrow. “You deserved so much more.”

Lucerys knelt in front of him, his small hand reaching out to touch Aemond’s face once more. “Maybe… Maybe not… but I know I had what I needed,” he said quietly. “I had you, I had your heart.”

Aemond’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, and he closed his eye, his tears still falling freely. For so long, his desires for revenge had covered his real feelings, he, in his dumb, young mind, had wanted to protect Lucerys, to keep him safe, but in the end, he and his foolish actions had been the one to destroy him.

“I will never be free of this,” Aemond whispered, his voice filled with the weight of his guilt. “I will never forgive myself… I won’t…”

Lucerys smiled, his eyes soft and full of love. “Then let me forgive you.”

Aemond looked up at him, his vision blurred with tears. Lucerys’ face was bathed in the soft glow of the afterlife, and in that moment, Aemond saw not the boy he had killed, but the boy he had loved.

And then, with one final, soft smile, Lucerys began to fade, his form dissolving into the misty light of the otherworld.

“I’ll always forgive you, Aemond,” Lucerys’ voice whispered as he vanished from sight, leaving Aemond alone in the cold, empty halls of Harrenhal.

Aemond remained there, on his knees, his tears falling silently onto the stone floor. The warmth that Lucerys had brought with him was gone, the kind touch of his love had faded with him, leaving behind only the icy chill of regret.

But Aemond didn’t move. He couldn’t. His legs felt weak, his body heavy, as if the weight of all his sins had finally anchored him to the ground. The fire had long since died out, and the only light in the room came from the faint moonlight filtering through the broken windows. His heart was still racing, each beat sharp and painful in his chest, he could hear his own heart, hitting against his ribs with painful punches as if it was trying to run away from his body. He couldn’t blame his heart… After all, Aemond felt as if his very soul was being torn apart.

For a long while, he didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. He just existed there, in that hollow space of grief, his mind replaying every moment of Lucerys’ death, and every bit of the conversation he just had with the ghost of his loved one.

I will never forgive myself.

It was the only truth he had left, the only constant in a world that had unraveled around him. Even Lucerys, in his infinite kindness, could not absolve him of this sin. Even if Lucerys could forgive him, even if he could move past his horrible death. Aemond knew that he would carry this burden for the rest of his life, a shadow that would follow him until the day he died. Maybe when he died, he would feel that he could forgive himself.

His breath came shallow now, the weight of it all finally pulling him down. Slowly, without thinking, Aemond sank to the floor. His cape had fallen from the chair earlier, and now it lay beside him, a small, insignificant object that seemed almost out of place in this vast, empty hall. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out with trembling hands, pulling the cape beneath his head as he lay down on the cold stone floor. Maybe he should start the fire again, maybe he should look for a warmer place to pass the night, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away from the last place he felt Lucery’s touch on his skin. He wasn’t able to do it.

The chill seeped through his clothes, biting into his skin, but he didn’t care. He welcomed it—the numbness, the quiet, the peace that could only be found in the void. His long silver hair spread out like a halo beneath him as he closed his eye, his chest still heaving with the weight of his sobs. His body felt like lead, his heart a dead thing in his chest.

Lucerys.

He whispered the name in his mind like a prayer, as if saying it enough times might bring the boy back to him, might somehow undo the terrible wrong he had committed. But of course, it was a futile hope. Lucerys was gone. He was never coming back.

Yet, as Aemond lay there, drowning in his own grief, something strange happened.

A gentle warmth brushed against his cheek, so faint and so fleeting that he almost didn’t notice it at first. His breath hitched, his eye flying open as his heart stuttered in his chest. His hand instinctively rose to his face, fingers brushing over the scarred flesh where his sapphire eye was embedded, but the warmth wasn’t coming from his own touch.

No, this was something else. Something softer.

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat as he lay there, frozen, the warmth growing stronger—like the brush of a hand, the lightest caress, as though someone was touching him with the tenderness of a lover. His fingers trembled as he lowered his hand, his body going rigid as he realized what it was.

Lucerys.

It was impossible, absurd even, but in that moment, Aemond swore he could feel Lucerys’ hand on his cheek—the same gentle touch he had felt earlier when the ghost had stood before him. It was as if Lucerys had come back to him, not as a haunting specter of forgiveness, but as the boy Aemond had longed to love in life.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest, and the tears he had fought so hard to hold back spilled over once more. His breath hitched in his throat, and before he knew it, he was sobbing—great, heaving sobs that wracked his entire body, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His fingers dug into the stone floor beneath him, his body curling in on itself as if he could somehow escape the torment of his own heart.

But still, the warmth remained. Lucerys’ touch lingered on his scarred cheek, soft and loving, as if trying to soothe the pain that had taken root in Aemond’s soul. And for a brief, fleeting moment, Aemond allowed himself to believe it. He allowed himself to believe that what he saw before was real. That the ghost wasn’t a product of his regretful heart but that Lucerys had truly forgiven him, that his nephew had returned—not as a vengeful spirit, but as the boy who had once loved him.

Aemond squeezed his eye shut, his sobs growing quieter, more desperate. He clung to that feeling, to that faint touch, as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice broken and hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

And as the warmth slowly began to fade, as Lucerys’ touch slipped away like the last breath of wind before a storm, Aemond’s heart shattered all over again.

He had been given a glimpse of what could have been—what should have been—and now it was gone. Forever.

The last of his tears fell silently down his cheeks, and as the night deepened around him, Aemond lay there, alone in the cold, broken and hollow. The echoes of his sobs were the only sound in the vast emptiness of Harrenhal, a reminder that no matter how hard he had tried, he would never escape the consequences of his actions.

He would never know Lucerys' love in life, only in the fleeting touches of a ghost.

#lucemond #lucerys velaryon #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x lucerys #angst #hurt/no comfort #house of the dragon

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bellofthemeadow · 1 year ago

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Dawn Ends the Night - Interlude

Aemond Targaryen x FemReader (Dayne)

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 3.5K

Warning: All warnings on the Series Masterlist, will update if necessary (Re-iterating, no minors allowed! Thank you)

Chapter Summary: Every morning, at dawn, for the past fortnight you meet Aemond Targaryen. Will today change things for the better between you two?

Notes: Hello everyone!!! I am writing earlier because I had this scene in my head that I could not fit into a regular plot-driven chapter because it was so long. So instead I turned it into a little interlude between chapters 4 and 5. It focuses on our favourite couple and if you have a thing for the whole regency "OMG THEY GRAZE EACH OTHER!" You will like that one. Its a bit angsty but with loads of fluff at the end. Hope you like it and like always LMK what you all think!

Thank you again to all of you who take the time to comment, like and reblog, you are all so kind and I love you all so much!!! 💜💚💜

See you in the next one xxx

Taglist: @duds31 , @snh96, @lol-im-done, @heavenly1927, @whimsywilde , @queen-123s-posts , @httyd-marauders , @singhfae , @nothing-just-hanging-around

At Dawn

In Starfall, you had been a ghost, haunting its ancient halls. You cherished the late hours, those quiet moments under the cover of darkness where the sky was a canvas of stars. To you, each star was not just a celestial spark but a guardian soul, a sentinel silently watching over the world from the heavens – you imagined they were looking after you when you needed them the most. This nightly ritual, however, came at a cost — mornings often found you rising late, the consequence of surrendering to the tranquil embrace of moonlit solitude.

In King's Landing, the luxuries of being a ghost were behind you. Now, well before the first golden rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, with the dawn barely painting the sky in hues of timid pink and soft orange, Prince Aemond would be at your door ready to eat his morning meal in your company.

Yawning, you gathered your hair, weaving it into a simple yet elegant half-up, half-down style. It framed your face in a way you found particularly becoming. But these early hours beckoned for self-sufficiency as you didn’t wish to disturb your handmaiden at such a time. Thus, you had grown accustomed to readying yourself alone in the quiet of dawn, opting for dresses that required no assistance to don. Today, you chose one of your favorites, a dress perhaps a tad too short by King’s Landing standards, ending mid-calf. Its design was a mixture of airy fabrics and light silks that embraced your form in a flattering caress, and its deep blue hue complemented your complexion beautifully.

Gently, you pressed your fingers to your cheeks, coaxing a rosy flush to the surface. Despite the early hour, it was important to you to look and feel your best. Right on schedule, the familiar, soft knocking at the door signaled his arrival, accompanied by a gentle, "My lady," floating through the wood. A smile spread across your face at the sound. Each dawn spent with Aemond only deepened your desire to spend more time in his company. To learn all you could about this dragonrider, this will-be husband.

You gave yourself a final glance in the mirror before sauntering towards the door. With a playful lilt in your voice, you called out, "And who might be serenading my door at this ungodly hour?"

From the other side came Aemond's mock-serious reply, "My lady, should there be another suitor at your door at this time, I fear I must step in to defend my betrothed honor. A fight to the death perhaps?"

Your laughter rang out, rich and unrestrained, as you swung the door open. Leaning casually against the frame, hand perched on your hip, you greeted him teasingly, "Ah, what a sight – A fierce dragon graces my doorstep."

Aemond rolled his eye, the man teetering between amusement and exasperation, before offering a polite bow of his head. Over his shoulder, you caught sight of Perros, his expression a perfect study in stoic disapproval. Ever since these dawn meetings with Aemond had become a routine, Perros had appointed himself your unofficial chaperone. Chaperoning had never been a tested custom of Dornish culture, but due to his protective nature, Perros had still not warmed up one bit to the idea of the betrothal, even after a fortnight under the Targaryen royal roof and he was looking for anything to hold against Aemond.

You stepped aside, allowing room for Aemond and Perros to enter. Perros, ever the vigilant guardian, promptly made his way to his usual spot in the corner. There, he brooded, his gaze sharp and watchful, tracking every interaction between you and Aemond with hawk-like intensity.

You recalled a morning some days ago when Aemond, in a rare moment of clumsiness, had spilled some jam on your sleeve. His instinctive move to dab it away had provoked an instantaneous reaction from Perros, who leapt to his feet, his voice laced with protective fervor as he reprimanded you both for the supposedly improper contact. The moment had ended with you and Aemond awkwardly distancing yourselves, while Perros took up a stern post at your table on the small balcony, arms crossed in silent disapproval. Aemond had sported a look of utter vexation, his face tinged with a hint of pink, huffing, while you couldn't help but shoot a glare at Perros for his overzealous protectiveness.

You led Aemond to the quaint table on the balcony, its surface crowded with an assortment of dishes. Your taste buds, having grown accustomed to the vibrant spices and flavors of Dorne, found the typical Westerosi cuisine rather uninspiring. Consequently, you had developed a preference for simpler fare – delicate cakes accompanied by soft Vale cheese and a sweet red-berry jam from the Reach, as you could not stomach anything else. If you were to live here, you would need to have a cook brought from Sunspear, you thought.

As you both settled into your seats, a serene quietude enveloped the balcony. The early morning light cast a soft glow on Aemond, accentuating his regal features and rendering him even more striking than usual. You caught yourself momentarily captivated by his appearance and quickly composed yourself. It wouldn't do to let on just how much your betrothed affected you.

"I trust you had a restful night, Prince Aemond?" you inquired softly, putting some berries on your plate.

"Fairly restful," Aemond replied, spreading cheese over a slice of bread. "However, I was somewhat vexed last night. I had intended to read 'The History of Dragon Anatomy' from the library, only to find it had already been taken out. The Maester there mentioned a young lady had taken it just after dinner. Curious, since I had expressed my interest in that very book earlier in the day, to that same lady."

You glanced at him coyly. "How frustrating for you. Perhaps this lady simply wished to delve into subjects that intrigue you, my prince."

Aemond let out a thoughtful hum, carefully layering jam on another slice of bread before placing it on your plate. "And..." he prompted.

"And what, my prince?" you asked, feigning innocence.

"Did you find the book to your liking?" Aemond's tone was casual, but his eye held a playful glint as he took a bite of his cheesy bread.

Your gaze lingered on Aemond as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing quite attractively. The sight inexplicably left your own throat feeling parched.

"The book was quite fascinating," you commented, "Particularly the chapter on dragon scales and their resistance to various metals. In Dorne, we don't have many resources on dragons, so it was a nice change of literature."

Aemond let out a soft scoff. "I imagine not. It would not be wise to provide our enemies with knowledge about how to defeat our dragons. Some would probably say it would be insanity"

Your eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Enemies?"

Aemond paused, meeting your gaze with a hint of uncertainty. "Old enemies, perhaps. You must understand the strategic folly in sharing dragon lore with those who have historically sought to bring them down. Our betrothal itself hinges on the long-standing enmity between Dorne and Targaryen’s dragons."

You bristled at his words. "Perhaps if dragons were not made to attack and lay claim to our lands, the sentiment towards them in Dorne would be different!"

Aemond's eye narrowed, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. "House Targaryen united Westeros by right of conquest. We are neither thieves nor invaders."

"Right of conquest?" you echoed incredulously. "Dorne was never conquered. Your ancestors never succeeded in bringing Dorne under their rule!"

Breakfast now lay neglected as you both locked gazes, each unwilling to yield, to be the first to lower the proverbial banner.

Aemond broke the silence with a measured tone, "Well, here you are now, in King's Landing. So, perhaps the past should remain just that."

Your response was edged with a hint of bitterness. "There's no need to remind me of my place here, Prince Aemond. Your views on my people, and by extension on me, seem quite clear. It must be such a burden to align your esteemed dragon lineage with mine.”

Aemond's eye flickered slightly, a shadow of discomfort crossing his face. "You exaggerate, my lady. I did not imply any such thing."

"Of course, my apologies," you replied, the sharpness in your voice unmistakable. Gathering his plate, you stacked it atop yours, a clear signal of the meal's end. "I trust your breakfast was satisfactory, Prince Aemond. However, I need to prepare for the day. I promised your sister I would meet with her."

Aemond seemed momentarily taken aback, his composed facade faltering. "But we've only just begun, and you've yet to enjoy your favorite jam. Why leave so abruptly?"

"I wouldn't want to impose any longer," you said, your tone firm yet polite. "It might be best for you to leave now Prince Aemond."

A thick silence enveloped the room, heavy with unvoiced sentiments. Prince Aemond, his jaw set in a firm line, rose abruptly from his seat. His movements were rigid, each step resonating with barely restrained anger as he made his way to the door. Upon reaching the threshold, he paused, turning to face you with a stiff, formal inclination of his head. "My lady," he uttered, his voice a strained whisper of formality. Then, with a swift motion, he opened the door and exited, the slam echoing with a finality that reverberated through the room. The resounding closure seemed loud enough to stir the entire wing, making you flinch.

Seated alone at the table, you gazed out towards the horizon, where the sun had begun to cast a golden glow over the morning sky. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you leaned forward, resting your head on your crossed arms atop the table. A soft groan of frustration echoed the turmoil within.

Had you overreacted? Aemond's words about Dorne's historical enmity with the Targaryens weren't unfounded, but his tone, dismissive and tinged with superiority, had struck a nerve. Your Dornish pride, a deep-rooted part of your identity, felt belittled in his presence. It was as if he had trampled upon the history and struggles of your people, reducing them to mere irritants in the grand Targaryen narrative.

Perhaps your reaction had been too impulsive, or maybe your expectations of Aemond were too lofty. The romantic notions you’d harbored, fueled by the tales and books you’d devored in Starfall, seemed naive now in the harsh light of the morning. Yet, Aemond’s daily visits, those moments that had started to become a cherished routine, suggested that maybe there was something more. Had you misconstrued his intentions, read too much into what was merely a princely obligation? The very thought of it twisted in your chest. You were confused and could feel a strange feeling of longing coiling deep within your stomach.

"My lady?" The concern in Perros's voice pulled you from your introspective reverie.

"Mmm?" you hummed, your voice muffled against your arms, still not lifting your head.

"Are you well, my lady?" He inquired gently, worry edging in his tone.

"You must be feeling vindicated," you said, lifting your head to meet Perros's gaze, your laughter tinged with a hint of bitterness. "It seems Prince Aemond has made his views about me quite clear."

Perros regarded you with a steady, thoughtful look. "I've never been fond of him, true. He's too princely, too arrogant. He's not worthy of you," he admitted, and you couldn't help but let out a small, teary chuckle.

"I guess now is the perfect time for your 'I told you so,'" you remarked wryly.

"But," Perros cut in, his tone shifting, "I can't ignore how he looks at you. From the very first day we arrived, he's been drawn to you like a moth to a flame. It's like you're the Maiden reborn in his eyes. And..” Perros took a breath for effect, "I suppose I might have judge the prince too harshly too... I was not to tell you, but Prince Aemond has been joining Davos and me during our training sessions in the yard.”

"He has?" You exclaimed, turning to face Perros - The image of Aemond, a prince of the realm, spending his time with little davos was a stark contrast to the man you had argued with only moments ago.

"Yes," Perros nodded. "He's been taking time to teach Davos the basics of swordplay. You should see the boy's face light up. The prince has a way with him, showing patience I didn't think possible. It's as if he sees something of himself in Davos. The lad's been boasting about it to anyone who'll listen, his chest puffed up with pride. Keep saying it’ll go to his head, but the lad is excited, the prince even said he’d show him that great beast of his. "

A thoughtful frown creased your forehead. "But why keep it a secret? Why didn't Aemond mention it? Why didn't Davos?"

Perros shrugged slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. "I suspect the prince isn't doing it for praise or recognition. Maybe he just wanted to help, to do something good without any fanfare. It's not something I expected from him, but with all my years, I’ve learned that people, even princes, can stil surprise us."

As you pondered his words, Perros placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding. "Speak with him, my lady," Perros advised gently, his voice carrying a wisdom born of years. "Whether he's a princely dragon or not, it's always better to clear the air, especially with matters of the heart.”

You offered a small, contemplative smile. "Perhaps you're right, Perros. I might just do that."

Just then, a series of knocks echoed at the door, you released a weary sigh, wondering aloud, "Do you think that the noise might have woken up mother?"

Perros straightened, ready to take action. "Shall I see who it is, my lady?"

"No, no, it's alright," you quickly responded, waving a hand dismissively. "It's probably mother, or Gerris and Davos. They have this habit of barging into my room to start their day. They find it amusing, I suppose."

But as you opened the door, it was neither your mother, nor Gerris, nor Davos – Standing before you was Aemond. His usually neatly styled hair was slightly disheveled, as if he had been anxiously running his fingers through it, and his solitary eye, usually so sharp and focused, now held a wild, almost frantic quality as he gazed at you

Finally breaking the silence, you found your voice ; “Prince Aemond?”

You were momentarily caught off guard as Aemond pulled you into his arms, his embrace firm yet cautious, tentative as though he was handling something precious and fragile. His body, usually so rigid and imposing, now enveloped you with a breath-stealing, protective warmth, contrasting sharply with the slightness of your own form.

His face buried in your hair, Aemond seemed to be seeking a sort of solace, his breath slow and deep. You could feel the slight quiver in his chest and for a moment, you stood there, unsure, your body rigid in his embrace. But as he inhaled, as if drawing strength from your presence, you felt a surge of want wash over you.

Tentatively, your arms wound around his back, your touch light, almost hesitant. The contours of his body under your fingers felt like the unyielding walls of a fortress, yet there was a tenderness in his hold that belied his outward appearance. The sensation of his breath warming the nape of your neck sent a shiver down your spine, and his voice, thick with emotion, resonated against your soft skin. "I am sorry for my words, my lady. They were careless and unkind," he murmured, his tone laced with a rare vulnerability. "Please, I am sorry. I ask for your forgiveness, but more than that, I beg you, do not shut me out. Not when I feel like I have only begun to know you."

His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if fearing you might slip away, his voice a soft whisper against your hair. "You have every right to turn away from me, yet I find myself selfishly hoping you will not. In you, I've seen a kindness, a strength that I have longed for. Please, my lady, grant me the chance to prove that I am more than my harsh words and hasty judgments."

Nestling closer into his hold, you felt a wave of understanding wash over you. "Perhaps I, too, was quick to judge," you admitted softly. "Your words, though harsh, weren't entirely unfounded. Our kingdoms have been locked in conflict for so long, and both have suffered greatly. It's just that..." You paused, taking a deep breath, grappling with the words that lay heavy on your heart. "I understand the reasons for our union – duty, family, the realm, the crown. But still..." Your voice trailed off, laden with unspoken hopes and fears.

Aemond gently lifted his head from yours, their foreheads meeting in a tender, earnest touch. For the first time since your encounter, you were close, close enough to see the subtle hues in his remaining eye, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. "I too wish for more, my lady, more than you could possibly imagine," he confessed, his voice a soft echo of your own longing.

A timid smile touched your lips, a flicker of the young woman who once dreamt under the stars, the girl who laughed freely. "Back in Starfall, they used to say I was like a ghost. After Gerris was announced as the future lord, I lost a part of myself. I never thought I'd find that girl again – the one who could marvel at the stars, who loved to read and laugh without care." Your smile grew, a hint of old joy resurfacing. "But with you, Aemond... when I'm with you, I feel as if... as if I'm finding her again."

Aemond's smile, a rare and genuine thing, mirrored your own. "And I," he confessed, "feel something I feared was long lost in me too."

Perros's conspicuous throat-clearing echoed in the room, startling both of you into stepping apart, faces flushed with the sudden intensity of the moment. You shot Perros a glare, one that he met with a raised eyebrow and a look that managed to be both unimpressed and protective.

Aemond, regaining his composure with a soft cough, glanced toward the door. "I must take my leave, my lady. Ser Criston awaits me in the training yard, and I dare not keep my sister from you company as she probably awaits you for her early morning beetle hunt," he said.

Your smile returned, a gentle curve of lips that hinted at the warmth you felt inside. "Of course, my prince. Dawn tomorrow then?"

Aemond hesitated, an unusual shyness in his demeanor as he paused at the door. "Actually, I was wondering if I might join you in the afternoon? You spend time with your brother and Davos then, right?"

"Oh, you needn't trouble yourself. Heleana usually takes the twins along, and we all enjoy the gardens together," you explained.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Nevertheless, I would like to be there. To spend time with those you care about."

A genuine smile graced your face. "Then after midday it is."

As Aemond began to exit, he paused once more, turning slightly toward you. "And perhaps after dinner, I could meet you in the library? I could show you more books about dragons. I read them all as a child."

Your smile deepened, warmth spreading through you at the thought. "I would be delighted to receive literary recommendations from the realm's most renowned dragon rider."

Aemond's response was a shy smile, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. He nodded silently, a gesture that spoke volumes of his growing affection, before finally stepping out of the room.

Left in the quiet room, you felt an unfamiliar sensation, a fluttering lightness in your chest, like a bird cautiously testing its wings after a long confinemen. With a dreamy smile lingered on your lips, you turned to face Perros, who stood near the small table, you caught the hint of a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes held a mix of amusement and something softer that you had trouble deciphering, perhaps a reluctant acceptance of the scene he had just witnessed.

With a mock groan, you raised your hand, preempting any comments he might have. "Do not say anything, Perros."

His smile broadened, but he raised his hands in mock surrender. "I wouldn't dream of it, my lady," he replied teasingly.

Shaking your head with a mix of exasperation and fondness, you moved past Perros towards the door. "I have a busy day ahead," you remarked, "And it seems I now have plans for after dinner as well."

Next chapter

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marsi-is-depressed · 4 months ago

Text

Finding a Family series - Chapter 13: Avy jorrāelan

CW: masturbation

Y/n paced back and forth in her room, her chest tight with panic. Her hands trembled as she tried to steady her breathing, but the reality of what her father had told her loomed too large to ignore. A rightful queen. A symbol of the gods’ favor. The weight of it pressed down on her like an iron chain.

“I don’t want it,” she whispered to herself, her voice cracking. “I just want peace. I just want to be free.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and uncontrollable. She gripped the edge of the table in her room, her knuckles white as she fought to contain the storm of emotions swirling inside her. She thought of Rowena, of the quiet mornings they spent together, of the laughter they shared with the animals. That was her life. That was all she wanted.

A soft knock at the door startled her. She quickly wiped at her tears, trying to compose herself, but before she could say anything, the door opened to reveal Aemond. He stepped inside, his expression unreadable, though his single eye immediately flicked to her tear-streaked face.

“Get out,” she snapped, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see her like this.

Aemond didn’t move. Instead, he closed the door behind him and took a step closer. “You’re upset,” he said simply, his tone softer than usual.

“Go away, i’m fine!” she hissed, spinning to face him.

Aemond regarded her for a moment before speaking. “What’s wrong.”

“Then why are you here?” she shot back, glaring at him through her tears.

He said firmly, stepping closer. “I’m here because I heard your cries, you’re hurting.”

The reader froze, her anger faltering as his words sank in. She looked away, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Aemond took another step closer, his gaze steady. “I may not know whats happening but you fight. You fight to keep what’s yours.”

She looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity, but found none. For a moment, she let herself believe that maybe he understood.

When he reached out, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, she didn’t pull away. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said quietly. “And you’re not alone.”

She nodded stiffly, unable to find the words to respond. Aemond gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” he said, turning toward the door. Before he left, he glanced back at her. “If you ever need someone to stand by your side, you know where to find me.”

When the door closed behind him, the reader sank onto the edge of her bed, her mind racing. She stayed there for what felt like hours before finally rising, her resolve hardening.

The dragonpit was dark and quiet as she slipped inside, Rowena safe with her grandfather for the night. The massive stone structure echoed with the sounds of dragons shifting in their sleep, their low rumbles filling the air like distant thunder. The white stag followed her, its graceful movements almost ghostlike in the moonlight.

“This way,” she whispered, leading the stag deeper into the pit. Her steps were quiet, careful, as she made her way to Caraxes’s lair. The massive dragon lay curled in his chamber, his crimson scales glinting faintly in the dim light. His head lifted as she approached, his glowing eyes watching her with curiosity.

“Good boy,” she murmured, reaching out to touch his snout. Caraxes rumbled softly in response, his warm breath washing over her. She turned to the stag, gesturing for it to follow her behind the dragon��s immense form. The stag hesitated for a moment before obeying, stepping into the shadowed space behind Caraxes.

“No one will find you here,” she said, crouching down to meet the stag’s gaze. She ran a hand along its neck, her voice trembling with determination. “You’ll be safe, and no one will know. I don’t care about the iron throne or what the gods think. This is my life, and I’ll protect it.”

The stag let out a soft grunt, as if understanding her words. She stood, her hand lingering on its side for a moment before turning back to Caraxes. The dragon watched her intently, his head tilting slightly as she met his gaze.

“Watch over him,” she said softly. Caraxes rumbled again, his tail curling protectively around the stag’s hiding place.

As she left the dragonpit, her heart felt a little lighter. She had made her choice. The gods may have sent her a sign, but she would decide her own fate. Her peace, her freedom, and her family were all that mattered.

The quiet of the night was shattered by the low, rumbling growl of the direwolf at the foot of the reader’s bed. She stirred, half-asleep, until the sound became more menacing, pulling her fully awake. Before she could react, a gloved hand clamped down over her mouth. Her eyes flew open, meeting the cold, dark stare of an assassin looming over her.

“Where is the child?” he hissed, his voice low and threatening.

The reader’s heart thundered in her chest, but she refused to show fear. She glared at him, her lips sealed beneath his hand.

The assassin’s patience quickly wore thin. “Tell me, or I’ll make you wish you had.” He produced a sharp blade, pressing the edge against her cheek. Pain flared as the steel bit into her skin, a thin line of blood welling up.

The direwolf growled louder, teeth bared, but the assassin ignored it, focused on his target.

In that split second of distraction, the reader’s hand darted under her pillow, her fingers closing around the hilt of a hidden dagger. With a desperate cry muffled by the assassin’s glove, she plunged the blade into his neck. The man staggered back, blood spurting from the wound as he crashed into the small table near the bed. The sound of breaking wood and clattering objects filled the room, jolting Rowena awake.

The toddler’s frightened wail cut through the chaos, and the assassin, clutching his bleeding neck, lunged toward the crib.

“No!” the reader shouted, throwing herself at him. But before she could reach him, the direwolf attacked, leaping onto the assassin with all its weight. The wolf’s teeth sank into the man’s throat, ripping and tearing until he went still. The room fell silent, save for Rowena’s terrified cries and the reader’s ragged breathing.

Blood pooled around the assassin’s lifeless body, staining the floorboards crimson. The direwolf stood over the corpse, growling softly, its muzzle bloodied.

The reader staggered to her feet, her hand pressed to her bleeding cheek. She stumbled to Rowena’s crib, scooping the toddler into her arms. Rowena clung to her, sobbing into her mother’s shoulder. Y/n sat down heavily in the rocking chair, cradling her daughter close as she gently rocked back and forth, trying to calm the child. Her eyes remained fixed on the assassin’s body, her mind racing.

The crash and commotion had woken Daemon and Rhaenyra. They shared a brief, alarmed glance before springing out of bed, grabbing weapons on their way out. Daemon’s face was a mask of fury, his sword gleaming in the torchlight as they ran down the corridor toward their daughter’s chambers.

When they burst into the room, the sight before them froze them in their tracks.

The reader sat in the rocking chair, blood streaked down her cheek and splattered across her nightclothes. Rowena was curled against her chest, her small body trembling as she sniffled into her mother’s neck. The direwolf stood by the chair, its teeth bared, blood dripping from its muzzle as it growled at the intruders.

On the floor lay the body of the assassin, his throat mangled, blood pooling beneath him.

The reader’s eyes slowly lifted to meet her parents’. Her voice was calm but tinged with an edge of hysteria.

“They tried to take her away from me,” she said, her words trembling but resolute. “They came for Rowena.”

Daemon stepped forward, his face ashen with rage and concern. He sheathed his sword and knelt beside his daughter, his hands trembling as he inspected the gash on her cheek.

“You’re hurt,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “We need to get the maester—”

“I’m fine,” she interrupted sharply, though her hand trembled as she stroked Rowena’s hair. The toddler’s cries had quieted to soft whimpers, but her little hands still clung tightly to her mother’s nightgown.

Rhaenyra approached slowly, her eyes darting between the corpse, the blood, and her daughter’s pale face. She crouched beside Daemon, her expression a mixture of horror and determination. “Who sent him?” she asked. “Did he say anything?”

The reader shook her head. “He only asked where she was. He didn’t say who sent him.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed a kiss to Rowena’s hair. “I don’t care who it was. They’ll have to kill me before they touch her.”

Daemon stood abruptly, his fury boiling over. “This was no common assassin. This was deliberate. Whoever did this will pay.” He turned to Rhaenyra, his voice cold and decisive. “Double the guards. No one gets in or out without our approval.”

Rhaenyra nodded, rising to her feet. “I’ll handle it.” She placed a comforting hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You’re brave,” she said softly. “But you need rest. Let the maester tend to you.”

Y/nhesitated, her arms tightening around Rowena. The toddler had finally drifted off to sleep, her face tear-streaked and nestled against her mother’s neck.

“I’m not letting her out of my sight,” the reader said firmly. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

Daemon crouched again, his expression softening as he placed a hand on his daughter’s knee. “We’ll protect her,” he promised. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

y/n’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away, nodding silently.

Later that night, after the maester had tended to her cheek and the guards had been doubled around the castle, the reader lay in bed with Rowena curled up beside her. The direwolf was sprawled across the floor at the foot of the bed, its ears twitching at every sound. The reader stared at the ceiling, her mind racing.

The image of the assassin’s face haunted her. The sound of his voice, the weight of his hand on her mouth, the feel of his blood on her hands—it all replayed in her mind, over and over. But above all, it was Rowena’s cries that echoed in her heart, a reminder of how close she had come to losing her daughter.

As her eyes drifted shut, a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Who is it?” she called, her voice hoarse.

“It’s me,” Daemon replied from the other side.

She hesitated before getting up, careful not to wake Rowena. She opened the door a crack, finding her father standing there, his face shadowed and somber.

“I just wanted to see if you were all right,” he said quietly.

She nodded, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Daemon’s eyes flicked past her to the sleeping toddler. “She’s safe now. And she’ll stay safe. I swear it.”

The reader’s lips trembled, and she looked down. “I don’t know if I can do this, Father. Every time I think we’re safe, something happens. Someone tries to take her from me.”

Daemon placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone in this. We’ll find whoever’s behind this, and we’ll end them.”

She nodded again, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

Daemon gave her a small, reassuring smile before turning and walking away. As she closed the door, she looked back at Rowena, her heart aching with love and fear.

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

Y/n needed time—time away from the overwhelming presence of family, animals, and responsibilities. Though she adored her daughter more than life itself, the constant worry and tension since the attack had left her emotionally raw. She decided to visit Rowena’s biological mother’s resting place, a quiet, secluded spot on the edge of the woods.

Standing before the unmarked grave, the reader knelt, her hands tracing the earth. She spoke softly, as though the spirit of the woman could hear her.

“She’s beautiful,” the reader said, her voice trembling. “Rowena’s learning so quickly. She talks so much now. She’s fearless, just like I imagine you must have been.” Her fingers dug gently into the soil, anchoring her to the moment as tears welled in her eyes. “I’ll keep her safe. I swear it. But—” She choked on her words, wiping her cheeks hastily. “Now I understand. I understand what it must’ve felt like for you, knowing someone could take her away. I can’t imagine the fear you must have lived with every day.”

Her tears fell freely now, spilling onto the earth. “I’ll protect her for both of us,” she promised, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m so sorry you couldn’t be here to see her grow.”

After a long moment of silence, she rose, brushing her hands against her dress. As she turned to leave, she cast one last glance at the grave, her heart heavy with sorrow and resolve.

Returning to the castle, the reader felt the weight of the day pressing down on her. She craved solitude—a chance to collect herself away from everyone and everything. Entering her chambers, she locked the door firmly behind her, ensuring no one would interrupt her.

The room was quiet, dimly lit by the fading light of the evening. She sank onto her bed, lying back as her breathing grew shallow. The events of the past days, the constant vigilance, and the unrelenting fear for Rowena had left her body tense and restless.

She closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting as her hand trailed down her stomach. Lifting the hem of her dress, her fingers brushed against her bare skin, seeking some form of release. The touch sent a shiver through her, and she bit her lip as she slid her hand lower, beneath her knickers, where she felt the warmth and wetness of her desire.

Her breaths became uneven as her fingers worked in steady circles, her body responding to the sensation. The tension she’d been carrying began to ebb, replaced by a mounting heat that overtook her senses. She rubbed faster, her lips parting as soft gasps escaped her. The climax built within her, each motion drawing her closer to the edge until her body arched, and she found her release with a shuddering sigh.

For a moment, she lay still, her chest rising and falling as she savoured the brief relief.

Unknown to her, the door to her chambers had opened quietly during her most private moment. Aemond had entered, intending to speak with her, but the sight before him stopped him in his tracks.

His breath caught as he realized what she was doing, her face flushed and her body taut with pleasure.

He stood frozen, torn between retreating and his inability to look away. But as her breathing evened and she began to stir, he quickly and silently stepped back, pulling the door closed behind him.

Leaning against the wall in the corridor, his mind raced, conflicted between guilt and an undeniable pull he couldn’t ignore. Whatever feelings he harbored, he knew this was something he could never speak of.

Inside her room, the reader remained unaware, lost in her moment of solitude. But as the stillness returned, a part of her couldn’t shake the sense that something had shifted—something unseen and unspoken.

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

The white stag was found.

The news travelled swiftly through the Red Keep, causing a stir that could not be ignored. The creature, a symbol of divine favor and a rare omen in the history of Westeros, had chosen the dragonpit—a place of Targaryen power and history—as its sanctuary. Whispers spread like wildfire, reaching the ears of nobles, courtiers, and even the smallfolk who worked within the castle walls.

A summons went out from King Viserys himself. Every Targaryen in the Keep was to attend a meeting in the small council chamber to discuss the unprecedented arrival of the legendary creature.

The reader stood in her chambers, Rowena in her arms, as she processed the news. Her heart raced as she tried to prepare herself for what was to come. The white stag had been her secret, a silent companion she had hidden in the dragonpit to shield it from prying eyes and ambitions. She knew the truth would come to light eventually, but the weight of what this moment represented was almost too much to bear.

Rowena tugged gently at her mother's hair, breaking her train of thought. “Mama,” she babbled, her little hand reaching for the reader’s face.

The reader kissed her daughter’s forehead. “It’ll be fine, little one,” she whispered, though the words felt more like an attempt to reassure herself than Rowena. Handing her to Daemon, who had come to escort her, she took a deep breath and followed him out of the room.

When she entered the council chamber, the white stag was already there. It stood proudly in the center of the room, its magnificent antlers brushing against the high ceiling. Its pristine coat gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and its calm demeanour commanded the attention of everyone present.

The room was filled with Targaryens—Rhaenyra, Daemon, Aemond, and Helaena stood near the table, along with Alicent and the king himself. The air was thick with curiosity, awe, and an undercurrent of tension.

As the reader stepped inside, the stag’s head turned sharply toward her. Its dark eyes seemed to light up as it recognized her, and without hesitation, it strode gracefully across the room to her side. A collective gasp echoed through the chamber as the creature nuzzled her hand, an act of affection and trust that left no doubt about its connection to her.

King Viserys rose from his seat, his expression a mixture of disbelief and wonder. “Why does the stag come to you?” he asked, his voice carrying a weight of both curiosity and authority.

The reader hesitated, glancing at Daemon and Rhaenyra for reassurance. Finally, she spoke, her voice steady despite the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. “The stag came to me, Your Grace. It was injured and sought help. I bandaged its wounds and cared for it. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Alicent repeated, skepticism evident in her tone. Her sharp gaze swept over the reader, as if searching for hidden motives.

Daemon stepped forward, his hand resting protectively on his daughter’s shoulder. “She has always had a way with creatures,” he interjected, his tone firm. “The stag is hardly the first to be drawn to her. Look around, and you’ll find a direwolf, a kraken, and even my dragon, Caraxes, favor her presence. Animals sense what humans often cannot.”

Viserys seemed to mull over this explanation, but his eyes remained fixed on the stag. “The white stag is a symbol of the gods’ favor. It is no small thing that it has chosen to seek shelter here, in the

Red Keep, and now aligns itself with you.”

“I never asked for this,” the reader replied, her voice soft but resolute. “The stag came to me of its own will. I only did what any decent person would do—helped an injured creature.”

The room fell silent for a moment as the implications of her words sank in. Then, Aemond stepped forward, his tall frame a steady presence beside her. His hand brushed against hers briefly, a subtle gesture of support that didn’t go unnoticed. “If the stag came to her, then perhaps the gods have spoken. But that does not mean she seeks power or influence. Let us not jump to conclusions.”

The reader glanced at him, grateful for his intervention but also wary of how his words might be interpreted.

Viserys finally spoke, his tone heavy with both authority and weariness. “This is not something we can ignore. The presence of the white stag will raise questions—questions we must answer. For now, we will treat it with care and respect. And you,” he said, looking directly at the reader, “will tell us if anything else happens. The gods’ favor is not a thing to take lightly.”

She nodded, though her heart sank at the thought of the scrutiny she would now face.

After the meeting, the reader made her way out of the chamber with Aemond by her side. Rowena, who had been with Daemon throughout the discussion, toddled over to her mother as soon as she spotted her. The reader scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“You handled yourself well,” Aemond said quietly, his tone lacking the teasing edge it often held when they spoke. “Though I imagine this isn’t what you wanted.”

“Not at all,” the reader admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just want peace—for me, for Rowena, for all of us. But it seems the gods have other plans.”

Aemond hesitated, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “If this becomes too much, you don’t have to face it alone.”

The reader met his gaze, searching for any hint of ulterior motive, but all she found was sincerity. “Thank you,” she said simply, though she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust him.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the reader retreated to the dragonpit. The stag followed her as it always did, its steps silent and graceful despite its size. She knelt beside it, her hands running gently over its smooth coat.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she murmured, more to herself than the stag. “I don’t want a throne. I don’t want power. I just want to live my life without fear, without—”

Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands. The stag nuzzled her gently, as if offering comfort. Its presence was a reminder of the bond they shared, a connection that went beyond logic or explanation.

After a while, the sound of footsteps reached her ears. She turned to see Daemon approaching, his expression unreadable. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze shifting between her and the stag.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t want it.”

Daemon stepped closer, kneeling beside her. “I know,” he said softly. “But sometimes, we don’t get to choose our paths. The gods have a way of steering us where they want us to go, whether we like it or not.”

“That’s not comforting,” she muttered, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Daemon replied with a faint smirk. “But whatever happens, you won’t face it alone. You have me, Rhaenyra, Rowena—and even that stubborn wolf of yours.”

“And Aemond,” she added, surprising herself with the admission.

Daemon’s smirk faltered, replaced by a more serious expression. “Be careful with him,” he warned. “He’s loyal to his family, but his ambitions might outweigh his better judgment.”

The reader nodded, understanding the caution behind her father’s words. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

Together, they sat in silence, the stag lying beside them as the stars began to fill the sky. For now, at least, there was peace. But in her heart, the reader knew it wouldn’t last.

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The midday sun bathed the reader’s chambers in warmth, the soft glow reflecting off the bookshelves and casting gentle shadows on the floor. It was a quiet, peaceful moment, one of the rare instances when everything felt right. The reader sat cross-legged on the rug, her daughter Rowena nestled in her lap, a book propped open in front of them.

“Once upon a time,” the reader began, her voice gentle and melodic, “there was a brave little girl who loved the forest.”

Rowena, barely more than a toddler, pointed at the illustration of a forest on the page, her chubby finger pressing against the paper with a delicate curiosity.

“Forest!” she exclaimed, her bright eyes sparkling.

“Yes, that’s right, my clever girl,” the reader said with a warm smile, pressing a soft kiss to Rowena’s head. “Can you say, ‘The girl went into the forest’?”

Rowena scrunched her little nose in concentration, her lips forming each word slowly. “The... girl... go... forest!”

The reader chuckled, pride swelling in her chest. “Close enough,” she said, kissing her daughter’s chubby cheek. Rowena giggled in delight, clapping her small hands together as if she knew she had done something remarkable.

The peace of the moment was disrupted by a sudden knock on the door. The reader’s smile faltered slightly, and she turned her head toward it.

“Come in,” she called, her voice steady though her heart sank slightly at the thought of what might interrupt this serene moment.

The door creaked open, revealing Aemond standing in the threshold. His tall figure was backlit by the dim light of the hallway, and his face bore an expression that the reader couldn’t quite place—somewhere between determination and vulnerability.

“We’re just reading,” the reader said calmly, turning her attention back to Rowena and gently adjusting the toddler in her lap. She kissed the top of Rowena’s head and whispered, “Why don’t you go play with your blocks for a bit, sweetling? Mama needs to talk.”

Rowena pouted slightly, reluctant to leave her mother’s side, but after a few moments of coaxing, she toddled over to the corner where her favorite wooden blocks were stacked neatly.

Once the toddler was occupied, the reader stood, her expression hardening as she folded her arms across her chest. “What do you want, Aemond?”

Aemond stepped into the room fully, closing the door softly behind him. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said, his voice low but steady. “About us.”

“There is no ‘us,’” the reader replied firmly, her tone sharp enough to cut through the air. “And I’ve made that very clear.”

Aemond took another step closer, his single eye searching her face. “But why not? You know how I feel about you.”

The reader let out a humourless laugh, the sound bitter and filled with years of pent-up emotion. “Why not?” she repeated incredulously. “Aemond, do you think I’ve forgotten? That I’ll ever forget?”

Aemond’s expression faltered, confusion mingling with guilt.

“You killed my baby dragon,” she said, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “It was barely out of its egg, and you killed it. Out of jealousy.”

“I was young,” Aemond said softly, his voice tinged with regret. “Reckless. I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t care,” the reader interrupted, her voice rising. “And when I confronted you, you didn’t stop there. You pushed me off the cliffs, Aemond. I could’ve drowned.”

Aemond looked away, shame etched into every line of his face. “I regretted it the moment it happened,” he admitted.

“Regret doesn’t change what you did,” the reader snapped, her voice breaking slightly. “It doesn’t bring back my dragon, and it doesn’t erase the terror I felt when I hit that freezing water.”

She stepped closer to him, her eyes blazing with fury and sorrow. “So tell me, Aemond. After all that, what makes you think I’d want to be with you?”

Aemond opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. For the first time, he seemed genuinely at a loss. His eye flicked to Rowena, who was still blissfully unaware of the tension filling the room, and then back to the reader.

“I’ve spent every day since trying to be better,” he finally said, his voice barely audible. “Trying to prove to you that I’m not that person anymore.”

“And yet, here you are,” the reader said, shaking her head, her tone cold. “Still trying to convince me to give you something I’ve told you I won’t give.”

She turned away from him, wrapping her arms around herself as if to shield herself from the weight of his words. “Please, Aemond,” she said softly but firmly. “Just leave.”

Aemond hesitated, his eye lingering on her back as though hoping for a change in her resolve. But it didn’t come. With a heavy sigh, he nodded—though she couldn’t see it—and turned toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the reader let out a shaky breath, her composure crumbling. She glanced at Rowena, who had paused her play to watch her mother with wide, curious eyes. Forcing a smile, the reader knelt beside her daughter and pulled her into her arms.

“Mama?” Rowena said, her small voice full of concern.

“It’s nothing, sweetling,” the reader whispered, holding her close and pressing her lips to Rowena’s forehead. “Just... nothing.”

But as she rocked her daughter gently, the weight of the past and the lingering shadow of Aemond’s presence bore down on her. Peace, she realized, was always just out of reach.

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The evening light in the chambers grew softer, the sun dipping low behind the horizon. The reader paced back and forth, Rowena nestled in her arms, her little fingers curling into her mother’s hair. The toddler’s wide eyes followed her mother’s movements with quiet affection, her small mouth occasionally parting in a yawn as the soothing rhythm lulled her.

The reader whispered softly to herself, her voice tinged with emotion. “Avy jorrāelan.” Rowena blinked up at her, her tiny brows furrowing in confusion. She tilted her head as if trying to decipher the unfamiliar words. “Mama?” she asked, her voice curious.

The reader paused, looking down at her daughter’s puzzled face. A soft smile broke through her own thoughtful expression. “It means ‘I love you,’ sweetling,” she explained, her voice warm and steady.

“In a language called High Valyrian.”

Rowena’s face lit up with wonder. “Av... Avy jor... jorr...” she babbled, her small tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar sounds.

The reader’s eyes widened in shock as she heard the little girl attempt to mimic the phrase. “Avy jorrāelan,” Rowena repeated, surprisingly clear for her first attempt.

“Oh, my clever girl!” the reader exclaimed, her heart swelling with pride. “You said it perfectly!” She kissed Rowena’s chubby cheeks, making the toddler squeal with delight. “That’s High Valyrian, and you’ve already learned your first words in it. You’re so smart, my love.”

Rowena giggled, her tiny hands reaching up to pat her mother’s face.

The next morning, the castle was alive with the sounds of the waking day. Servants bustled through the halls, and the warmth of the rising sun began to spread over the stone walls. The reader walked through the corridors with Rowena at her side, the toddler toddling excitedly on her own sturdy legs.

“Are you ready to see Caraxes, sweetling?” the reader asked, smiling as her daughter let out an enthusiastic squeal.

“C'raxes!” Rowena chirped, her small voice filled with anticipation.

The dragonpit loomed ahead, the familiar structure casting long shadows on the ground. Rowena’s pace quickened, her little feet padding against the stone path. But before she could reach the pit, she spotted someone else—Daemon, her grandfather, standing tall near the entrance with his usual air of quiet authority.

“Grampy!” Rowena squealed, her voice echoing through the space.

Daemon turned, his stern expression softening immediately at the sight of his granddaughter running toward him. He crouched down and opened his arms just in time to catch her as she barreled into him. Despite her growing weight, he scooped her up with ease, holding her close as she babbled excitedly.

“My little dragon,” Daemon said fondly, kissing the top of her head. “What brings you here so early?”

Rowena placed her tiny hands on his face, her eyes searching his with a curious intensity. Her lips pursed as if she were trying to remember something. Finally, she said, “Avy jorrāelan?”

Daemon froze, his violet eyes widening in surprise. He stared at the toddler, a mixture of astonishment and affection washing over him. “What did you say?” he asked gently, his voice softer than usual.

Rowena grinned, clearly proud of herself. “Avy jorrāelan,” she repeated, this time with more confidence.

A rare, broad smile broke across Daemon’s face. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, his heart swelling with warmth. “Did your mother teach you that?” he asked, glancing toward the reader, who had just caught up to them.

The reader nodded, a small, proud smile on her lips. “She heard me say it last night,” she explained. “And somehow, she picked it up immediately.”

Daemon chuckled, his gaze returning to Rowena. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you?” he said, his voice brimming with pride. “Avy jorrāelan, my little dragon.”

Rowena beamed at his words, hugging her grandfather tightly around the neck. The moment was tender, a rare glimpse of unguarded love shared among their complicated family. The reader watched them, her heart full, though a twinge of worry lingered at the edges of her mind.

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the forest canopy as the reader and Rowena made their way toward the cliffs where the kraken resided. Rowena’s giggles echoed softly as she rode on her mother’s hip, the direwolf trailing faithfully behind them. The toddler occasionally pointed at the trees, babbling nonsensical words as her mother indulged her curiosity with a warm smile.

As they followed the winding path, the reader suddenly froze. Up ahead, the white stag emerged from the underbrush, its presence commanding yet serene. It paused, lifting its regal head to meet her gaze. For a moment, the world seemed to still. The stag dipped its head in a deliberate bow, an action that felt deeply significant, though its meaning eluded her.

The reader furrowed her brows. “What does that mean?” she murmured to herself.

Rowena tilted her head curiously at the stag, her tiny fingers reaching out as if to touch it. Before the toddler could babble anything more, the stag turned and began to walk away, its steps graceful and purposeful as it disappeared deeper into the forest. The reader stood rooted in place, torn between following the stag and continuing on to the kraken.

Rowena squealed, pointing at the stag. “Deer, Mama! Deer!”

Eventually, she sighed, shaking her head. “Let’s go see the Kraken, sweetling,” she said softly, adjusting her grip on Rowena.

When they reached the cliffs overlooking the water, the direwolf had already arrived, pacing near the edge. The kraken's immense form shifted just below the surface, its powerful tentacles occasionally breaking the water to bask in the sun. The reader placed Rowena next to the direwolf, brushing a kiss on the toddler’s head before slipping off her boots.

“You stay with the wolf,” she told her daughter firmly. “Mama will be right back.”

Rowena nodded, her wide eyes fixed on the kraken. Satisfied, the reader walked to the water's edge. Still wearing her deep red dress, she leaped gracefully into the cold, bracing sea. The shock of the water hit her like a jolt, but she quickly acclimated, her strokes strong and practiced. The kraken joined her almost immediately, its massive presence both protective and familiar. The reader patted its leathery skin and smiled at the creature as they moved through the water together.

“You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?” she murmured, stroking the kraken gently.

After swimming several lengths, her muscles began to tire. She paused, floating on her back and letting the water cradle her for a moment of peace.

Suddenly, she heard a familiar sound cutting through the serenity—Rowena’s small voice, sharp and insistent. “Ag! Ag!” the toddler shouted, her voice filled with urgency.

Her heart jumped. Aemond.

Panic surged as she swam swiftly toward the shore. Before she could fully pull herself out, the kraken, sensing her urgency, lifted her out of the water with one of its massive tentacles and placed her gently on the rocky ground. Dripping and shivering, the reader quickly scanned the scene to find Aemond sitting casually next to Rowena. He was speaking softly to the toddler, who seemed to have forgotten her panic and now babbled at him animatedly.

The reader placed her hands on her hips, exasperated. “What do you want, Aemond?”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his sharp features unreadable. “I might ask you the same thing. Why in the seven hells were you swimming in freezing water?”

The reader shrugged, wringing out her soaked dress. “I felt like it. I’ve always enjoyed swimming.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t always know how.”

The reader wrung out her hair, ignoring the goosebumps rising on her skin. “I was just swimming,” she replied nonchalantly, though her lips trembled from the chill. “I’ve done it plenty of times since you pushed me in all those years ago. I had to learn, after all.”

She snorted, shooting him a pointed look. “You pushed me off a cliff, remember?”

His jaw tightened, guilt flashing briefly across his face. He opened his mouth to respond, but the reader cut him off. “Forget it, Aemond. Just leave it.” She stepped past him, scooping up Rowena.

As she settled the toddler on her hip, Rowena waved at Aemond with a cheerful “Bye-bye, Ag!” Aemond watched them leave, his gaze lingering longer than it should.

Inside the castle, the warmth of the halls contrasted sharply with the chill still clinging to the reader’s skin. Rowena snuggled against her shoulder, her little fingers playing with strands of her mother’s damp hair. The reader moved quickly, eager to change into dry clothes and avoid further interactions.

As she turned a corner, however, she spotted her mother, Rhaenyra, speaking with Alicent in hushed tones. Her heart sank. She quickened her pace, hoping to pass unnoticed, but Alicent’s sharp gasp stopped her in her tracks.

“Y/N,” Alicent said, her voice tinged with both surprise and concern. “Why on earth are you dripping wet?”

The reader turned slowly, her expression neutral. Rowena whimpered softly, burying her face in her mother’s neck at the sight of Alicent.

“I was swimming,” the reader replied flatly, her tone making it clear she wasn’t interested in elaborating.

Alicent’s eyes widened slightly, clearly unaccustomed to such bluntness. “Swimming?” she echoed, glancing down at the puddle forming around the reader’s feet.

“Yes,” the reader said simply, shifting Rowena on her hip. She cast a brief glance at her mother, who gave her a small nod of understanding but didn’t intervene.

Without waiting for further questions, the reader turned and walked away, her daughter clinging tightly to her. As they entered the chambers, Rowena let out a relieved sigh, finally relaxing now that they were away from Alicent’s presence.

The reader kissed her daughter’s head, whispering softly, “I’ve got you, sweetling. Always.”

#house of the dragon #angst #daemon x rhaenyra #fluff #daemon targeryen x reader #aemond one eye #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x daughter reader #white stag #argument #aemond targaryen #children #original character #witchcraft #bully #guilty pleasure #smut #hurt/comfort

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brokecherry · 2 years ago

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guys is this not lucemond ?! like saw this and my brain just went ooooooooooooo my babies🥹

#lucemond #hotd #aemond #lucerys #art #targaryen #prompt #lucerys valeryon #aemond targaryen #angst #hurt/comfort

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itsluckylolita · 10 months ago

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Of Winter’s Flame | CHAPTER NINE

Small Note: I am switching from third person to second person because I have recently become more comfortable in that format, I hope this does not hinder your reading experience but enhances it! Thank you for your understanding, and enjoy this chapter!

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

𐙚⭑𓂃──────────────────𓂃⭑𐙚

The next morning you broke your fast alone, enjoying lounging in your bedchamber a moment longer than usual. Tohrren was curled beside you in the bed, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the beat of your heart. Comforts cannot last forever, and as you finished your meal there was a knock at your door.

“Come,” You permissed, wiping your mouth with a delicate touch. Lysana entered, her face slightly paler than usual, and more gaunt.

“Lysana, are you well?” You questioned, Tohrren’s head rising at the sudden intrusion.

“Yes, my lady.” She answered curtly, hurrying to your bedside.

“A raven has come for you, from the Prince Daemon.” Ah, so that was why she looked as if the Stranger himself had visited.

“I see, thank you.” You took the letter from her, unceremoniously breaking the wax seal which held the Targaryen sigil on it.

“Also, the Queen has requested your presence, so that the tailor may fit you for your dress.” A second reason why Lysana might have come down with a sudden affliction of the disposition.

“My dress?” You hummed, beginning to read the first words which were written messily in black ink.

“Yes, my lady, your wedding dress.” That gave you pause, your eyes not making it past the ‘Dearest Daughter,’ which was scrawled at the top of the correspondence.

“Oh, right, of course. Send someone to tell her I will be down shortly, I would like for you to assist me this morning.” You ordered, Lysana curtsying quickly.

“At once,” She nodded, leaving your room to carry out your wishes. When she left you continued reading, vision becoming red the further you delved into the letter.

‘Dearest Daughter,

It has come to my attention that you are to be wed, to none other than the one-eyed prince. Congratulations are in order, daughter, not only for that but for your taming of the wild beast of the south. I am eager to see what will come of this, and although I regret my inability to be there for her taming, I am pleased to give you away in a month's time. Though I would have wished to be privy to your betrothal, I support the King’s decision in this matter, as does your good-mother Rhaenyra. See you soon, sweetling.

Best regards,

Prince Daemon Targaryen’

How dare he? How dare he write you such a letter? Has he such little care for you that he would not even object to this betrothal happening beneath his nose? Does he think so little of you that he only writes when you finally possess the power of a dragon? You grind your teeth together before crumpling up the letter and slamming it on your bedside table, regaining your composure in time for Lysana to return, closing the door gently behind her. You got up from bed, Tohrren following suit with a long yawn. You chose your dress based on its ability to be removed and leave you in your shift, something you knew would be required later if your dress was to fit correctly. It was a simple gown, coloured the same grey as the stone pillars which held up Winterfell. The only details on it were lighter grey dragons which danced upon the ends of your sleeves and skirts, chasing each other round and round for eternity.

“My lady.” Was all Lysana said to indicate she was finished with your hair, eyes locking with yours through the vanity. It had been a quiet morning, both of you barely speaking as she helped you into your day cloth. She had put your hair into a simple braided updo, something which a tailor could easily maneuver around.

“Lysana, I’ve wondered,” You began, “Your name, it is northern. Are you from the North?”

“My mother was northern,” Lysana chuckled, cheeks full of red blood once again.

“She moved to Kingslanding after my father had courted her whilst on his travels, and I was born a half year later.” She admitted, brushing a stray piece of her dark waved hair from her face.

“Your father must have been quite the man to entice a northern woman to come south.” You laughed, rising from your seat.

“Aye, that he was.” Looking upon Lysana you wondered what her parents must have looked like, her father must have given Lysana her tanned skin, browned from nature and years of the southern sun. Her freckles were certainly inherited from her mother, small spots dotting the expanse of her face and no doubt entire body. Lysana’s hair was anyone’s guess, but now that you surveyed her closer you realized that her eyes gave her away. They often did with people, you concluded. Hers were an icy grey, like that which only a northerner could pass to their child.

“They were certainly beautiful.” You smiled, brushing the other stray piece of hair which Lysana had not touched. The older woman looked to the floor, shaking her head.

“You flatter me, my lady.”

“I speak the truth, now come, we mustn’t keep the Queen waiting.” You sighed, whistling so that Tohrren came to heal at your side. The walk to the chamber which held the Queen and her court of ladies was short, shorter than you would have liked. You enjoyed the peace in walking through the keep, watching the everyday routines of servants and nobles alike as they scurried through the hallowed halls. Tohrren was taken by one of your men to be fed and exercised, the hound eagerly following him at the insinuation of food, and of course your command.

“Y/n.” Alicent was the first to acknowledge you as the doors opened, the Queen standing up and the rest of the ladies following swiftly.

“Your grace,” You curtsied deeply as she approached, Lysana blending with the wall as she joined the rest of the handmaidens who waited by the edge of the chamber.

“Come, I must introduce you to my ladies.” Alicent smiled, linking her arm with yours. She brought you before a tall lady with striking red hair, her face slender like her body. She wore a light green dress, as the other ladies did, which did not help you and your curiosity as to their respective houses.

“Lady Talya,” Alicent commented, Talya curtsying. You nodded in response, moving to the next lady alongside the Queen.

“Lady Edeline,” The next woman was younger and plumper, most of her weight being held in her face and her breasts, which if not for her loose corset would have been spilling from her low cut neckline. She had a pale complexion similar to Talya, only her hair was a bright blonde which in the light of the streaming sun appeared to glow.

“Lady Sarisa,” This woman was the oldest of the group, but the only way you knew that was by the grey streaks which shot through her black hair like lightning. Her skin was barely wrinkled and held the same brown of a healthy tree’s bark, kind eyes regarding you with genuine interest.

“And Lady Melinda.” The final lady held herself with an elegance which commanded respect, her sea green eyes complimented by the mirrored colour of her dress. Her hair was a shade which reminded you of the brown fur of a field mouse, caramelled skin complimented with the occasional beauty mark.

“It is a pleasure to meet all of you.” You remarked as Alicent sat back down, the ladies following suit while you were led to stand on a small platform in front of them. You looked down at them as your fitting began, and just as you had predicted you were made to strip to your thin shift.

“My, what a wonderful shape you have, Lady Y/n.” Edeline gasped, taking a bite out of the biscuit she had grabbed from the servant beside her.

“Yes, your son will be pleased for the rest of his days.” Sarisa teased, the ladies giggling at her comment.

“Oh hush, Sarisa, you will send the girl fleeing back to Winterfell.” Alicent waved, although she did let out a small chuckle.

“I do not mind, your grace. I am glad that you all think I have such beauty, the gods have gifted me many things, including my ‘shape’.” You grinned, raising your arms so that the tailor could get around them.

“So, we hear that you got yourself a dragon whilst in the Maidenswood?” Melinda probed, taking a long sip from her goblet.

“It is true, the dragon Crownstealer is now my mount.” You confirmed, pride bubbling up in your chest.

“Crownstealer, what a fearsome name! I could never even think to approach a beast with such a title.” Edeline shook her head, resting her hand upon her chest.

“Yes, the name does strike a certain chord within one's mind.” Talya agreed, and you nodded slowly.

“It does, doesn’t it? You know, I was thinking of giving her a new name but perhaps Crownstealer deserves to keep her fearsome reputation.” You wondered aloud, the other ladies all saying something in agreement.

“Just as well, it would cost a small fortune to rewrite her name in the history books.” Alicent joked. The afternoon came and went, slowly bleeding into the early evening as the ladies were dismissed, leaving you and the Queen as the last two in the room — aside from the tailor and servants, of course.

“I was informed that a raven came for you today, from your uncle I would assume?” The Queen searched your gaze as you were assisted back into your dress.

“No, your grace — ” You began, but Alicent was quick to interrupt.

“Please, when we are away from the eyes of court you may call me aunt.” She smiled softly.

“Of course, as I was saying t’was not a raven from my uncle, t’was a raven from my father.” You admitted, and if the Queen had any thoughts on the matter her face did not show it.

“He congratulated me on my taming of Crownstealer and my betrothal. He plans to give me away on the day of our wedding.”

“Ah, so that means the Princess will also be in attendance then.” Alicent said quietly, as if she were saying the statement to herself.

“Yes, I believe so, along with my half-sisters and cousins.” The Queen’s smile was tense at that, taking your arm as she had a habit of doing since you arrived. You two walked from the room, trailed loosely by Ser Criston and Lysana.

“It will be a wonderful wedding, perhaps rivaling even that of mine and your uncle’s.” Alicent effused, trailing off into how she pictured the wedding.

“The King has arranged for only the best, it is to be held under the light of the seven in the Dragonpit after seven days of revelry,” Eventually the Queen’s words drifted into fuzzy ramblings, your mind elsewhere when your eyes locked with one from across the hall. Aemond leaned against the wall, his one eye trained on your approaching form. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, which itself was constricted lightly by his black tunic.

“Aemond.” Alicent said when she saw him, pulling his head down so she could place a chaste kiss upon his forehead.

“My prince.” You curtsied, Aemond taking your hand and kissing it firmly.

“Betrothed.” You smirked. It hadn’t gone unnoticed to you how he mostly referred to you as ‘Betrothed’ since it was announced.

“May I speak to Lady Y/n?” Aemond phrased it as a question, but his gaze let it be known that he was telling his mother that he was going to speak with you.

“Of course, my love. Till we next meet, Y/n.” Alicent nodded, Criston following at her heels like an obedient puppy. Lysana stayed a respectable distance, close enough she could chaperone but far enough she could not hear the hushed words which were exchanged.

“Do you want for anything, my lady?” Aemond asked, offering you his arm. You took it without quarrel, taking a moment before answering him

“I want for a great many things. I want for the realm to stay at peace, I want for my riding gear, I want for the other ladies at court to fling themselves from their balconies when they realize their weddings will never compare to mine.” Aemond could not hold back the giggle which erupted from his body, the prince clearing his throat to hide his outburst.

“I do not jest, Y/n.” Aemond countered, leading you confidently from corridor to corridor.

“Neither do I, Aemond.” You smirked, although in the following silence you truly considered his question.

“I suppose I want for my…my father, as much as it pains me to admit.” You hesitated, gaging Aemond’s reaction to your honesty.

“How so?” He looked down at you, sharp gaze analyzing every movement of your face.

“My mother died in the childbed, and my uncle was there for me as no one has been, along with your half-sister, but a girl can only live so long without the attention of her father who she knows is but a sea away.” You remembered your girlhood well, how you wrote to your father and he would write back months later, how you would give your innocent heart to him and he would bleed it out upon the inked paper.

“It is hard to have a father who cares not if you live or die.” You sighed, looking up at the prince. His eye was wide, brows furrowed and mouth in a thin line.

“I apologize, my prince, I do not expect you to understand — ”

“Do not apologize, your father is a fool.” Aemond hissed, leading you to the gardens of the keep.

“To ignore a lady such as yourself is an action which only a fool would make, and it is obvious to everyone at court that Daemon Targaryen is more than a fool. He is a craven, cunt of a — ”

“Careful how you speak, Aemond. The man is still my father.” You warned. You were allowed to speak of Daemon as you wished. He, however, was not.

“I apologize, my lady, forgive my insolence.” Aemond was quick to cave, running a hand through his long silver locks which fell loose and straight to his shoulders.

“It is only that I understand what it is like, that is, to want for a father.” The words held weight to them, a weight which Aemond had yet to lift off his chest and give to you thus far. You did not respond, allowing for Aemond to take his time as he formulated the next words in his head.

“Kepi issi qopsa.” Father’s are difficult. Aemond said it with a finality that left no room for additional comments, instead continuing back to his original question as the two of you sat on an ornately carved bench.

“I have heard that you have an interest in the histories, and that you have read every tome in the North.” Aemond confessed, toying with the bush of silver seavipers which loomed behind you.

“You have heard correctly about the former, my Prince. I cannot say for certain I have read every tome in the North, but over the years I have tried.” You quipped, watching the way Aemond delicately plucked a shining flower from its stem.

“I would make you a gift of the citadel, if you wished it.” Aemond confessed. You searched Aemond’s eye for humour but found none, only a sincerity within it’s swirling lavender.

“I think I will settle for a visit, one day, perhaps — ” You took the seaviper from his loose hold, twirling it with your fingers, “ — with our children.”

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of children, taking in a sharp breath.

“Then it shall be as you say.” He murmured, stealing back the viper only to place it in the crook where your ear met your skull. Your demure smile set not only his heart but his loins aflame, Aemond shifting subtly in his seat.

“In the meantime, I have a gift for you, come.” Aemond stood, holding out his waiting palm. You took it, following him as he led you through a part of the gardens you had yet to visit. Soon enough the two of you, plus Lysana a few leagues away, arrived at the entrance to a small greenhouse — at least, what in appearance was a greenhouse. When Aemond opened the door for you, you gasped, unable to contain your shock at the beauty before you. Blue winter roses climbed up the walls, which themselves were lined with shelves upon shelves of books, their bindings ranging from the histories of Westeros to the secrets of Asshai. In the middle of the room was a seating area, accompanied by a fireplace which did not burn due to the day’s warm sun. The architecture was identical to a typical northern greenhouse, complete with heavy elk hides lining the floors and white bear furs draped across the chairs.

“To my knowledge many of the books in this house have never seen light outside of the citadel,” Aemond began, walking into the bright space, “I thought it high time that their words were put to good use.”

You were at a loss, unable to form sentences as you ran your hand through one of the furs, blinking back at Aemond.

“You have done too much, Aemond!” Your statement was scolding but you laughed with delight, cheeks pushed as high as your smile would allow.

“I can never — t-this is —” You sputtered, the prince approaching you with assured steps.

“You needn’t do anything in return, that is why it is called a gift.” Aemond maintained, and in return you took his hands in yours, holding them against your chest.

“Kirimvose, ñuha jorrāelagon.” Thank you, my love. You beamed, restraining yourself from kissing him and sullying your lips before your vows.

In that moment, Aemond hoped that you would always look at him just as you were now.

𐙚⭑𓂃──────────────────𓂃⭑𐙚

Taglist (Request to be added!): @heavenly1927 @holb32 @queenofshinigamis @duds31 @tssf-imagines @raven1234321 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @bananzaaquardasngan @littlebirdgot

I hope I did not disappoint this chapter! Till next time my loves <33

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bellofthemeadow · 1 year ago

Text

Dawn Ends the Night | Chapter 2

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader (Dayne)

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Rating: M for Mature (18 + no minors allowed)

Word Count: 6.1k

Warning: All warnings on the Series Masterlist, will update if necessary (Re-iterating, no minors allowed! Thank you)

Chapter Summary: As you arrive in King's Landing, you realise that the city is in even worst shape than you ever could have thought. When you are face with a deadly situation, will you be saved in time?

Notes: Hello everyone! I hope you all had lovely holidays, for me this time of year is always bittersweet as it is close to the date of my dad's passing away. But it was still lovely to have some time off (for the first time ever I am working somewhere which closes during the holiday season!!!) And if you do not celebrate any holidays, I hope you had a very lovely regular week doing something that gave you some joy 💚

I finally had time to sit down and finish this chapter (the longest so far!) I hope you all enjoy it, I am not really good with action scenes, but I am trying to get better at it and I know that the more I work at it the better I will become. I feel like some part of it might feel a bit rush, but I wanted to finish the chapter and go into more details in the next one.

Once again, thank you to everyone who commented, relogged and liked my work, I appreciate you all so so much. If you want to be added to the taglist lmk, and if I forgot to add you, lmk and I will remediate to that right away. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this chapter!!! 💜💜💜

Love you all

Taglist: @duds31 , @snh96, @lol-im-done, @heavenly1927, @whimsywilde , @queen-123s-posts

My dearest friend,

When Father returned from Starfall, my heart sank. Not only had he visited you, my soul's companion, without a whisper of it to me, but the reason... oh, the reason cuts far deeper. To hear that you, my most cherished friend, are to be wed to a Targaryen whelp is nothing short of a cruel jest. Had I been the ruling Princess of Dorne, never would I let you be torn from our sun-kissed lands to that pit of treachery.

Father speaks of alliances, of securing our houses' futures, but what of your heart? Your laughter? If such a future means dimming the light in your eyes, I say let the sands of Dorne turn to glass in dragonfire before I witness your spirit fade. Give me but a sign, my beloved friend, and I will defy the world to bring you back to where you belong. I will hide you away in the lush secrecy of the library of Sunspear, our childhood haven, where no prying eyes could ever dream of finding you.

Never forget, you are the other half of my soul. Wherever you go, my spirit will be entwined with yours, ever ready to rise in your defense, to be your shelter, to protect your heart.

With all my love,

Your Aliandra

Princess of Dorne.

Gently, you kiss the letter, feeling the delicate texture of the paper against your lips before pressing it close to your heart. It's a small comfort, a tangible piece of Aliandra you can hold onto. The pain of leaving without a proper farewell to her gnawed at you, a regret that lies heavy in your chest. You were torn apart so suddenly, with no chance for one last embrace, no opportunity to exchange final words that might have eased the ache of your separation.

As the cart lurches over a rough patch on the brick road, it jostled your mother awake from her peaceful doze across from you. Watching her, you envy her momentary escape from worry. Your thoughts, however, are clouded with the fear that you might never see Aliandra again, casting a pall over the passing scenery that blurs outside the cart's window.

“The road is getting more unsteady. It is a wonder horses and carts are not toppling over all the time.” your father grumbled from your mother side as he puts her back solid in her seat.

"Given that King's Landing is the largest city in Westeros, it's not surprising," you mused aloud. "The roads bear the weight of countless travelers. Without regular maintenance, they are bound to deteriorate more quickly than those in quieter regions."

The news of your circumstance had unfolded all too swiftly. From the moment you were informed about the arrangement to wed prince Aemond Targaryen, you had anticipated some months to come to terms with the idea. Yet, fate allowed no such luxury. Barely a fortnight had elapsed before you found yourself, alongside your parents and younger brother, embarking on the long journey away from the familiar comforts of your home. The swiftness of it all left you reeling, with nothing to tether you to yourself other than Aliandra’s letter.

The fortnight following the announcement of your betrothal was a blur of melancholy. You spent most of it confined within the wheelhouse, gazing listlessly at the world transforming outside its windows. The familiar sandy dunes of your homeland soon gave way to the verdant, rolling hills of the Reach. The air was thick with the scents of fragrant flowers and sweet honey, an assault on your senses accustomed to the arid desert air filled with spices and sweet blooming oranges.

By the end of the second week, you had developed a certain aversion to the Reach; everything was too lush, too green. It was also no secret that Dornishmen were viewed with skepticism here. Truthfully, this sentiment seemed to extend across Westeros, where your customs were considered peculiar and too promiscuous, your traditions alien, and your gods too lenient.

With each mile that brought you nearer to King's Landing, another mile stretched between you and your home. You tried not to dwell on the past, yet occasionally found yourself gazing wistfully out the back of the wheelhouse, eyes tracing the path that led home. In those moments, a quiet hope flickered within you, a wish for your father to suddenly steer the carriage around and return to the familiar embrace of your homeland. But such thoughts were the whims of a child, and you were no longer that - you were a woman grown, bound by duty and family.

Your brother's lively banter abruptly drew you out of your pensive state. Turning towards him, you saw him nestled snugly in your mother's embrace, his tiny forehead receiving a shower of gentle kisses from her. His eyes, bright and curious, were wide open following his nap, which had likely been disrupted by the jostling ride over the capital's unevenly paved roads. He seemed to be bubbling with excitement, his small hands pointing animatedly towards the window, captivated by the new sights as your wheelhouse neared the imposing gates of King's Landing.

As the procession drew closer, the stern-faced gold cloaks at the gate were methodically examining each entrant. The presence of the knights accompanying your family, a small but formidable escort clad in armor and ready for any threat, was a reassuring sight amidst the bustling activity at the gates. Upon spotting your family's sigil of the white fallen star set against a deep purple background, the gold cloaks' expressions subtly shifted. It wasn't a look of welcome but rather one of begrudging acknowledgment. They seemed to recognize the necessity of allowing your party entry but did so without enthusiasm or warmth. With a barely perceptible nod, they allowed your group to pass through the gates. It was a reluctant concession, one that made it clear that while your arrival might be expected, the arrival of a Dornish retinue was not exactly celebrated in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms.

After your carriage was waved through into the city, your brother's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Sister, is this where you're going to live forever?" he asked with wide-eyed curiosity.

"Yes, Gerris, it seems this will be my new home," you replied, trying to mask your apprehension with a serene tone. From the corner of your eye, you caught your mother's melancholic expression. "Gerris, give your sister some space," she cautioned gently. "She's about to meet the man she will marry and needs time to prepare herself in peace."

"I've had plenty of time to think these past weeks while stuck in this wheelhouse Mother," you interjected softly, "I'd welcome a distraction from my charming little brother right now." Gerris' face lit up at your invitation. He wriggled out of your mother's arms and settled beside you, eagerly pointing out every new sight he saw outside.

As Gerris animatedly described every novel sight outside the window, your mind wandered slightly, though you kept nodding and smiling at his observations. The reality outside was a stark contrast to his cheerful words. The streets were filled with people whose life seemed to be a daily struggle, their worn-out garments telling stories of hardship. The smell of the city was overpowering, a pungent mixture of waste, overcrowding, and something harder to define — perhaps the desperation of those trying to survive in the capital. The stench made you miss the pungent smell of roses of the Reach, at least people were not starving there.

The carriage came to an abrupt halt, jostling everyone inside and causing a chaotic tumble of limbs. From outside, a cacophony of shouting voices penetrated the carriage walls. Curiosity piqued, you attempted to peer out of the small side window for a better look, but your father's quick movement halted you. With a firm gesture, he signaled for you to remain seated, his expression stern and alert.

Meanwhile, your brother's lower lip began to tremble with the sudden scare, and he quickly buried himself in your mother's embrace. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, offering a comforting shield against the confusion and noise outside.

"Stay in the carriage, all of you!" your father commanded, his voice tense with urgency.

"But Father, I—" you began, only to be cut off.

"Stay inside!" he reiterated sharply. "I'll return shortly. We're strangers in this city, and I need you to be strong, my little star. Take care of your mother and brother for me." With these words, your father quickly opened the carriage door and stepped out, moving swiftly towards the source of the disturbance.

From the corner of your eye, through the small gap as the door swung shut, you caught a glimpse of the chaos outside. About 100 meters ahead, a blockade of overturned carts sprawled across the road. As you sighed, offering Gerris a strained, reassuring smile, you couldn't help but notice his tight grip on your mother. "It's just some overturned carts, Gerris. Nothing to worry about," you murmured, but your heart was heavy with unspoken fears. Watching your little brother, you realized the innocence he still held, a stark contrast to the burdens you had borne from when you were his age.

Gerris managed a timid smile, yet the sight only deepened your sorrow. He would one day need to don the armor of a lord, to face the harsh realities of ruling a strong ancient seat like Starfall. You quickly brushed aside the thought, reminding yourself he was merely five summers old. Still, a painful realization crept in – he had time to be a child, a luxury you were never afforded.

"When were you ever just a child?" the bitter voice in your mind accused. "Always groomed to be the perfect future lady of Starfall, diligent in your studies until they decided you were no longer needed." The realization felt like a tightening vice around your chest, each breath becoming more labored.

"I... I need air!" The words escaped your lips in a choked gasp, tears threatening to spill over.

"Wait..." Your mother's voice, laced with worry, reached out to stop you as you lunged for the door. "Your father said..."

"I know what Father said!" you snapped, the words sharper than intended. Pulling your arm free from your mother’s grasp, "I'm just going to stand outside the door. Nothing will happen. I... I just need a moment alone!" With that, you pushed the door open, desperate for a few breaths of fresh air and a brief escape from the confines of the carriage.

You slammed the carriage door behind you, effectively silencing your mother's protests that echoed faintly through the wood. Taking a moment for yourself, you closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, each breath an attempt to soothe the turmoil within and restore your composure. When you finally opened your eyes, you saw your father in conversation afar with a gold cloak. The guard's expression was one of indifference, seemingly unimpressed by whatever your father was explaining. Your father was a foreigner to them, you were a foreigner, and you knew deep in your heart that you would always remain a foreigner in these people’s hearts.

After taking several steadying breaths, you let your gaze drift across the bustling scene. Women hurried by their dresses worn and their eyes weary, each absorbed in their own world of tasks and toils. Nearby, men argued loudly over some trivial matter, their voices blending into the city's cacophony. Merchants hawked their wares, each vying for the attention of passersby.

Across the walkway, a small market caught your attention. Among the various stalls, one in particular stood out with its display of brightly colored silk pieces. Glancing back at your father, you noticed he was still engaged in a seemingly fruitless discussion with the gold cloak. Making a quick decision, you shrugged and stealthily made your way toward the silk stand, evading the guards that had remained near the carriage. It would be a brief detour, you reasoned. You'd have time to explore this little slice of the city and return before the carriage was ready to continue towards the castle.

You approached the stall, immediately drawn to the array of silk pieces displayed in a riot of colors, from a brilliant azure to a deep orange reminiscent of a breathtaking sunset.

The shopkeeper, a portly man with a twirling mustache and a shiny forehead partly concealed under a vivid purple cap, noticed your interest. "Find anything to your liking, m'lady?" he asked with a friendly twinkle in his eyes.

"These silks are quite stunning," you remarked, admiring the craftsmanship. "Your selection is impressive."

The man leaned forward, curiosity lighting up his face. "Ah, I detect an accent there! From Dorne, aren't ya, m'lady?" he inquired.

You offered a hesitant smile. "Quite perceptive, good ser. I hail from the Torrentine region."

"Dorne's a land of beauty, no doubt about that. Shame about the recent troubles, though," he mused. "My wife, Margy, often says them highborns complicate life more than necessary. But when you meet a girl as pretty as you’self, you wonder, why even go to war eh!?" He raised an eyebrow in a playful, flirtatious gesture, eliciting a light chuckle from you.

"I hope the rest of King's Landing shares your open-mindedness and hospitality," you said, still smiling.

"For a lady as charming as yourself? I'm sure you'll find plenty of warm welcomes here," he reassured.

"Are you originally from King's Landing?" you inquired.

"Indeed, born and raised in this very city," he beamed. "Left as a lad to see the world, ended up in Myr where I got into the silk trade. Met my Margy there, and we returned to set up shop. The war in the Stepstones made things difficult, but we're getting back on our feet now."

A pang of sadness hit you. "I'm sorry. I know Dorne played a role in that conflict, one that might not have been favorable for your business."

He waved off your concern. "Don't you worry about that, m'lady. You didn't make those decisions, did you? We all just play the hand we're dealt."

Your laughter lit the air. "I suppose not. Nonetheless, please accept my apologies on behalf of Dorne."

"I'll do you one better," he proposed, "I'll accept your apology if you accept one of my silk scarves."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly impose," you demurred.

"It'd be my pleasure, m'lady. Perhaps you could show it off at court? It's not every day a future princess visits my stall."

"And how did you guess my identity?" you asked, amused by his astuteness.

"HAHA, we don't see many Dornish ladies of your stature around here. I recognized you the moment you approached my stall," he chuckled.

“Well, if I am to accept your offer, may I know the name of the kind gentleman who extends it?" you inquired with a teasing smile.

“The name’s Dougas m’lday, pleased to make the acquaintance of such a’ pretty princess!”

"Thank you, Ser Dougas," you said sweetly. "By any chance, do you have a scarf with some purple and white?"

__________________

As you perused Dougas's collection of silk scarves, you found yourself hesitating. Each scarf, while beautiful, didn't quite match the calming purple hue you had in mind. They were either too bright or too dull, never hitting that perfect shade. Dougas, however, seemed unfazed by your indecision, confident that somewhere within his stock lay the exact color you were seeking.

While you sifted through the vibrant array of fabrics, the carriage remained stuck amid the traffic caused by the overturned carts. This gave you the luxury of time to carefully consider each option. Just as you were about to decide, a loud cry from the market abruptly interrupted your thoughts, drawing your attention away from the scarves and making you turn toward the noise.

A small figure caught your eye amidst the commotion – a boy, no older than Gerris, but his appearance was marked by the harshness of what life in Knig’s Landing is like for those less fortunate. He was clad in threadbare rags that hung loosely on his small frame, and his hair, a dirty mousy brown, was tousled and unkempt. His young face, smudged with grime, bore the unmistakable look of poverty, likely a young resident of Flea Bottom.

You recalled a lesson from your tutor back in Starfall, whose words now echoed in your mind: "In King's Landing, especially in places like Flea Bottom, you'll witness the depths of despair and poverty. Crime there is often a byproduct of extreme circumstances. Remember, my lady, those driven to such acts are often at the edge of their humanity, their moral compass skewed by hunger and desperation. Our response to their plight, whether it is one of disdain or compassion, is a testament to our own humanity."

" ‘Tis young Davos again," Dougas murmured with a heavy sigh, his eyes following the small boy struggling in the firm grasp of a gold cloak. "Second time this week he's been caught stealing. They'll likely make an example of him now."

As the boy writhed and squirmed against the guard's unyielding hold, you scanned the crowd. Indifference was the prevailing response; some onlookers snickered; others deliberately looked away. The merchant who had been the victim of the theft was loudly demanding justice, his voice filled with frustration and anger.

A growing sense of anxiety began to pulse within you. The ease of being a passive observer, of being the Ghost who roamed the hallways of Starfall and who murmured sweet nothings in the ears of Aliandra, now felt uncomfortably inadequate here in the bustling streets of King's Landing.

Without another thought, you grabbed hold of a beautiful purple silk scarf from Dougas's stall, its intricate white threadwork catching your eye. "I'll take this one, thank you, Dougas," you said quickly, laying some gold coins on the counter. "And please, accept this if not as payment, as an apology for any hardship Dorne's actions in the Stepstone may have caused you."

With a brief nod, Dougas acknowledged your gesture. But your attention was already elsewhere. You turned swiftly, making your way towards the commotion. The boy's small feet kicked futilely in the air as he tried to free himself from the gold cloak's grip.

"Let him go! He's just a child!" The shrillness of your own voice surprised you, piercing through the market's din with an urgency you had never expressed before.

Both the gold cloak and the boy snapped their heads towards you. In that brief moment of distraction, the boy seized his chance, delivering a sharp kick to the guard's shin. The guard winced but, recovering quickly, caught the boy by his dirty, tangled hair, yanking him back with such force that a pained cry escaped the boy's lips.

"Stay out of this, wench! This isn't your affair!" the guard sneered at you.

"This boy's been thieving from me for weeks!" the merchant screeched, still in the throes of his tirade. "He needs to be taught a lesson!"

You strode determinedly towards the merchant, your resolve steeling. "And what? He deserves to be beaten? Killed, perhaps, because he stole from you? Look at him – he's just skin and bones, starving!"

Reaching into your purse, you pulled out ten gold dragons. "Will this cover what he owes?" you asked, extending the coins towards the merchant. His eyes, greedy and calculating, fixated on the gold. "It'll do... for now. But if I see him near my stall again, no amount of gold will stop me from dealing with him myself, you hear that, boy?"

You whirled towards the guard, your voice firm. "Didn't you hear? Let the boy go this instant!" Yet, the guard only tightened his grip on the boy's hair, drawing another pained cry. "Please, help," the boy whimpered.

"You think I'll just let him go because that fat merchant said so?" the guard scoffed. "I am the law ‘round here, and it's my call who gets punished. This boy is nothing but a common thief and I’ll serve him the king’s justice as I see fit, so stay outta it!"

"If it's money you're after, then I can pay," you offered, desperation creeping into your voice. "Would 10 gold dragons suffice, for the boy’s life?" But the guard only sneered in response. "You think you can bribe a member of the gold cloaks? Your money means nothing to me."

With a harsh shove, he pushed the boy to the ground, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. Then, turning his attention to you, the guard advanced with a menacing leer. You suddenly felt like prey – you recalled the time your father took you fox hunting in the desert. Back then, you were the hunter, patiently pursuing your quarry. But now, here in the heart of King's Landing, you were the cornered fox, vulnerable and exposed, ready to be killed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd, seeking an ally, but found none. Dougas's concerned gaze met yours, and you could tell he was contemplating stepping in. Yet, with a subtle shake of your head, you silently implored him not to intervene. This was your battle; you couldn't bear the thought of anyone else suffering for the situation you had escalated. But only a look at little Davos whimpering on the ground and you knew you had made the right choice, you could not just stand by and see this little boy suffer for the sick amusement of this guard.

"Then what do you want in exchange for the boy's freedom?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. The guard stepped closer, alarmingly close, and insolently grabbed a strand of your long hair, taking a deep, unsettling sniff. A shiver of revulsion ran down your spine. "I fought in the last Dornish war, you know, little lady? I can spot a Dornish whore a mile away." He yanked your hair painfully. "I know your kind are loose and easy. So, prove how badly you want the boy freed. Satisfy me, and maybe I'll let him go."

The guard was so close that the foul stench of sour wine on his breath was overwhelming you. Without thinking, you slapped him hard across the face. "Don't you dare touch me!" you shouted. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"I know exactly what you are," he sneered, reaching for your throat. "A self-important little Dornish slut." But before he could tighten his grip, he suddenly crumpled to his knees. Little Davos, wielding a sizable rock, had struck him from behind.

"Come on, lady, we gotta run!" Davos urged, but you stood frozen, overwhelmed by the chaos and the unfamiliarity of your surroundings. The fond memories of Starfall's serene dawns, the fragrant lemon air, and Aliandra's gentle touch over your body seemed like distant dreams, replaced by foul a foul stinking stench, crying little boys and discussing greasy hands tugging your hair and pressing upon your throat.

As the gold cloak staggered to his feet, spewing obscenities, you instinctively grabbed Davos, positioning him protectively behind you. "Stay behind me; I'll protect you," you asserted, but the boy refused to stay put, instead wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. With one arm, you held him close, while with your other hand, you braced yourself as the guard drew his sword and pointed it at you.

“YOU STUPID FUCKING WHORE! YOU SHOULD HAVE JUST SUCKED MY COCK WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE!” The guard was purple in the face from all his screaming, you tightened your arm around Davos who was weeping, his tears wetting your gauzy skirt. “I’m gonna enjoy killing the boy, but I am going to enjoy dealing with you even more, you Dornish slut!” The guard raised his sword to your neck and let it drop to your cleavage, pushing your dress down and revealing the top of your breast, “You imma strip naked in front of everyone, then I am gonna give you the beatin’ your daddy should have given to the little bitch that you are, and I am gonna show everyone what happens when someone dares to disrespect the gold cloak!”

Your heart pounded in your chest as the guard menacingly dragged his sword across your chest, not deep enough to draw blood but enough to make you squirm, the cruel glint in his eyes holding your gaze as he toyed with you. Paralyzed with fear, you desperately wanted to urge Davos to run, to escape this nightmare, but you knew you couldn't - it would only put him in more danger.

A wave of despair washed over you. You had thought you could make a difference, naively believed that you could help this little boy. But now, you realized just how misguided you had been. What a foolish idiot to think that you could go against an armed guard. "I'm so sorry," you whispered to Davos, your voice trembling. Gently, you stroked his hair, pulling him as close to you as possible, a futile shield against the imminent threat.

Davos lifted his eyes to meet yours, and you found yourself looking into deep, warm pools of brown, brimming with tears. In his gaze, there was an unmistakable look of trust and love, as if you were the Mother reborn. Despite the layers of grime on his face, his still soft youthful features were still apparent – the rounded fullness of his cheeks and the small, upturned nose. After a moment of shared eye contact, laden with unspoken understanding and fear, he buried his face back into the fabric of your skirt, his grip around you tightening as if to say, “It's alright you did your best.” In that moment, you steeled yourself, determined to stand your ground. If it came to it, you would fight, not just for yourself, but for this boy who had shown more bravery than anyone else you had ever known. Your eyes remained fixed on the guard, refusing to look away. If this was to be your end, you would face it head-on, protecting Davos to your very last breath.

You clenched your teeth, “You better do your worst you piece of shit, because if I get up, you certainly won’t!”

The guard menacingly lifted his sword, a sinister glint in his eye. "Perhaps I'll start with you," he sneered, "Let the boy watch."

In a desperate attempt to shield Davos from the impending horror, you whispered urgently, "Don't look." You braced for the blow, but it never landed. What happened next was a blur of motion – one moment, the guard was poised to strike; the next, he was howling in agony, clutching the bleeding stump where his hand had been. His severed hand, still gripping the sword, lay on the ground beside him. He crumpled to the ground, his cries piercing the air, as chaos erupted around you.

Clutching Davos tightly, you frantically scanned the crowd, hoping against hope that your father had noticed your absence and come searching for you, perhaps with some of the guards in tow. But amidst the onlookers, there was no sign of the familiar soft purple that marked your family's entourage.

Then, your gaze locked with the most striking eyes, well eye you had ever seen – a deep, piercing sapphire. The owner of this mesmerizing eye was the most handsome man you had ever encountered, wielding a bloodstained sword. Standing a few paces behind him was a man with distinct Dornish features, garbed in a white cloak. The identity of the younger man became unmistakably clear as you noted his long silver hair and the distinctive eye patch. Prince Aemond Targaryen, your betrothed, stood before you, the very person who had just saved your life.

Your breath hitched, and your heart raced as Prince Aemond held your gaze. There was a steely intensity in his eye that seemed to harden further when he took in your disheveled state and the small figure of Davos, who now timidly peeked out from behind the folds of your skirt to witness the unfolding scene.

The wounded guard writhed on the ground, his voice a mix of pain and anger. "My Prince, why?!" he moaned, clutching the bleeding stump of his arm. "That Dornish whore insulted the royal guard! She must be punished." But Prince Aemond's response was non-existent; his intense gaze remained fixed on you, causing your breath to quicken and a familiar warmth started to pool inside your belly.

For several agonizing seconds, the only sound was the guard's plaintive moans for help. Finally, Prince Aemond broke the charged silence. Tearing his gaze from yours, he delivered a forceful kick to the guard's abdomen, eliciting a sharp cry of pain.

"Ser Criston," he commanded, and the Dornish-looking man behind him immediately snapped to attention. "Remove this filth from my sight. Make sure he serves as an example to others."

His voice was deep and resonant, wrapping around you like velvet. Meanwhile, the guard's pleas escalated into a panicked babble as Ser Criston roughly hauled him up by the collar. "No, no, no," the guard stammered desperately. "The whore disrespected me! The boy's a thief! I was only giving them what they deserved. I did nothing wrong!"

"Watch your tongue, you wretch!" Ser Criston's voice thundered, thick with disdain. "You dare insult a future princess of the realm, the betrothed of Prince Aemond Targaryen!"

The guard's demeanor crumbled into desperation, his eyes brimming with tears. "I... I didn't know, please! I swear, if I had known, I would have never acted so... Please, forgive me!" His voice cracked with fear and panic.

Ser Criston started dragging the guard away, and he turned his wild, frightened eyes towards you, pleading. "You have to believe me; I didn't mean any harm by it! I didn't know who you were!" All you could smell was the sour wine and all you could see was Davos scared brown eyes.

"Wait, Ser Criston." Your attention immediately shifted to Prince Aemond at his commanding tone. He stood, resolute, beside the severed hand, still gripping the sword, exuding an aura of calm authority. His posture was impeccably straight, hands clasped behind his back in a stance of dignified composure. He then turned his gaze towards you, and there was a discernible edge in his voice, a mix of curiosity and challenge, as he spoke. "The affront was directed at my betrothed. It is only fitting that she decides his fate." The words, though spoken casually, carried the weight of a test, his single eye fixed on you with an intensity that belied the nonchalant sneer.

The weight of every gaze in the vicinity pressed upon you. Davos gazed up with innocent eyes, still clinging to you for safety. Dougas, from his stall, looked on in horror at the unfolding drama, and the crowd around you had swelled, drawn by the prospect of witnessing a spectacle involving a prince of the realm – a rarity in the city. In the distance, you spotted a flash of purple – a sign that your family's retinue had noticed your absence and was making its way toward the commotion.

Your eyes then fell upon the guard, a pathetic and almost crazed figure now pleading for mercy. You searched within yourself for the compassionate girl who once blushed under Aliandra’s gaze and bawdy laugh and cherished reading beneath the orange blossoms, but she seemed distant now, unreachable in this moment.

Finally, your gaze met Prince Aemond's. He hadn’t moved, save for an arched eyebrow signaling his anticipation of your decision. "My father taught me the virtue of grace and forgiveness," you began, the guard's eyes lighting up with a flicker of hope. "But this man was ready to subject me to a public beating, to strip me before all an humiliate me. Where I not of my birth, he would have killed both me and this boy for mere sport. He is no better than a dog, and rabid dogs must be put down." Your voice was steady, resolute, as you clutched Davos closer. "Soon, your words will be mine, my prince. 'Fire and Blood.' I trust your judgment in handling him."

The guard's whimpering grew more desperate at your words. Prince Aemond’s lips then curled into a smile, a grim satisfaction in his eye. "You heard my betrothed. Take him away. I'll attend to him personally later." His command was final, and as the guard was dragged away, you stood firm holding onto Davos and softly stroking his hair, his whimpering had finally abade, but he refused to let go.

As more gold cloaks began to arrive, they efficiently dispersed the gathering crowd, their presence imposing order on the chaotic scene. Amidst the commotion, you heard your father’s voice growing louder as he approached. Suddenly, a gentle, warm hand tenderly lifted your chin, guiding your gaze upwards. You found yourself looking directly into the eyes of your betrothed, Prince Aemond, the unkown man who had hunted your worst nightmare of dragons and blood had now become your unexpected protector.

Were you harmed?” he asked with concern.

He listened as you explained, “He mostly threatened me, but the boy... he was hurt, and he was going to kill him. I couldn't just stand by.”

“Shhh,” Aemond interjected softly, halting your anxious recounting. “You showed remarkable bravery, more than anyone else here. Standing up for a child facing unjust punishment speaks volumes of your character. Few would have had the courage to intervene, but that boy was fortunate to have your kindness and protection. You've not only honored yourself today but also brought honor to my house, my lady.”

As he spoke, Aemond gently stroked your cheek, then cupped your face in his hand. Overwhelmed by the tenderness of his touch, you instinctively leaned into his palm, closing your eyes and finding a moment of solace in his comforting gesture.

Your father then burst into the scene, his expression a mix of worry and confusion, breaking the tender moment. "What happened?" he exclaimed, taking in your disheveled appearance and the tearful child in your arms. He quickly closed the distance and enveloped you in a protective embrace.

Prince Aemond, who had been tenderly holding your face, discreetly withdrew his hand and coughed, as though to recompose himself amidst the sudden interruption.

"Guards!" Aemond commanded, addressing the gold cloaks who promptly gathered around him. "Ensure that my betrothed and her family are safely escorted to the Red Keep. Let nothing like this occur again, or you'll join your colleague in the black cells." His voice carried an undeniable authority, prompting the guards to spring into action.

As two gold cloaks moved to escort you and your father, another reached to take Davos from your arms. "No," you stated firmly, feeling Davos cling tighter to you. The guard hesitated, glancing at Prince Aemond for guidance. With a simple nod from the prince, the guard backed off, allowing you to lift Davos and secure him against you, his skinny legs wrapping around your waist. You whispered soft reassurances to the frightened boy as you began to move away with your father, who bombarded you with a flurry of questions.

Before you got too far, you turned and called out, "Prince Aemond!" The prince turned, his posture regal, his hands clasped behind his back, his piercing blue eye fixing you with an intense gaze. Gently setting Davos down, you guided his hand into your father's, who received him with a puzzled expression. Then, making your way towards Prince Aemond, you reached into the folds of your bodice and retrieved the beautiful purple and white silk scarf you had discreetly tucked away earlier.

Approaching the prince, you carefully wrapped the scarf around his bicep. Aemond watched, a look of bewilderment crossing his face as you performed this unexpected gesture. His usual composed demeanor seemed momentarily unsettled by your action, as he gazed at the soft uprple fabric now adorning his arm. "My thanks for saving me, for protecting us. A small token to show you that your bravery won't ever be forgotten," you said earnestly. Prince Aemond held your gaze for a moment longer, then gave a slight nod in acknowledgment before you smiled and made your way back to your father and Davos, taking the latter back into your arms.

As the gold cloaks ushered you back towards the carriage, your family bombarded you with questions. You responded absently, your mind replaying the scene. Despite the turmoil, a smile found its way to your lips as you remembered the deep flush of red that had colored Prince Aemond's cheeks and ears at your display of gratitude. You held tighter onto little Davos and smiled, perhaps marrying a man like Aemond Targaryen might not be so bad after all.

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sluttysnowangel666 · 9 months ago

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His Second Wife - cregan stark x reader (request)

summary: two years following the death of cregan’s first wife, he accepts an undesired marriage proposal to rhaenyra targaryen’s daughter. rhaenyra’s daughter, who had loved cregan the moment she first met him as a young girl, immediately loves and accepts cregan’s first child as her own. yet it is still not enough for cregan to find his own love for his new wife.

cw: mean cregan😓, widow!cregan, targ!reader, loss of virginity(reader), rhaenyra’s daughter, angst to fluff, unrequited love, sex, happy ending

do yall notice i always post a long ass story usually around midnight or later ( i’m unwell)also this is long af soz it was a detailed request and I wanted it to be to a T. this is SOO long. i prolly should have done two parts… oh well @lillithsalvatore hope you enjoy it love ❤️

masterlist

“How do you feel, my love?” Your mother asked, placing a warm and comforting hand on yours.

You sighed. “Nervous.”

She gave you that warm and sweet smile of hers. “I know. I hope you know this choice was not easy for me to make, as I know this was a hard task for me to place upon you.”

“I know, mother.” You say with forgiveness, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Had it been any other lord I would have surely declined but… Starks are the most honorable among men. I know your union will be blessed by the gods.”

You give her a smile, blindly trusting her words. You had met him once, and you knew he was kind. In fact, he had left a paw shaped imprint on your heart. You thought to yourself no union could be more suitable. You knew he had married once before out of a prior marital alliance, but the marriage had been short lived, lasting only a year before his first wife died in her birthing chambers.

It took more than four moons before you arrived at Winterfell, as if every power in the world was set on preventing it. You were not a superstitious person, so you simply thought all the bad things that happened prior to your marriage was coincidence.

Each time you went to leave, something prevented you. Your mother miscarried your baby sister, Lucerys was killed by Aemond, Daemon went silent at Harrenhall, Rhaena ran away and was lost in the eyrie before revealing she claimed Sheep-stealer.

You arrived in the dead of winter, and the journey had not been kind to you. You got a chill on the way up, causing you to stop at an inn for a few nights, you had came across raiders who killed one of the many men escorting you, and your clothes were ill suited for the weather.

You did eventually arrive at Winterfell thankfully, all in one piece.

You stepped out of the carriage cautiously, eyeing the snowy landscape surrounding you. It went as far as the eye could see. You held your hand out, letting the thick snowflakes fall and melt in your hand.

“My princess.” You turn to see Cregan, walking towards you. He bows, forcing a politeness. “Winterfell is yours.”

You bow in return, “No need for such formalities, Lord Stark. This is your home, and I am honored to have you welcome me here.”

He nods, choosing to say nothing else to you.

“Please show the princess to her chambers.” He says to one of the servants, then immediately turning on his heels to leave. Your jaw falls slightly, surprised at his curt demeanor.

You compose yourself, trying to hide the slight hurt in your features before making your way to your private chambers.

You bathed immediately, welcoming the hot water against your skin. No water could be hot enough for your dragon blood, but what they had drawn up for you would do nicely.

Your wedding was a week after your arrival, the lord having given you time to settle in. You had not seen him much during that week so you chose not to bother him, assuming he was busy with duties.

When you walked down that snowy path to the red weirwood, Cregan stole a glance at you. You looked beautiful, and he felt horribly guilty for thinking it. He felt like what he was doing was betraying her.

You said your vows, swearing your love before the old gods. You smiled at Cregan and he gave you a forced one in return. Guilt wracked his whole body. He felt guilty for you, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give you a union where you were loved, he felt guilty for liking your smile, he felt guilty for forgetting hers.

There was a feast following the ceremony, nothing large due to the pains of winter, but it didn’t bother you. The small gathering felt intimate, compared to southern weddings where lords and ladies travelled from all over the realm to witness it.

It was here you met Cregan’s son, Rickon.

“Hi, little one.” You said. He was only two, a fat little babe who looked just like Cregan.

“Rickon, this is my new wife.” Cregan said. The way he worded it made you twitch, it had sounded so strained. He didn’t even use your name. You told the boy the name he could call you, but he said nothing as he hid behind his father’s leg.

“I apologize.” Cregan said, his voice showing no sign that he actually was sorry.

“It is alright, my lord. He is just a babe. He and I will have time to get to know each other.” You said. Cregan tensed up, suddenly remembering again this union was forever.

“Excuse me, princess.” He said, turning and walking away with Rickon. Your heart sunk a bit. You could start to sense it now, Cregan was not in the slightest invested in your union together. You felt lost, out of place suddenly.

You sat back down at the high table, overwhelmed with nervousness. You bit at your nails and the skin around them, biting until they bled. You missed your mother dearly. Being here, in this room among strangers who didn’t care much for southerners to begin with, made you feel small.

You had sat there for an hour or two, not moving or eating once, save for your cuticles.

Cregan came to you, not noticing your nervous state. If he had noticed, he chose to ignore it. “I’ve put Rickon down… Would you please accompany me to my chambers?”

You looked at him, the nail bed of your thumb resting between your teeth. You nodded, standing and staring at the hall one last time. You locked eyes with a man, who noticed you both about to take your leave.

“Is it time for the bedding ceremony, Lord Stark?” The man asked, erupting a few cheers from the men mostly.

“No!” Cregan nearly barked the order. “There will be no bedding ceremony.”

The men in the crowd shuffled awkwardly at his outburst but accepted.

“Princess.” Cregan said, walking away and not waiting to see if you were following.

You did anyway, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. You had the sense he wanted this to be over with quickly.

He held the door as you both entered his chambers. You took in your surroundings. It was a clean and large kept room with a lit hearth and a large bed. A thought passed your mind, even though you tried to push it down.

Did he share these chambers with her?

Cregan began to take off his armor and furs, again not watching to see if you did the same, only assuming you were. If you weren’t, he didn’t care.

“Um, could you help, my lord?” You asked, referring to the laces of your white wedding dress.

He sighed, walking over to you as you turned your back to him. Your eyes welled with tears, but you tried to hide it.

His hands were gentle with the laces, not tugging at them as you expected him to. He obviously had experience doing this before.

He grew emotional as he undid your dress, but he hid it well. It was a weird sense of deja vu. Your hair looked like hers from the back and he felt like he was back at his first wedding.

You pushed the dress off, revealing the sheer linen soft dress underneath. He hadn’t moved from behind you, trying to maintain his composure. You walked away from him, lying on the bed and biting your nails again.

He finished disrobing besides his briefs, and you stole a glance at his back. It was huge, muscular and scarred.

He walked over to the bed, getting between your legs and pushing up your shift.

“Is this alright with you, princess?” He asks. “We need not consummate this if you are not ready.”

For the first time it seemed like he kinda cared about how you felt. His hand still had a hold of your shift, which was resting on your pelvic bone.

You nodded, “Is it alright with you, Lord Stark?”

He nodded, pushing your shift up the rest of the way to reveal your chest. He wanted to fall on his sword for the way he kept stealing glances at your breasts.

He pushed his briefs down, and you choked on your breath at the reveal of his length.

“Oh, gods.” You mumbled under your breath.

He rubbed himself against your slit, and your heart stilled for a minute. The feeling was foreign and intense.

He gently grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth. You hadn’t even realized you were still doing it, it was starting to become like breathing. A natural, unintentional habit.

Your hands fell to his biceps to steady yourself. You looked at him, but he did not meet your gaze. He instead bowed his head, watching himself enter inside you.

You dug your nails into his arm, gasping in shock. He gently shushed you, telling you it was okay.

“Please, please.” You said, not knowing what you were even pleading for.

“What?” He asked gently, his voice low and almost mimicking of your whining. It sent a shiver up your spine.

He was slow and gentle with you, not in it for any pleasure himself.

You touched his chest and his hair and his arms, and while he didn’t stop you he made no effort to touch you himself. His hands rested beside your head, holding up his weight.

Your hands found his arms again and you moaned softly, feeling your peak building in your stomach. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead to his head, moaning as you spilled onto him. He closed his eyes as he felt it, and guilt wracked him again.

He gently pulled out of you and stood up, immediately dressing himself into his nightwear. You pushed your shift back down and pulled the linen covers over you, immediately going back to biting your nails at his reaction.

He laid beside you, not facing you and not saying anything.

You said nothing, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed how he intentionally avoided spilling himself into you.

———

It had been 3 months since your arrival to Winterfell, and you had adjusted as well as you could given the circumstances.

You did not often see your lord husband, but you were used to it. He spent a lot of his free time in the crypt where she was. It hurt, but you gave him his peace and he appreciated that you didn’t hover.

“Mummy!”

“Sh, sh, love.” You say as Rickon runs into your chambers.

Cregan did not like when Rickon called you his mother. He’d gotten upset with you a few times over it, and you assured him you would correct Rickon when it happened.

“Mummy.” He repeated. You giggled. pulling him into your lap. You shook your head and tapped his nose, saying, “Nooo. Not mummy.”

“Mummy.” He laughed, and you ran your fingers through his thick brown curls.

“What ever will we do with this mop on your head, my son?”

“He is not your son.” You turned to see Cregan standing in the door way. “And his hair is fine.”

“Apologies, my lord.” You said, curtly. He ignored your attitude.

“Come, Rickon.” He said, beckoning his son.

“No, mummy.” Rickon whined, holding you.

“Go see papa.” You told him, and with your blessing Rickon ran to Cregan.

Cregan gave you a cold stare as he left, and you returned the favor.

You were growing ever so agitated with your husband. He had welcomed you into Winterfell, but not his heart. The only time you both had shared a bed was the night of your wedding, to which Cregan had made sure not to give you an heir.

You had no one. Rickon had you, Cregan had you even if he did not want you, yet you were alone here in Winterfell.

You decided to write to your mother on Dragonstone, requesting for Jacaerys to pick you up on dragon back so you could visit your family and hopefully receive advice. You had left your dragon, Silverwing, at home. You did not want to disrespect the already hesitant northern people, and you did not want Silverwing to be cold or hungry.

That night when you were brushing your hair before bed, there was a knock on your door.

“Come in.” You looked in the mirror and saw Cregan’s half sister, Sara, enter.

“Hi, Sara.” You said. She came up behind you, taking the brush from your hand and slowly combing it through your hair. You two had formed a unique bond, given you were both considered outcasts in Winterfell. You were a southerner, she was a bastard. They were two sides of the same coin here in Winterfell.

“I heard what happened today.” She said, and you hummed mindlessly. “My brother can be a bastard.”

You smiled at her in the mirror. “Is that so?”

She nods. “I wish I knew what to do, Sara.”

“We northerners love hard, princess. We are unwaveringly loyal. The wound of losing Aly is still fresh in my brother’s heart. Give him time. He knows you love Rickon, and that scares him. I don’t know why.”

“Was Aly pretty?” You ask.

“You have a southern beauty we do not see often in the North. Aly was not a beautiful woman, but she was a fierce fighter. That is how history will remember her. She was born fighting, and she died fighting. I know you are a fierce fighter as well, princess. You are the blood of the dragon. Do not let the grief my brother holds make you feel small.” She kisses the back of your head. “Throw a fucking book at his head if he acts like that again.”

You laugh, her joke comforting you. She turns and leaves you alone, your head clouded with thoughts of Aly.

You heard back from Jacaerys within a few days that he would arrive shortly to bring you home. You had not yet told Cregan, as you knew he wouldn’t care anyway.

A few days following the letter from the raven, it was Sara’s name day. Cregan had decided to celebrate with a feast, one bigger than your wedding.

You all sat at the high table, your husband and sister in law drinking heavily. Although Cregan was a big man, the amount of ale he consumed that night seemed enough to kill a horse.

“My princess.” A servant rested her hand on your shoulder. You and Cregan both turned to look at her, and she grew nervous, not expecting Cregan to pay any attention or perhaps she would not have asked the princess the request. “Rickon has had a nightmare and wants no comfort of the maids. He is requesting you by name specifically, princess.”

You turn to look at Cregan for his approval. He gives a quick nod, which you hadn’t expected. Perhaps he only obliged since Rickon had requested you by your name, rather than requesting his “mother.”

You walked with the maid to his chambers, opening the door.

“Mummy.” He said through sniffles. You turned to face the maid.

“I thought he requested me by my name.” You said.

“That is your name, princess… to him.” The maid closed the door.

You turn to face Rickon with a gentle sigh. “You know papa doesn’t like that word.”

“Mummy.” He just says again. You walk to his bed, fitting yourself in to lay with him. He cuddles into your chest, and you play with his hair to help him sleep.

“Say it okay.” He says.

“Hm? What do you mean, child?” You ask.

“She say it okay to call you mummy.”

“Who?”

“Mummy did.”

“No, you have to call me my name, sweet boy.”

“Not you, mummy. My other mummy said it okay.”

“You confuse me, Rickon.”

“Mummy says ignore papa.” You chuckle softly.

“Sleep now, my love.” You say, and he slowly falls asleep while you hum him a soft song.

You rise, tucking him in and giving his head a kiss.

You open his door to return to the feast, and Cregan is there waiting.

You gasp, covering your mouth quickly to not wake Rickon.

“Gods, you scared me!” You whisper/yell at him. He says nothing, his eyes in a glossy and drunken haze.

You close the door, nearly standing chest to chest with him.

“I heard you sing to him.” He says softly. “Where did you learn that song?”

“He taught me it.” You say, as you go to step past him when he stops you.

“Cregan?” You say confused, turning to look up at him.

He takes your cheeks in your hands and slams his lips on yours. You freeze for a second in shock, before immediately returning the kiss. He presses you against the door, and you moan into him as you quickly grow wet with Cregan’s sudden change of behavior.

He moves to press gentle kisses on your neck, biting softly here and there. His fingers dig into your hips, grinding himself into you. You moan softly, trying not to cause too much noise against the door.

“Not here.” You moan. He avoids your eyes, taking your hand and pulling you further down the hall to his chambers. It was only your second time in his room. He lifted you into his strong arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing you against the wall.

You both hadn’t even undressed, but you loved the thrill. Your husband finally wanted you after three long grueling months. He pushed your dress up to your waist as you unlaced his breeches.

He took you there against the wall of his chambers, fucking you so sweetly, fucking you in a way that would surely produce an heir.

Your moans filled the halls, and the servants began to spread word that the lord had finally moved on from his first wife.

He carried you to the bed, placing you along the edge as he stood, fucking you with sloppy and drunken thrusts.

You moaned his name, both of you drawing so close to your peak as your hands rested against his stomach. He leaned closed to you as hand moved beside your head to hold his weight, and the other moved under your lower back to lift you slightly off the bed and pull you more into him. The angle sent you over the edge, crying and moaning his name.

Your moans pushed him over, but his next words made you sick.

“Fuck, Alysanne.” He groaned, burying his head in your neck and spilling his seed into you.

You gasped, not even sure you heard him right.

He kissed your neck a few times and then rolled off you, not noticing the look on your face.

You laid there unmoving, still in your dress which was now damp with sweat, and your thighs now sticky with Cregan.

He fell asleep the second his head hit his pillow, still in his clothes.

You choked back a sob, moving your hand to your mouth so he wouldn’t waken. In reality, you could’ve started screaming and he wouldn’t have woke, or even shuffled.

You exited his chambers, trying not to be sick on the way to yours.

“My sister!” Sara drunkenly yelled as she seen you in the hallway. She took notice of your disheveled dress and hair. “Oh my gods, did you and Cregan just…?”

You ignored her, but she noticed the tears on your face. “Wait, sister what is wrong? What happened?”

You slammed the door in her face, throwing yourself into your pillow and screaming.

—

“Mother would be furious if she knew you were sleeping this well past sunrise.”

You groaned, lifting your head from the pillow to find the voice in the room.

“Jacaerys?” You said, when your eyes landed on him.

“I take it the feast for Sara Snow was a success.” He says, making fun of you. Your hair was sticking to your face, wet with a mixture of tears and drool.

“I guess you could say that.” You said, wiping your hair to the side.

“You’re disgusting.” He says.

“Gods, five minutes you’ve been here and you already frustrate me! Get out!” You say, both of you immediately teasing and arguing like you had never left home.

You push him out of your room.

“Don’t touch me, wench!” He whines, smacking your arms.

“Piss off! Go harass the bloody Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’d rather harass the Lady.” You push him out of your doors, turning and pressing your back to slide down the wall.

You hear him knock again and you rise to your feet, angry. “Jace, I said-“

You don’t finish your sentence, since as you open the door it’s Sara.

“I wanna talk about last night.”

“I don’t.” You say, going to close the door on her before she pushes it back open.

“What happened?” She asks, angry. She closes the door behind her and follows you to the bed. You sit on the edge and rest your elbows on your thighs, burying your face in your hands.

“Did my brother hurt you?” She asks, worried.

“No, no.”

She rests on her knees in front of you, placing her hands on your knees. “Tell me what happened.”

You sigh, trying to hold back your tears, but you cannot. “We had sex.”

“Isn’t that good? What went wrong?”

“He called me Alysanne.” You sob out.

“Oh, no.” She says, moving to sit beside you and wrap her arms around you.

“I cannot stay here no longer, Sara. I am being haunted by Alysanne. I find letters she wrote to Cregan, her clothes, her weapons. Rickon thinks I am her and Cregan wishes I was.”

“I am sorry, princess.” She says, sadly. “I thought I knew my brother better than that… Perhaps, if you talk to him about these past few months things can be different. Just give it a try, yes? You have your brother here now. You can leave if things do not work and the marriage can be annulled.”

You did not even wish to think of that possibility. It would be so shameful for both of your houses. You would do everything in your power to make it work.

You cleaned yourself up and went to Cregan’s chambers, knowing he would be hungover.

And you were right.

You entered his room without knocking, finding him in a bath with a warm rag over his eyes. Three times now you’ve been in his chambers.

“You can set it on the table.” He says, not moving the rag.

“What?”

“Oh.” He says, his voice changing in tone. “I thought you were the maid.”

You say nothing, unsure of where to even begin.

“Can whatever you’ve barged into my chambers for wait until I am done.” He asks, only the question is more of a statement.

“No.” You say, angry. You walk over to him and pull the rag off his eyes. He squints at the brightness, then gagging on the air as if he might be sick. “We’re going to talk, Cregan. We’ve been married for months and I don’t think we’ve ever truly had a conversation once. It is all I am asking. You could at least give me that. You’ve given me the cold shoulder for three months, and I’m tired of it. I’ve helped raise your son, I’ve loved you and I’ve cared for you even when you didn’t want it. You owe this to me.”

He sighs, defeated. “You are right in that, my princess. I apologize. We can talk later, alright?”

“No, Cregan. We will talk now.”

“You wouldn’t rather talk when I am of a clear headspace?”

“No. Now.” You say. He sighs again.

“Say your piece.”

The words left your mind the second he said that. You had this conversation in your head many times before, but now it was here and you could not handle the heat of the moment.

He raised his eyebrow at you, as if you were dumb.

“Oh, do not do that. I thought you Starks were supposed to be the most honorable among men. This whole marriage I have been treated with everything but. You are a disrespectful man, Stark. I am truly sorry about Alysanne-“

“Do not speak to me about my wife, ever!” He yells, pointing at you.

“I am your wife!” You cry out. “You chose me, whether you were ready for another marriage or not! I left my home, my family, my dragon to be with you! If I cannot have your love, is it too much to ask for your fucking respect?!”

He goes quiet for a few moments, “You have always had my respect, princess… and I know I have erred in the way I’ve treated you these past moons. But this marriage is just a duty. Nothing more, nothing less. This marriage is not out of love… so do not expect me to love you back.”

You laugh, dryly. “You called me Alysanne last night… Do you remember that? No… I suppose you were too drunk. You never would have touched or cared for me like that sober.”

He says nothing, but his hands grip the side of the tub and his face is contorted with anger. You rise, hiding any sort of emotion on your face.

“The dead don’t need lovers. Only the living.” You said. He threw his rag at the door as you walked out, not even granting him a second glance.

The memories of last night flooded back to him, and he rested his face in his hands, crying at his behavior. He had let down Aly, his son, and you.

He did care about you, he did love you in his own way. He just didn’t know how to show it. He didn’t want to show it. If he had shown it, he only would have betrayed Aly even more.

You went down to the crypt, somewhere you had never gone before. You had no reason originally, no people to mourn.

You stood in front of her plot, staring at the statue of her. She had been a skinny girl, with long dark hair and ‘plain’ features. You thought she was a beauty in her own way. You saw why Cregan loved her.

You cried. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help him.”

Your hand touched her statue, then you stood and left the crypt.

You said goodbye to Rickon, Sara, and then you left with your brother on dragon back, ready to be home with your true family.

———

“You’re a fucking fool, brother.”

“You think I don’t know that? Gods.” Cregan rested his head in his hands. He had sent every raven in Winterfell to Dragonstone, yet not one had responded in the weeks since you’d left.

“We’ll be lucky if the bloody queen doesn’t declare war on us for you scorning her daughter.”

“I am trying here, Sara! I’ve sent my ravens, I’ve sent men to retrieve her. There is nothing more I can do!”

Sara slammed her hands on the table. “Go and get her your bloody self, Cregan. The trip to Dragonstone will give you plenty of time for reflection.”

Sara turned to leave, and Cregan knew it was his only option of getting you back here. He would go and get you and make things right. He had to.

You had your own time for reflection, riding home with Jacaerys made you realize how much you missed being on dragon back.

Your mother of course welcomed you with open arms, but was wracked with guilt that you and Cregan’s union was not working. You paid it no mind however, spending your days patrolling Dragonstone on Silverwing.

Cregan had taken his horse and a few men to retrieve you from Dragonstone. The trip by horse was long, more than several weeks.

The entire time he rode in silence he thought of you. He thought of your last conversation and the final words you had said to him. The dead don’t need lovers. And you were right. Alysanne would not have wished to see him treat you how he had, she would not have wanted Cregan to spend his time sulking or being angry. He only wished he had realized it before he left.

He loved you. If only it hadn’t taken you leaving for him to realize. You were kind, gentle, beautiful. Traits Alysanne didn’t have but it was what seperated you from her. It had been how he was able to find his own kind of love for you, even when he didn’t consciously realize it yet. His own bitterness from losing Aly had made forget his honor.

Cregan arrived about two moons after you had left. He was aching, frustrated, and desperate by the time he reached Dragonstone.

It was dark, pouring rain, and you were playing with your brothers Viserys and Aegon when he arrived.

“Your Grace!” A knight came into the room shouting. Your mother looked up from her book. “Cregan Stark of Winterfell has arrived and requests an immediate audience with you and the princess.”

Your mother looked at you, and you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Your heart sank and your face went pale, but you nodded.

You met him inside the council chambers with your mother and his men. He was soaked, shivering. You could hear your heart beating in your ears, that was how nervous you were.

“Cregan.” You said, walking towards him and pushing him by his arms to the hearth to warm him up. It was another thing he loved about you, your protective nature, so he said it.

“I love you.”

“Cregan…”

“Love her?” You both looked at your mother, whose face was angry. “You love my daughter?”

“Your Grace.” Cregan said, removing his sword and bending his knee. “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.”

She walked towards you both. “It is not mine you need to beg for… I sent my only daughter to you, and you spurn her for your dead wife?!”

“Mother!”

“You will not interrupt the Queen when she is speaking.” She commands you. “What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Stark?”

He stands. “I have nothing to say, Your Grace. You are right. My behavior was unacceptable. The princess deserved none of it.”

“Why are you here?” Your mother asks him.

“I’ve come to ask the princess to return home.” Your mother scoffs at him.

She looks at you, then back to him. “You are lucky it is not my decision to make.”

She turns and exits, leaving and commanding his men to wait outside the doors so you both could be alone.

You were even more nervous with just the two of you in there. It is silent for a few moments before you speak.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” You ask Cregan.

“It took you leaving for me to realize I love you.” He says, taking your hands in his. You roll your eyes, taking your hands back and stepping away.

“I can’t believe you.” You say, starting to sob.

“I know, I know.” He steps closer to you again, taking you in his arms as you cry into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“I loved you, Cregan.” You say, crying. “Since I was a girl I loved you. I thought you were different from other men. But, you’re just like the rest.”

Cregan cries into your hair. “I’m so sorry, my princess. I’m so, so sorry.”

You both stand there, holding each other and crying.

“Please come home.” He says. “Let me take you home.”

“Rickon misses his mother, Sara misses her sister… I miss you, you my wife.”

You pull away to look at him, trying to read his normally stoic features. You can see he means it.

“Okay.”

———

You returned to Winterfell on Silverwing, no longer having the strength to remain apart from your dragon.

Cregan had to endure another long and grueling trip back to Winterfell, which you enjoyed knowing he was suffering while you road through the skies.

Rickon had cried tears of joy when you returned, and a week later when Cregan arrived Rickon cried again.

You and Cregan had remained in seperated chambers while you still navigated your marriage, but Cregan made a point to spend every moment of his free time with you.

But you had been keeping a secret from him.

After you returned home to Dragonstone originally, your blood never arrived. The maester determined you were with a babe, which would arrive several moons away in the dead of winter.

Your thick furs and dresses made it easier to hide from Cregan, as you were not ready to tell him.

The babe had complicated things. If you had not been pregnant, you might not have returned to Winterfell when Cregan came for you. But you knew you had a duty, and you believed if Cregan could love you then you could fix your union.

Cregan had indeed put the work in the second he arrived home. He attended to you, conversed with you, ate with you, laughed with you, but gave you the space you needed and gave you the option to be intimate with him when you were ready.

It was strangely like falling in love all over again. You blushed around each other, got nervous and flushed, made each other’s hearts race, shared a first kiss when you were both ready.

Cregan had undoubtedly fallen madly in love with you, and he regretted not taking the time to do it sooner. He couldn’t make up the time he lost being afraid. All he could do now was love you without guilt, love you without fear, love you without shame.

Normally Cregan always knocked on your chamber doors before entering, but for some reason this time he hadn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t knock, he didn’t know if it happened unconsciously or if he was too busy wrapped up with his thoughts.

Either way, he entered without knocking and by that point the cat was out of the bag.

He said your name, greeting you with a smile, only for it to fall off his face as if it had never been there.

You were in the bath, relaxing in the burning water, but that wasn’t the problem. He’d seen you naked, although it hadn’t been for a few months by this point, but him accidentally invading your privacy wasn’t the problem either.

It was the bump in your belly that was a problem.

Your head turned sharply, covering your chest quickly. “Cregan!”

“Sorry.” He said quickly, turning around to avoid disrespecting you.

“It’s fine.” You said, dropping your arm from your chest. “You just gave me a fright.”

He said nothing for a moment, only continuing to face the wall.

“What is that?” He finally asked. You sighed, stepping out of the tub and into your robe.

You walked up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to face you now, and his eyes fell down to your other hand resting on the small bump in your stomach.

“Perhaps it’s time we talk.”

“You think?” He spits at you, immediately apologizing after. “I’m sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to be cross with you.”

You said nothing, walking over to the seats by the hearth hoping he would follow.

He did, and he sat next to you, his eyes never leaving your belly.

“Can I?” He asked, gesturing to your stomach. You nodded, untying your robe so that you were bare. You grabbed his hand, bringing it to the small bump.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could have accommodated for you, made sure you were comfortable.”

“Truth be told it’s been hard for me to accept I’m truly with a child.” You say, “The reality had not set in until… well until you just now found out... I am sorry, Cregan. I should not have kept it from you.”

He chokes back a sob. “Feels like just yesterday Alysanne had Rickon.”

“He will be overjoyed to know he will have a little brother or sister.” You tell him. He looks at you, his face full of emotion.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks and before you can even finish nodding your head, you’re already leaning in to kiss him.

“I love you. I love you so much, my wife.” He says in between kisses.

His hand did not move once from your stomach the whole night.

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aegonstradwife · 10 months ago

Text

exposure therapy | aemond targaryen x reader

summary: anonymous requested; you and aemond were recently married. you're afraid of him, but aemond goes to great lengths to show you he's not that scary.

warnings: excessive use of ellipses, #1 wife lover aemond targaryen, brief mention of childhood trauma, smut. (fingering, face riding, oral.)

a. note:link to the original request.

As Aemond's new wife, it's surprising how little time you spend together. The servants whisper about it around every corner; how you skulk through the halls hoping to avoid him, how nearly every meal you take is apart from each other.

But there's a very good reason for this, one that you've never admitted to anyone.

You are terrified of him.

Even at night, you might share the same bed, but it's big enough that you can sleep soundly without ever once touching him. Although even that was difficult at first; those first few nights you dreaded climbing into bed with him and got nearly no sleep at all.

He is so much bigger, and much stronger, than you. He really could do anything he wanted to you and you would have no chance of fighting him off.

Eventually, however, Aemond's still body beside yours throughout the night, you realized he either wouldn't, or didn't want to, touch you. And finally you were able to get some sleep.

But now, though sleep comes much more easily and your nights are no longer fraught with peril at the thought of him forcing himself upon you, it still doesn't mean you have any desire to be around him.

And you thought he felt much the same. Until tonight.

Aemond is already comfortable on the settee by the window, reading, when you retire to your shared bedchamber for the night.

Hells bent as usual on ignoring him, you busy yourself with removing your shoes in front of the wardrobe.

"Come. Sit with me."

In the quiet of the room, Aemond's sudden, uncharacteristic, voice makes you jump, going very still. His tone is soft; now that you think on it, you've heard Aemond's voice very few times, either before or after you were married.

In your mind, the few times you had heard him speak, you remember him sounding like a complete barbarian. Not this lilting, almost melodic, softness....

Straightening, you nervously smooth the skirts of your dress down over your thighs. Aemond's silhouette is stark against the candles guttering on the windowsill.

You gulp, starting to tiptoe toward him, but stopping at the opposite arm of the settee. "Do I have to?" You ask quietly, and even that takes every ounce of courage in your weary body.

This is probably as close as you've ever been to him when not in bed together at night.

"I won’t bite." Aemond's lips are quirked in a half smirk. He closes the book in his hands and sets it aside, patting the space beside him. "I assure you, I won’t hurt you. Come. Sit."

Though he had indicated the middle cushion, you sweep your skirts under you and take a seat on the one beside it, furthest from Aemond.

Normally you would have loved sitting and reading by candlelight, the cool breeze from the open windows ruffling your hair.

But now you bite your lip, heart hammering hard against your ribcage like a frightened bird.

Aemond can feel the tension radiating off of you. Your shoulders tight as a bow string, the muscles in your jaw taut, hands folded in your lap fidgeting with a loose thread on your gown.

He simple looks at you for a very long moment. Your features are delicate, almost fragile, your frame small and dainty when compared to his. To Aemond, you look very much like a porcelain doll. He has no idea how someone could be so beautiful and yet so…. breakable.

You glance nervously at him, wondering what he could possibly be thinking.

"What?" You ask, though you keep your voice low, not wanting to anger him.

"You're afraid of me," Aemond states bluntly. He leans against the back of the settee, studying you with one intense purple eye. "Why?"

You laugh aloud, unable to stop yourself. Now seems as good a time as any to tell him exactly what you've been thinking since your wedding day.

"Look at you. And look at me. You could do whatever you want to me and I wouldn't be able to stop you. Not to mention...." You shrug. "The stories about you aren't kind...."

Aemond raises an eyebrow at your laughter, that same small, wry smile never leaving his lips. He can't help but wonder if you're mocking him as he leans forward, gaze still locked with yours.

"And what do the stories say about me, little wife?" His voice is low, a dangerous, frightening edge to it.

For seemingly the first time, you look your husband in the eye. One piercing violet eye stares back, the other covered by his customary eyepatch. "They say you're a fearsome warrior, one of the strongest swordsmen alive. And they say.... they say you killed that boy. Rhaenyra's son...."

Aemond’s eye narrows. There is so much uncertainty in that gaze of yours, something about your innocent face makes Aemond feel.... bad. His jaw clenches and he leans back.

"Lucerys Velaryon. Yes, I did kill him. Though I didn't mean to.... I lost control."

"You didn't?" Your eyes narrow as well, suspicious of him. "Then.... what did you mean to do?"

Your husband lets out a long sigh and crosses his arms. "I meant to scare him. I was.... angry. I wanted to teach him a lesson, to frighten and humiliate him. And I did not have such good control over Vhagar as I do now...."

At the mention of his dragon, you perk up - that's one thing you've always been curious about. The Targaryen dragons are so beautiful and powerful; you would love to ride one one day, if given the chance.

"So your dragon, she disobeyed you?"

Aemond is clearly taken aback by your interest in Vhagar. For a moment, it seemed you forgot you were supposed to be scared of him. He tries to hide the hint of surprise flickering across his face.

"Well, yes and no," Aemond says, diplomatic. "Vhagar is a very old and powerful dragon, and she is used to doing what she wants. Sometimes.... it's difficult for any Targaryen to control a dragon, even the strongest of riders."

You are positively fascinated, hearing about Vhagar, leaning in toward Aemond without realizing. "What is it like, riding her? Does it ever get cold, so high up?"

Aemond can smell your perfume as you lean toward him, a mix of jasmine and honey, faint yet sweet. He clears his throat.

"Riding Vhagar is like nothing else," he tells you. "And yes, it does get cold at times, but the feeling of the wind in your hair and the power of the dragon beneath you is.... indescribable."

"Do you think she'd let me ride her?" At this point, you're nearly nose to nose with Aemond, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Or do they only let Targaryens?"

Aemond freezes, gaze still locked with yours, your heads so close together that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips. He is surprised by your question and even more surprised by how badly he wants to fulfill the request.

"They only let Targaryens ride them, yes," he says, voice sounding much huskier than he intends. "But.... I'm sure Vhagar wouldn't mind letting someone else ride her.... if I were to accompany them."

"Would you?" You reach out, hand finding his thigh and giving a thankful squeeze. Realizing what you've done, how close you've become to him, you quickly snatch that hand back as though Aemond is on fire. "I'm so sorry...."

Aemond’s eye widens; for a heartbeat, your touch sent a shock through his entire body.

"It's alright." His voice is rough. “Don’t apologize....” He catches your wrist gently, before you can pull your hand away completely. "It was.... nice."

You tense, wrist caught in his strong embrace. "What are you doing?"

For a long moment, Aemond doesn't respond, simply staring at your slender wrist in his hand. Your skin is so smooth, so soft. He can feel your pulse beating against his palm, fast and fluttering like the wings of a small bird.

"Doing?" He finally asks, looking up at you with a sly smile. "Just.... holding your hand, that’s all."

"Holding my.... oh." All things considered, Aemond is handsome, you suppose. With his long silver hair, that chiseled jaw, the little moue of his lips. "You.... you really aren't all that scary, are you?"

Chuckling softly, Aemond's fingers gently stroke the skin of your wrist. Your words, spoken almost as a question, take him by surprise.

"I'm not trying to scare you," he says, his voice low and slightly amused. "And I don’t want to be scary, to you. Can I be honest with you, little wife?"

You nod, letting him continue to stroke that sensitive bit of skin around your wrist. He is very gentle, which has taken you by surprise.

"The truth is," he mutters, "I don't like it when you're scared of me. I don't like the way you look at me, as if you think I'm going to pounce on you and tear you apart at any moment. That's not what I want."

Slowly, still wary of him, you curl your fingers around his thumb and Aemond's breath hitches. Your hand is small compared to his; Aemond's fingers look massive beside yours.

"Everyone else seems so frightened of you. I thought.... I should be as well. I didn't know, that you hadn't meant to kill that boy. Have you told anyone else that?"

“No,” he says after a moment. “No one else knows. I haven't told anyone.”

He pauses, looking down at your hand in his. His other hand comes to trap your fingers inside of his palms, his thumbs tracing back and forth over your skin. “You’re the first I've shared this with.”

"You should tell others, that way no one will be scared of you."

Aemond lets out a soft chuckle, his gaze still fixed on your fingers intertwined with his own.

“I quite like others being afraid of me,” he admits. The smile on his face fades, just a bit, in the flickering candlelight. “But not you.”

"Not me?" You query, a sweet blush rising high on your cheeks. "Why not me?"

Aemond’s eye is drawn to that color blooming across your cheeks, the innocent flush sending a strange feeling coursing through him. He continues to stroke your wrist in a gentle, almost reverent, way.

"A wife should not be afraid of her husband," he says finally, his voice soft. "She should be worshipped by him....”

Slowly, so as not to startle you, he brings your wrist to his lips and places a gentle kiss there.

You lick your lips, nervous as all seven hells with the way things are going. Not only are you still afraid of Aemond - though growing less so by the moment - you have also never been close like this with anyone else before.

"And why.... why is it so important for other people to be afraid of you?"

Aemond’s lips linger over your skin, the faintest ghost of a smile there. He can feel the way your hand trembles slightly in his, the nervous flutter of your pulse against his fingertips. But he also notices how you don’t draw back, how you sit still and allow him to hold you.

“It's.... payback, almost,” he confesses. “For the torment I suffered as a child. It is better to be feared than loved - no one will ever again treat me the way they did when I was young.”

You are not aware of any torment in Aemond's childhood, though that isn't saying much. Of course the Targaryens keep much of what goes on between them a secret. Even now that you're married, you're hardly privy to all - or even most - of their secrets.

"Is that.... how this happened?" Shaking ever so slightly, you raise a hand to Aemond's face, fingers stroking the strap of his eyepatch.

As your slender fingers brushed against the edge of it, Aemond tenses, every muscle in his body going taut. No one has ever touched him there before, and it's an unfamiliar intimacy.

He closes his eye for a moment, trying to control his reaction, before speaking. “Yes,” he says, his voice thick with emotions he finds difficult to name. “That's how this happened.”

You feel for Aemond; having to grow up that way must have been torture.

Pulling your hand gently from his grasp, you bring both up to hook beneath the rough leather strap. "May I?"

His breathing hitches as your hands tug gently at the straps of his eyepatch. He knows your touch is innocent.... but no one has ever dared to remove it for him before. He nods once, his voice low.

“You may.”

With fierce concentration and a desire not to ruin his perfect hair, you slide the eyepatch up and off, gasping at the gorgeous sapphire glimmering where his eye should be.

"Gods, it's beautiful, Aemond." Letting the patch rest in your lap, you run your fingers lightly over the scar tissue below Aemond's eye. "Who did this to you?"

Aemond's breath hitches again, rougher this time, as he feels the tips of your slender fingers graze the scarred tissue around his eye, the touch stirring something deep within him. The feeling of your touch against the sensitive skin there is almost overwhelming.

He swallows hard, that old pain and anger bubbling up inside of him.

"My.... nephew," he finally says, his voice surprisingly even. "Lucerys Velaryon."

You inhale sharply; all you can think of is that if Aemond had really meant to kill the boy, he would have been well within his right to, after having been mutilated like this.

Grabbing for his hands, you hurry to say something. "Aemond, I-"

But your husband cuts you off. "There is one other reason it's important for others to be afraid of me."

"A-And what is that?" You ask, holding his hands close to your bosom.

"So that I can protect my wife, and my family." That sapphire is positively glowing in the light of the flickering candles. "The more afraid people are of me, the less likely they are to try and harm me, or you, or our family.... once we make one...."

His declaration takes all the air from your lungs, and you find it hard to breathe. "If I had known all of this, I.... I would never have been so frightened of you. I'm sorry, Aemond."

You cast around desperately for something else to say, some other way to apologize.

"Do not apologize."

His voice is gentle, yet firm. Your hands are still holding his against your breast, and he can feel the warmth of your skin even through the layers of your gown, the rapid beat of your heart.

"You didn't know, it is not your fault for being afraid," he soothes you. "But.... now that you know.... may I ask you something else?"

You nod, eager now to answer Aemond's questions and to ask more of your own - you want to learn so much more about him.

Aemond's fingers tighten around yours, the feel of your soft skin against his own sending a strange heat through his veins. He draws you in a little closer, his face now so close to yours that he can feel the warmth of your breath, that same scent of sweet honey and jasmine in your hair.

"You.... have not shied away from my scar, or my missing eye," he says, his voice a low whisper. "You have touched them, caressed them even.... why?"

Why...? You find it odd he even has to ask.

"Because I think they make you beautiful. Is that wrong?"

Your thumbs find his wrists now, pressing in against his pulse points, which are fluttering erratically.

Aemond's breath catches in his throat, the feeling of your dainty thumbs resting against his wrists, feeling the rapid beating of his pulse, setting his skin on fire. Your words, declaring him beautiful, ring in his ears, stirring something deep within his chest.

"Be-Beautiful?" He repeats, his voice a terrible croak. No one.... no one has ever called him beautiful. The word sounds strange in his ears, as if they're not meant for someone like him.

You nod, and after only a momentary hesitation, you bring one hand up again to his scar. This time, brushing the side closest to his hairline, a few strands of long silver hair getting in the way.

"Beautiful, Aemond. You're beautiful. I mean.... I did always think that. Just.... was too afraid of you to tell you. Do you forgive me?"

Aemond's breath hitches once more as your fingers stroke his hair, your soft touch sending a shiver down his spine. No one, no one, has ever touched his scar with such tenderness, such care.

"I.... I forgive you," he whispers, voice raw. "And for what it's worth.... I'm sorry, that I.... that I made you afraid of me. I never wanted that, I swear."

"I know. It wasn't even your fault, really." You roll your eyes, relaxing against the back of the settee. "I was just.... assuming that what everyone else said was true. Which is a terrible thing, really. My parents raised me much better than that."

A particularly chilly gust of wind blows in through the window and you wrap your arms around yourself. "I have to admit, I thought if my shenanigans went on much longer, you'd be forced to.... well, force yourself on me...."

Aemond is silent, as if that thought, the notion of forcing himself on you, is something he refuses to even consider. He turns to look at you, the pale glow of his sapphire eye giving him an otherworldly appearance.

"I.... I would never force you to do anything, little wife, not ever," he says, his voice low and serious. "I believe the first time a man and wife.... are together.... it should be.... enjoyable.... for both of them."

Suddenly, all words are caught in your throat. The thought of your first time with Aemond still makes you nervous, even knowing that he would never want to do anything against your will.

"I thought.... a woman's first time was always painful?" That's what you've always been told. You have never done anything of the sort, but perhaps Aemond knows better.

At your words, Aemond's jaw tightens. His fingers clench into a fist, the thought of you in pain during your first time together sending a wave of anger through him.

"No. No, never. It shouldn't be painful, not unless you don't want it, too," he says, his voice low and urgent. "Your first time should be.... enjoyable. Pleasant. I would never take you simply for my own pleasure. I would make sure you...." he falters.

Flinching slightly away from him at the sight of his hand in a fist, you gasp softly. Have you said something wrong?

Still, you dare to ask, "You would make sure I what?"

In the candlelight, Aemond's eye flashes dangerously and that sapphire blazes.

He takes a very deep breath, forcing himself to relax, to open his hand again. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, "I.... I don't like the idea of hurting you, it.... makes me angry."

He looks down at you again.

"I would make sure that you.... felt pleasure as well. It wouldn't be about me. It's about both of us."

If you had known how protective Aemond was of you, you would have asked him about these things sooner. He is, after all, the only person you can think to ask. If you can't discuss bedroom matters with your husband, who can you discuss them with?

"How does it feel?" You ask him softly, scooting closer to him on the settee. "When you have sex, how does it feel?"

Aemond is taken somewhat off guard by the sudden question, his cheeks going pink at your unexpected candor, but he doesn't back down. He doesn't want to shy away from your questions, not when you're so close to him, peering at him through those wide, innocent eyes.

He takes another deep breath, shifting on the settee so he can face you fully.

"it.... it feels.... good," he begins, his voice a low rumble. "It feels.... full. Warm. Tight. But.... good. More than good, especially when you do it with someone you care about. It feels safe, like nothing can hurt you ever again."

The look on Aemond's face as he speaks is one you've never seen before - something vulnerable and almost childlike staring back at you. You wonder how you could ever have been afraid of him.

"And you? Who was your first time with?"

As your question hangs in the air between the two of you, Aemond goes stock-still. No one has ever asked him that before.

He hesitates for a moment, peering warily at you. "Why.... why do you want to know?" He asks finally, voice cautious.

Now you know you've definitely said something wrong. "I was just curious," you hurry to tell him. "It's wrong of me to pry, I'm sorry...."

Aemond sighs softly, shaking his head. "No, no, don't apologize," he says, his voice a light simper now. He reaches out, taking your hand gently in his.

"It's okay, I just.... wasn't expecting you to ask that." He pauses, and you can see a flicker of something run across his face. "You.... you really want to know?"

"I do," you admit bashfully. "If you feel comfortable telling me?"

Aemond's hand grips yours a little tighter, your words sending a strange, tight feeling through hm. He hasn't thought about that night in a long time, and the memory is still painful enough to make him wince.

"All right," he says, letting out a slow breath. "I.... I'll tell you. Just.... just don't.... don't judge me, all right?"

"I won't judge," you assure him with a shake of your head.

Aemond looks down at your intertwined hands, his fingers tracing a light pattern against your palm. He closes his eye, gathering his thoughts, before lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a barely-there kiss to your knuckles.

"My.... my first time," he begins, and his voice is rough, "was with a whore, in a pleasure house, at the behest of my brother who frequented - and still frequents - them much more than I did."

"I don't think that's anything to be ashamed of," you admit, mulling the idea over. "Most men visit those types of places at some point in their lives.... don't they?"

Aemond pauses for a moment, his eye locking with yours. He looks almost surprised by your response, as if he hadn't thought you would be so blasé about the situation.

"Yes...." he says slowly, "they do. But.... it's not.... it's not the sort of thing a wife would expect to hear, about their husband's past exploits."

You chew your lip thoughtfully, running your fingers around and through the spaces between Aemond's. "I don't mind, as long as...."

You hesitate, wondering if you really want to say this now or leave it for another night. "What I mean to say, Aemond, is that.... now that we understand each other better.... perhaps you can show me what it's like? Sex? And, if you do, I expect there to be no more pleasure houses in your future, is that clear?"

Aemond's gaze darkens as your words register, his heart stuttering in his chest. His fingers twitch against yours, breath catching in his throat.

"You.... you want me to show you...?" He repeats weakly, his eye wide and disbelieving.

You close your fingers tightly around Aemond's now, leaning in toward your husband. "Mm. But as I said, you must promise - no more pleasure houses. After all, you did say you want to worship me, did you not?"

Aemond's head swims with your words, his heart hammering in his chest so hard it's difficult to catch his breath. The way you're looking at him, the sweetness in your voice, the scent of honey and jasmine in your hair.... all of it is almost too much to bear.

He swallows hard, and nods. "No more pleasure houses. I promise," he whispers, his voice hoarse and rough.

His oath sets you at ease, but there's one more thing you must tell him.

"I must admit, Aemond, I'm still scared...."

He looks about to interrupt, but you cut him off. "Oh, not of you. I'm.... terrified of the pain. I've never done well with pain, and I'm so scared it's going to hurt like hell."

Aemond's heart twists at the worry and fear in your voice, his fingers tightening over yours. He hates the thought of you being scared, hates his own inability to take that fear away from you.

"Why do you still think it's going to be painful?" He asks quietly.

Instead of making you feel trapped, his fingers around yours make you feel safe. Aemond is lethal; you can see it in his face, in the hard line of his body. But he wants to use all of that to protect you....

Though what could he possibly do to prevent his own body from hurting you, even though he might not mean to?

"That's all I've ever been told." You gulp. "A woman's first time is always painful. And.... There's always blood."

Aemond's jaw clenches in anger. He doesn't know who planted these false, hurtful notions in your head, but he wants to tear them limb from limb.

He reaches out to you, tilting your head gently up to meet his gaze. "No. No, no, no," he says, his voice low and intense. "It's not supposed to be painful, especially the first time. You've just.... you've been told wrong."

He pauses. "Sometimes there is blood, I won't lie to you about that. But there are ways to minimize the chance of that."

Aemond's fingers start to skirt back and forth under your chin. "How .... How can we stop there being so much blood? I want you to show me."

Heart now beating much faster, Aemond's stomach twists with a mixture of desire and trepidation. He swallows, hard, his eye dark and heavy-lidded as he gazes down at you.

He runs his fingers through your hair, the soft feel of it against his skin maddening. "I can show you," he murmurs, "but.... you have to trust me."

"Of course. I do now." You turn your face toward his hand, palm skimming your cheek as he touches your hair. "I know you'll take care of me."

He takes another deep breath to steady himself, his hand coming to rest against the side of your face, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "Good," he whispers, "because I will, always. But there's something.... something I need to know first."

You shiver, Aemond's fingers reverent along your cheek and jaw. "What is it?"

Fingers now trailing down your neck, he pauses, hand coming to rest on your collarbone, your pulse beating fast and hard against his palm.

Aemond leans in close, his voice a rumble in your ear. "You.... you have never even been touched, have you?"

You are very aware of how hard your heart is beating, thumping underneath his fingers. "I haven't.... is that bad?"

Aemond breathes heavily, pulling back to look at you.

"No," he says emphatically, "it's not bad. It's.... it's just...." He trails off for a moment, struggling to find the words. "I need to know.... if you're still.... if you're still intact."

The question makes you blush furiously, looking down at your laps, side by side, so you don't have to look Aemond in the eye. "I.... yes.... isn't that where the blood comes from?"

You don't know much, but you do know that.

He places two fingers gently under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him again.

"Yes," he says, "that's where the blood comes from. But it can break in other ways. For instance, from fingers or.... other objects." His fingers trace along your cheek, obviously trying to soothe your growing discomfort at this conversation.

"But it.... it doesn't have to," he adds after a moment.

You chuckle, reluctantly meeting Aemond's gaze. "Can we try?"

He takes a moment to steady himself, his hand now trailing back down your neck, slowly caressing. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

You nod fervently, gripping onto his wrist. "Positively. Now that I understand you better, I can think of no one else I'd like to teach me such things...."

He leans in, lips brushing your ear again, breath hot against your skin. "Then I will," he murmurs, his voice an uneven, ragged whisper, "I will show you. And I will take my time."

Long have you waited for someone to come along and share this experience with you. When you were initially betrothed to Aemond, you thought all hope was lost - he was so frightening and the thought of sharing a bed with him sent a shiver of panic through you.

But now.... Women have desires just as much as men do, surely... At least you know you do. And Aemond is offering to take care of them for you....

You steady yourself with a hand on Aemond's chest, nails digging into the soft cotton of his tunic. "Please.... I want it."

Aemond's stomach clenches, your soft, pleading voice sending a bolt of white hot desire through him.

"Patience," he murmurs, his sizeable palm laid against the back of your hand on his chest, "I'll take care of you, I promise. I just need you to relax for me, all right?"

"Mm, I'll try...." With another nod, you take a deep breath, shuddering at the feeling of Aemond's big hand covering yours entirely. "Maybe a drink would serve to relax me better...?"

This gives Aemond pause, and he pulls back slightly, his eye raking over your face, taking in the soft blush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted as you catch your breath.

He gives a single, slow nod. "Yes," he admits, "I think a drink might help."

Without another word, he moves to a small table on the other side of the room, pouring you each a generous glass of sweet wine.

As he does so, you finger the pendant at your throat, a gift from your late mother. The way Aemond looks at you; any woman would be lucky to have a husband who looks at her that way. Like you're precious, like he would do anything to protect you.

Once offered your glass, you take it and swallow a large mouthful, hoping to get drunk as quickly as possible, to make this whole ordeal more bearable.

Aemond watches you closely, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he sees you gulp the wine so quickly. He knows you're trying to get drunk, trying to use the alcohol as a crutch to make this easier.

"There's no need to rush," he says quietly, taking a seat beside you again, his knee bumping yours. He lifts his own glass to his lips, taking a slow, measured drink.

Swallowing another substantial mouthful of wine, you furtively watch the way Aemond's lips purse around the rim of his glass.

You smooth the skirts of your dress down, taking a deep breath. "I just want to be as relaxed as possible for you, Aemond."

He continues to watch you, that striking violet eye taking in every tiny detail - the way your fingers grasp the fabric of your dress, the soft movement of your body underneath the silk.

He takes a deep breath, his eye watching you as he drains the last of the wine from the glass. "I know," he murmurs, his voice a husky rumble, "but there's no need to get completely drunk, my love."

"It can't hurt." You upend the first glass of wine, draining the last dregs, and hold your glass out toward him. "Another?"

Apparently highly amused, Aemond raises a brow, but refuses to pour you another.

"I think that's quite enough. There's no need to be quite so drunk tonight, I promise."

You pout, setting your glass aside, but starting to feel a pleasant warmth wash over you from the first glass all the same.

"How do we start?" You question, leaning in close to him. Aemond smells of chamomile and sweat and.... maybe just a hint of blood? It's the best thing you've ever smelled.

Aemond reaches for you suddenly, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you gently onto his lap so you can straddle him.

The next breath he takes rattles through him as you settle on top of him, his hands gripping your waist, heart beating fast. "We.... we start here," he whispers, his voice a rough murmur.

"Goodness," you breathe, hands curling over his shoulders to steady yourself. "And.... what do we do here?"

You're trying your best to be brave, and the wine is making it easier, but there is still that niggling worry at the back of your mind, chanting blood blood blood.

Aemond feels that slight tremble in your hands as you grab his shoulders, the way you hesitate and swallow nervously as you ask your question. He can practically hear your thoughts racing, paying attention to the fear and trepidation in your words.

He leans in close, hands slipping from your waist to bracket your ribs, pulling you flush against him, your body cradled easily in his lap. "We start like this," he murmurs, his fingers gently tilting your chin up to look at him. "Just like this."

Slowly, fingers gentle but firm on your chin, he's bringing you in for a kiss.

The sound that leaves your mouth at the first dry press of your lips together is embarrassing. You curse. "I'm sorry." You bite your lip hard, searching Aemond's one violet eye for forgiveness. "Can we try again?"

Aemond chuckles good-naturedly, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs tracing slow, gentle patterns over your cheeks.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he whispers, leaning ever closer to you, his breath hot against your lips. "We can try as many times as you like, darling."

With a hand again around his wrist to steady yourself, you don't have far to go, what with Aemond's face so close to yours. You press your lips to his - soft yet firm. Your other hand slides up the outside of his thigh as you open your mouth under his, grateful for his willingness to teach you.

You hear Aemond's breath hitch again as he feels your hand moving up his leg, the touch of your slim, soft fingers against his body sending a shiver down his spine. He groans as you open your mouth, his tongue immediately seeking yours, tangling, tasting, claiming.

He grips your hair in one hand, angling your head back so he can deepen the kiss, his other hand back to gripping your hip, pulling you tighter against him.

You do the same, hands migrating down, loving the feeling of Aemond's slim, strong muscle under your fingers. As you kiss, you surreptitiously move the thin cloth of Aemond's tunic aside so you can touch him skin to skin over his sharp hipbones.

This earns you a keen inhale from your husband, who jerks away from you.

"I'm sorry," you breathe. "Is this okay?"

His mouth has opened in a gasp against yours, eyes squeezing shut.

When they open again, he merely looks at you, taking in the soft, pink flush of your cheeks, the way your pupils are thoroughly dilated, your chest heaving. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "Yes," he says ruggedly, his voice a scratchy gasp, "I'm sorry, it is. It's okay."

A flood of warmth washes over you, and you grin. You don't know why, but you want to kiss his neck.

Fingers digging hard into his hip, you lean in, nosing his long hair out of the way as your lips meet his neck, sucking and biting. Aemond tastes clean and faintly of rose water.

Aemond's head tips back immediately, giving your lips and teeth free reign over his neck, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh at the unfamiliar sensation. A soft, low moan escapes him as your mouth traces a path along the sensitive skin of his neck.

His body arches against yours. "My love," he gasps, his voice a ragged, breathless plea, "this is maddening."

"Need you to teach me," is your reply, pushing harder against him. "Don't go mad just yet."

He runs his hands down your sides, skimming over the soft, silky material of your dress, his body reacting powerfully to your closeness. "Gods, woman," he gasps, thumbs playing idly along the edge of your ribs, "are you sure you haven't done this before?"

You rest your cheek on Aemond's shoulder, nose brushing along the chiseled line of his jaw. "Positive," you sigh, arms now slung around him. "But I like the way you touch me. It's making me feel all hot and wet.... down there."

At this declaration, Aemond makes a noise you've never heard anyone make before. He nuzzles against your collarbone, pressing slow, hot kisses along the line of your chest just visible over the collar of your dress.

His mouth is starting to curve into a wicked smile. "Do you want me to touch you there, too?"

With a nod, you begin to pull the folds of your dress up over your thighs. "Please. The feeling down there, it's.... very insistent." And Aemond's fingers look perfectly long and warm and rough with calluses.

Aemond swallows hard as he watches the fabric of your dress retreat up over your thighs, the soft, bare skin of your legs suddenly exposed to him. His gaze rakes over you, taking in every detail - the soft, pale flesh, the way the candlelight casts shadows over the curves of your body.

As though trying not to startle you, Aemond runs his knuckles painstakingly slowly up the inside of your thigh. "When we were first betrothed, I knew I had gotten lucky."

That drunken haze still hovering around you, you let your legs slip further apart around him. "Lucky? How so?"

His hand moves further up, touch feather-light against her skin. "Lucky," he murmurs, "because I knew I'd be marrying the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms."

He lets his hand move higher still, fingers stopping just before they reach the edge of your smallclothes. He pauses, looking intently at you, the question plain on his face.

"I never knew you thought I was beautiful...." You lean more against him, feeling impossibly safe and comfortable in his embrace. "Please. You can."

Hips canting forward, you try to push his hand in toward you.

"The most beautiful," he replies. He can feel your hips moving subtly against his, feel his own desire rising with every move you make.

Those long fingers hook into the edge of your smallclothes, running the backs of his knuckles along the sensitive bit of skin he finds there.

Your eyes flutter shut, the feeling of his gentle fingers finally scooping up under your dress making your stomach flip nervously. "Please." The word is uttered against Aemond's chin, where you've pressed your lips as you wait to feel his hand where you need it most.

As slowly as he an manage, he insinuates those fingers fully inside your smallclothes. He can feel the heat of your skin, the way you squirm in his lap as he moves closer to his destination, his own body reacting strongly to the anticipation.

He leans in, mouth finding yours in a heated, hungry kiss, his fingers finally, finally touching that wet, sensitive flesh between your thighs.

A sharp inhale accompanies the meeting of Aemond's hand to your sex. Everything down there feels so wet already, you suppose you should be embarrassed, but the wine is making it hard to feel so, which you're grateful for.

"Aemond...." Seeking his lips for another kiss, you mutter, "please don't stop."

One long finger sinks into your wet, hot flesh, his entire body shivering at the feeling of you beneath his hands. He lets out a ragged gasp as you kiss him, mouth moving fervently against yours, tongue delving into your mouth, tangling with yours.

With a low, gruff noise, he starts to move his finger inside of you, slow, gentle circles that make your muscles tighten and twitch against his hand. "I won't," he murmurs against your lips, his eyes squeezed shut, "I promise, I won't."

Aemond's finger has slid easily into you, all the way down to the knuckle. "Is it -?" You gasp, glancing down, tugging your skirts out of the way to see better. "It's inside? I thought it would be much more painful...."

You know it might not be the same with his manhood, which is surely a fair bit bigger than one of his fingers, but you're glad things have gone smoothly so far all the same.

Aemond's other hand presses itself solidly against that little bundle of nerves, the one you're familiar with, the one that makes you see stars, and you bite his lower lip a little too hard in response.

"Shit, sorry."

Aemond lets out a low chuckle at your reaction, his lips curving into a smile against your mouth. "No need to apologize, sweet girl," he mutters. "There's a possibility it might hurt more than this when we go further, but I promise I'll be gentle."

He moves his finger in and out of you slowly, his other hand still pressing against you, the pad of his thumb circling that swollen bud, his touch gentle but firm. "How does this feel?"

A pang of fear shoots through you at his declaration that you will likely be in pain later on, but it's soothed by the way Aemond's fingers are gently coaxing themselves inside of you and over your clit.

"It feels perfect, Aemond. I never even knew it could feel this good." Not even when you'd touched yourself in bed at night.

Aemond's eye darkens as he hears your words, the sound of your voice, gutted and breathless, making his stomach clench. "This is just the beginning, sweet girl. There's so much more I can show you."

He slips another finger into you, feeling your body tighten and go taut around him, his own body still reacting powerfully to the sight and feel of you. He leans in to kiss you again, his mouth hungrily claiming yours.

With another finger inside, you start to squirm in his lap, and your hand slips, colliding with something hard inside of Aemond's trousers.

"Aemond," you gasp, "it.... it's hard."

Aemond lets out a strangled noise as your hand brushes against him, his body shuddering, his eye squeezing shut. "Ah, shit, sweetheart," he gasps, his breath ragged, "Don't do that."

He looks at you, his breath coming in quick, rough pants, his eye darkened to a deep, intense violet. "I'm going to be patient with you."

He says this like he's trying to convince himself of it.

"I'm sorry," you gasp again, hands flying to your mouth. "I didn't mean to touch it...."

Gaze flickering to the windows, to the Targaryen flags flying from every turret, you stifle a smile. "But maybe.... maybe you don't have to be so patient...."

Aemond growls at your words, fingers slowing their ministrations over you. "How impatient would you have me be?"

You reach down to take his free hand - the one currently touching your clit in nice, soft circles - in yours, lacing your fingers as you lean into him. "Still gentle, just.... Maybe lead me? Show me how things like this should be done."

Aemond can practically feel his self-restraint slipping at your words, the feeling of your small, soft hand in his making his head spin. He takes a deep breath, trying desperately to maintain control, to keep up the facade of gentility.

He grips your chin with his free hand, lifting your face to meet his eye, his voice low and rough. "Are you sure you're ready for that?" He asks, the question almost pained.

"I am. I'm sure." You wrap your shoulders around him, burying your face against his neck. "Take me to bed and show me, please."

Aemond swallows hard, the feeling of your breath against him sending a shudder through him. Lifting you easily in his arms, he stands silently from the settee.

The loss of Aemond's fingers from inside of you makes you whine, clinging to his broad shoulders as he makes his way to the bed.

He lays you gently down, crawling over you, hand once again trailing up the soft expanse of your thigh.

"Aemond...."

A sweet noise rumbles through him as he positions himself on top of you, body pressing you down against the covers, hips slotting between your legs. His gaze as he looks down on you is fiery, eye raking over your body, hands gripping and kneading the supple flesh of your thighs.

"You drive me mad, do you know that?" He murmurs. He leans down to kiss your neck, his mouth hot and insistent against your skin.

With Aemond on top of you, you reach around to tug the back of his tunic up, skimming your fingers along the warm skin of his lower back.

"Why did you never.... tell me before?" You mutter quietly, nibbling at Aemond's earlobe.

Aemond allows himself a deep moan as you touch him, your fingers roaming over his skin, your mouth on his ear. He rolls his hips against you, the aching hardness of his body weighing you down.

"Gods, I don't know," he gasps, his hands roaming over the soft curves of your body. "Maybe I could tell you were afraid of me. Maybe I was a fool."

"I suppose we both were fools." You curl your tongue around Aemond's ear, teasing.

His hardness is pressing insistently against you through your clothes. Aemond leans his forehead to yours. "I'm going to take your dress off now. Is that alright?"

You've never been naked in front of anyone before, but Aemond is making you feel so safe that you nod hurriedly, sitting up. "Yes, please."

Aemond's eye darkens at your nod, his hands immediately going to the laces of your dress, working them loose until the fabric falls away from your body. He lets his gaze roam over your exposed skin, his fingers tracing the soft planes of your body, reverent and gentle.

"Seven Hells," he mutters, his voice a ragged whisper, "I've never seen anything so perfect."

The wine allows you to feel comfortable enough to stretch out over top of your discarded dress, staring up at him over the swell of your breasts. "Don't you want to touch your perfect wife, Aemond?"

"Of course I do," he mutters. He moves aside only slightly, letting his fingers scrape over one of your hardened nipples. "I want to touch every part of you."

You arch into his touch, his fingertips hard and callused against your sensitive nipple. "Aemond.... Would I be a complete whore if I asked for your fingers back inside of me?"

"No," he mutters easily, a hand running its way down your body, the other holding himself above you. "No, you wouldn't. But I want you to ask for it, my love. I want you to tell me exactly what you want."

Your breathing quickening, the air in the room thick and heavy, you spread your legs around him, unabashed. "i want you to touch me. To touch my stomach, my hips and thighs .... my cunt. Please."

Aemond makes a ragged noise at your request, his body shuddering as you open yourself to him. He trails his hand lower, his fingers grazing over your stomach, trailing over your hips and thighs, before coming to rest between your legs.

He lets that hand rest on your for a moment, feeling your wetness, his violet eye dark and full of lust. "Is this what you wanted, darling?"

"Yes," comes your voice, wrecked, entire body feeling overheated and overwhelmed already. "Gods, Aemond, I.... I'm sorry I didn't ask for this earlier."

You run your hands up Aemond's toned arms, tugging on the short sleeves of his tunic. "M-May I take this off?"

Feeling you tug at his tunic, Aemond nods, loving that ragged and pleading tone in your voice. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, can see the raw, pleading look in your eyes, and he's never been more turned on in his life.

By way of a real answer, he reaches down and hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt to rip it off over his head. He shakes his hair out majestically, making you giggle.

But after that giggle.... You can do nothing but lay beneath him and stare. His body is perfect, abs cut into his skin above the smooth, narrow line of his hips.

"Goodness ...." You whisper, fingertips prodding at his hardened stomach. "You're.... actually perfect."

"Perfect, really?" He replies, clearly perplexed. "I'd say I'm looking at perfection right now."

You whimper, Aemond's moist lips once more at your neck, his body pressed to yours. "How do you.... get your body to look that way? Maybe you can teach me that too, as well as how to ride a dragon."

Aemond laughs softly, his teeth scraping against you as he kisses down your neck. "It's actually quite simple," he murmurs, his hands roaming over your body, arms caging you in against the bed. "Just a lot of sword practice and fighting."

He pauses, his lips trailing teasingly over the line of your jaw. "I'm going to teach you to ride more than just a dragon, my love."

"I could sword fight." Your voice doesn't sound like it ever has before. "Easy. Train me."

You gasp at his words, nails now digging into his back. "And what else are you going to teach me to ride, husband?"

Aemond lets out a low chuckle at your response, his muscles coiling where your nails dig into his skin. He rolls his hips against you and makes you gasp.

"I can teach you how to ride me," he mutters, his voice a rough, ragged whisper. "Or maybe you'd like a ride on my face."

Your eyes go wide, and you press him away by the shoulder just so you can look him in the eye. "I.... I'm allowed to do that?"

You've never heard of this - using your mouth? Why have you never thought of it before?

"Of course you are," he murmurs, looking bemusedly down on you. "And I would be more than happy to let you."

His hot breath whispers over your skin as he leans to speak into your ear. "You've never heard of it before, have you?"

"I haven't." You tilt your head, fingers tender along Aemond's jaw. "How should I.... How do I do it?"

Aemond's eye closes at the feeling of your fingers, tender on his jaw, your touch ever gentle and caressing. He makes a very small noise and shudders over top of you. "It's easy, darling."

"I just lean back here...." With one swift movement, Aemond rolls and settles himself against the pillows. "You come up here...."

Gentle but insistent hands guide you, pulling you all the way up. "And swing a leg over me."

Still helped along by his strong hands, you throw one knee on the opposite side of Aemond's head, bracketing his ears with your thighs. "Like.... this?"

This position makes you feel as nervous as you have all night, even with the aid of the wine - Aemond can see all of you. Truly all of you, and you can't quite meet his eye because of it.

Aemond's hands tighten on your thighs, his breathing growing ragged. He can sense your nervousness, the way your muscles are tensing up, the way you're avoiding his eye.

He rubs his hands soothingly across your thighs, trying to relax you. "That's it, darling." His voice is soft, comforting. "You look gorgeous."

You bite your lip, carding one hand through Aemond's alluring silver hair. The other you place over his good eye, the hint of a smile on your face as you mutter, "Don't look...."

Aemond smirks, and yanks you suddenly, roughly forward by the backs of your thighs, so that your womanhood is directly above his smirking lips. "As you wish."

He places a single, open-mouthed kiss to your clit and the suction, the wetness, of it all is enough to make you squeal.

There's one poignant moment where Aemond's intensely hot, wet mouth rests over your womanhood. Then, with a jagged moan, he begins to lave over you, lips, tongue, and teeth working in tandem.

His callused palms cradle the backs of your thighs, keeping you in place as his tongue works you over. And when that same tongue points itself deep inside of your core, you can no longer keep your hand over his eye, lest you want to smash your husband's head painfully into the sheets.

Instead, that hand flies to the headboard, holding on for dear life. "Gods, Aemond! I.... I've never felt anything like this, what.... what in the seven hells...."

Aemond redoubles his grip on your thighs, keeping you in place as he works you with his tongue, his mouth and teeth and lips bringing you to new heights of pleasure. He moans roughly, and the sound reverberates through you, making your mouth fall open.

"Just... relax, my love," he mutters against your folds, "I did say I would worship you, did I not?"

You nod, still petting a hand gently through Aemond's hair, coiling your fingers around the strands, feeling how soft it is. Your eyes, however, are trained on the gilded ceiling when you answer.

"Y-You did, but.... this.... I didn't even know this was a thing people did. Is this.... common?"

"No, sweet one," he mutters, his voice thick with desire and - somewhere - a hint of disdain, "it isn't common. Most men see their wives as something to be claimed, conquered. And I...."

"You see them as something to be worshipped," you answer, remembering his words from earlier.

Aemond lets out a low chuckle against you as you knot your fingers in his hair, his tongue continuing to lathe across you. He lifts his head for a moment, his lips and chin glistening, a smirk on his face. "Look at me."

You do, and are rewarded with his fingers climbing the insides of your thighs, splaying themselves over you. "You are the most exquisite creature I've ever laid eyes on."

The sight of his face, so slick with you, his eye dark, his sapphire glinting, his fingers roaming over your thighs, it all makes you shiver, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps.

"And you," he continues, voice muffled against your folds, "you taste divine."

And without another word, he dives back in, his tongue delving into you once more, his hands gripping your thighs, bringing you lower, closer to him.

All of this - Aemond telling you how beautiful you are, his talented mouth on you, the haze of the wine moving through you - has you tumbling toward the edge quicker than you've ever done so by yourself.

"Aemond.... close!" You give a hard tug to Aemond's hair, warning him.

He closes his eyes as he focuses on nothing more than bringing you further to the edge, the heat of your body and the taste of you driving him wild, pushing him to give you more, more, more.

"Just.... let go," he mutters against you. "I want you to let go for me, my sweet."

You're trembling now, hips riding down against his face of their own accord. "Oh, gods...." You've never done this in front of anyone before. What will Aemond think of the way you climax? Will it be embarrassing? "Aemond...."

There's no longer any time to think it over, though, as one last swipe of his tongue sends you spiraling with a loud cry.

Aemond's heart is pounding hard, watching you cum, his eye wide and alight with desire as he watches your body shudder and shake above him, your cry of pleasure filling the room and, undoubtedly, the hallways around it.

He helps you ride out the wave of pleasure, his tongue slowly bringing you back down, peppering your thighs and hip bones with hot, open-mouthed kisses.

Your eyes fluttering, your chest heaving, Aemond coaxes you through your first climax with him and then maneuvers you down to lay beside him. You feel so boneless, you sure you aren't much help in this endeavor.

"That was...." You don't even have the words to describe what just happened to you.

Aemond watches you closely as you lay beside him, breasts rising and falling heavily, your skin flushed and marked all over with his mouth, one hand trailing lightly over your stomach. The sight of you, well-loved and satisfied, makes his chest burn with desire.

He leans in close to you, curling his body around yours like a protective shield. His mouth trailing over your neck, his voice a quiet whisper. "That was beautiful. And we're only getting started."

You gaze at him out of half-lidded eyes, your body already feeling drained from just one round. "What...." You stifle a yawn behind your hand, trying to hide it. "What's next?"

Aemond laughs at the sight of you yawning, both hands now brushing over your body, his touch gentle. He can see the exhaustion in your eyes, hear the tiredness in your voice.

He leans down and presses a loving kiss to your forehead. "I don't think you're quite ready for more yet, my love. You look like you're barely awake."

Through your tiredness, you whine, "But you promised to show me. What it's like...." You're pressing sleepy kisses to Aemond's jaw, lips sweeping down over his neck.

Aemond's lashes flutter at your tiny kisses, his arms curling strong and protective around you. He makes an odd noise, and you realize you may have had an orgasm, but he never did.

"I can take care of it for you." Searching down below, hands clumsy and heavy with sleep, you feel Aemond grab for your wrist.

"And you will," he mutters, admonishing. "But tonight it's getting late, and you're tired. We have our whole lives together, we need not rush this."

Another yawn overtakes you, and you snuggle down into his warmth. "Tomorrow, then?" You mumble, arms slung lazily around him. "And dragon riding tomorrow, too...."

Aemond chuckles again at your insistence, hands gently rubbing themselves over your body, comforting you. He shifts back on the bed, pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you, holding you as close as possible.

"Of course, my love," he murmurs, his voice a gentle, soothing rumble in your ear. "Tomorrow. And dragon riding, too. But for now, you need to sleep."

Aemond runs the very tips of his fingers up and down your back, just along your spine.

"I really am sorry, Aemond...." You're already half asleep, struggling to stay awake, to get the words out. "D'you really forgive me?"

Aemond sighs.

"Of course I forgive you," he whispers, breath tickling your ear. "It's all in the past now, my love. The only thing that matters is you and me, right here, right now. And dragon riding tomorrow, I promise...."

#aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon smut #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell #smut #aegonstradwife #my writing #request fill #i posted this earlier today and it got flagged bc i included a naughty pic #it wasn't even that naughty but o well #hope you enjoy!

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aemondsbabe · 11 months ago

Text

Deliverance

summary: following your nephew's death, you find aemond in need of comfort. as his older sister, who are you to deny him?

pairing: aemond targaryen x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, canon typical incest, mentioned canon death, infidelity technically but reader's husband is cool with it and understands that she comes from a weirdo family cough cough incest cough, lactation kink, hurt/comfort, piv sex, unprotected sex, cockwarming, titty sucking, angst but happy ending, otto cameo ew, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 7.4k

a/n: *slams fist on table* i need for him to suck on my boobie

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

gif creds to @feodor-dostoevsky

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“Shall I fetch Maester Orwyle once we return to your chambers, Princess?” Your handmaiden, Edyth, questions as the two of you make your way up one of the many winding staircases in the Red Keep – each step making you wince.

“Yes, please,” you sigh, ever grateful that she had always seemed to have a knack for predicting your requests before you had the chance to voice them, “Perhaps tell him to prepare some of the same soothing balm he gave to Helaena?”

“Of course, Princess,” Edyth nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, ever the optimist, “I believe it should help with your aches, I remember it seemed to help the Queen after…” She trails off, breath hitching in her throat.

A heavy silence seems to fall over the two of you, the same that had been blanketing the entirety of the palace for the past few days. You swallow thickly, battling against the lump suddenly growing at the back of your throat and merely nod your head in simple understanding, offering her a tight-lipped smile, “I’m sure it will be of great help, Edyth, thank you.”

Ever since… it had happened, the Red Keep feels as if it’s made of eggshells, like one small gust of wind could knock it right over. Everyone’s so on edge, terrified of saying too much or too little, the wrong thing at the wrong time. The stress of it all seems nearly suffocating, though you still have a feeling the worst was yet to come.

Suddenly, someone calls your name from behind you and you turn, smiling once you see your grandsire striding toward you.

“A raven arrived earlier from Gwayne,” Otto explains, deep voice carrying down the empty hallway, “He’s reached Oldtown safely, everything seems to be well there.”

“Oh, wonderful,” you nod, grateful for news of your husband.

“Indeed,” he continues, “Daeron seems to be in good spirits, happy to come home; they’re to depart tomorrow, as scheduled… forgive me, I meant to tell you before supper but it seems to have slipped my mind.”

“Everything has been so hectic of late, please don’t trouble yourself. He arrived safely and will be back all the sooner for it, that is what matters.”

“Of course,” Otto nods, glancing out a nearby window, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve been ordered to attend to His Grace,” he says gruffly, a wry smile on his lips, nodding in the direction of Aegon’s chambers.

You nod at the mention of your twin, brows pinching together with worry. “Be… patient with him, grandsire, please,” you beseech, chest heaving with a soft sigh, “I spoke with him earlier this morning, he’s… well, he’s not himself.”

“Are any of us anymore, I wonder,” Otto mutters, fixing you with a tight smile before taking his leave, striding quickly down the hallway. Your brows furrow at that, you can’t help but throw Edyth a questioning look before the two of you continue toward your chambers.

“Seven Hells,” you grumble, quickly bringing a hand to your breast as you climb another, blessedly shorter, set of stairs, “Perhaps check the nursery first, yes? Daena may be stirring still…” You know better, even as the words leave your lips.

Your daughter has finally begun sleeping soundly through the night recently and while that is cause for celebration, you certainly won’t miss the past eight moons of late night feedings, your poor breasts are paying the price – your body not yet caught up with the lessened need for milk.

“Yes, Princess,” Edyth replies with a little nod, walking alongside you.

The two of you are almost at your chambers, finally turning onto the hallway where the family apartments are housed, when you hear it – a muffled, barely there cry. The sound makes you pause in your tracks, head swiveling, unsure of exactly where it came from and it’s then you notice that the door to Aemond’s chambers is ajar.

That in and of itself is strange indeed, your little brother valued privacy above all else, so you stride over only to pause at the entrance, hand poised midair as you reach for the door handle. Your heart clenches when another soft sob pierces the quiet of the hallway – a mournful little noise, one you’d expect more from Aegon.

Turning back to Edyth, you lead her a few feet from the door, knowing Aemond would hate it if he knew someone, anyone aside from you, had overheard him. “Go to the nursery,” you instruct, making sure to keep your voice low, “Make sure Daena is well, then you’re free for the evening.”

“But, princess, what about –”

“Nevermind it,” you murmur with a shake of your head, “I’ll send for the maester later myself.”

With a nod, she scampers off further down the hallway, leaving you alone by your brother’s door. Stepping back over toward the threshold, you bite at your bottom lip, wondering if you should go in at all – if it would be more merciful to simply pretend you hadn’t heard anything at all.

But then it happens again, another pitiful sob sounds from beyond the cracked door and you’re unable to help yourself – Aemond had always come to you with his troubles when he was younger, surely now would be no different. With a little breath, you push the door open just enough to slip through it and thank whichever Gods may be listening when you’re able to press it closed with hardly a sound.

Peeking around the screen your brother has beside the door, it feels as if your heart shatters in your chest. He looks so… small, so fragile, the complete opposite of the towering, formidable man he’d become in recent years. It’s clear he didn’t hear you come in as he stays seated in a chair near the door, his back to you; his shoulders shake with gentle cries while he hunches over, head cradled in his hands.

The disarray of his normally spotless chambers startles you once you let your eyes flit over the space – papers are strewn about all across the low table he keeps in the little sitting area, some scattered across the floor, crumpled up, or ripped to pieces. His bedsheets are halfway ripped from the bed and lie in a pool at its foot, along with the remnants of a candle, now merely a translucent puddle on the dark stone floor.

Taking a step forward, you softly call his name, trying your hardest to keep your voice as low and soft as possible, though you’re hardly able to get the first syllable out before he bolts up from the chair with a strangled gasp and spins toward you.

“Oh, Aem,” the words fall past your lips in a soft sigh, pulled from you by the startled expression on his face – eyes wide with the fear of being caught so vulnerable. His sapphire eye seems to sparkle with just as much emotion as his pale purple one.

“Sister, I –” He starts, hastily wiping his hands over his cheeks, chest heaving while he tries to calm his harsh breaths, but you’ll have none of that.

“Shh, whatever excuses you have, I’ll not hear them,” you murmur, quickly walking the few feet over to him and enveloping him in a tight embrace, just as you used to do when he would come crying to you about the tortures Aegon or your nephews put him through in their youth.

Your brother stays stiff in your arms for a moment, tense and wary, though he slowly relaxes as you rub a hand over his back, smoothing out his long hair. You yourself relax once he finally winds his long arms around you and rests his chin on your shoulder with a soft sigh, the tension in his shoulders finally releasing.

“Tell me what distresses you so?”

“I… Jae– the boy,” he stammers, stumbling over his name. You understand, just saying your little nephew’s name seems to somehow make the pain of the loss even worse. Yet, something in your gut tells you there’s something else going on, that Jaehaerys’s death is not the only thing causing your brother such anguish.

“Aemond…” you gently press, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek as you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, “I cannot help if you won’t tell me–”

“Tell you what?” He counters, tone growing too defensive too quickly, “My nephew’s death brings me sorrow, sister. The loss of a young child is a… distressing thing.”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” You counter, trying desperately to keep your voice calm, even when Aemond backs away from you with an exasperated sigh. You’re no stranger to this game – ever since he lost his eye, your brother has guarded his emotions carefully. Getting him to speak honestly about them was about as hard as keeping a bottle of Dornish wine from Aegon’s grasp.

He gives you a sidelong glance as he paces about the room, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched. Worry only blooms brighter in your chest the longer you watch him; so agitated and so guarded, closed off like an abused animal.

“It… it’s nothing,” he mumbles finally, voice short and clipped, “Nothing important, sister, I assure you.”

Unconsciously, you wring your hands worriedly, heart clenching; you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him, yet you know from experience that it was better to let Aemond come to you.

“Well, surely it cannot be nothing if it has upset you so, sweetling.”

His nervous pacing comes to a screeching halt at that and he squeezes his eye shut, fists clenched at his side – his whole body tense like he’s trying desperately to keep some invisible dam within himself closed.

You reach a hand up instinctively when he bites at his bottom lip and turns his head away from you, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I–,” he croaks, the tightness in his voice makes your breath hitch in your throat; every maternal cell in your body is screaming at you, pleading with you to hold him, “I don’t w-wish to burden you.”

“Baby brother,” you sigh, finally going to him, practically running the few feet over to where he stands. Your arms encircle him instantly, pulling him into a tight embrace – one hand rubs over his back while the other cups the back of his head, holding his face against the crook of your neck, “You could never be a burden to me, never.”

That seems to break him and he gasps, breathing warm against your neck, before he finally lets go and his shoulders heave with sobs while his hands cling to you desperately, fisting into the fabric of your gown like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. A tightness grows at the back of your own throat, not used to seeing him be this raw, this open, in what feels like lifetimes. It breaks your heart to think he’d been holding all of this in, determined to be the strong, silent soldier like everyone expected, while he dealt with such sadness all alone.

“Shh, shh, Aemond, you’re okay,” you murmur gently, eyes widening when he sags against you, his knees giving way only for a second. “Here, come,” you instruct, taking one of his hands in yours and leading him to the small seating area in his chambers. You urge him to sit on the sofa he has there before joining him yourself, a bit surprised when he all but throws himself against you again – practically laying his head in your lap as he sobs, cheek pressed against your chest in a way that makes you wince from the tenderness still there, not that you’d ever scold him for it.

“There, that’s much better, hm? Comfortable?” You ask, simply trying to draw him back to the surface.

He doesn’t reply, something that doesn’t really come as a shock to you given how harsh his cries are, leaving him breathless against you. Deciding to let him get it out, you stay quiet, merely shushing him every so often as you run your fingers through his pearlescent hair.

After a long while, he seems to settle some and tears begin running down his cheeks silently rather than racking his body with savage cries; he lifts his head from your lap and rests it instead against your shoulder, gazing up at you as if you’re an angel sent from the heavens themselves. The intense tenderness with which he looks at you makes you blush, yet your brows furrow slightly at the darkness still there – lingering in the lilac of his eye.

“I have… I have done something terrible.”

Your brother's murmured confession only serves to confuse you further and you shake your head slightly, heart clenching in your chest as you silently wonder what in all the Seven Kingdoms he could possibly mean by that.

“Aemond,” you start, knowing not to pry – to let him tell you, “There is nothing you could ever do that would make me think any less of you.”

He stares up at you for a long moment, eye flicking across your face like he’s checking for even the barest hint of deception, yet he finds none – your words are true.

“You… promise me you will not hate me.”

“I promise, sweet brother,” your brows pinch together at his words, wondering what could possibly be bad enough for all this, yet you can’t stop the corners of your lips from quirking into a sad smile at his request; that uncertain lilt in his voice reminds you so much of when he was younger, “There’s nothing you could do that would make me hate you. Nothing.”

“I…” He starts, pulling away from you as he sits up, sparing you one last glance before staring off into the fireplace, “I am the… the reason Jaehaerys is dead.”

“What?” The word is pressed from you, leaving your lips as little more than a breath. You stare at him as if he’d sprouted a second head, utterly perplexed. How in the Seven Hells could he have ever arrived at that conclusion? Taking one of his hands in yours, you lean a little closer, “Sweetling, what in the world do you mean?”

“They were here for me,” Aemond rasps, wincing as if the words themselves are painful, clawing at his throat on their way out, “They were… Gods, they were sent for me and – and when they couldn’t find me, they… H-He died because I was not here, because they could not f-find me…”

“Oh, my love,” you sigh, the backs of your eyes stinging as he presses himself against you again, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, “Aemond, you couldn’t have known, none of us did. You couldn’t have known…” You repeat, like saying the words again and again will make him believe them.

“I s-should have,” he whimpers, voice breaking over a sob, “I should’ve k-known, I sh–should’ve been here…”

You hold him tightly, practically hauling him onto your lap as his tears leak over your skin, running into the valley of your cleavage like a river, though you pay it no mind. “Shh, sweetling, shh,” you murmur and press a soft kiss to his forehead, “It’s not your fault, dear one, it’s no one’s fault but the vile men who took him and our… our coward of a sister who ordered it done.”

He stays silent for a moment and you can feel the gears in his brain turning, working furiously as he tries to internalize your words, wanting desperately to believe them but unable to let himself. You sigh softly when you feel him shake his head against you, so determined to cling to guilt.

“If… if I had n-not been at the…”

“At the where, brother?” You press, clinging to anything you may be able to use to shift the conversation.

“...The brothel…” he mumbles after a long pause, the words so muffled against the column of your neck that you have to strain to hear them. His words shock you, the complete opposite of anything you’d been expecting. You try your hardest not to let that show, even as a strange sense of jealousy wells up within you – a sense of possessiveness you’ve always felt for your little brother.

“Well, you… you are a man grown, my love,” you heart hammers in your chest, loud enough that you wonder if he can hear it, “If you wish to lay with–”

“I didn’t… I–” He stammers, clinging to you tightly as he shakes his head, an urgency in his voice you can’t quite place, “That’s not what, I… I mean, I–”

“No matter,” you cut him off, aching to see him so distressed, “Whatever you do there, sweet brother, it’s your… right to do it.” You struggle to get the words out, the sense of protectiveness rising viciously in your chest makes your throat feel tight.

He lifts his head from your shoulder again and eyes you for a long moment – for what, you aren’t sure. It’s almost like he’s surprised not to be meant with disgust or contempt; you wish you knew why.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally mumbles, glancing away from you, ashamed, “I should’ve been home… I should’ve been here to protect my family.”

“Aemond, please,” you sigh and sit up slightly, moving to cup his cheeks in your hands, wiping at his tears with your thumb, “It is not your job to protect us, we have guards for a reason… if anything, this atrocity is their fault but it is not yours, do you understand?” Your eyes bore into his as you speak, desperate to make him understand, to rid him of this misplaced guilt.

“Do… do you still love me?” He asks after a long moment, voice so timid, so meek like he’s already preparing himself for your rejection, that it makes your heart twist horribly in your chest.

Still, you cannot help but huff out a little laugh, lips lifting into a sad smile at the utter ridiculousness of the question. “You are my dearest brother,” you murmur, leaning forward to press a kiss against his forehead, letting your lips linger on his skin for a second, “Of course, I still love you, Aemond. I have loved you from the moment you came into this world and I shall never, never stop – the Gods themselves could not make me.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment, save for a small hum from your brother as he nods. His arms encircle you again and selfishly, you enjoy it – being this close to him again, like he was a little boy once more. He’d been all but attached to you at the hip before that dreadful night, following you about the Keep and telling you all sorts of tales about various histories of the Realm in that sweet voice of his.

All of that had stopped that night and, at first, you had assumed that he merely thought himself a man grown afterwards – a man who had finally claimed a dragon, a man who no longer needed comfort from an older sibling. The sadness in his voice when he speaks again, muffled against your shoulder, tells you otherwise.

“Mother doesn’t love me anymore,” his voice is flat and detached as he breathes out the words, like he’s informing you of some tragic, unavoidable accident.

“Aem, of course she does. She loves you very–”

“No,” he cuts you off, sitting up once more and shaking his head, “Ever since that business with Luke, I… she can hardly bring herself to look at me. She won’t speak to me outside of Small Council meetings and even then she tries not to, ‘tis plain to see.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes, leaving you to swallow around the lump that grows at the back of your throat once again. What are you to say? He’s… Gods, bless him, he’s right, you’ve seen as much to know.

“You are the only one who has never abandoned me,” he starts, eye sparkling in the candlelight as tears begin welling up within it once more, “Everyone else has left.”

“That’s not…” Your voice fades as you sigh, knowing that arguing with him now will do no good. Instead, you simply hold him tighter and brush a few stray locks of hair from his face. “I can promise that I shall never leave you, sweet brother.”

He grows quiet for a moment, slumping down against you until his head rests in your lap and his body curls up onto the sofa. Silently, you resist the urge to cradle him, to hold him against you as you do Daena when she wakes from a nap with a start, crying out from her cradle.

He is a grown man, you remind yourself, yet it does nothing to stop the strange ache in your heart.

“They all used to taunt me, surely you remember, when we were younger,” he mumbles, eye fixated on the fire crackling in the hearth, even as he clings to you, “First for not having a dragon, then for not having an eye.”

You hum in affirmation – you do remember it, sadly. You remember it all very well; he had slept in your chambers for a week after the incident with the pig, not wanting to be left alone at night with the memories of it. You remember having to hold him back at the table when Aegon had poked fun at his eyepatch during supper, about a month after his eye had been gouged out.

You remember that night too, when he’d come to you with tearful apologies, murmuring sorries again and again for accidentally nicking your hand while trying to brandish a knife against his brother.

“I have always been an outcast.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite the circumstances and you sigh softly, brushing your fingers through his long strands of hair, “I quite like you being different… perhaps if you weren’t, we wouldn’t be as close, hm?”

Aemond goes quiet at that, stills in your lap with a little sigh before simply burrowing against you even more, curling in on himself tighter.

A soft coo leaves your lips, strands of his long hair passing between your fingers like silk. “What say you stay with me tonight, yes?” You offer, the thought of him in the dark carrying all this alone grief makes you feel ill, “We could even cuddle, if you like? Just as we did when you were younger.”

A short beat of silence later, all you get is a little, “Yes, please,” mumbled against your abdomen.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs later, the two of you finally lying together atop your bed, cuddled closely against one another just as you’d promised. You’d each taken time to get ready for bed and Aemond seems a little better for it, no longer as distressed and teary now that he’s had the time to collect himself.

Your hand carefully cups the side of his face that isn’t pressed against your pillow, that isn’t buried in the crook of your neck, as an astonished huff of laughter escapes your lips as they curve into a sad smile, your brows furrowed. “Why in the world would you think such things?” Even as the question is whispered into the quiet of your chambers, you know the answer – Aemond has always been this way, always one to reject comfort, even when it is so freely given, even when he himself seeks it out.

If only he could see himself as you do.

“I… I have done so many shameful things, sister, I…” His voice breaks when he cuts himself off and you can feel him tense in your hold, “‘Tis the simple truth, I don’t deserve you.”

You hum softly, combing your fingers through his hair while you mull over his words, silently wondering why he has always been like this – why you have always felt so unworthy of softness and kindness and love.

“Well, it is not my truth,” you murmur after a moment, eyes flicking over the long line of his body, hidden by your silken bedsheets. In the time each of you had taken to ready yourselves for bed, you had changed into a nightgown and he into a simple nightshirt, leaving your bare legs to tangle together, “Would you like to know what I think, my love?”

You feel him inhale against the crook of your neck, sucking in air like he’s steeling himself for disappointment, yet he still lifts his head and peers up at you. His lilac eye searches your face for a long moment, looking for even the smallest indication of displeasure in your features, only to find none.

Seemingly satisfied with his assessment, assured that surely whatever you were to say would not hurt him too badly, he nods.

Sitting up just enough to better see his face, you look at him with nothing but adoration as the two of you rest shoulder to shoulder, backs against the headboard. “I believe you deserve every kindness in the world, Aemond. And I believe even that would be too little,” your voice is hardly a whisper when you speak, like this is the deepest of secrets meant only for his ears, “You deserve nothing but happiness, sweet baby brother.”

He stares at you for a long moment, eye wide and glassy while his chest aches as your words seep into him like a soothing balm. You can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, eye squeezing shut for a moment while he processes your words – so sweet they nearly stung.

A soft coo bubbles from your lips when you see his chest rise and fall rapidly beneath the linen of his nightshirt, and you lean into him all the more when one of his hands reaches out and grabs one of your own, squeezing it like it’s a lifeline.

“Shh,” you soothe, giving him a sad smile when his eye finally opens again, gaze immediately finding yours, “Sweet boy.”

He lets out a shuddering breath before looking away from you once again, mind reeling. Not knowing what to do, overcome with so much emotion his heart feels as if it’s adrift at sea, he brings your hand up and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles before holding it to his cheek and sucking in another little breath as his bottom lip trembles. “Please don’t ever leave me,” he whispers finally, voice tight and hoarse.

Cupping his face, you caress your thumb over the scar beneath his eye softly and lean over just enough to press a soft kiss against his cheek. “I will never leave you, Aemond, I swear it.”

He shudders once more before letting out a shaky breath, eye filled with a wild desperation. Before you can register the movement, his hands are suddenly gripping at your waist and hauling you onto his lap, your legs on either side of his, as he buries his face into the crook of your neck once more, apologies already muffled against your skin. “I-I’m sorry, I – Gwayne will… will hate me but –”

“Shh, sh, sh, sweetling,” you murmur, despite the small, barely audible gasp that leaves you at the sudden movement, so wholly unused to this as half of you tries desperately to comfort you while the other half wonders if you should put a stop to this, “Gwayne knows, my love, he… it’s okay, he knows.”

A sob is wrenched from Aemond’s lips, warm against your neck, but he nods nonetheless, sighing when you begin carding your fingers through his hair once more, smoothing out the long, pale strands. Slowly, he relaxes again, arms wound securely around your waist while his breath evens out.

You’re about to say something else, though your breath hitches in your throat when he begins peppering your neck with soft, chaste little kisses – feather-light down the column of your neck. He stops after a second, noticing you tense up on his lap, eyes wide as a million thoughts swirl in your mind: Is this okay? Should you stop this? This is your precious baby brother, the one who used to cling to your skirts when he was sad, who used to come to you in the night when he woke from a nightmare…

He leans forward once more and nips at your earlobe, making your heart stutter in your chest, “Can… can I try something?”

Your head reels at the sudden change in his touches, needier now, though for an entirely different reason, yet still your mind reels – piqued with curiosity. “What is it you wish to try?” You question after a moment, voice scratchy from the sudden dryness at the back of your throat.

Silently, Aemond relishes this; something about you, you his normally strong and carefree older sister, being this flustered because of him makes his heart flutter in his chest. Dipping his head, he resumes pressing soft kisses against your skin, though they linger now – teeth nipping before he soothes the small bites with a swipe of his tongue, drawing ever closer to the pulse point in your neck that beats so wildly he can feel it beneath your skin.

“Aemond!” You all but wheeze when he suddenly grabs at your hips, his own firmly bucking up against you. A shock goes down your spine at the evidence of his arousal pressing against you, two thin layers of fabric doing precious little to mask the feel of it. Again, you tense up, practically jumping out of your skin as you pull back just enough to gaze down at him, your eyes wide, blinking rapidly, as they search his.

This was the last thing you expected tonight, the last thing you’d expect from him at all. “Wha – I…” You stammer, dumbstruck while worry and uncertainty cloud your mind.

Aemond shushes you now, long fingers squeezing at your bare thighs now that your nightgown has ridden up enough to reveal them. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs soothingly against your skin, “Do you trust me…?”

Your throat bobs as you swallow thickly, heart hammering in your chest. You should be the one comforting him… what in the Seven Hells has happened? Is… is this the comfort he needs now?

Even still, you nod your head at his question; of course you trust him, you’d trust him with anything… even this.

A smile grows on his lips when you acquiesce, a pleased glimmer in his eye when he lifts his hands to your hips again, his grip firmer this time. “Good… good, sweet sister,” he hums lowly, rutting his hips up against you once more, lilac eye watching you with keen interest.

“A-Aem…” You gasp once more, the feel of him against you so intense it sends a shiver down your spine, even when your brows furrow as your eyes flutter, threatening to slip shut. His movements press a small whimper from your lips and you can feel the sting in your cheeks as they flush, chest heaving while your hands grab tightly at his shoulders.

The smug look on his face slowly morphs into one of wonder and his eye flits over your face greedily, like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of seeing you like this – already so strung out over him.

He moves again, the feeling of your soft core pressing against his growing length through the thin linen only serving to drive his urges further. “Gods, you look so beautiful like this…” He murmurs, in awe at having you like this, and all to himself. Unable to help himself, he leans forward yet again and pulls you closer as his lips settle once more against your neck.

Instinctually, your head tilts to the side, giving him room to kiss over your skin. His movements against you cause you to shiver in his grasp, even if a small part of you was still uncertain, hoping this wouldn’t change your relationship with him for the worse.

The slow grind of his hips causes his nightshirt to eventually ride up his legs as well, and you gasp anew, jumping once more when his length suddenly presses against your center, unhindered by fabric.

“Feel what you do to me?” He purrs, letting out a low groan of his own.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, lips parted ever so slightly while your chest heaves, silently wondering if this is truly happening. Almost imperceptibly, you nod your head, shuddering at the feeling of his cock pressed against you, already twitching.

“L-Little brother,” you gasp, breathless already.

Aemond smirks at your response, your whimpers and soft gasps going right to his head. He grabs at your waist still, bucking against you in slow, almost teasing movements. A low, pleased hum vibrates him in his chest when he feels how wet you are against him – the heat radiating from your center nearly stifling.

The longer this goes on, the more you can feel your resolve crumbling, any small bits left of you that wanted to put a stop to this slowly fading away. Distantly, you can’t help wondering if this is how it’s always been meant to be, if this was the only logical conclusion your paths could reach, the outcome of such a close bond. Perhaps, you have always been made for this.

“Aemond,” his name falls from your lips in a soft sigh and you finally lean against him heavily, pressing your chest against his unthinkingly. “Shit!” You gasp only a second later, jolting as if stung by a bee, brought back to reality by the ache in your breasts.

“Sister?” Aemond questions, freezing beneath you while he looks over your face, his hands rising to cup your cheeks protectively.

You start to answer, to explain, when you feel a sudden tingling sensation at your chest and, judging from the look on your brother’s face, an explanation would be a moot point by now anyway.

“Gods grant me mercy,” he sighs, eye wider than you’ve ever seen it as he stares, near open-mouthed, at your chest. Glancing down, your cheeks flush at the sight of milk dampening the linen at your breasts, leaving it all but translucent.

Again, you go to explain, only to stop yourself in your tracks when his tongue darts out, licking over his bottom lip. Your head spins when you notice his chest heaving as he stares at you with a nearly savage hunger, eyes fixed on your breasts like his universe has been narrowed down to a pinpoint.

“Aemond?”

“Please,” he groans, swallowing thickly and licking over his lips once more, practically salivating. His eye flicks up to yours for only the briefest of seconds before zeroing in on your chest once more, “Sweet… sweet sister, please.”

Again, the energy in the room seems to shift, Aemond once again begging you for comfort, bowing to your whims. Quickly, you shush him while one hand threads into his hair once more as you bring his head back against the crook of your neck, settling him there while he groans against your skin, rough hands slowly trailing up your waist before halting at your ribs.

Your other hand busies itself with snaking between the two of you and impatiently batting your clothes away before your fingers finally curl around his length, causing the both of you to let out soft cries.

“Shh, sweetling,” you coo, chest heaving while you position him at your entrance, sighing as he desperately mouths at your neck, “I know what you need, I’ve got you.”

Again, twin moans fill your dimly lit chambers when you slowly sink down on him. Whimpers are punched from your lungs at the feel of him steadily filling you, his chest rumbling against yours as he groans deeply, hips jolting beneath you.

“Gods,” you sigh when your hips are finally pressed tightly against his once more, panting and letting your eyes fall shut while you give yourself a moment to adjust.

The feel of him borders on overwhelming – pressed so tightly inside of you, around you, the very air in your room filled with the heady, herbaceous scent of the bath oils you know he favors. You imagine he must feel the same as he trembles beneath you, fingers and hips twitching with barely contained desire.

Finally, your need to comfort him, to protect him even from himself, rears its head again and you relish the breathy sigh that leaves him as you begin to move your hips. It’s a grinding motion, soft and gentle – what he needs now, to be treated with care. Still, the movements send shockwaves up your spine as the pale hairs at the base of his cock rub perfectly against your pearl, creating a delicious friction to spur you on.

“So good,” he breathes, warm against your shoulder as he leans forward, kissing at your neck, “You feel so good, sister, you… you are s-so good to me…”

“Just as you deserve,” you murmur, combing your fingers through his long hair once more before your hands travel down to the hem of his nightshirt and you begin impatiently tugging at it, pulling it over his head and grinning at the soft, nearly petulant, whine he gives at having to separate from you even for a second.

Still, some instinctual force seems to drive you, a need to feel his skin against your own, and you waste no time before pulling your own nightgown up and over your head as well, leaving nothing to separate the two of you.

The groan that leaves him when your chest presses back against his own once more is like nothing you’ve heard before – a sound of the purest relief, like he’s found some oasis in the desert. His eye opens again and the rhythm of your hips stutters only for a second once it finds yours. The lilac is almost completely overtaken by black and yet, he still regards you as if you are an angel sent from the heavens themselves, stares at you with such reverence that your heart flutters in your chest.

Something clicks for you then as he whimpers beneath you, his own hips beginning to buck up against your own as the lazy tempo you’ve settled into slowly starts to pick up. You understand, now, that this is merely another step, an added turn, in the so carefully balanced dance the two of you have constructed.

And if this is what he needs to be comforted, then you’re more than happy to give it.

“My good boy,” sigh, moving against him with renewed vigor, grinning when he lets out a hitched moan, “Is this what you needed?”

“Yes, y-yes,” he nods, his eye never leaving your own as he ruts beneath you, the choppy movements only adding to the fire slowly building within your veins, “Please, sweet sister, please…”

You don’t need to ask to know what it is he means, nodding before he has time to stutter out another word, “Take what you need, my love.”

Another breathy groan sounds from him as he quickly descends onto your chest, tilting his head down and immediately capturing your sensitive nipple between his lips, one hand coming up to gently cup your breast, holding it steady. The feeling of relief that flows through you when he starts suckling is nearly disorienting, the dull ache in your breast slowly fading away with each mouthful of milk he pulls from you, greedily taking a few mouthfuls from one breast before switching to the other.

Your fingers stay anchored in his hair while your hips work against him, your high building more steadily within you now that your breasts no longer feel ready to burst. You pant as you gaze down at him, eyes half-lidded while you watch his lips move against you, lilac eye still fixated on you.

Below you, Aemond is halfway convinced he’s died and somehow the Gods have seen fit to spare him the Seven Hells. His head spins as he drinks from you, the taste of you by far the sweetest, most decadent thing he could fathom. As the knot in his belly grows ever-tighter, his suckles become more greedy, frantic, not knowing whether you’ll allow him this pleasure ever again.

“Please, f-fuck,” he sighs, the words punched from his lips as he pulls away from you just enough to speak, uncaring as dribbles of milk leak from the corners of his lips, staining your skin. His hips practically move on their own accord as he mindlessly grinds up into you, seeking out the warmth and safety he knows he shall only ever feel within you.

Above him, you nod, swallowing thickly against the dryness at the back of your throat, cheeks flushed while you watch him unravel. Snaking a hand between your bodies once more, your fingers quickly find your sensitive, aching bud and rubbing at it with a practiced precision.

“Gods, sweet little brother,” you breathe out, pleasure zapping down your spine. You frantically nod again, frantic this time, just as your high washes over you, “Come, Aemond… Gods, let go, little one.”

His suckles turn more into little biting nips while he gasps against you, trembling beneath you when he finally lets pleasure overtake him – eye squeezing shut at the feel of your walls clenching tightly around his cock.

The warmth of him filling you only spurs you on more, your breaths ragged against his forehead while you feel yourself tense and relax again and again, grabbing at whatever parts of him you can reach.

You each go still after a few moments, panting against each other. Aemond is practically limp beneath you, lazily nuzzling his face against your chest, satiated smile just barely tugging at the corners of his lips. Chuckling softly, you pepper his forehead in sweet kisses, relishing the contented hum he gives in return.

When you go to get up however, intent on fetching a cloth to clean you both up with, he reaches for you with a small whine as he grabs at your thighs.

“Don’t, please,” he murmurs, brows furrowed when your eyes meet, “Stay…”

“You… you want to stay like this?” You question, your heartbeat quickening as he quickly nods, “You wish to stay –”

“Inside,” he finishes quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows bashfully, cheeks flushed, “I… I feel safe like… like this.”

“Then you can stay, silly boy,” you answer with a grin, kissing at his forehead once more, “Here, let’s just…” You murmur, tilting your hips to the side ever so slightly, attempting to pull him with you.

Blessedly, he seems to understand and follows you willingly, allowing you to maneuver the two of you onto your sides. After a moment, you’re comfortable once more, each of you lying on your side and facing the other, one of your legs slung over his narrow hips to keep him pressed tightly within you.

“Good boy,” you sigh softly, smiling when he shivers against you.

The two of you stay like that for a while, your hands gently caressing his soft skin or running through his hair while you hold him against you. After a while, his lilac eye finally flutters closed and you can’t help but marvel at how much younger he looks like this – relaxed and spent while he lies against you, like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.

After a while, he seems to grow restless again, nosing at your chest until he finds what he desires. You sigh softly as he pulls a nipple into his mouth once more, suckling at it contentedly while he peers up at you sleepily.

“There you go,” you murmur soothingly, coaxing him to lift his head just enough for you to lay an arm beneath it, allowing you to caress his shoulders while your other hand cups gently at the side of his face, thumb sweeping over his soft skin. “Take what you need, sweet one,” you coo, smiling as he quickly returns his lips to your breast, “You’re safe, I’ve got you…”

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

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venusbyline · 2 months ago

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HEADCANON: HOTD characters most likely to be in love with their older sister (reader)

TARGTOWERS BROTHERS & STRONG BROTHERS VERSION

(this includes Aegon II Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Daeron Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon, Lucerys Velaryon)

— type: smut, light dark (Aemond & Aegon II parts)

— tags/warnings: female!reader, Targcest (younger brother/older sister), DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, vaginal sex, dubcon, rough sex, oral sex (female & male receiving), missionary position, cowgirl position, doggy style position, loss of virginity, underage sex, breeding kink, marriage of convenience, referenced underage non-con, manipulation, infidelity, argument, light dark content (but kinda fluff too), referenced Baela Targaryen/Jacaerys Velaryon, referenced Gwayne Hightower/reader, dom!Aemond, sub!Lucerys, dom!Aegon II, soft dom!Daeron, brat sub!Jacaerys, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— author's note: I didn't write about Joffrey Velaryon in this type of HC because the character and the actor are very young in the show.

❥ HOTD masterlist • ASOIAF headcanons

❥ about me • main masterlist

1- AEMOND TARGARYEN

• No surprise, right? Everyone knows that Aemond is a man who tends to like older women. But you cannot blame him. All the female companions in his life were women older than him. Alicent, mother of both of you, who always raised him as her dearest son. Helaena, your twin sister, has always been one of the few people along with you who truly understood him despite being different from the rest of the family. Madam Sylvi, who Aegon persuaded him to fuck in the brothel when he was still just a little boy. Even Vhagar, the dragon he claimed, was one of Aemond's few companions and was a female being over a hundred years old. Even Aegon used to make fun of him a lot about that.

• It did not come as a surprise to you that Aemond was in love with you. Despite the age difference of only one year, since childhood Aemond had seen you as his protector, someone he could trust and who would do anything to keep him safe. You were there caressing his hand when Lucerys gouged out his eye in Driftmark. You were there when he was only thirteen and came back from the brothel with Aegon, completely embarrassed, lying on your lap and sobbing something about not being pure for a future marriage anymore. You were there to calm him down when he returned after killing your nephew Lucerys.

"I was... I was not thinking straight, sister." Aemond murmured in a shaky voice, his head resting on your thighs and sighing lightly while he felt your hands caressing his hair as if the strands were made of gold. "The eagerness for revenge was consuming me. I could not help but remember the look on our Mother's face and on yours after Luke ripped out my eye. All those... All those nights you stayed up helping me with the fever..."

• In fact, it was not a surprise to you when your younger brother entered your chambers during the night after becoming Prince Regent. You were still angry and hurt with him for what he done to Aegon, but he could not stand more time away from you. You were his older sister and he needed your comfort for the rest of the war.

"Look at me." Aemond growled between thrusts, pulling your chin roughly so you were forced to face him. Face the sapphire shining in the darkness of the romm, lit just by the flickering shadows of the candles. "Look at me, sister. Look at your brother."

There was a touch of vulnerability in his voice that made you obey without a fight or more crying, the way he finally called himself 'Your Brother' and not 'The Prince Regent' clenched your heart, reminding you the little boy who sobbed every night because he did not have a dragon. Now, all that innocence was gone. He was fucking you like an animal, claiming you as his, taking your maidenhood. And yet, he was desperate for your loyalty and your understanding. The same loyalty and full understanding you promised him since your childhoods.

2- LUCERYS VELARYON

• Lucerys is definitely the kind of guy who would be into older ladies, but not for the same reason as Aemond. Due to the fact you were Jacaerys' twin sister, Lucerys always feared that he was getting in the way of something between the two of you. The Targaryen and Velaryon families always considered betrothing you and Jace during your childhoods, since you were very close in your early years. However, after the incident in Driftmark, something changed. Both you and Jacaerys became even more protective about Luke and wanted to share his attention. With Jacaerys, Luke could have fun in ways that were more considered masculine for the Court, like training with swords or something like that. But at night, Lucerys would always sneak into your private chambers, wanting to lie in bed together and hug you from behind then he could smell your hair.

"How was your day, big sister?" Lucerys asked, wrapping his hand around your waist and placing his face in the crook of your neck, nuzzling the dark curls and inhaling your natural scent.

"It was good... I had a few High Valyrian lessons in the morning, but I spent the whole afternoon excited to see you again.' You confessed with a playful smile, placing your palm over his, which was still holding you against him. The words and the soft caress made his cheeks turn pinker than they already were, and Lucerys could not help but chuckle.

"I was excited to see you too... I always am."

• It would take him a while to confess his feelings. Inside Luke's mind, even if the bond between you and Jace was not as strong as it was in childhood, your little brother kept afraid of ruining any potential romance. Because of that, Lucerys showed his love for you in discreet ways, really not wanting to be caught. He would let you comb his hair, sit with you in the library to learn more about Old Valyria history, fly together with your dragons...

• But despite everything, his eyes were never able to hide such feelings. He would stare at you all the time during balls or banquets. And when Rhaenyra realized that her dear son already had a true love in mind, she would arrange a betrothal between Jace and Baela and you and Lucerys. The idea of separating the twins instead of marrying them would be a shock to many lords and ladies, but not to Lucerys. He was grateful that your mother turned the situation easier so that he could be happy with you without feeling guilty again.

"O-Oh, Gods... You are so tight." Luke tried to control his whines while you rode his cock after the wedding ceremony. The movements were uncoordinated and intense at the same time, a perfect demonstration of your inexperience. Just like you, Lucerys did not know what to do, his hands went over your hips, holding himself back from squeezing hard your flesh, helping you move a little slower. "Slow, sister... P-Please. I do not know if I can hold out much longer."

3- AEGON II TARGARYEN

• Born a few years after Rhaenyra, you were also young when Viserys married for the second time and had Aegon and the other children. Although Alicent did not like you so much at first and Rhaenyra despised almost all of them, you developed a good relationship with your half-siblings. During their childhood, you helped Helaena catch some bugs, let Aemond pet your dragon before he claimed his, played funny sword fights with little Daeron... And Aegon? Well, you helped him disperse the guards then he could have night fun. However, what made Aegon fall in love with you was noticing all the times you comforted him after Alicent or Otto's long lectures. With you, Aegon did not have to pretend to be perfect. He could be himself, even if it meant looking inadequate in the eyes of the rest of the family.

• Aegon never tried to hide his attraction to you. During the first years of his youth, he called you "big sister" to tease you, he joked around trying to kiss you, making it clear that he wanted you even after the marriage out of duty with Helaena. You always thought it was nothing more than pure sexual attraction. Well, that was until Alicent managed to convince Viserys to marry you to Gwayne, one of her brothers, arguing that you were already too old and would not be able to have another interesting betrothing proposal. Aegon spent the entire wedding ceremony in a bad mood, drinking and embarrassing everyone.

"Well, now you are married to my dear uncle, big sister? What a shame." Aegon mocked, his voice slurred by the wine he had drunk. He did not know how Gwayne agreed to let you dance with him in such state. He was almost knocking you over with every step. In fact, Aegon never knew how to dance appropriately, always more focused on drinking alcohol and flirting with random ladies at the realm's balls than participating in the dances with them. "This is very unfair, you know. You deserve a better man. Like me, perhaps."

• When Aegon usurped the Iron Throne, the first thing he did was demand Ser Gwayne's presence and yours, not caring if you were angry with him. Everything Aegon needed was to see you, see how you were after your pregnancies and also show you how he had grow up, no longer just a teenage boy with a crush on his older sister, but now a powerful King.

"Imagine how your children would react if they knew you were here... Fucking with your own brother while your husband is fighting for my cause with the other knights?" Aegon purred in your ear, one hand on your neck to pull you closer to him and the other releasing your hip and grabbing your breast now, heavy with breast milk from your last pregnancy. "I could give you one more child. Uncle Gwayne would never suspect that I bred you."

You looked up at the mirror in front of you, watching your own face flushed with pleasure and embarrassment, your breasts bouncing and a few white drops running down your chest due to his aggressive caresses. And then your eyes focused on Aegon, the beautiful crown he wore seemed almost like a punch to your stomach. You were betraying your sister Rhaenyra's trust, becoming the whore of the Usurper King, your younger brother.

4- DAERON TARGARYEN

• Do not get me wrong, please! Daeron did not grow up with his entire family for many years, so he probably would not be the kind of Targaryen who would be into incest practices at frist. Despite the discomfort about it and Otto's idea of betrothing you two to each other in the future, he was feeling lucky and relieved when Alicent sent you along with him to Oldtown. Two years older than Daeron, you were raised just like your mother, focused on the Faith of the Seven and never imagining that you would give in to the sins involving the other part of your bloodline before the real marriage with Daeron. At least that was until the boy started to mature a little more, becoming taller and more handsome as he got older and becoming stronger because of the knight training.

"What do you think, sister?" Daeron smirked at you, making your heart race as he showed you how his arms muscles looked more noticeable and hot.

Your throat went dry at the sight, and even though his chest was all sweaty, you soon cleared the throat and forced yourself to keep looking only at the freckles on his cheeks, which matched perfectly with the freckles on his shoulders. "I think you should put your tunic back on, idiot. You are getting in the way of my studies."

• You fell in love first, always trying to deny and hide these feelings. Daeron only found out about his true romantic interest in you when other knights in Oldtown started teasing him, asking whether he would let them try their luck with his older sister and betrothed. At first, Daeron would get angry and argue with the boys, but he still thought the jealousy was just brotherly. It took years of forced betrothal until Daeron realized that what was happening inside his heart was not so simple as he thought before. He was a Targaryen, after all.

"We... We should not have done this. Not here..." You whispered with your eyelids closed after the best orgasm of your life, a part of the Sept's altar pressed against your bare back. Both of your consciences weighed on your heads and your bodies burned for more touches. It was wrong to commit such a sin, especially in a sacred place, the two of you knew about that.

"It is fine, sister..." Daeron kissed your inner thighs, avoiding thinking rationally and continuing to lick the juices that had run down there when he pleasured your cunt with his tongue.

5- JACAERYS VELARYON

• Among the five characters, I see Jacaerys as the least likely to fall in love with his own older sister. I think Jacaerys is a person who likes to have control over situations — not with a toxic way, but he is a person who prefers to give orders rather than be told what to do. The problem would not be that you are older, his sister, or naturally bossy like most firstborns daughters already are, but rather the combination of these three things. Jace would certainly take a long time to realize that he had romantic feelings for you, and of course... He would take a long time to confess that he was in love with you.

"You were born just two years before me. That does not mean you know everything." Jacaerys shouted furiously after the High Valyrian class together, annoyed about the fact that you corrected his pronunciation and received compliments at his expense. "Your ego is too damn inflated, this is annoying!"

• You were arguing most of the time, disagreeing on everything and often he would even curse you saying that you would be a bad queen in the future and that he should be the heir. Yet, Jace was always defending you from the people who claimed your legitimacy and said that the two of you, plus Lucerys and Joffrey, were bastards. Also, he was stubborn and proud like a child, he would certainly complain when Rhaenyra betrothed you two to each other and he would pretend that he hated the decision, even though his heart was racing with excitement.

"You seem less stubborn this way, little brother." The mockery tone caused a snort angrily on Jacaerys, his gaze fixed on the ceiling afterwards, moaning loudly again when you put his cock deep into your throat with an ease that almost made him questioned to himself if you lied all the years about being a maiden.

Jacaerys should not have let you kneel on the floor to give him pleasure. When your brother agreed to this, he thought it would be the excellent opportunity to have control over the entire consummation of your marriage. And he was completely wrong. "Do not forget that I fucking hate you, my wife." He tried to mock your new title, moaning almost like a pathetic boy one more time while you dug the nails into his thighs and went back to licking his entire cock, paying special attention to the vein at the bottom.

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multific · 1 year ago

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Of Lit Fire and Silk Sheets

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Aemond arrives back to his room late at night, when you are already long asleep.

When Aemond came into your shared bedroom it was already very late.

His duties as Prince kept him up almost all day, barely allowing him to take a break or even eat.

Aemond let out a long sigh as he took off his jacket.

The fireplace in his room was lit, illuminating the room.

On his bed, you slept.

You, his beautiful wife.

Aemond stopped by the end of the bed and looked at you. He has seen you sleeping plenty of times, but he was always right next to you, or he was too tired and went to sleep immediately as he got back.

But now, even if he was tired, he still took a moment to just stop and look at you.

You looked breathtaking, the warm light from the fire illuminated your face and shoulder as you slept on your side, facing his empty side. Your arm reaching towards his side, trying to find him but failing.

Aemond allowed a small smile to form.

Oh, how you both hated the idea of being married, and yet here you both were, completely and undeniably in love.

Aemond could still recall the moment your eyes turned from hatred to the soft look that you now have for him.

He could also recall the moment he realized he was in love with you when a Lord dared to speak ill of you and as a result, lost his head.

Aemond takes no chances when it comes to you, his wife.

He believes it is his duty to fully protect you from anything. Let that be his own family, a few lords with choice words or even himself.

Aemond takes no chances, much like a predator, he prefers to act first and think next.

He didn't use to be like that.

He was always very calculated, just not when it came to you.

Love, as they say, is a stronger force than anything, greater than fear or even dragons.

You stirred slightly in your sleep and Aemond moved. Removing his clothes and putting on the comfortable pants and shirt he preferred to sleep in, he quickly moved back to you and laid down.

His muscles relaxed against the silk sheets and comfortable pillows.

He wanted to pull you closer, but he was afraid to wake you.

Aemond just laid there, watching you sleep as he contemplated his next move. He knew he would not be able to sleep fully without having you in his arms or have you closer.

But he didn't have to, you instinctively still asleep, moved closer to him, placing your hand on his chest as you continued to sleep.

Aemond let out a long sigh as he closed his eyes. He felt you moving beside him as you soon placed your head on his chest, got comfortable under the covers and fell right back to sleep.

His hand moved to find yours on his chest as he fell asleep.

Not even the howling wind outside would hurt you, he will make sure of it.

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @brascaris

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itsluckylolita · 7 months ago

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Saviour Of Dragon’s | CHAPTER ELEVEN

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

𐙚⭑𓂃──────────────────𓂃⭑𐙚

Two months had passed since your late evening tryst with Jacaerys, two months of training, lessons, feasts, tourneys — by the gods the tourneys kept you up at night. The first tourney you attended as Lady Y/n of House Targaryen you wore a simple dress of pink silk, the flowing fabric embroidered with patterns reminiscent of Old Valyria while your hair was done in a style of the Crownlands. You sat in the royal box with Lucerys on one side, and Joffrey on the other. Joffrey was a simple but sweet child, and he gained what you saw as an unusual attachment to you. As the Nightwolf you would oft be made to keep the young prince company while his mother attended to her younger children, and now as Lady Y/n you continued to do the same. You supposed that any child could get attached when you spend that much time with them. Lucerys still viewed you as the intimidating knight you once were, looking up to you as a figure of great achievement — which, all things considered, you were.

“Y/n, look, look!” Joffrey squealed, jumping up to the edge of the bannister. You followed to make sure he didn't fall off, following his pointed finger to a familiar northern knight.

“He is from the North! I want to go to the North, will you take me one day?” Joffrey beamed, squeezing tight onto your outstretched hand.

“One day, my little prince, I will take you. When you are older we may travel to all the realms, even Dorne.” You promised, brushing back his soft brown hair.

“Alren?” You winced at your fake title, looking from Joffrey to the Northern knight who had gotten far closer than he was previously. When you made eye contact with Harlick he looked like he had come face to face with a dragon’s maw, which perhaps in some ways, he had.

“Hello, good ser.” You curtsied, smirking to hide the fear which uprooted your belly.

“You’re the lady-bastard?” He breathed, and you shot him a stern look.

“You should watch your tongue when speaking to a Lady of House Targaryen.” He seemed to realize that the other royals around you, including your father, could hear him. He dropped to his knees, face close to the dirt before he looked back up at you to speak.

“I beg your forgiveness, M’lady, I was out of order.” You sent Joffrey back to his seat, leaning over the bannister and beckoning Harlick forward.

“Do you fight in today’s tourney, ser?” You asked.

“I-I do, M’lady.” It was as if Harlick was seeing you for the first time the way his eyes raked over your form.

“Then I wish you the best of luck, Ser Harlick. Win and I shall grant you my favour.” You winked cheekily, returning to your seat while Harlick scrambled back to his horse. Harlick would win that day, and you would grant him a small garland of black and red roses. As the tourneys continued, you realized that Harlick had spread the news, and every knight or common girl you had ever known looked at you with new eyes, as Harlick had. They all stared at you before tourneys, or asked for your favour to get a better look at you, it began to infuriate you the way they treated you like a rare animal or piece of art.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You turned around at the familiar voice of Rhaenyra, securing the last strap of your armour onto your calf. You stood up and grabbed your helmet, the one you used to wear as the Nightwolf, before you approached.

“I am fighting in today’s tourney.” You looked into her stern eyes, her hands clasped tightly around her growing bump.

“Why?” She prodded, and you wondered in that moment how one word could hold so many things within it.

“Because the commonfolk of Dragonstone treat me like some Essosi prostitute, a marvel to be gawked at, and I must show them that I am as I was when you first knighted me. I am Y/n Targaryen, the Nightwolf, the Dragon’s Sister — Not just some bastard from Flea Bottom — ” You barely restrained yourself from shouting, turning your head away from Rhaenyra in shame. You let your frustrations control you, a dangerous thing when it comes to Targaryen’s.

“Then I wish you luck.” A hand came to turn your face back to her, a soft smile and furrowed brows gracing the princesses features.

“I see so much of your father in you, you know? Even a blind man can tell you are a pure Targaryen no matter how you were sired.” Rhaenyra brushed her thumb along your cheek, and before you knew it you were twelve duels deep with Harlick bent at your knees.

“THE WINNER: Y/N OF HOUSE TARGARYEN, THE DRAGON’S SISTER!” The Tourney Herald shouted, just barely heard over the monstrous cries of the crowd, paramount among them your father.

“Hear, Hear!” Daemon whooped, whistling through his fingers. You panted as you hauled Harlick to his feet, allowing for him to rest his armoured mass on your body.

“Am I still the lady-bastard?” You whispered, the man above you shaking his head before a laugh wracked through his body.

“Aye, the lady-bastard who bested me and half of my damn knights.” Harlick straightened himself before hoisting your hand in the air, turning the two of you in a circle so the whole crowd could see your glory. That same glory, which brought you to such heights, can bring another to terrible lows.

“Of course our half-sister would allow a woman to fight — a bastard at that. She has no morals, the whore.” The words were spat out violently, the girl who listened to the rant wincing.

“Aemond, there is no need to speak in that wa— ” She began, but the one-eyed man shut her up with a glance.

“She sullies our house with her newest bastard, Helaena, even worse than before with our plain-featured nephews. Y/n of Flea Bottom is our curse.” He collapsed onto the chair beside him, taking up his goblet and downing the bitter wine in one go.

“She strengthens our house. Strengthens herself, brother.” Aemond scoffed at that.

“Y/n is our saviour, not our curse.” The way Helaena spoke was lilted, and Aemond thought that her eyes looked right through him, past his physical form and into another realm.

“I know not why I speak to you, dear sister,” Aemond got up, brushing a lock of hair from Helaena’s face, “you know nothing of preserving a house.” With that he left the chambers, the hard-hitting heels of his boots echoing throughout the quiet halls of the Red Keep.

Two months was a short time, but near long enough for you to master the elegance of Dragonriding. While before you mounted Morghul without a saddle, proper gear, or training, now you mounted her with an expertise befitting a lady. Morghul was fitted with a saddle of black steel, burgundy padding cushioning your seat and crimson detailings adding an accent of the she-dragon’s eyes. Red rubies decorated the clasp atop her chest, the glittering jewels shaped like a crescent moon at your insistence. Your own gear matched hers, moulding you two into the perfect bonded image. Your boots were black, along with your pants and tunic, while the cape which draped from your shoulder and wrapped to your hip was a striking scarlet. Crimson stitching popped against the trim of your leather outfit, dragon scales etched painstakingly into the hard material, and finally on your chest, as was on Morghul’s, was a moon made of red rubies. When Daemon saw you for the first time in your riding gear he smiled, not grinned or smirked or sneered, but smiled.

“You are an image of your grandmother, my dear.” He commented, caressing the golden clasp of a dragon’s head which kept your cape fastened to your shoulder.

“Alyssa, you mean?” You questioned as the Dragonkeepers called both Caraxes and Morghul while you and Daemon spoke.

“Indeed. I was young when she died but the same fire which she passed unto me has been passed unto you. We are of the dragon, untameable, unbreakable, with blood hot and unwilling to listen.” Daemon explained as Caraxes’ large head careened from the Dragonmont.

“Remember this, hm?” He patted your shoulder before he departed, mounting Caraxes with ease. Morghul appeared next, and you mounted her less gracefully. It was your first time testing out both your riding outfit and saddle, and it would take some adjustment before you and Morghul were entirely comfortable. Daemon had eagerly volunteered to mentor you, guide you on your journey to greatness when it came to controlling your dragon. You thought of it less as control and more as harmonizing, becoming one with Morghul so that you can take on any enemy together. That first time you went out with Daemon, Rhaelys and Veraxes came out as well. They joined the two of you — four if you included your dragons — and mimicked the movements you and Morghul would do. They also nipped and prodded at Caraxes, as children would, and you knew then there was no doubt of their parentage. Since you had first mounted Morghul all three of your dragons had grown substantially, the trio dwarfing Vermax and easily able to take on a dragon the size of Syrax.

“I think they are trying to learn!” You screamed down to your father, circling above him and Caraxes that first time.

“Then let them!” He shouted back with glee. From then on whenever you and Morghul went out to train, so did Rhaelys and Veraxes, although you never dared attempt to mount them. You knew your limits and stayed within them well when it came to dragons. Once you became well versed in the basics Jacaerys and Lucerys would join you, many times without the accompaniment of Daemon. The three of you would race around the island, coloured blurs streaking across the clear skies.

“Aderī, Morghul!” Quickly, Morghul! You giggled, gaining on Lucerys and Arrax as you neared the Dragonmont. Rhaelys and Veraxes kept pace with you and Morghul, wide wingspans covering the ground below in a terrifying shadow. You saw Lucerys’ dark hair swivel to look back at you right before you overtook him, all three of your dragons speeding past just as you passed the Dragonmont, signifying you won. Again. You and Lucerys landed in a wide grassy field, Jacaerys not far behind with a sour expression on his face.

“When will you two learn that you are simply not as fast as us?” You chided as you approached the two brothers, ripping off your gloves with your teeth. They had recently been fitted for new riding gear, taking a page from your book and matching their fabrics with that of their chosen mount. Lucerys wore white leather, with a cape of soft salmon cascading from his shoulders to his mid-thigh, while Jacaerys clothed himself in moss-dyed green, a red cape like that of Vermax’s frills flowing in the wind.

“You have an unfair advantage! Three dragons are intimidating to one! Arrax has yet to see battle, he does not know what to do when three dragons are pursuing him.” Lucerys whined, gesturing wildly.

“Excuses, excuses, my prince.” You hummed, ruffling the younger Velaryon’s hair.

“Vermax has been unwell. He will win next time.” Jacaerys gritted, running a hand through his brown locks. He had cropped his hair again, much to your dismay, the straight hairs whipping slightly in the soft wind of the open plain.

“You’ve said that for the past week, Jace.” Lucerys teased, Jacaerys rolling his eyes in return. The three of you soon re-mounted your dragons, bringing them back to the Dragonmont and yourselves to one of the many lounging chambers where you would take your lunch. Rhaena joined you for this, eating a small teacake while she read the correspondence your sister had sent.

“Baela fares well in Driftmark, although she says that Moondancer misses flying with her family.” Rhaena smiled, reading through her twin’s letter.

“Yes, but I’m sure flying with Meleys must be thrilling.” You sighed, imagining the red queen in all her glory.

“True, she says that she and Rhaenys are in the skies more than on the throne of Driftwood.” Rhaena hummed, taking a sip of her fragrant spiced tea — a taste which she had acquired from her years in Pentos. You quite enjoyed it too, often bonding over tea with your half-sister. In the months since Rhaena’s failed bonding attempt you had made the effort to sit with her, be with her, choose her over mounting Morghul late in the evening or early in the mornings. She was far more capable than you had originally thought, much like Baela in that way, but without the dragon your sister possessed to prove herself.

“‘Tis to be expected, the only one who could rival her when it comes to being on Dragonback is you,” Jacaerys gestured in your direction. It was true, you must have spent more time with your three dragons than all of your family combined, it felt as if every waking moment aside from eating and sleeping you were with your beloved three.

“I’m sure Baela misses that fact, even Rhaenys cannot keep up with how often the two of you roamed the clouds.” Rhaena giggled. While you and Rhaena made kinship over tea, you and Baela did so over the heavens, circling each other and twirling with your dragons in a dance which you found poetic given what story you were reborn into.

“We must visit her soon, I would not mind a trip to Driftmark. Lord Corlys extended an open invitation after my legitimization which I have yet to take him up on.” You said, remembering the outpour of letters which piled up on your vanity from Lords and Ladies across the kingdoms.

“Y/n, Y/n!” All three of you turned to the call, watching as Joffrey skipped his way up to you.

“Mother said that I can choose an egg for the baby, can you come with me? Please? Pleeeeease?” He begged, tugging on the sleeves of your riding gear.

“Why Y/n, Joffrey?” Lucerys asked, a twinge of jealousy in his tone.

“Because she has three dragons, and I want our sister to have as many as Y/n!” Joffrey beamed as you stood, taking a final sip of your tea.

“I’m not sure I can guarantee that, my prince, but I can try.” You smiled, picking up the young boy onto your hip. He was growing bigger by the day, harder and harder to carry you realized as you had to put him down once you got to the stairs at the end of the hall. The two of you were accompanied by a Dragonkeeper as you were led to where a clutch of Silverwing’s eggs were being incubated, the hot coals the keeper’s placed them in shining like molten glass. Five eggs lay dormant, awaiting hatching as Joffrey was held back from practically jumping on them.

“Careful, Joffrey!” You breathed, holding onto his tiny hand.

“You mustn’t touch them, only look. They will burn you otherwise.” You warned, Joffrey nodding slowly as he surveyed the five eggs.

“Which one do you like best, Y/n?” He questioned, big brown eyes blinking up at you. You pondered for a moment, taking a good look at the eggs. The smallest was a muted gold, perhaps more copper against certain lights. It was nice enough, but not fit for a potential princess. Two were of the same size, the first being covered in swirls of vibrant blue and green while the second shimmered with scales of vermillion, gorgeous eggs which you could see a small head of silver hair sleeping next to. The second-largest was a pale purple, not dissimilar to Rhaelys’ egg before she hatched. The largest egg was an imposing opalescent, multi-coloured sheen warmed by the coals beneath it.

“If I had to choose my favourite, I would say this one — ” You pointed to the opalescent egg, “ — for when I was a girl I would have loved a dragon like that of a pearl.”

“That one is also my favourite!” Joffrey cheered, and you nodded to the keeper, signaling for the egg to be transferred to a carrier.

“Your mother will be very pleased, my prince, I am sure of it.” You brushed back his hair, a familiar motion, before the two of you walked hand-in-hand back to the keep. You couldn't help it when your eyes drifted down, to where two Dragonkeepers held the carrier. Something drew you to it, called you to it, forced you to it. Perhaps it was the fact that you hadn’t seen a dragon’s egg in many months, or the fact that your own blood was tied so deeply to theirs, but the thought of another dragon being born excited you. Perhaps in this life little Visenya would be born a healthy child, and would grow alongside her pearly dragon who would no doubt have a matching delicate name bestowed upon it. Perhaps, you thought as you showed Rhaenyra the egg. Perhaps, you thought as you settled in for the night later that evening. Perhaps, you thought as you went for a walk when sleep would not find you. Perhaps, you thought as a glint caught your eye from a crack in the nursery door. Perhaps. You passed by a sleeping Aegon and Viserys. Perhaps. You couldn't help it, couldn't fight it as invisible strings curled your fingers upon the handle. Perhaps. You set down the top of the stone incubator which harboured the pearlescent egg, molten coals hot enough that you began to feel burning when you reached towards the egg. Perhaps. Your hands clasped around the egg, yet you did not scream. Perhaps. It was alive underneath your fingertips, the scales of the egg shifting and cracking. Perhaps. Your eyes were wide, tears beginning to well since you refused to blink. Perhaps. Scales flaked into the molten coals, sharp talons wrenching them from their place on the egg’s shell. Perhaps. There was no perhaps now, no wishful thoughts.

“My Lady?” You turned to the horrified wetnurse who spoke your title, tears streaming down your heated cheeks and landing onto the small wet creature below you. You said something, but she did not hear it.

“What was that, my lady?” She mewled, silhouette outlined in the threshold of the door.

“Fetch the princess, now.” You said more firmly, trying to stay calm so as not to wake the babes next to you. The woman bolted in the direction of Rhaenyra’s room, leaving you to slowly walk into the cold halls of Dragonstone.

“Y/n, what is the meaning of thi — ” Rhaenyra’s tired complaints were cut short when she saw the state of you. Saw your glossy eyes, saw the blood and yolk which stained your nightdress, but most shocking of all, the pearlescent dragonling which clung to your breast like a newborn, haggard cries filling the silence which the two of you created.

“The egg for your child…it has hatched.”

𐙚⭑𓂃──────────────────𓂃⭑𐙚

A/N: I know ya’ll have been waiting for this one and I hope I delivereddddd!!! I’m sorry it’s taken this long but It’s the beginning of the uni school year so I’m back on that grindset!! Updates will be sparse but they will be coming! Hope ya’ll enjoyed this chapter xoxo

Also, to @imskyo, I hope this chapter was worth the wait (I cannot respond to ur dm idk why) <3

Taglist (request to be added!):

@bananzaa @dracaryxzs @xcharlottemikaelsonx @kamcrazy123

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