#aemond x fem!oc

[coffeebooksrain18]

I warned you girl so here's the reblog!

The TENSION!? Girl it had me in a choke hold! Also I loved how you gave her Rheas looks and not Valyrian! That's hardly ever done and I'm so glad you did it! I also like that she kinda acts like both her parents, Rhea and Daemon are so alike and no one will ever change my mind.

Also I love Aemonds vibe for some reason! Like hes so crazy I LOVE IT!!!

I'm jumping into the next chapter cause i NEED to know what happens next!

The Price of Pride (1/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: the angst, kidnapping and imprisonment, abuse of power, violence, panic attack ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

It took him a long time to bring her to the Red Keep. Too long, to his frustration – while Aegon on his throne preferred to loudly announce to his subjects things he could not provide for them, he acted in silence, trying to ensure that he was always one step ahead of their sister-whore.

When Larys Strong's spies reported to them that Rhaenyra was seeking dragon seed among the bastards in King's Landing his brother laughed, but he, their mother and all the lords were horrified.

This meant that the slight advantage Vhagar had given them was going to be in vain, as she stood no chance in a confrontation with so many dragons.

Helaena was riding Dreamfyre, but at his words to move into battle with him she covered her ears and turned her head away, saying she would never burn anyone. Daeron's dragon was still too small, so that left him and Aegon, who was the King and could not die, on the battlefield.

That was not enough.

And then it dawned on him.

Rhea Royce must have been devastated after learning that her hated husband's seed had taken root in her womb. The whole kingdom knew that she and his uncle loathed each other sincerely, and while he stayed in King's Landing, she remained in Runestone.

He thought she certainly felt satisfaction when she gave him a daughter, although the Rough Prince wanted a son.

According to rumour, she was born accompanied by her mother's loud groans a few months apart after his own birth, and was supposed to be the reason Daemon waited with murdering her mother: he did not want the burden of caring for a newborn child to fall on him.

Though he would never admit it out loud, of the many lords or bastards born of dragon seed, his choice was guided not only by her close kinship to their family, but also by the fact that having her by his side could be a humiliation to his uncle, a show of his strength, prudence and sheer malice.

Of how dangerous he was not only because of Vhagar.

He had prepared an ambush for her with reverence, through Strong's spy network weaving servants close to her into his plan.

He had no idea what kind of woman she was, whether or not she resisted, whether or not she could wield a sword like her mother, but he received a letter weeks later that they had succeeded, and Daemon's daughter was heading for King's Landing against her will.

He felt a pleasant tingling in his fingertips at the thought of what he would be able to do with her: if he found her pretty and humble enough, if indeed she succeeded in taming a dragon, he could try to invalidate his betrothal to the Baratheon whore and allow her to receive the honour of bearing his heirs instead.

His own dragon inheritance.

When she finally arrived, she was, much to his mother's displeasure, placed in a dungeon – he wanted her to understand that her situation was serious and that any answer from her that did not satisfy him would end in one way.

Her death.

He went down to the underground with the guards and dismissed them when he stopped under her cell with the torch in his hand, its light exposed her face to him.

She was sitting on the ground with her knees tucked under her chin, her head raised towards him, the look of her eyes frustrated and grim, her dark brows arched in displeasure.

She was not afraid.

For now.

He looked at her figure from top to bottom, finding that he had imagined her differently: he had hoped to see any Targaryen features in her. However, her long hair was dark, her eyelashes long and black, like a fan surrounding her brown eyes, which were as big as those of a doe.

Clearly it was her mother's blood that prevailed, he thought with disappointment, however his face remained stony.

"Do you know who I am, woman?" He asked coldly, the corner of her mouth twitching, her gaze softening as if his words amused her, making him feel uneasy.

"It's hard not to guess." She replied without any pleasantries.

He licked his lower lip in a gesture of frustration, recognising that he would not allow himself to be verbally dominated by her.

He had to knock her off her guard.

"Do you understand why you're here?"

She sighed heavily, looking down at her fingers, suddenly tired and small, like a child who wanted to go to sleep already.

"Because of my father, I guess. You are wasting your time. I don't represent any value to him. He will not pact with you for my sake." She said, and he snorted, grinning broadly – she looked at him in surprise, as if she hadn't expected such a reaction from him.

"You are mistaken. We need your blood."

She shook her head, shocked by his words, raising her shoulders in a gesture as if trying to defend herself against what she just heard.

He liked the look of terror on her face, no doubt at the thought that they were about to cut her wrists open and drain her of blood like an animal.

"We will find one of the wild dragons hidden in the mountain caves and you will try to claim it. You will die, or you will succeed and join the war on our side." He said coldly, and she burst out laughing, as if she hadn't heard a greater foolishness in a long time, causing his jaw to clench in fury.

Stupid cunt.

"I know nothing about dragons or their riders and have no desire to learn about them. This, I think, is something that is destined for those endowed by the gods with white hair. I have no intention of sacrificing myself for your family. Behead me or burn me, but spare me this farce." She sneered, looking away, as if she thought she could get away with such impudent words.

She picked herself up and took a few steps back as he unlocked her cell and a moment later he was beside her, dropping the torch to the stone floor, grabbing her by the neck, her body and head hitting the wall hard.

He stared at her for a moment, listening to her heavy breath as if she was choking, panic in her big, brown eyes.

Fear suited her.

"Do you think I'm asking you for your opinion? You will serve me, and you will serve me well, or I will burn not you, but all of the fucking Vale. Only dust and ashes will be left of the people you knew. Is that what you want, my Lady?" He scoffed, and she shook her head quickly, her lower lip quivering all over, her small, soft hands clenched on his wrist.

He leaned over her, digging his fingers deeper into her delicate skin as if he wanted to break her neck.

"So we have an agreement, as I understand it?" He whispered, as if asking her a secret, something only he should hear.

Her eyebrows arched in pain, her plump lips parted in a deep, shuddering breath as she nodded, her warm gaze filled with pain and regret at the same time.

Was she now begging in her mind for her father to save her?

For him to come to her rescue?

The thought made him want to laugh.

"Mmm." He hummed, looking at her red eyes and full lips, feeling a strange kind of intimacy now that he could feel her veins, her blood, dragon's blood, pulsing under her bare skin.

Their shared heritage.

His seed was stronger than Daemon's, he thought with a confidence bordering on vanity.

Their children would have his white hair.

He felt arousal at that thought, his length pulsed softly in his breeches.

He let go of her, and she took a deep breath, sliding to the ground, clutching at her neck where he'd driven his fingers.

"You will be moved to one of the chambers. You will not lack anything. Serve me well and no more harm will befall you." He said in an offhand manner and simply left, satisfied with how childishly simple it was.

The women and their soft hearts, their despair at the thought that someone else might lose their life because of them, their eternal pondering and tenderness that made them so weak.

"I have heard of your success, brother. I was told we had a visitor in the Keep." Said Aegon, glancing at him, seated at the other end of the table, while his hand played with the marble green orb lying before him.

"Yes. She will obey us. I will personally prepare her." He said, resting his elbows on the table top.

The King laughed.

"You, brother? What does your beloved betrothed in Storm's End would say about it?" He sneered, glancing at the lords around them as if asking if his joke was in fact funny.

He grinned, trying to contain his anger and that familiar, unpleasant feeling of humiliation rippling through his chest.

"Who else would do this? You, with your superior knowledge of the language of Old Valyria will teach her commands and behaviour towards a wild dragon?" He asked, looking him straight in the eye.

His brother grew pale and swallowed hard, tense, feeling that he had lost this battle.

"Bring her in." He ordered.

Soon the door to the room opened, and she walked in, accompanied by the guards: she was wearing one of his mother's old brown gowns, its red sleeves reaching to the ground. Her hair was loose but not in disarray, falling gently down her back, as if she had not let any servant touch it and combed it herself.

"Come closer, cousin." Said Aegon with a smile, raising his hand and nodding, clearly wanting to encourage her.

She reluctantly took a few steps closer, looking around the assembled people anxiously, finally meeting his gaze – she stopped for a moment at his face, as if she was thinking hard about something, and then turned her head away, suddenly tired and resigned.

Good, he thought.

There was no need for her to stand up to him.

"We are overjoyed by your presence, even though you were brought here under not very pleasant circumstances. I hope you will quickly forget about these… discomforts and support us in our cause. My brother is extremely eager to prepare you for this." Aegon said, her lips twitching in a grimace that he didn't like when he mentioned him, but no words left her mouth.

"Are you not glad to face your father? Did he not forget you and abandon you for so many years?" Continued Aegon, their mother looked at him and shook her head, wanting him to stop.

She lifted her gaze to his brother-king and looked at him for a moment, her expression gentle and calm.

"I have nothing to say to you, cousin. Do with me what you wish."

A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell around them – he feared what Aegon would do with this insult – the fact that she had humiliated him by simply calling him her cousin, speaking to him without proper etiquette or manners.

Aegon pressed his lips together and leaned forward, as if thinking hard about something.

"Our family has forgotten you. Left you the fuck knows where, motherless and fatherless. And I am deeply sorry for it."

He looked at him shocked, not believing that he had said such a thing, apologised to her even though it was she who had offended him, and then looked at her face – her eyes turned red, her lips parted slightly, as if he had stuck a needle straight into her heart.

What was he doing?

Aegon spread himself comfortably in his chair with a loud creak of wood, smiling with satisfaction.

"You may leave."

He did not know why he had been furious all evening, why, bent over the maps of Westeros, planning his fucking war, he had been unable to focus or calm himself.

He knew why his brother had done it: he wanted to bond with her, to show him that he was the one she would obey, that he was in control of the situation, that he was the King.

"Bring our prisoner." He ordered loudly so that the servant who was just taking the tray from his table heard it.

"As you wish, Your Highness."

When she walked into his chamber she stopped immediately behind the door, which closed behind her with a loud clatter. He glanced up at her dispassionately and looked again at the books he had taken from his shelves, which he had often browsed through as a child.

This was his legacy, not hers.

But he had to do it.

"Come here. Sit down." He said dryly and after a moment he heard the rustling of her gown.

As she sat in the chair beside him he smelled her, some kind of oil that scented of field flowers, chamomile or daisies, and he thought that she had taken a bath.

Something in that thought, in the idea of her bare, soft body sunk in the warm water, made his manhood throb pleasantly, tingling heat spreading through his lower abdomen.

He moved one of the books towards her, open to the page on which was written what he wanted to discuss with her.

"Can you read?" He asked coldly, and she threw him a look from which he felt like grabbing her cheeks and shaking that little head of hers.

She didn't answer, which frustrated him even more, clutching the volume in her hands and leaning over it, following the text with her eyes.

So she could read, he thought mockingly.

"The dragons understand the language of Old Valyria, and this is how the dragon riders communicate with them. You have to learn to speak the commands properly." He sighed, running his hand over his face, feeling tired and discouraged.

"Dohaerās means serve. Rȳbās means listen. These are the most important words, right next to Lykirī, which commands a dragon to remain calm." He said, tilting his head back, closing his eyes. "Repeat."

Silence.

He pressed his lips together, opening his eyes, thinking he was about to kill her with his own hands.

He looked at her, wanting to hiss to her that he was going to slam her head against the table until she dutifully recited each of the words he was ordering her to repeat but his voice stuck in his throat when he saw the look on her face.

He had the impression that although she froze in stillness, her whole body was quivering, as if she was cold.

Her eyes were open wide in fear, and even though her lips were pressed into a thin line she was breathing heavily, as if she were suffocating, her fingers clenched on the back of the book.

Was it possible that she had heard these words before, had read a book similar to this?

Did Daemon try to teach her the language of Old Valyria when she was a child?

He didn't know what he should do, feeling that if he touched her she would just fall apart, so he merely looked at her, wondering how such a person was supposed to tame a dragon.

He rose from his seat as if burned, snapped out of his reverie when her eyes rolled back and she simply fainted, her body, numb and heavy slid to the floor beneath their feet.

He circled the table and knelt beside her, slapping his palm against her cheek in an attempt to revive her, but she did not wake up.

"Bring the Maester, quickly!" He called out and cursed loudly, restraining himself from screaming with rage.

"What have you done to her?" His mother hissed quietly, so that only he could hear it while the Maester examined her.

He turned his face away and shook his head, wondering if everyone in this damned fortress was against him.

After all, he was doing this for them.

For their family.

"Nothing. She was only supposed to read a few words. I didn't even touch her." He growled, his hands intertwined behind his back clenched into a fist.

Why didn't she trust him?

Why was she looking at him like this, as if she didn't recognise him?

Hadn't he always been faithful to her?

"What words? What did you say to her?"

"Words in Old Valyrian, nothing more. She must learn it if she is not to burn in the dragon fire, and our efforts are not to be in vain." He scoffed impatiently.

"We do not know what Daemon did to her. Whether she saw her mother die."

"I don't care what he did to her or what she saw." He said, throwing her a look from which she froze. "We have an agreement and she knows what will happen if she doesn't fulfill it."

"What will happen? You'll burn the Vale?" Alicent asked with a sneer, and he pressed his lips together, feeling a terrible, piercing shame.

"She will stay in my care tonight. Don't go near her until she recovers." She told him and stepped around him.

He felt as if she had slapped him in the face so he left, not wanting anyone to see the burning tears of disappointment that had gathered under his eyelids.

He didn't let them flow.

He was not weak.

He was not like her.

He was not like Aegon.

He was not like his father.

[desireangel]

Honey and Venom [Prologue] | Aemond Targaryen

vampire!Aemond x fem!Reader

Summary: On the brink of death and in moments of desperation, you are lead to the mysterious, fearsome Lord who resides in the century-old castle of Harrenhal, releasing people from the clutches of death in exchange for an unspoken price. Only this time, Aemond finds himself violently drawn to the sweetness of your blood and craves far more than just the debt he is owed.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: MDNI 18+ only! illness (fever, infection, fatigue, shakes), blood!! canon divergence of course, allusions to sex but not really, talk of death, not yet edited. pls lmk if I've missed anything!

Author's Note: Ahhhh, yes another self indulgent mini series!! I've always been in love with gothic fiction etc so I was super excited. This was initially meant to be a Halloween time contribution but that's peak exam szn soooo didn't happen and I actually couldn't get this idea out of my head so I had to at least get the prologue out. Also bc I need creative breaks from DC to keep up my motivation and this gives me a great outlet. Anyways, please lmk if we are interested in updates and as always lmk of your thoughts! xoxo

Masterlist

The rhythmic sway of the carriage tempted you into a peace which had been hard to find as of late. Even as you gazed upon the darkened forestry which at once yet still slowly disappeared into paths of cobblestones and walls of concrete. It was an eerie castle that had goosebumps prickling at your skin and while you barely turned your head from the pillow upon which it rested, you wondered if Oliver had noticed the sharp sense of dread that settled over the air through the gates of Harrenhal’s once great fortress. 

When Doctor Grayward had told you that there was nothing more he could do for you, Oliver had sat by your side, holding your hand tightly as if you would turn to dust and slip through his fingers should he loosen his grip. Your brother was a calm and collected man and it had pained you to see the anguish on his face  when he begged the doctor for another way to liberate you from this unknown illness. 

So with an apprehensive sigh and a mumble of your youth and potential the doctor had told you of Harrenhal’s reclusive Lord who was rumoured to bring miracles upon families, freeing those who were willing to pay the unspoken price from all kinds of deathly illnesses. It was dangerous, the doctor had warned. The townspeople both revered and were terrified of the Lord Targaryen. Cautiously, Oliver had asked why only to receive nothing more than a shrug and another sigh. 

“He will cure her of her illness. I’m beyond certain of it.”

The well of options had run dry with Doctor Grayward’s cluelessness in the face of your fever and tremors. And while you had told Oliver that it would be foolish simply to follow his word and journey days to what seemed to be the middle of nowhere for something that probably wouldn’t work, he had become desperate. 

Grasping at whatever thin hairs of hope that he could reach, Oliver had put an end to the discussion and all but dragged you to the carriage the next morning. 

Bromley, the driver of your carriage, had at first protested leading your carriage to the fortress upon Oliver’s mention of the mysterious Lord. He had removed his hat, eyes wide and frantic, shaking his head as he all but begged your brother to be dismissed. Oliver was having none of it and you felt a pang of sympathy for Bromley, whose eyes welled with tears as he picked up the reins once more.

Regardless, Bromley refused to go any further than the Estate gates, stepping down from his ledge and telling Oliver that there was no salary that he could pay him which would convince him to choose death over unemployment. 

There was a sudden drop in the temperature as you stepped down from the carriage on shaky legs, telling Oliver not to be ridiculous and let the poor man be. He was clearly very distressed and something within these lands frightened him into a blabbering, shaking mess. You considered for another time that this was a bad idea.

Oliver had let you hold onto him to stay upright, all but dragging you to the entrance of the Estate as you struggled to find the strength to hold yourself on your feet, your breath snatched from your chest at the slightest movement. A grand arch framed the doorway made of blackened stone, carved intricately to points and perfected angles. It was an ominous architecture, which you would have admired had it been day time and the shadows of the night didn’t cast a horrific feeling of dread in your bones. That dread became one with the intense fire that burned your skin from your fever and you gasped, pulling whatever air you could into your aching chest.  

You thought about Bromley when Oliver reached for the large, stone door-knocker that was carved as a circled snake. Had he really believed he would find death here? Why?

Welcome gusts of wind blew against your face when the door started to open inwards before Oliver had the chance to knock. The door groaned loudly, similarly to how you imagined wailing angels to sound. Just as Oliver hastily adjusted his grip on you, you first noticed the pin straight silver hair of the tall, lean man who stood in the entrance way and gazed directly at you with a single violet eye. 

He was devastating. With a solemn glow of an unfamiliar beauty under his skin that enhanced the sharp contours of his face and the red of his lips, his presence was overwhelming even as he stood silently and simply observed. Brutal calm was all that you could decipher from his expression but there was a deeper, far more intense darkness in his eye that spoke of something unrestrained and feral, passionate and destructive. 

Aemond Targaryen was both captivating and lethal. The moonlight was much of a blessing, you managed to notice even in your disoriented state of mind, as it cast a perfect light over him in a way that made him seem angelic. 

The first thing he had noticed was that you carried little else aside from a small rucksack loosely hanging from Oliver’s fingers, which was only a breeze away from falling to the floor, and the sack that was tucked against your stomach. Dusty red linen covered your body, loosely as if the dress were tailored incorrectly, dirty and torn at the edges. 

Surprisingly underwhelming for the raging storm that you had set upon Aemond’s mind and his senses, the moment you had been close enough for him to feel you. 

Somewhere close by the gates, when you had stepped from the confines of your carriage, the enchanting, mesmerising scent of you had hit Aemond with such force that he had to catch himself against a wall. A primal, crushing temptation had dried his throat and overpowered his mind for the time it had taken for Oliver to all but carried you to his doorstep. Without the chance to stop and calm the storm of a million untameable urges, Aemond had raced down from his study in a matter of seconds, stilling completely at the small sight in front of him. 

Your blood smelled so strongly, Aemond briefly found coherence in his mind to wonder if you were cut anywhere. 

Sweet. So, so sweet. And a punchy bitterness of an illness within your lungs, he presumed, from the rattle he could hear with each strenuous inhale. 

Aemond hummed, his fingers twitching against the wood of the door in restraint, trying to get a grip on the thrum of need and desire that scorched him. His tongue ran loosely across the sharp points of his canines once before he clenched his jaw and stared at you expectantly. 

It was no unfamiliar sight. Townspeople from all across the realm would find themselves at Harrenhal, balancing on the final string on the brink of snapping, reeking of illness and death. Yet Aemond, despite his efforts to remain stoic, fought hard to compose himself so that he wouldn’t bury his fangs into your tempting neck and suck you dry. 

Infection of the lungs would not be likely to have spread to your blood at this stage, but Aemond took no risks. Even more so when he was already weakened by the way your pretty eyes unravelled him violently despite the lethargy he could see in them. 

The last time Aemond had felt a hunger and a thirst so intense and so violent, it had resulted in the destruction of a town what must have been hundreds of years ago.  

Oliver had been speaking. Aemond didn’t care to listen. 

Instead he stepped out of the entrance, coming so close that he could practically already taste you on his tongue, the spike in your heartbeat at his sudden proximity sending a thrill down his spine. He reached to take your arm from Oliver to help you inside, jaw clenching harshly at the first touch of his hand under your bicep, revelling in the way you squirmed away from him with a whine. 

Good, Aemond thought. You have every reason to be afraid of something like him.

When Oliver jerked you away, Aemond growled. “Give her to me. I can help her.”

“I can bring my sister inside myself, my Lord,” Oliver only held you tighter against him. “I will stay with her. And as I said before, we can discuss payment.”

“You will not,” Aemond dropped his voice, narrowing his eye and reaching once more for your arm. You didn’t have the strength to keep yourself up as it was and so when he pulled you into his chest, with such strength that Oliver had all but fallen to the Lord’s feet, you collapsed right into his arms. “You will leave her with me. Ask no questions and do not return for seven nights. I will take a vial of your blood as payment. Bring it when you return and do not speak a word of it to anyone. I will bind you to your promise using your blood. You will not be able to break it. Should you find a way, I will know and she will suffer a death far worse than what she already faces. Do you understand?”

Another whine fell from your lips. A pretty sound that had a wave of heat rushing to Aemond’s cock at the weak, hopeless fear that he could both hear and smell on you. 

You looked to Oliver, suddenly far too exhausted even to find your voice, watching as he hesitated. The Lord Targaryen, who was both beautiful and terrifying, only waited with an ominous stillness. While his body held no warmth, he left a burn on your skin where he held you, trembling under his touch despite the way your body effortlessly fit perfectly against his own. 

Oliver nodded slowly and apprehensively. “That is all the payment you require?”

“No. But only your sister here-” Aemond silenced Oliver’s protests as soon as they started. “Only your sister can satisfy the rest of my payment. Do not worry, I will keep her safe so long as you do as I say.”

There was an oddly calming reassurance in the way the Lord spoke. You watched Oliver relax visibly at his words, as you did too, taking the mysterious Lord’s reassurance with an ease that silenced all of the doubts in your mind. Your eyelids drooped as the last of your energy drifted away, your mind growing foggy with exhaustion that only worsened your condition. 

The arm that held you reached around so that he had his hands free but still kept you caged against him, pulling you tighter into the Lord’s hard body. All that you could understand was the feeling of him surrounding you as you drifted slowly towards unconsciousness and delirium, your condition becoming too much to bear as it usually did at this hour. 

All the questions and fears you had disappeared, and you barely noticed as Aemond held you with one arm, reaching towards Oliver with the other. He brought your brother’s wrist to his lips, biting into his skin after flashing him a purposeful grin that had his long canines glinting under the moonlight. The underside of his eye darkened as he sucked, long lines of darkened black veins littering the top of his cheekbone.

Oliver’s eyes widened and he instantly started thrashing, fighting against the Lord’s hold and failing. “Monster! I will not leave my sister with you. Wait, no–!”

Aemond pulled away, letting your brother’s wrist bleed as he licked his lips that shone crimson, and sliced his own palm, holding it out and collecting both his own blood and Olivers in his hand. He forced it against Oliver’s lips, threatening him to lick and swallow the mixture of their blood, ignoring the way Oliver gagged and fought. “It is done.”

The sleep that came over you was short lived, and you gasped, coughing as you heard the heavy door slam behind you. You were inside suddenly, the loud thumping of Oliver’s fist against the door and his yelling became muted. A sharp, staggering fear gripped at your throat and stabbed at your belly and you let out a pathetic yell, your body failing to just move. Grunting, you tried to lose the haze that had overcome you, unable to find the strength even to lift your hand to reach towards the entrance.  “Don’t be scared, my sweet,” Aemond chuckled deeply, his mouth watering as he held you against him. He pressed his face into the crevice of your neck, inhaling deeply and groaning gently, squeezing the flesh of your hips with his hands. Gods, he could devour you. “I’ll take good care of you. You will have your strength back very soon.”

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Rage Becomes Her

Aemond x bastardTargaryen!female

Summary: of all the Targaryen bastards he could have underestimated, it should not have been her | Word Count: 3.8k~ | Warnings: smut, Aemond being a fat douche, mentions of sex work, angst, oc described as having Targaryen features

No day was as cursed as the day her mother looked between her bloodied thighs, glancing up at the faces of her friends and common women, with shame and fright. The babe between her legs was pink and crying, their skin glistening with afterbirth, and a tuft of silver hair atop their tiny head.

What was survival, when the Gods had bestowed a Targaryen bastard into her belly.

Her own daughter lived as her mother did, learning the ways of the body and pleasure. She could recall the first time a man leered at her. Only two and ten and barely formed into the shape of a woman. Somehow the silver sheen to her hair made men think they could have her before her ripening. Plucked from the tree too early.

If only her mother could have resisted the irresistible pull of greed. Purses of gold coins lined her pockets, paid to her with the virtue of her only daughter.

An income. Nothing more.

It was only when she died, that she formed her own protection. Madame Sylvi gave her more freedoms than the usual whores. Bestowed upon as her ‘choice’. Something she had known little.

The brothel was tucked away in one of the narrow, winding alleys of King's Landing, a hidden enclave where nobles and commoners alike sought the pleasures denied to them in the light of day. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the low murmur of whispered promises. Sweet ones, from between the lips of whores.

The men who paid for the service or fucking a young woman with silver hair were usually all the same. Drunken fools with egos far bigger than their cocks, eager to stick whatever they pleased between her legs to make themselves feel like men.

She rarely spared it much thought. She moaned sweetly and whispered hushed mutterings to inflate their already fragile masculinity. Did what she had to do to survive, like so many around her.

But she would be remiss not to think about her most recent patron. One whom she had stolen from Madame Sylvi, who did not seem particularly precious about the loss, seeing as the One Eyed Prince simply crossed the threshold to her room instead. As long as business was within her four walls, she was content.

He was, at first, quiet and required work and effort to calm his fraught and tense muscles. But like most men, the second he sheathed himself inside her, he was a man driven by the inescapable warmth of not only her cunt, but by the comfort of what it provided. However false.

The night is seared firmly into her memory. His body heavy with Milk of the Poppy, he staggered as he pulled his clothes off, and for some time he was unable to become hard due to its calming effects. And she saw the familiar pang of annoyance most men got when their fleshy counterparts would not do as the mind commanded. 

She will never forget the look upon his face as she knelt in front of him, took his heavy manhood in her palm and pressed her lips to the shaft, stroking upwards with her touch and tongue. Beneath him like this, his face angled and sharp, one could be mistaken he was a statue. His skin resembled such porcelain. Made smooth by the hands of the Gods themselves. 

He had looked upon her as if she were an entity of the Seven Heavens. And when she took him into her mouth, his breath hitched, and his hands instinctively tangled in her hair. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and relief that washed over him in waves.

She moved with an expert's grace, her rhythm steady and unhurried, drawing soft moans from his lips. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist; there was only the warm, wet heat of her mouth and the exquisite torture of her tongue. He closed his eye, surrendering to the pleasure, feeling the tension in his body slowly melt away. Aemond's grip tightened as he guided her movements, lost in the sensation and the raw intimacy of the act.

He fucked in very much the same way. With urgency. As if someone were to take her away.

Was it some necessity this great man needed, away from the bustling court and the duties of his birth?

Or she reasoned he fucked her because he was simply bored of Sylvi.

But as it became more and more regular, she began to realise that her forbidden parentage played a more significant role than she had first thought. He wanted someone who looked so like his ideal, but someone who ultimately was destined to remain, steadfastly, inferior.

Aemond Targaryen pushed open the heavy wooden door, its creak swallowed by the hum of conversation and laughter inside. He pulled his hood lower, shielding his face from prying eyes. Though he was a prince, here he was just another man seeking escape. Several women crowded him, offering wine, their bodies and services with doe eyes and lips framed with rouge.

The back of the brothel was shrouded with silken curtains, providing no real privacy but rather giving one the security of feeling it. Pale pinks, lilacs, warm amber glows bounced off the stone walls, a warm emanating through the space as if walking through honey, and willing to be drowned in it. It was a dangerous feeling indeed. The warm, sticky call of a woman’s body.

The first time he saw her he did not like her. The whore with silver, golden hair. She had a bastard’s taint on her bloodline despite its noble sheen. There was a part of him that refused to admit that despite the muddied nature of her birth, that she was beautiful. He was still willing to be held by Sylvi back then, cuddled against the woman’s breasts like a babe.

It was different now.

Sylvi regarded him, using her body as somewhat of a shield, to part him and the heavenly depravity that lay across the threshold. She said nothing, and simply extended her hand, to show her palm. Aemond noted the surprised look in her knowing eyes when she felt the weight of the purse, the familiar tune of coins ringing true and greedily.

She fetched a hefty price compared to the others. One Aemond was willing to pay for her company.

When he pulled the silks aside and stepped within her lair, she was seated as usual, upon a chaise draped with rich fabrics, her posture relaxed and yet alert. Her hair, so much like his own, caught the flickering candlelight, like looking up to the stars when one was too deep in their cups, only to find the silver light stretching across their vision.

Only the muffled music was heard, and the rapid thud of his heart.

The fabrics lay like water on her skin, cinched at her waist. The translucent material had her rosy buds perk beneath it, the glimmering and blushing shade of pink almost alike to her own flesh in the low and intimate amber light. She did not need to show herself to entice, he thought.

“My Prince.”

She greeted with a soft, warm melody of enchanting, in a manner that eased his shoulders but not his soul. He regarded her face the same way Sylvi did to him. One eye glazing over her familiar features. 

His motions were easy to memorise. He would do no more than was necessary, as most patrons did. He would strip from his clothing, lay between her thighs and take her roughly. Preparation for someone as lowborn as her, and getting paid for it, was no necessity for a customer, nevermind a prince.

There were glimpses where it was enjoyable. But Prince Aemond was guarded, sometimes so much so she hardly thought him capable of the act. But he would surprise her. And once he was done, he would lay beside her, and he would talk, with only their flesh as comfort.

Sometimes, like right at this moment, he would just lay beside her, running her bright locks, ruffled from their salacious acts, through his long and slender fingers. She often thought he looked like a lost soul, eyepatch discarded and bared in this wretched place for her to lay her eyes upon. And then another thought lay under that still. The thought that this man before her had such hate in his heart for his half sister’s children, and yet visited her every other evening to sink into the haven that her own existence offered.

An existence she was sure he internally loathed.

But it seemed he loathed himself more than anything else.

“Do you dream of being more than you are.” Not a question. An inquisition shaped as a demand.

She hesitated, knowing that her answer must please him. "My dreams are inconsequential, my prince. My only desire is to serve you and to bring you comfort."

He smirked, satisfied with her response. "It is the natural order of things. Your role here suits you, providing solace to those of us born to higher stations."

She felt her brows furrow in annoyance, but tried to soften her features, his keen blue eye boring into her face. Your role here suits you. And what was that exactly? A whore who merely existed to be a sheath for men’s blades whenever it suited them. A vessel, nothing more.

"I would never forget, my prince," she said softly, her eyes downcast. "Your presence is the only thing that gives my life meaning."

Aemond reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. "Sometimes, I wonder if there is more to you than just your services to me."

Her heart quickened, but she kept her voice calm and composed. "I am whatever you need me to be, my prince."

Often, that was all it took to sate him. 

He would always come back, in varying moods, and she felt the reins on her white-hot temper begin to slip, the flames rearing to the roof of her insides the more delicate insults came out of his mouth. Those among her argued that he cared for her deeply. But how can a man care for a woman and say such hurtful words in exchange?

A bastard, indeed she was. But her existence strayed the line between demanding some semblance of respect, drawn to her by the milky skin and pale hair that he recognised in himself. She pondered this contradiction endlessly. Why did he come to her, night after night, seeking her presence, only to remind her of her inferiority? What was it about her that captivated him, despite his disdain?

Her thoughts often wandered as she prepared for his visits, trying to unravel the mystery of Aemond Targaryen. Did he see something in her that he could not find elsewhere? Was it the shared blood, tainted as it was by her illegitimacy? Or was it simply the thrill of asserting his power over someone who mirrored his own visage?

“You seem troubled.”

“It is nothing,” his response was cool, followed by the discarding of his hood, only turning when she urged a decently full glass of wine into his hand.

“You forget, my prince, that I am well-versed in the art of reading men. Tell me, what burdens you tonight?”

Stealing the wine from his lips, he cannot help the wandering of his fingers, tracing the golden spun locks of her hair that glow moonlit as he touches them. “Your features betray you,” he muses, “do you ever wonder what it would have been like, had you been born legitimate?" he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

She hesitated, searching his eyes for any hint of sincerity, but found only the cold amusement that so often accompanied his words. "It is not my place to wonder such things," she replied, her voice steady. "My fate was decided long before I drew my first breath."

He tilted his head, studying her. "And yet, you bear the mark of our blood so clearly. It must gnaw at you, knowing you could never rise above your station, no matter how much you resemble the dragonlords of old."

"Perhaps," she admitted softly, "but we all have our roles to play, my prince. Even those born amongst lust and lechery."

Aemond's fingers continued their path through her hair, his touch both gentle and possessive. "You speak wisely for one of your birth," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It is a pity you were not born to a higher station. You might have made an interesting rival."

"Or an ally," she suggested, daring to meet his gaze.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Or an ally," he conceded. "But as it stands, you are here, and I am there. The order of things remains unchanged."

"And you come here to see me," she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "What does that say about you, my prince?"

“I enjoy you.”

"Or perhaps the dragon seeks something he cannot find elsewhere."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his pride pricked by her words. "Do not presume to understand me. You are here because I allow it."

"And you are here because you need it," she countered, her voice a seductive whisper. "What drives you to seek solace in the arms of a bastard? A whore?"

He pulled back, his eyes narrowing. "You speak too boldly-"

"I speak truth," she said, her gaze unflinching. "Something even a prince cannot escape."

Aemond regarded her for a long moment, a mixture of contempt and fascination warring within him. She was a puzzle, a riddle wrapped in the enigma of her bloodline. He hated and desired her in equal measure, drawn to the mystery of her existence.

She let out a breath, surprised when his fingers wrenched around her face, tugging her towards him. But her expression never faltered. “I wonder who is the depraved cunt who sired you,” Aemond murmured, deep and low against her face.

“Prince Daemon or the late King Viserys, it does not matter. Half of the whores on the Street of Silk knew the shape of their cocks-”

Aemond's grip tightened, his eyes blazing with fury. "Watch your tongue," he hissed, his breath hot against her skin. "You may have Targaryen blood, but you are still a whore. Do not forget your place."

She winced but refused to look away. "And yet here you are”. Her voice was steady, defiant, challenging him despite the pain.

His eyes narrowed, the fury in them warring with something deeper, something he could not name. "I am a man who indulges in his whims," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Nothing more."

"Is that all it is?" she whispered, her voice softening, searching his gaze. "An indulgence? Because if that's true, you wouldn't keep coming back."

Aemond's grip loosened slightly, his fingers trailing down her cheek. "You know nothing of my reasons," he said, a trace of vulnerability slipping through his hardened exterior.

He looked at her for a long moment, the conflict within him evident in his eyes. "You remind me of what I am and what I can never escape," he said finally, his voice a raw whisper. "The blood we share, the legacy that binds us. You are a mirror, showing me my weakness. The weakness of my House."

"And you, my prince, are the reminder of what I could have been. The life I was denied, the nobility I can never claim."

Aemond's hand twitched, a sudden urge to pull her close, to feel the warmth of her body against his, but he forced himself to remain still. He could not afford to show that side of himself, not to her, not to anyone. In another world, she might have been born legitimate, a sister to him, one he could wed, bed and breed at his leisure.

And yet.

"You speak of nobility as if it is something you could ever grasp," he said, his voice softer, yet still laced with condescension. "You will never be more than what you are now. A whore, a bastard, a mere footnote in the history of my House."

Her eyes flashed with quiet anger, a smouldering fire that burned beneath her calm exterior. How dare he speak to her this way? He knew nothing of the struggles, the pain, the countless indignities that had shaped her life.

"How fortunate you are, my prince," she said, her voice measured but tinged with bitterness, "to never have known the struggles of those who are less fortunate. To speak so easily of things you can never truly understand."

Aemond's gaze hardened, but he did not interrupt her.

"You may see me as nothing more than a whore and a bastard," she continued, her words steady, each one a dagger aimed at his pride. "But you know nothing of the world outside your gilded cage. You have no idea what it means to fight for every scrap of dignity, to claw your way through a life that was decided for you before you even drew breath."

Aemond's jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and something he couldn't quite name. "You forget yourself," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You forget to whom you speak."

"And you forget, my prince," she shot back, her voice unyielding, "that respect is earned, not given by birthright alone. And certainly not because you have a dragon."

A silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken truths and simmering tension. They stood there, locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to back down, both caught in the web of their shared blood and conflicting worlds. There was a strange respect in his gaze. As if he had seen the same flames that captivated him.

Slowly, she reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the purse Aemond had paid her that night. She held it out to him, her hand steady. "Take it back," she said quietly, but firmly. "I don't want your coin."

He stared at her for a long moment, the purse heavy with silver between them. Slowly, he reached out and took it from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. The touch was brief, but electric, a spark that neither could ignore. He could not help the smile that rose to his face, testing the weight of his coin in his palm. Looking down upon the woman in front of him with a cold but unyielding respect.

The events of that night lingered in Aemond's mind, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. The war was intensifying, and the tension within the Red Keep was palpable. It was during one of these tense small council meetings, that Aemond found his thoughts straying.

“Prince Daeron’s dragon, Tessarion, has at last taken to wing. Your brother expects to join the fight soon.” 

He half listened to Lord Wylde, his head half turned, eyes darting to listen to the cries of the smallfolk so loud it was as if they were in the room. Screams. Cries of terror.

“Dragon!”

“Get inside!”

“And when he does…the Hightower host will be unstoppable.”

He acted on instinct, feeling the hot whips of something he would not admit was panic at the back of his neck. The doors gave way to a bright, sunny afternoon. His one eye squinted to peer into the blue abyss, narrowed to the appearance of a great beast.

A dragon, its silver scales gleaming in the sunlight, descended from the sky.

Silverwing.

And there, riding atop the great beast, was her. Her silver hair flowed behind her like a banner for war, and her eyes, filled with determination, met his with an intensity that took his breath away. Aemond's mind raced, understanding dawning on him as he realised the implications.

Rhaenyra's recruitment of Dragonseeds had borne unexpected fruit.

She guided Silverwing to soar over King's Landing, her movements graceful and confident. She made several passes, almost as if she were flouting. The dragon's powerful wings created gusts of wind that rippled over Kings Landing, sending leaves and dust swirling, with smallfolk and merchants knocked off balance.

Aemond stood there, watching in a mix of awe and resentment. There was a part of him that couldn't help but admire the sight, the sheer power and majesty of the dragon, her commanding presence. But another part of him burned with anger. The idea of a bastard riding a dragon, flaunting her newfound status above the city, challenged everything he believed in.

What did that make him? How was he special if bastards could claim dragons? The exclusivity of his birthright felt tarnished, the unique status of House Targaryen diluted.

She seemed to sense his gaze, turning Silverwing to circle back and hover momentarily over the Keep. Her eyes locked onto his, a silent challenge in her gaze. She was revelling in her newfound power, asserting her place in a world that had tried to deny her.

Aemond's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. He liked her, there was no denying that. She fascinated and infuriated him in equal measure. But the sight of her riding Silverwing, basking in her defiance, stoked the flames of his inner conflict.

As Silverwing ascended higher, leaving King's Landing behind, Aemond's eyes followed them until they were mere specks against the sky. He stood there long after they had disappeared, wrestling with the tumultuous emotions swirling within him. Admiration, anger, attraction, and resentment collided in a storm that he couldn't quell.

The sun was setting by the time Aemond reached Vhagar. The great dragon stirred, sensing her rider's agitation. Aemond's resolve hardened as he climbed onto her back. With a command, Vhagar spread her immense wings and launched into the sky, the force of her takeoff shaking the ground below.

The flight to Dragonstone was swift. The wind whipped through Aemond's hair, his mind racing as fast as the dragon beneath him. He couldn't let this challenge go unanswered. 

As Dragonstone came into view, the outline of Silverwing against the darkening sky confirmed his target. He urged Vhagar to increase her speed, but the older dragon's pace couldn't match Silverwing's agility. Aemond's frustration grew with every beat of Vhagar's wings, the gap between them refusing to close.

She watched him, the man who had insulted her, bedded her, wronged her, as he turned his great beast mid-air, her own dragon purring against her touch atop the peak of a tower of Dragonstone. Even from afar, she could sense his frustration, the simmering anger that radiated from him, and she revelled in this unique reaction, savouring the way it felt.

For a moment, their eyes met, and in that silence, a thousand emotions passed between them. He glanced back over his shoulder, watching as she sat firm atop her beast, the wind whipping her hair around her face. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was also a sense of resolution, a quiet acknowledgment of the lines they had drawn.

That this was no surrender.

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[valleyof-goldenlilies]

The Woes of Betrothals (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Part 2 about the wedding is out now! Read it here 

Synopsis: Recently betrothed, Prince Aemond is unsure on the virtues befitting that of a good husband. Ser Criston offers some surprisingly useful insight. 

Warnings: nothing explicit, just Aemond being emotionally constipated 

Word Count: 3k words. this was supposed to be a short one shot 😭

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: In a fluff writing mood recently, so expect to see more fluffs coming your way (not just for aemond :)) 💗

lovely dividers once again credited to @firefly-graphics​ !

Heavy grunts and the clashing sound of steel on steel resonated through the training yard of the Red Keep. Surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, Prince Aemond, his forehead beaded with sweat, moved deftly to dodge a blow struck by Ser Criston Cole’s morningstar. 

It was nearly noon, and the Prince and Kingsguard had been training since the break of dawn. Ser Criston had a look of exhaustion on his face, the midday sun clearly taking a toll on him, but Prince Aemond continued sparring with a fierce determination, parrying Criston’s offensives with utmost precision or viciously swinging his sword to land a blow on the knight. 

Whilst the prince was fond of training for long hours, Ser Criston was familiar enough with Prince Aemond’s various moods to know that today, while he was there in person, he was not in spirit. Seeing a chance, Criston quickly moved to swing a blow at Prince Aemond, and succeeded in catching him off guard, knocking the sword from the Prince’s hand for the first time this morning. 

Criston expected the prince to get angry that he had been bested, but Aemond merely raised a brow and rolled his eye, “I yield. Let us cease training for this morning.” Applause broke out through the training yard, and Criston had to hide a grin. It had been a while since he managed to beat Aemond in training. 

As the crowd dispersed, Criston noticed Aemond polishing his sword at a corner, a brooding look on his face. Feeling particularly emboldened this morning at his victory, Criston walked towards the prince, setting down his morningstar as he questioned, “What troubles you, my prince?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are insinuating, Cole,” came Aemond’s curt response, but Criston was undeterred. “You may pretend all is well, but you have been on edge for a few days now, aye?” Criston commented, observing how the prince’s jaw was clenched. Oddly enough, he noticed doubt shining in the prince’s lone violet eye., catching Criston off guard “You may have been sparring with me this morning, but your heart is elsewhere. Tell me what troubles you, my prince.” 

Criston expected the prince to scowl and tell him it was none of his business, but instead, Aemond let out a pensive sigh, before tentatively asking, “Ser Criston, how do you reckon one should please their betrothed?” 

Criston’s ears immediately stood up in attention. Gods be good, the One-Eyed Prince was asking him for advice? And about his betrothed no less. As a Kingsguard, Criston had to suppress a laugh at the irony. “Are you referring to the Lady Y/N Y/L/N, my prince?” 

“Well, it could hardly be anyone else, could it?” Aemond retorted, though his heart was not in it. Criston watched, amused, as Aemond hummed contemplatively, “As you know, she and I were betrothed less than a moon’s turn ago. I had not crossed paths with her often before that, but…” Aemond swallowed, thinking of how brilliantly she smiled at him every time he had the fortune of being graced with her presence. He had always knew that his marriage would be one of duty and political benefit to his house, but over the course of getting to know the lady over the past few weeks, he found her company pleasant, and her gentle charm and surprisingly humorous wit a welcome change in the usual dreadfully boring courtiers at the Red Keep. And with every passing moment he spent in her presence, he felt a small sliver of affection for her begin to blossom in his heart. “As I got to know her more, I soon began to wish to be the sole cause of her brilliant smiles, her beautiful laughter, and selfishly, the sole receiver of her love and affection.”

Aemond had to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands. He was sounding like a lovesick fool, in front of Cole, of all people. Gods, he was an idiot, an utter idiot. Swords he could swing and books he could read, but when it came to affection, he found himself no better than an ignorant babe. “It sounds as though you harbour a great affection for the lady Y/L/N,” Criston smiled. “Yes,” Aemond said softly, his voice tinged a little with despair. “But I am unsure on how to best express my affections. She is akin to an ethereal maiden, and I’m naught but a crippled prince, who is stumped in my duties as a husband. I cannot seem to muster up the courage to proclaim my love for her, or shower her with praises and compliments.” 

‘Gods, what if she is unhappy with my performance of my duties as her husband because I am too much of a coward to even talk to her about my feelings?’ Aemond thought in alarm, mind racing. He did not want to be the reason why those lovely smiles of hers cease to exist. He wanted to make her feel like the most blissful woman in the realm. But he was completely clueless as to how. Words seemed completely inadequate to express the depth of his affection for her, and he had never been the best with his words anyway. 

Just then, Aemond felt a hand on his shoulder, grounding him to reality once more “Breathe, my prince,” Criston’s steady voice calmed Aemond down, making his racing thoughts come to a screeching halt. “I do believe you are overthinking things, my prince. Contrary to popular belief, I think that affection need not be expressed in elaborate gestures or through fervent declarations of love all the time.” 

Aemond’s eyebrows shot up, “Then how will she know how much I appreciate her? I can barely converse with her without looking like a stuttering fool.” Criston smiled, a sort of fatherly affection filling his eyes as he glanced down at the prince. “Though I am lacking in experience in matters of the heart, I believe that affection isn’t always just about grand gestures. Words are not the only outlet to express your admiration of her, my prince. You can start with the little actions: spending time with her, bringing her flowers, talking more with her about her interests, that sort of thing.” “And you think that that would be sufficient?”Aemond was a little sceptical. 

“Of course, that would not suffice in the long run. You are to be married, my prince, you will spend countless years with each other, you will have to do more than that.” Aemond’s face turned crestfallen, causing Criston to pat his shoulder, “However, given your trouble in expressing your feelings, these small gestures are a start. Build up from there, and you’ll find it easier to demonstrate your love for her over time.” Aemond’s gaze was still pensive, but his eye was sparkling a little with hope. “But what if I’m at a loss of words every time I’m with her? Won’t she find my company dreadfully dull then?” Criston couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from him, though Aemond looked faintly offended at that. “Sometimes, your company is good enough, your Grace. Not all your time spent together need be filled with meaningful conversations. Basking in each other’s presence is bliss enough.” 

Satisfied with Criston’s response, Aemond stood up with a decisive look. “I am grateful for your advice, Cole. I shall depart to implement your advice at once.” Before leaving, however, Aemond tilted his head and smirked slightly, “You are rather good at giving romantic advice for a knight, Ser Criston. Your wisdom is wasted on being a Kingsguard.” 

Criston barked a laugh, thinking of that someone from so long ago. “Mayhaps, your grace. But I think I am rather content imparting my knowledge to you for now.” Aemond said nothing at that, only raising a hand in farewell as he strode off. Criston watched him depart, a slight grin on his face. ‘The Queen would be delighted to hear of this,’ he thought to himself with a degree of satisfaction. 

You were sitting in Princess Helaena’s apartments, forehead furrowed in concentration as you delicately weaved a needle through the handkerchief you were embroidering for your betrothed. The midday sun shone through the long windows, casting a light golden glow throughout Helaena’s chambers. 

“Here, what do you think of this?” Helaena leaned over to you, eyes shining with anticipation as you held up your work so far. “It’s beautiful,” Helaena complimented, “Is that a raven?” You nodded, tilting your head to inspect your work. “Do you think it is too unusual to embroider on a handkerchief?” Helaena laughed, “You should not be asking me. Given the fact that-” she held up her own embroidery, and you laughed when you caught sight of a large beetle on her handkerchief. 

“I have to ask, however, why a raven?” Helaena inquired. You bit your lip softly, remembering your last interaction with your betrothed, Aemond. Knowing your love for birds, Aemond had taken you to Grand Maester Orwyle’s rookery, to see the various birds he had fostered there. You had both taken a liking to the ravens, with their intelligent eyes and strangely silent demeanour, compared to the other noisier birds in the rookery. You thought to yourself that they reminded you much of Aemond, though you did not say it out loud, watching with fond eyes as Aemond fed a raven and stroked its feathers, with a gentleness you did not know he possessed. 

“Your brother seems to like them,” you answered, smiling. Helaena beamed, “I’m sure he would be pleased with your gift.” “I do hope so,” your voice trailed off hesitantly, causing Helaena to take your free hand and squeeze it lightly. You had been much enamoured with your betrothed ever since your arrival to King’s Landing several moon turns ago, and you have come to know and appreciate him for his silent, thoughtful aura. However, his comportment did spell some uncertainty in you. While you knew this was a political match, your heart couldn’t help but yearn that your future husband would love you as much as you did him. 

But it was nigh impossible to tell what the One-Eyed Prince was thinking whenever we spent time together. He seemed perfectly cordial to you…but you wished you could get a further glimpse into what he felt for you. Did he feel at least a fraction of the adoration you felt for him? Or were you doomed to spend a lifetime in a courteous, yet dispassionate and loveless marriage with a man you long admired? 

Your thoughts were cut off by a sudden knock on the door. Startled, you nearly dropped your embroidery, but Helaena caught it deftly just in time. Sheepishly murmuring your thanks, you watched as a serving girl came into the room and curtsied in front of the both of you. “Your Grace, my lady, Prince Aemond is requesting to see you.” 

Aemond? Your heart began pounding furiously, delight and anticipation filling you. Was he here to see you? You tried tamping down your excitement, thinking firmly to yourself that he could be equally as likely to be here for Helaena. “Did he say which of the two of us he wanted to see?” “He wished to see Lady Y/N, your Grace.”

Your heart was beating so fast it felt dangerously close to exploding. Your mind was spinning in a dizzying rush of emotions. Helaena dismissed the serving girl, and smiled at you, “Well, I should not keep my brother waiting any longer for his betrothed. Go.” 

“Thank you, your Grace. Will I see you at dinner with the Queen tonight?” “Of course. You must tell me everything that happens,” Helaena’s eyes twinkled merrily. “That is a given,” you stood up and curtsied, before exiting the room, clutching the handkerchief you just sewed like it was the last thing grounding you to reality. Your steps were light and airy, and your heart nearly stopped when you saw Aemond standing by a window, his back to you, looking as majestic as ever in his training gear and his long silver hair flowing down his back. Your betrothed. 

“My Prince,” a sweet voice broke through Aemond’s thoughts. He turned around, his eye widening as he beheld his fair lady. She was dressed beautifully as always, in a light pink gown with a square neckline and elbow length sleeves. Pearl earrings dangled from her earlobes, serving only to accentuate her lovely complexion. He strode to her as she curtsied, his hand reaching out to her shoulder. 

“At ease,” Aemond’s voice was like velvet. “You are my betrothed, there is no need for such formalities.” You nodded shyly, meeting Aemond’s eye, surprised that today, there was actually a flicker of emotion behind it. Noticing how he shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, your eyes widened slightly as you realised that Aemond Targaryen, the usually composed and unflinching prince, was nervous. And it was because of you. 

Aemond cleared his throat, finally revealing what he had been hiding behind his back. Just when you thought the day’s events could not get any stranger than seeing Aemond being anxious, you were caught even more off guard when you spotted an assortment of pink, blue and orange blooms in his hand. 

“These are for you, my lady,” he added, eye darting over her face to drink in all her beautiful features and most importantly, her reaction to his attempt at expressing his adoration for her. He was immensely relieved to find nothing but genuine delight on his betrothed’s face. 

“Oh, they’re wonderful,” you exclaimed happily, a flush going to your cheeks. “You are too kind, my prince. Thank you, I love them.” Aemond watched tenderly as she took the flowers and held them to her nose. She was simply angelic. 

You inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers, feeling your heart flutter at his sudden, but welcome gesture of affection. Perhaps this was a sign he returned your feelings? 

Aemond took a deep breath, trying to recall all the advice Criston had told him in the training yard just now. He had stopped by the garden to pick out the prettiest wildflowers he could find, but he found that none could compare to the sheer radiance of his betrothed when she smiled. ‘Focus’, Aemond told himself sternly, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘This was about making her see how much I care for her, not waxing on and on internally about how utterly struck I am by her beauty. I cannot mess this up.’ 

‘I must make her see how she has come to become the sun in my life.’ 

But Aemond was cut off by your sudden ‘Oh!’ Aemond nearly jumped out of his skin, afraid that there was something wrong with the flowers. But he was puzzled when you extended a handkerchief to him, smiling brightly. “I embroidered this for you. Take this as a token of gratitude for the flowers.” Aemond turned over the handkerchief delicately, tracing over the raven and various flowers sewed at the corner of the handkerchief, along with his initials, ‘A.T’ He felt his breath catch in his throat, “This…this is…” 

You watched him nervously as he stammered before falling into silence. Did he not like it? Perhaps he thought the raven was too much? You gripped the flowers in your hand a little tighter, saying a prayer to the Seven in your mind. 

Your worries were immediately allayed when Aemond pressed a shaky kiss onto your forehead. Startled, yet utterly enchanted, you stared up at him, who looked almost as shocked as you were at the kiss. “I…I take it you like your gift then?” you asked softly. 

He let out a quiet chuckle, “I think ‘like’ is an understatement, my lady. It is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given to me. I shall cherish it forever. As I will with you.” 

Aemond nearly screamed when he realised he blurted out the last part. ‘Why did I say that, why did I say that, why did I say that!’ his mind flooded with panic. However, suddenly emboldened from the adrenaline of the moment, he finally found the courage to express what he had been feeling for his fair lady. “My lady, I would like to confess something, and I think there couldn’t be a more appropriate time than this. I am hopelessly besotted with you.” He watched her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, and he hurried to add, “Tis alright if you do not return those feelings! I understand, believe me. I do not wish to force you to do anything you are uncomfortable with. But it’s just that I loved you for so long, and I had no idea how to tell you, and I fear if I let this moment slip I will never muster up the bravery to tell you again and gods I-” the energy suddenly drained out of him as he found himself once again, at a loss of words. “I just…adore you beyond belief. Beyond what I can fathom. Please ignore my ramblings if you are uncomfortable with them, just take them as the words of a lovesick fool.” He averted her eyes, embarrassment and sadness filling him. How could he hope for someone as good and wonderful as her to love such a beast as him? The Gods should strike him down for his pride. 

A warm hand reached for Aemond’s, interlacing her fingers with his. Aemond looked up in disbelief at your next words, “You have no idea how thankful I am to hear those words…because I feel the same.” You smiled shyly at him, “I was hoping you had the same sentiments as I did, and now that you professed your feelings, I could not be happier.” 

Aemond reached out to grip her hand with both of his, cradling her soft hand in his hands, staring deep into her eyes, sparkling with so much devotion and adoration. They stood in silence for a while, before Aemond pulled her hand gently to his lips and planted a reverent kiss to her knuckles. 

“Would you…perhaps care to take a stroll with me, my lady? I believe we have a lot to discuss.” 

“I would love nothing more, your Grace.” 

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[arabellasleopardcoat]

The Seamstress (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Prince Aemond is your favorite client.

Warnings: Seamstress! Reader x Aemond. Smut. Mature language. Age gap, though not specified, and everyone is of age.

A/N: I was thinking about how something always felt off when writing Aemond. So, experimenting a little here.

The nerves and excitement don’t go away, even if this has to be the tenth time you are asked to do it. You feel yourself alight with pride. This is your moment.

Since you were no more than a little girl, you had always wanted to become a seamstress. You dreamed of making beautiful dresses for the noble ladies to wear, handsome gambesons and shirts for the lords. Years have passed since then, and you have become a renowned dressmaker, having fabricated gowns for Houses such as the Lannisters and the Arryns alike, but being asked to dress the royal family still thrills you.

You feel as if you were a little girl, wandering the halls of the Red Keep. It's no matter if you have done this before, you still feel the same sense of accomplishment. Besides, getting to work with your favorite client is always a joy.

The Queen has confided in you that you are also his favorite. Prince Aemond refuses to wear anything you haven't personally sewn. Your job is harder that way. You can't distribute the more menial tasks to your sewing girls, having to sew every stitch yourself. Yet, at the same time, it fills you with accomplishment when you manage to meet his expectations.

“Chin up, my Prince.” You say, softly pushing his jaw upwards. You go on your tiptoes, placing the pin on the cloth near his throat. He would look stunning in a linen shirt, with such a beautiful neck and shoulders. But alas, the prince is not one for light colors.

“How long will this take?” One of his hands, big and broad, goes to your waist. To steady you, surely. Yet, you cannot help but get distracted by the touch. It has been so long since you have been touched in such a manner. “I have to go train before noon.”

“Prince Aemond.” You warn, softly fixing the fall of the cloth. “These things take time. You can't just wear anything to the coronation.”

“I am not the one getting crowned, am I?”

You fix a button. You do not like the way the shape the outfit is giving him.

Taking a step back, you examine the clothes with a critical eye.

The pants need to be taken in. You kneel, tightening them around his waist and thighs. When your hand reaches his inner thigh, you notice that he has a bulge in his trousers. Your eyebrows raise. Unsure if it is what you think it is, you smooth the fabric around his hips.

His hand goes to your cheek. You look up, searching his face. Prince Aemond’s eye is dark, almost all pupil. He looks like he could just eat you up. His thumb brushes over your lips. As if in a trance, you open up.

You would be ashamed of reacting this way to any other man. But not with him. Not when he is as equally desperate, hungry for you.

It’s not something that's encouraged, bedding nobles. You would rather not end up with a bastard on your belly, shamed and unable to work. Your entire thing, what sets you apart from other seamstresses, is that you are a respectable woman.

But even respectable women feel desire. Even respectable women want to be worshiped and adored.

“Come here.” Prince Aemond pulls you to your feet. Then, he kisses you, hungrily. You start to take out the pins off his clothes, throwing the shirt away. The cloth gives as if it was nothing, long gone are your patterns and pins.

He lowers your bodice and hikes up your skirt. You grin. This is not new, either. It still fills you with the same thrill as it did the first day. Prince Aemond had not taken your maidenhead, nor had you taken his. But it had been you who had taught him, sitting on top of his hips and rolling your hips until you milked him dry.

There is something about teaching others about pleasure. You understand now, why men savor maidens so much. You can teach them to love and please just how you like, aim their thrust just at the angle you need to reach your own peak.

Prince Aemond kisses you hungrily, licking into your mouth as if a man starved. That, too, you taught it to him. Back then, his kisses had been all teeth, all clumsy head movements. Designed to conquer through brute force rather than seduction.

He kisses down your throat, sucking a bruise right between your collarbones. You sigh, quietly. He nips at your skin, determined to force a sound out of you. You have found out he thrives on praise and recognition, starved as he is.

He pushes harder, kissing the spot he knows makes you melt. You reward him with a soft moan. You have never been one for loud demonstrations of passion, and it shows, but it only makes more valuable to him the little sounds you let out.

You feel yourself start to get more and more wet. Your cunt throbs between your legs, slick and ready for him.

“Put it in.” You plead. “My Prince, please.”

“You are such a demanding thing, for a commoner.” He grunts, biting down at your shoulder. There is no room for complaint because he is entering you in one smooth thrust. You let out a keening sound, half pleasure, half pain. You can feel him grin sharply against your skin, face still hidden on your shoulder.

He rocks more than he thrusts, as he holds you open with one of his hands. This way, your pearl is exposed and rubs against his pelvis each time he moves.

His face remains hidden, and you feel his hair tickling against your skin. You feel the urge to nip at him as he does you, but you don't dare. He is not yours, nor are you his. Not only is it not allowed, but it would anger him. Prince Aemond, no matter how much he enjoys your body, does not think himself your equal.

He is above you, or so he says. If he likes to live in delusion, you won't be the one who stops him. It's not you, at the end of the day, who leaves these chambers looking wrecked. It's not you who melts at praise, at being told he is good.

“Like that?” Prince Aemond asks, cockily, as he watches your mouth slacking with pleasure.

“Right there.” You tilt your hips upwards, chasing your own peak. He fucks into you, mindlessly. He has a one track mind when it comes to these kinds of things. Thrives on watching you fall apart, as if it makes him more, as if it fills his pride. It's a good thing, in a lover, but you shudder to think of what this man could do only to be able to feel proud of himself.

It takes only a few well-planted thrusts before you are shivering and shaking against him, mouth open into a silent scream. He groans, pleased, coming out of his hiding place to give you a chaste kiss.

You straighten yourself. You thumb a pink, puffy nipple between your fingers and lean in, to coo right on his ear.

“You did so well.” You kiss his earlobe, softly taking it into your mouth and tugging. “So good for me.”

He trembles against you, face going back to hide on your neck. You wish he allowed you to look at him in moments like this. Prince Aemond probably looks wrecked. You can see it in your mind's eye, how his eye fell closed, how he has to bite his lip so hard to not let out a sound.

The view you get makes up for it, though. His back is arched so hard it must hurt, to make up for the height difference between the two of you. His hips snap into you so hard, you think you might end up with bruises from his damn hipbones.

Your prince has a beautiful body, honed from years of training. He is also all sharp lines and angles, hipbones, jaw, cheek. It is why you enjoy dressing him so much. His pale skin and light hair would really shine in jewel tones, but he refuses to use anything but dark.

“You are so good. No one makes me feel like you do.” You whisper, softly scratching at his scalp. You keep your touch gentle and sweet, and that seems to be his undoing. He tenses up and gives a little grunt, and soon, you can feel the telltale wetness between your legs.

You congratulate yourself on a job well done. You kiss the top of his head and start fixing your dress. On the floor, there is a mess of pins and cloth. The patterns will not be able to be salvaged, and you have another appointment in less than an hour. You need to bathe.

With no other choice but to walk out, you kiss him one last time.

“Come see me later, for the clothes.”

And he does come. But you get distracted again. He ends up going to the coronation in one of his everyday outfits. The Queen pays you regardless. She knows how difficult her son can be.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter Ninety-One

The Queen’s heart pounded in her chest as she looked at the silver-haired man, her face a mixture of shock and recognition. This was not just any Maester. This was a part of her history, her bloodline. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the weight of the revelation. Vaegon, her grandfather, stood before her, a living link to her past and now offering guidance for her future.

Aemond's voice boomed through the room, reverberating off the stone walls. "Everyone, out!" he commanded. The attendants and remaining Maesters scattered, scuttling quickly toward the door like mice fleeing a cat. The room emptied in moments, leaving only Vaegon standing before the couple, his head bowed in deference.

Maera not only felt her own rage boiling within her but also sensed the fierce anger emanating from her husband. Aemond did not know the elder who stood before him, but he knew Maera, knew her history, and that was enough to ignite his protective fury. He was angry for her, his jaw clenched, his single eye burning with intensity.

The one-eyed King leaned close to her, his breath warm against her face, and whispered, "We can select someone else."

Maera's mind whirled with the implications. It would indeed be the easiest option, to cast Vaegon away and choose another Maester, to forget that her grandfather had ever entered her life. She could sever this unexpected tie to her past and move forward without complication.

But as she contemplated, she couldn't deny the reason Vaegon had been selected in the first place. Both she and Aemond held exceptionally high expectations for the role of Grand Maester. Most of the candidates had barely met their requirements, but Vaegon had exceeded them all. His wealth of experience, his knowledge, his humility, and his service to both highborn and smallfolk were unparalleled.

She glanced at Aemond, her forest green eyes reflecting a mixture of determination and inner turmoil. "He is the best candidate," she murmured, her voice barely audible but firm. "I will not let my discomfort prevent me or the Council serving the Realm adequately."

Aemond's expression softened slightly, understanding the weight of her decision. Maera turned her gaze back to Vaegon, her grandfather, standing humbly before them. She rose from her chair, her black and green skirts swaying with each determined step as she approached the Maester. The rich fabric whispered against the stone floor, a soft counterpoint to the tension filling the room.

The Queen stopped directly in front of Vaegon, who slowly raised his head to meet her gaze. As she analyzed his face, the similarities struck her deeply. His eyes and chin bore an uncanny resemblance to her late mother's, a painful reminder of the family she had lost.

"How do we know you are who you say you are?" she asked, her tone sharp and accusing.

Vaegon remained calm, replying, "The archmaesters at the Citadel can confirm my identity, my Queen."

She considered this. It seemed unlikely that the Citadel would not send someone whose identity was a mystery. There were probably Maesters even older than Vaegon who had been present when he joined the order.

Still, her trust was not easily given. “Then if you are what you say, you know what I am…to you?” she asked hesitantly, her voice softer but no less intense. Vaegon nodded slowly, his eyes shifting away from hers, avoiding her gaze. His acknowledgment was both a relief and a spark to her simmering anger. At least he recognized their connection, but the avoidance stoked her ire once more.

Maera’s anger erupted like wildfire, her fury ignited by long-buried pain for her late mother and aunt. Her voice rose, filled with righteous indignation, echoing through the grand chamber. “How dare you stand here and face me?!” she spat, her words sharp as daggers. Vaegon winced, but Maera pressed on, her accusations unrelenting.“After abandoning your family for your own selfish pursuits!”

The Maester said nothing, his face a mask of stoic calm, but his violet eyes betrayed the depth of hurt he felt. Each of her words was like a lash, cutting deep, but he bore them in silence, his lack of response only fueling her agitation further. The Queen took a step closer, her green eyes blazing with fury.

“Did you expect that you would be picked purely because of our shared blood?” Maera sneered, her tone dripping with disdain.

Finally, the man looked up, his face now showing a spark of defiance. “It matters not who I was before I became a Maester,” he proclaimed, his voice steady and resolute.

Maera scoffed at his words, mocking his statement. “Matters not, does it?” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. Her face then quickly turned serious, her eyes narrowing as she took a step closer. “Did your late wife not matter? Nor your daughters?”

The Maester stood silent, seemingly taken aback and saddened by her questions. His eyes, previously a calm and composed violet, now revealed a depth of hurt and regret. Yet he remained quiet, his face a mask of sorrow and surprise.

Maera sighed, shaking her head as she struggled to temper her fury. “You are the most qualified,” she finally said, her voice heavy with reluctance. “Therefore, you will have the role of Grand Maester. Regardless of who you are.”

Vaegon did not raise his head at her statement, nor did he look pleased about it. His acceptance was marked by a deep, melancholic resignation, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of the decision.

“But know this,” Maera continued, her tone sharpening with resolve. “Your juniors will attend to me. You are not permitted to touch me. Or my daughter.” Her words were clear and firm, drawing an unmistakable boundary between them.

The room was tense, the atmosphere thick with unspoken emotions and unresolved history, the silence was almost palpable, each breath and movement magnified in the charged air.

“Maera…”

Her husband’s voice, unusually gentle and filled with concern, momentarily defused her anger. Maera turned to face him, and there was a look of concern in his single violet eye, fixed firmly on her. His gaze was steady but deeply worried, the shadows under his eye more pronounced in the dim light of the chamber.

She almost knew what he was thinking. The husband and wife had had their differences, but she knew he would not force her to endure this if she did not wish it. After all, Aemond had forced her to endure much worse, by his own choices.

Maera stood firm, her resolve unwavering. “Make your proclamation, husband,” she urged, her voice steady but carrying an edge of finality. “Your Small Council is whole.” Her eyes flickered with a mixture of determination and lingering resentment as she cast Vaegon one last look. His downcast eyes and sorrowful expression did little to quell her frustration.

As she stormed out of the hall, her black and green skirts swirled around her legs, the fabric rustling like the leaves of a restless forest. The attendants and staff, lined along the walls, bowed their heads low in a synchronized murmur of “my Queen.” Their voices were hushed, a poorly veiled attempt to mask their curiosity and the fact they had been eavesdropping on the heated exchange.

Maera’s cold, piercing stare swept over them, silencing any further whispers. Her eyes, known to be filled with the warmth of familial bonds, were now hard and unforgiving, reflecting the tumultuous emotions churning within her. She marched through the stone corridors, her footsteps echoing like thunderclaps in the still air.

The chamber doors burst open, the heavy wooden doors banging against the stone walls with a resounding thud. Maera’s fury, barely contained during the council meeting, now spilled over like a torrent. Her mind swirled with anger towards the new Grand Maester and the old wounds he represented, as well as a simmering resentment towards her husband for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint

Upon entering the room, she immediately noticed Sȳndor, the young black dragon, who was growing larger by the day. The beast, under the careful training of an experienced female dragon keeper, was setting fire to the chunks of meat laid before her upon command. The sight made Maera's heart pang with envy. How she wished she could breathe fire, to let off some of the frustration that boiled within her.

Across the chamber, Maera saw her daughter being cooed over by one of the nursemaids. The sight of her child's innocent smile brought a brief flicker of warmth to her heart. However, this was quickly overshadowed by a physical reminder of her motherhood as she felt a dampness spreading across her chest. The sight of her daughter had triggered her milk to release.

Groaning in frustration, Maera furiously tore open her dress at the laces, her fingers trembling with a mixture of anger and urgency. "I cannot breathe here," she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice a strained whisper of pent-up emotion. She pressed a damp cloth to her chest, attempting to relieve some of the pressure, but the action did little to quell her inner turmoil.

The room remained silent at the Queen’s frustrations, the air thick with unspoken tension. The dragon keeper paused her training, glancing nervously at Maera before turning her attention back to Sȳndor. The nursemaid, too, halted her cooing, watching the Queen with a mix of concern and respect.

Maera's breaths came in shallow, rapid bursts as she tried to regain her composure. The walls of her chambers, adorned with tapestries and symbols of her house, seemed to close in on her, amplifying her sense of confinement.

The nursemaid, gently rocking Aemara in her arms, ventured a meek suggestion. “Your Grace,” she began hesitantly, “perhaps venturing beyond the castle walls might quench your restless spirit.” Maera raised a brow at the young woman, who quickly continued, “A ride on a horse could do wonders.”

Maera paused, considering the idea. She had confined herself within the walls of Dragonstone since Aemara’s birth, staying close to her daughter. But over a month was indeed a long time to remain in one place, especially for someone as spirited as herself.

The breeze through the windows caught Maera’s attention, flowing gently into the room and carrying the salty scent of the sea. She sighed, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, letting the crisp air fill her lungs.

She nodded at the nursemaid, her decision made. “You are right,” Maera said, her voice steadier. “A ride would do me good.” She then turned to one of the servants who was diligently making her bed. “Prepare me for riding and fetch my leathers,” she instructed.

The servant nodded obediently, moving quickly to fulfill the Queen’s command. Maera’s lips curled into a small smile as she added, “But I will not be riding a horse.”

The tunnels, a complex network of man-made passageways and caverns, were vast, reinforced with stonework to prevent collapses, and glistening from the heat and minerals seeping through. Torches lit the path, providing light but adding to the already intense warmth radiating from the volcano’s depths. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and the constant hum of the earth’s movements.

Reaching the main cavern, the natural light of the outside lit the space, the wind howling through the tunnels in an eerie manner. The cavern’s floor was uneven, covered in rock formations and many loose stones that jumped up from the floor during the rumbles of volcanic activity.

Dragon Keepers stood guard at various points within this vast network. They were stationed near the tunnel entrance, along key passages, and at the main lair entrance, ensuring that only those deemed worthy could approach. The keepers were alert, donned in ancestral robes and armed with prodding sticks for managing the volcano’s dwellers.

Dressed in black leathers that clung to her form, her brown and silver hair braided back from her face, Maera looked every bit the dragon rider she was meant to be. She held tightly onto the lengths of fabric tied securely around her body as she entered the cavernous interior of the volcano.

The nursery maids had protested fervently against Maera’s decision to ride. They argued that she was not fully healed from childbirth, and that it was too soon for such a strenuous endeavor. But that was not the only reason they were panicking. Nestled within the fabric tied to her chest was her infant daughter. The baby’s almost lilac eyes were wide with curiosity as she took in her new surroundings, unfazed by the sounds of rocks falling or the deep rumbles of volcanic activity.

Aemara was not the only companion accompanying the queen. Perched on Maera’s shoulder was Sȳndor, her black scales almost blending into the Maera’s leathers. She had tried to leave youngling behind, but the little dragon had refused to be separated from the child to whom she was bonded.

The Dragon Keepers, seasoned and accustomed to the eccentricities of dragon riders, were not fazed by the sight of Maera with her daughter. In fact, a few of them smiled fondly at the sight, recognizing the continuation of the Valyrian lineage. Their expressions conveyed respect and a sense of pride in seeing the young princess already being introduced to the world of dragons.

One of the Keepers, an older man with a silver beard and not a hair atop his head, stepped forward onto the edge of the stone cliff that overlooked the heart of the Dragonmount. With a deep breath, he called into the cavern, his voice echoing off the stone walls and reverberating through the vast, dark expanse. "Naejot māzies, Ēbrion!" Come forward.

The sound of his call bounced around the cavern, reaching into the depths where the dragons rested. A deep rumble responded, followed by the sound of rocks tumbling and shifting. Little Sȳndor let out a few nervous chirps but Maera gently shushed the young dragon, stroking her head to calm her.

From the darkness, a colossal form began to emerge. The ground seemed to tremble as the mighty dragon, Ēbrion, made his way forward. His scales, a mesmerizing blend of blue and black, shimmered even in the dim light of the cavern. His orange eyes glowed like molten lava, radiating both wisdom and power. Maera's heart soared at the sight of her dragon, her connection to him as strong as ever.

Ēbrion extended his neck, bringing his massive head closer to Maera. His hot breath washed over her as he came face to face with his rider. Maera beamed, her eyes sparkling with joy and pride. She reached out, placing a hand on Ēbrion's snout, feeling the rough texture of his scales beneath her fingers.

“Raqiros issa, rytsas,” Hello my friend, she whispered, her voice filled with affection and reverence.

The large beast rumbled softly in response, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath them. His eyes, so fierce and untamed, softened slightly as he acknowledged the presence of Maera and her child. The connection between dragon and rider was palpable, a bond forged through fire and blood, and strengthened by loyalty and companionship.

She was so pleased to see him. During her confinement, the Dragon Keepers had reassured her that her dragon had taken to the Dragonmount well. They told her he seemed to have re-acclimated quickly to the volcanic environment, likely due to his many years there before coming to King’s Landing. The reports of his behavior had been a constant source of comfort for Maera, who had worried about him during her long absence.

The Keepers had informed her that Ēbrion frequently left the mountain, often flying with Vhagar and hunting across the skies. While she felt a pang of guilt for not seeing him for so long, the knowledge that he was content and thriving eased her mind. The sight of him now, healthy and strong, affirmed the truth of their words.

Ēbrion trilled softly, a sound filled with curiosity as he noticed the bundle Maera carried. His immense eyes focused on the fabric, his nostrils flaring as he tried to catch a scent. Maera gently removed the cloth around Aemara’s head, presenting her daughter’s face to the dragon.

“Tala issa,” My daughter, Maera said softly, her voice trembling with a mixture of pride and nervousness.

Ēbrion leaned closer, his hot breath washing over both mother and child. He inhaled deeply, taking in the new scent. Aemara’s almost lilac eyes widened as she looked at the dragon, her tiny face reflecting a mixture of awe and innocence.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Maera held her breath, watching as her dragon and her daughter connected for the first time. Ēbrion’s eyes softened, and he emitted a low, comforting rumble, a sound that seemed almost like a purr.

However, the hatchling perched on Maera’s shoulder was not so keen on the interaction between Ēbrion and the babe. Sȳndor hissed, her small wings flapping aggressively as she attempted to bite the larger dragon, her jaws snapping futilely at the air. Maera found the sight amusing; despite the beasts sharing blood, Sȳndor’s loyalty clearly lay with Aemara, fiercely protective of the child above all else.

Ēbrion, unperturbed by the hatchling’s display, merely puffed a breath of air from his nostrils, which knocked Sȳndor off balance slightly. The young dragon’s claws dug into Maera’s shoulder for stability, eliciting a wince from her but also a chuckle at the spirited little creature’s determination.

“Dohaerās, Ēbrion,” Serve me, Maera commanded softly. At her words, Ēbrion withdrew his neck, turning towards the cave’s exit. He crouched next to the stone edge, his muscles coiling in preparation for flight.

Mounting the blue dragon from the cliff was much easier than attempting to do so from the ground. Maera only had to take a few steps before she reached the saddle. She stepped onto the rope ladder, her foot slipping slightly at first, but she quickly regained her balance and began to climb. Each step felt steadier than the last, a testament to her improving strength. Her left leg twinged slightly, but it held her weight, and her left arm, though still weak, managed to support her as she ascended.

She felt better, stronger than she had in weeks. As she settled into the saddle, she secured herself with the chains and ropes. She looked down at Aemara, who was strapped to her chest. The baby’s almost lilac eyes peered up at her mother, then around the cave, drawn to the light streaming in from the exit. Sȳndor remained perched on Maera’s shoulder, still wary. The Queen gently peeled the hatchling off and settled her in front of her on the saddle.

“There, little one,” Maera murmured, her voice soothing as she petted the hatchling’s head. Syndor chirped in response, her small body relaxing slightly but her eyes still alert.

With her daughter secure and her dragons ready, Maera took a deep breath, feeling the anticipation of flight thrumming through her veins.

“Soves.” Fly.

Ēbrion stomped to the exit of the cave with a low roar, his powerful body vibrating beneath Maera. He dived off the edge of the cliff, the wind making Maera’s eyes water as they hurled toward the sea. Then, at the seemingly last moment, Ēbrion unfurled his wings, and they took flight, the sudden lift filling Maera with exhilaration.

They soared around Dragonstone, the rugged terrain and jagged cliffs below a breathtaking sight. The waves crashed against the rocks, sending sprays of seawater high into the air. In the distance, Maera could see King's Landing across the bay, the familiar sprawl of the city bringing a pang of mixed emotions.

To be flying again after so long felt like freedom reborn. Maera's heart raced with joy, her spirits lifting higher with each powerful beat of Ēbrion’s wings. She felt the tension and frustration of the past months dissolve into the wind, leaving her lighter and unburdened.

As Maera looked down, she noticed that baby Aemara did not seem fazed by the turbulence of the air or the wind blowing wildly. In fact, after a while, the child closed her eyes, the rhythmic movement of the flight soothing her to sleep. Sȳndor practiced her own flying for a few moments at a time, her little wings flapping vigorously to keep up with the older dragon, darting between the wisps of clouds.

Maera smiled, thinking how much she had missed this. The sensation of the wind on her face, the view of the world from above, and the companionship of her dragons. It was as if she had regained a part of herself that had been lost.

Soaring through the clouds, her thoughts could not help but be filled with the new Grand Maester. Vaegon. The Dragonless. From her memories, she didn’t recall her mother ever speaking a bad word about him. Lady Gael had simply stated that she was placed in the care of her maternal grandparents whilst he gave up his land and titles to serve at the Citadel.

Looking at the child strapped to her chest, Maera wondered how on earth Vaegon could even bear to do that. To abandon his two baby girls so soon after their mother had died. He just ran away. It angered her to no end. She couldn’t fathom the kind of man who could leave his own flesh and blood behind in pursuit of his own desires.

What angered her more was the familiarity of the old man’s face. His violet eyes and silver hair, the way his mouth curled when he smiled; it reminded her so much of her mother. Of her own reflection. Even some aspects of her daughter’s face. Similarities passed through blood. The same blood that coursed through her veins, binding them in a way that was impossible to sever.

But did blood truly matter? Should you owe someone anything just because you shared blood? Did it truly have the power to unite people? Aemond had been crowned King, ahead of his niece Jaehaera, Aegon’s only remaining child, as the Greens made it known that whoever sat the throne had to be a male. That blood did not matter.

Across Blackwater Bay, a short distance away, Rhaenyra, Aemond’s half-sister, remained steadfast in her claim as the rightful heir. Now the siblings were at war, tearing their family and the realm apart. Blood did not matter. The bonds that should have united them only served to fuel the fires of conflict.

Vaegon, known as the Dragonless, was an outcast from his family. Yet Maera had claimed a dragon, despite her blood not being as pure. She had done it by herself, through her own strength and determination. Blood did not matter. She had proven her worth through her actions, not through the purity of her lineage. And yet, despite this conviction, Maera found herself yearning for answers to questions she did not yet know how to ask.

Her thoughts drifted to her dwindling family members who shared her Targaryen blood: her mother, her Aunt Viserra, and all of her cousins, their numbers had declined to almost nothing. And she was well aware Aemond was responsible for the tragedy of Morne, dabbling in forces he did not understand for the sake of…what? Honour? Victory? Power? She was honestly still not sure. But this Maester, Vaegon, was a stranger, a servant sent to serve his king on his council. Why now? Why, after being hidden away in Oldtown for the majority of his life, did he reappear?

Mayhaps it was only natural to wonder such things, but she knew that her anger was justified. She would find out what she needed to know in time. For now, she would need to learn how to simply live under the same roof as him, working with him to secure a brighter future for the Realm and her daughter before asking such things.

Upon Maera’s command, Ēbrion banked sharply and began their descent back to the Dragonmount, his powerful wings beat rhythmically as they neared the stone cliffs. The dragon’s landing was as graceful as it was powerful; he folded his wings tightly to his body and touched down with a rumbling thud, his claws gripping the rocky edge with ease. The cavern echoed with the sound of his landing, a deep, resonant roar that seemed to shake the very walls.

Maera felt windswept, giddy, and exhausted, but in a good way. The exhilaration of flight and the rush of wind against her face had cleared her mind and lifted her spirits. She dismounted Ēbrion, her feet finding purchase on the solid ground of the cavern. Her body tingled with the lingering adrenaline from the ride, and she could feel her pulse pounding in her ears.

She glanced down at her daughter, whose eyes were open once again, her little silver tufts in disarray from the wind. Sȳndor flapped her wings and perched once more on Maera’s shoulder, her claws digging in lightly for balance. Maera turned to her faithful mount, the majestic blue dragon who had carried them so gracefully.

The Queen pressed her face to Ēbrion’s snout, feeling the warm, leathery texture of his skin. She thanked the beast sincerely her voice filled with gratitude and affection as she promised she would return the next day. Ēbrion snorted softly, a warm puff of air washing over her, as if acknowledging her promise.

As Maera made her way back to her chambers, she felt a renewed sense of clarity and purpose. The physical exertion and the time spent with her dragon had done wonders for her spirit. The dragon keepers watched her with respectful nods, and she gave them a brief smile in return.

Despite the tumultuous emotions that had plagued her earlier, she now felt a sense of peace. The flight had been a reminder of her strength and her bond with Ēbrion, a reminder of who she was and what she was capable of.

A few days later, Aemond stood tall in the grand hall of Dragonstone, making his long-awaited proclamation. The lords and ladies gathered there listened intently as he named the members of his Small Council. There was a palpable sense of anticipation, mingled with a hint of annoyance from some lords who had expected the announcement to come sooner. Yet Maera knew the reason for the delay all too well: Aemond had wanted to give her ample time to reconsider her decision regarding Maester Vaegon. Though she had not changed her mind, she appreciated the gesture.

As the royal decree concluded, attention turned to seven knights, including Maera’s brother, Faran, who stepped forward to take his vows for the Kingsguard. The ceremonial nature of the event demanded solemnity, and Faran knelt before Maera and Aemond alongside his counterparts, his posture rigid with a mixture of pride and lingering anger. His voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of tension as he pledged his loyalty to his King and the Realm. Maera could see the fire in his eyes, knowing it was fueled by his fury at Aemond for the perceived failures towards his sister.

When the men stood, Faran stepped forward and made a public declaration to be his sister’s sworn sword, a surge of emotion rushing through the Queen at his loyalty and protective instincts. She accepted his vow with a glad heart, even as her thoughts drifted momentarily to Ser Arryk, the faithful knight who had served her so well and was dearly missed. The remains of his body were discovered recently on the island in a grave, placed beside his twin brother, Ser Erryk, a loyal knight to Rhaenyra. The pain of his loss was still fresh, and she knew that Faran had a daunting legacy to live up to.

The noble Houses began to depart from Dragonstone, their banners fluttering in the breeze as they filed out of the grand hall. However, the lords who had been chosen for the Small Council remained at the castle, their presence a testament to their continued commitment and their work far from over.

As the hall emptied, council members and all, House Wylde lingered behind, and Luthor stood at their side. They had come to say a more personal goodbye to their sister. Maera felt a pang of both pride and sadness as she embraced each member of her small House. Her siblings and cousins offered words of encouragement and concern, their faces a mix of relief and worry.

Even Guston, ever the stern eldest brother, received a warm embrace. As she pulled away, he fixed her with a serious look, reminding her once more of her duty to provide Aemond with an heir. Maera bit her tongue, forcing a polite smile as she bade him a simpler goodbye, wishing not to let his words grate on her too much. Each member of her House departed with gifts and trinkets, small tokens of her affection, and gold to ensure they were well taken care of in her absence.

Finally, the Queen approached Luthor. He attempted to bow to his sister, a gesture of respect and formality, but she quickly interrupted him with a hug. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, feeling the strength and warmth of his embrace. “Make sure Princess Jaehaera gets the paints I sent with you,” she whispered to him.

Luthor nodded, his expression softening. “Of course, sister,” he replied before releasing her from the hug. He then placed both hands on her shoulders, his grip firm yet gentle, his voice now lower in volume. “If you need me, send for me. I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

Before Maera could respond, Faran appeared, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why would she need you when she has her strongest brother as her sworn protector?” he said sarcastically, referring to himself.

Luthor rolled his eyes and jabbed Faran in the arm. “Always up your own arse, aren’t you?” he retorted with a grin. The two brothers then hugged each other tightly, their camaraderie evident.

Maera watched them with a smile, feeling a rush of gratitude for the bond they all shared. Despite the distance between them and the weight of their responsibilities now they were adults, their familial connection remained as strong as ever.

“The Queen is strong in her own right and has her own dragon,” another voice declared. The three siblings turned to see Aemond approaching, the Conqueror’s crown glinting on his brow. He settled beside his wife, his presence imposing and undeniable. Maera watched as her brothers exchanged a glance before bowing their heads respectfully.

Aemond placed his arm around Maera’s waist, his fingers flat against the fabric of her dress, his touch burning her with its intensity. “Nevertheless,” he added, “I’m sure my wife will be glad for company if you return to visit, good-brother.” The atmosphere suddenly grew tense, the warmth of familial affection replaced by an awkward silence. Maera shifted uncomfortably under Aemond’s touch, her earlier ease vanishing.

Luthor’s jaw clenched as he stepped forward, his posture unwavering despite being a head shorter than Aemond. His eyes, fierce and unwavering, met the king’s. “Dragon or not, where I come from, we protect our own, regardless of the circumstances,” he said, his voice steady but charged with emotion.

She held her breath, desperate to avoid a confrontation. Maera could feel the tension in the air, the clash of wills between her brother and her husband. Faran, standing slightly behind Luthor, smirked at the scene. He clearly enjoyed seeing his usually controlled brother confront the king, relishing the defiance.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words and underlying tensions. Maera’s heart pounded in her chest, her earlier sense of purpose and strength feeling fragile in the face of this new conflict. She looked up to see The One-Eyed King staring right back at her brother, his gaze steady, his expression inscrutable. She gently pressed her hand against Aemond’s arm, a silent plea for restraint. He did not look at her, but nor did he retaliate

Luthor looked Aemond up and down, his expression one of barely concealed disgust. “If a dragon cannot protect my sister, then he is no dragon at all,” he stated with finality, his voice echoing through the hall. With that, he turned and left the room, his steps echoing off the stone walls. Faran quickly followed after him, throwing a smirk over his shoulder before disappearing with the crowd through the doorway.

Maera and Aemond were left alone in the grand hall, the silence that followed heavy with unresolved tension. Aemond’s face remained stoic, but Maera could see the flicker of something unreadable in his eye. She sighed softly before removing herself from her husband’s grip, her mind swirling with the weight of her brothers’ words.

The Queen rubbed her temples, trying to alleviate the stress that had settled like a heavy fog after the encounter with her brothers. Behind her, Aemond's voice broke through the tension, his tone dry as he muttered, "I do not think he was talking about your mount."

She raised an eyebrow at him, annoyance flaring briefly in her green eyes. The King stood with his arms folded across his broad chest, a posture both protective and defiant. "Between Faran and Luthor, the latter was always more… collected," he added, his lips twitching into a slight smirk, a hint of amusement breaking through the heaviness of the moment.

Maera’s gaze drifted downward to her left side, where a familiar throb radiated through her thigh. Her fingers traced the fabric covering her left arm, memories of pain and sorrow etched into her skin. “They saw my scars,” she confessed quietly. “Whilst I was feeding Aemara.”

When she looked up at Aemond, his brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his single violet eye. He shifted his weight, avoiding her gaze for a moment before asking softly, “What did you tell them?”

Maera shook her head, a bitter scoff escaping her lips as she replied, “Basically nothing. They wouldn’t have believed me anyway, had I revealed the truth of it.” Aemond’s gaze met hers again, his expression a mixture of curiosity and worry. In a firmer tone, Maera added, “Nor would you be standing there.”

A tense silence filled the hall, broken only by the howling wind that whipped through the ancient stone pillars. The weight of unspoken words hung heavily in the air, pressing down on Maera as she stood there with her husband. Aemond, her husband, her child’s father, her King, stared at her with such intensity that she could not help but look away, unable to meet the fierce gaze of his single violet eye.

Looking towards the stone floor, the crown on her head felt heavy, its beautiful refinery of rubies and sapphires encrusted in Valyrian steel an unnatural burden. Yet her husband bore his own crown with an ease that seemed almost cruel.

The Conqueror’s crown, resting upon his brow, looked as though it had always belonged there. The horror and turmoil that had brought them to this point, the deaths of their family members, the strain on their marriage, did not outwardly seem to crumble him.

The Queen walked toward the window, her footsteps echoing softly in the vast hall. She looked out to the sea, her gaze drifting across the bay to King’s Landing, now shrouded in a thick mist. The city, once a symbol of their power, was now under the control of their enemy. The sight filled her with dread and a deep-seated fear for her dear friend Helaena, trapped in the web of their foes.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts, and shifted her gaze to the vast expanse of the sea. The horizon stretched endlessly before her, with no sight of land as far as she could see. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shores was loud and thundering, a welcome distraction from the current moment.

Behind her, she heard Aemond’s footsteps approaching, each one slow and steady, stopping a few feet away. She ignored him, her focus fixed on the turbulent waters below. His voice broke the silence, smooth and quiet, speaking in their native tongue. “Skoros nyke gōntan…rūnagon ziry issa. Tubis se bantis.” What I did…it haunts me. Day and night.

Maera did not turn to look at him, the anger and hurt still raw within her. She kept her eyes on the sea, letting the sound of the waves drown out her turmoil. Aemond took another step forward, close enough for her to feel his presence but not touching her. “Si jāhor nyke umbagon glaeson issa gaomagon jorepna, dohaertan, nūmāzma lo mērī gīda ezīmos hen issa ao shijetra.” And I will spend the rest of my life begging, toiling, if it meant even only a small part of you forgave me.

She turned to look at him, her back pressed against the cold ledge of the window. Aemond remained rooted to his spot, his eye searching her face with an intensity that was hard to ignore. There was something about him speaking High Valyrian that sounded more sincere, a depth to the words that the common tongue could not capture. They were not merely spat out in an attempt to save his own skin; they were carefully chosen and felt meaningful, genuine. She decided to try the same.

“Bona iksos sōptan shijetra mirre bē; ziry arliñagon tubis naejot tubis,” That’s the funny thing about forgiveness; it changes day to day, she began. Aemond frowned slightly, a shadow of confusion crossing his face. She continued,“Mirri tubissa ziry vestragon raqagon nykeā tolmiot, sambrar rūni, ēdrurys. Dōrī ziry massitas rȳ. Kostagon dīnagon naejot, rūsīr lyks se rȳ kirimves se glaeson īlon mazvēttan emagon. Biare.”Some days it seems like a distant foggy memory, like a dream. Like it never happened at all. And I can move on, feeling content and at peace with the life we’ve built. Happy, even.

Aemond’s lips curved into a slight, hopeful smile. But Maera quickly frowned, dampening his brief moment of relief. “Tolie,” Other days, she added, her voice tinged with pain, “skori nyke jurnegon isse urnen se ōdria rōdan, nykeā hīghagon bē ēdrutan tolī maegi vīlīptan ēdrugon isse…vēdros jeme nyke toliot arlī.” When I look in the mirror and see those horrific scars, or I wake up screaming after fighting with the witch in my dreams…I hate you all over again.

The hurt in Aemond’s eye was palpable, a raw wound laid bare. Maera’s own face mirrored his pain, a sadness reflecting the cruelty of the truth she had just spoken. It felt harsh but necessary.“Kuno nykeā tubis iksos tubī.” Today is one of those days.

Their marriage would take time to be restored. Maera knew this. It was not a matter of snapping fingers and everything falling back into place. But she was determined. Her marriage would at least be civil, for the sake of the Realm, for the sake of their daughter. As for her feelings from long ago, the love she once bore for him—it did not matter now… right?

Holding his gaze, Maera felt a flicker of the determination she needed. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb tracing the scar on his cheek as she took in every detail of his handsome, sharp-featured face. The familiar line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, and the sharpness of his cheekbones were all etched into her memory. As she touched him, Aemond reached up and gripped her hand immediately, holding it in place as if never wanting to let her go.

Her forest green eyes met his violet one, and she swore she could see an unshed tear glistening in the depths of his gaze. Fate or not, they were bound, and always would be. She granted him a sad smile and whispered, “Keligon daor sylutan,” Do not stop trying.

With a heavy heart, she withdrew her hand from his face and began to walk away. Each step felt like a weight, her resolve mingled with sorrow. But then, his voice called out, strong and filled with determination, “Keligon dōrī jāhor nyke sylugon ao syt.” I will never stop trying for you.

Something about his words stopped her in her tracks. Her heart pounded wildly, her breath caught in her throat. She turned to look at him, and in that moment, she saw not only the King he had become, but also the boy he once was—her childhood friend, her love. His expression was raw, a mixture of vulnerability and steadfast resolve that stirred something deep within her.

Her resolve wavered, caught between the ghosts of their past and the daunting reality of their present. Her feet carried her forward before she could stop herself, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides. She reached up, tangling her fingers in his silver strands, and pulled him down, crashing her lips to his.

He kissed her back with equal fervor, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumb caressing her cheek. The skin was callused from his training with the sword, but felt gentle against her skin, igniting a warmth between her legs, a warmth only he could create within her.

His tongue swiped her bottom lip, a question, asking permission, to which she gladly granted, opening her mouth and allowing his tongue to taste her, the wet muscles rubbing against each other after being parted for so long. Aemond bit against her bottom lip, causing her to hiss at the sting. Maera’s fingers instinctively tightened at the roots of his hair, pulling slightly, eliciting a low growl from deep within his chest.

She struggled to catch her breath, her heart pounding in her ears. One of her hands dropped to find purchase on his chest, her fingernails digging into the fabric of his black and green robes. The Queen felt a hand on her hip, gripping her with a bruising strength, pulling her flush against him, their bodies melding together as if they were one. She could feel the swell of his cock pressing against the seams of her dress, prompting a slick to form between her thighs and causing the wall of her resolve to crumble brick by brick.

The moment felt right, an intoxicating blend of passion and intimacy as they were tangled up together. Maera could feel the warmth radiating between them, a comfort that she longed for amid the chaos of their lives. As much as she wanted to let it consume her, she knew she could not. The lingering effects of her recent childbed still weighed heavily on her body, a constant reminder that anything beyond this kiss would bring her great harm.

Reluctantly, she pulled away, though Aemond's lips followed her, pressing softly against her cheek before descending down the curve of her neck. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine, and she gasped, the softness of his mouth against her skin momentarily clouding her judgment. It felt heavenly, almost ethereal, but she forced herself to remember the boundaries she needed to uphold. This could not go further.

With a sudden rush of clarity, she pushed him away, her hands firmly on his chest. Aemond stumbled backward, surprise flickering in his violet eye as they locked gazes. Both of them breathed heavily, the air between them thick with unspoken words, their cheeks flushed from both the heat of the kiss and the unexpected intensity of the moment.

Maera reached up to her head, her fingers finding the crown that had slipped askew during their passionate exchange. Straightening it, she felt the weight of her duties settle back upon her shoulders. Turning on her heel, she walked away, leaving Aemond standing in the hall, a mixture of longing and confusion etched across his features. As she touched her swollen lips with a smile, she felt no regret. Instead, it was a reminder of the connection they still shared, a flicker of hope amidst their uncertain future.

Notes: our big blue boy is back 💙 and we’re getting closer to Aemond and Maera being friends again. And we know what comes with that 😏 also posting this a day early because I need some joy in my life today 🖤

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

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

[councilofcastamere]

UNDER HIS SKIN [AMD.T X READER]

PART I.

summary: Aemond loves his big sister, so unfairly married to another. So unfairly away from him for seven cruel years. So when his sweet sister returns to King's Landing again, he is determined to show her he is not a child anymore.

warnings: none? Correct me if I'm wrong please 🫶🩷

a/n: smut is in the second part 🫶 not this one since it is mostly childhood focused my loves 🫶

Aemond had never gone a day without thinking of you. How could he when you were in his life? His half-sister. His beautiful y/n, his beautiful wife-to-be.

Just after Aemma, and right before Alicent, King Viserys the Peaceful married your mother, Myria Martell of Dorne. In that short time before her death, the olive-skinned woman managed to bear you, her exquisitely beautiful daughter.

A girl possessing both Dornish and Valyrian beauty? The Realm roamed with anticipation. You had the dark skin and olive skin of a Dornishwoman, combined with the features and eyes of a Valyrian beauty.

From his first breath, you were his virtue. You were five years old, holding Alicentʼs third-born. Your big blue eyes shone with adoration, and you could swear his little hands reached out for you.

If Alicent had trouble managing Helaena as a babe, Aemond had to be ten times worse. He cried out your name so often, that his mother would be forced to plead for your help. Every cry of your name was accompanied by a bitter feeling in your absence.

Like the sweet girl you were, you had no objections to helping your stepmother take care of her third child. You doted on Aemond, and you could not contain your excitement when he ultimately, at a year old, took his first steps into your arms. You kissed his forehead as he relished the feeling of your warm touch.

You would spend your free time playing with him and Helaena, his head on your lap and Helaena showing you her bugs.

And as you grew into a ravishing young woman, Aemond continued to follow behind you, his small frame glaring at any Knight or nobleman who looked at you too long.

You had been content to read with him, kissing his cheek every night before you tucked the eight-year-old into bed. Aemond couldnʼt imagine a good night without your kiss. He wouldn't.

One day, you'd be his wife. His and his alone. If his lady-mother betrothed Helaena to Aegon, it is only fair that you and him do the same thing. Once he is of age to marry, he will convince Mother Alicent to keep the bloodline pure.

His annoyance at not being able to obtain a dragon had never been directed at you. Never.

The door creaked open to your chambers, like most nights. The small sound causes you to stir awake. You weren't a deep sleeper.

“Valonqar,” you smile tiredly, scooting over “What is wrong?”

Aemond said nothing, just sighed as he crawled into your arms.

Your hair was unkempt and your eyes were half closed. So adorable.

“Cuddle me, rōva mandia,” he murmured, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms resorted to wrapping around your waist, and his soft sighs sent his breath tickling your neck. “I haven't a dragon yet.”

You sighed softly, taking his face in your hands and beckoning him to look you in the eye.

“Aemond, look at me.” you requested softly, to which he, with slight reluctance, looked you in the eyes. he loved the way you looked at him. how your face softened when your eyes landed on him. “You will get a dragon. How could a dragon not like you? You are everything good.”

Those words did it for him. they made his heart flutter like none could. he took a good look at her face and took some moments to admire her beauty. your sun-kissed skin looked heavenly in the moonlight shining on the sheets and her face, making her eyes shine brighter than they usually did.

At that moment, all the prince could think about was how he’d marry you someday. No matter what people say he could do.

With that thought, his body drifted off to slumber, holding you close to him. His head on your chest and a small smile gracing his face.

So imagine his turmoil when you were announced to be betrothed to a lord of house Lannister the very next evening.

He begged, begged, begged Alicent to discuss this with Father and reconsider.

“Betroth her to me once I am of age.” he urged his mother, his frustration rising as his efforts seemed futile. His lady-motherʼs decision was as if it was set in stone.

The night before your departure, he visited you one last time and slept cuddling you. At a given point, his eyes fluttered open and he stared up at the ceiling.

“Fools. All of them.” he quietly spoke up, his tears dried on his cheek. “At least they didn’t betroth you to that bastard.”

“Aemond,” you spoke up softly, brushing his hair out of his face. “You mustn't call him that. He is our nephew.”

“Be that as it may, his father is still a Strong,” he replies coldly, leaning into your touch. he turned his head so that his lips brushed against your cheek. You’re lucky he loves you enough not to stress your mind with the image of those Strong boys.

You sighed, deciding it was best to drop this matter. Perhaps his childhood crush, along with his disdain for your nephews would fade. You pulled him closer like two cats keeping each other warm. Perhaps his interest would fade once you married a lord of Casterly Rock.

The next day had come by rather quickly, and you had bid goodbye to each relative with a kiss on the cheek.

However, Aemond felt as if the kiss you planted on his cheek meant so much more than the ones you planted on the others.

And off you had gone, married to a man of House Lannister.

7 years of marriage had gone by, and you had sired 4 healthy boys. Your husband treated you better than most Lords and you could not be happier. You continued being the sweet and well-spoken young woman and you couldn't be happier in the presence of your dear sons.

So it was only natural when your sons came with you as you visited Kingʼs Landing again. You kept your sons at your hip as you exited the carriage, greeted by the sight of your dear brother.

Once your eyes landed on him, it seemed you were unable to tear them away. He grew. When he used to be half your size, he grew to be almost as tall as your step-grandsire. His lean and muscled figure stood tall and gracious. His gorgeous sharp features were accompanied by a grin on his face. You were almost envious of his shiny hair.

“Mandia.” he grins, taking your soft palm in his, pressing a kiss on your index finger. “It pleases me so to see you again.”

He had to refrain himself from pouncing on you, reminded of your sons at your side. All he wanted now was to shower you with kisses. Seven, he’d take you in that carriage if he could.

“Valonqar,” you smile, holding your four-year-old in your arms. gods, he grew to hate when you called him that. why must you still refer to him as little? “I hope you have been doing well.”

He wasn't stupid. He knew she was referring to Driftmark. He kept the letters you wrote to him, reassuring him that he was still handsome despite the lost eye.

“I have,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek, too close to your jaw. “And who are these little Lords?”

“Vahaemor, Vigor, Vador, and Vahaegon.” you beam with the most radiant smile he’s seen, the youngest asleep in your arms.

“Motherhood soothes you, mandia.” he coos, cupping one cheek with his left hand. you had to refrain from breaking out into a smile at his affectionate albeit slightly inappropriate gesture.

His eyes flickered to your sons, patting their little heads and smiling down at them. Your oldest son Vahaemor stood proudly, trying his best to imitate Aemondʼs posture.

“And I suppose each one of you will make a fine swordsman?” Aemond teases, to which your boys break out in talk and laughter.

“I'm already better than Vahaemor!” your second-born, Vigor speaks up, causing Vahaemor to grow irritated.

“You could not even beat an infant with a wooden sword!” Vahaemor retorts, lightly shoving Vigor.

“Mother!” Vigor whines, hitting your oldest-bornʼs arm.

“Look what you have caused, Aemond.” you tease playfully, rocking your youngest in your arms as your third-born, Vador, waddles over to Aemond to hug his leg.

“Tʼwas merely a compliment.” Aemond grins, looking down at Vador before taking him in his arms. gods, he should have been their father. he has not inquired yet about your Lord-husband, however, he was certain he could treat you better in any and every way. no doubt that if your husband were out of the picture, he would have had you. he would give your sons silver-haired siblings.

“Mhm,” you sigh softly, smiling up at him. what he wouldn't do to make you smile like that every day. “Let us enter the Keep. I wish to have my youngest sleep on a bed instead of me.”

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 97

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 97: Etched in Flesh

AO3 - Masterlist

The dim glow of the hearth flickered across the stone ceiling, casting restless shadows that crept into the cracks between the old slabs. The firelight wavered and danced, its flicker barely holding against the weight of the night, while the wood in the hearth crackled faintly. Silence hung thick in the air, almost oppressive, as if the night itself pressed down on the room, broken only by the subtle shift of embers and the occasional snap of burning timber.

Sleep had been fleeting for Aemond, drifting in and out like a ghost throughout the long hours of the night. He lay stretched out on the chaise, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, tracing the familiar lines and cracks in the stone above. His mind, however, refused to settle, racing with thoughts that gnawed at him like the persistent chill in the room.

He wasn’t the only one haunted by the night’s restlessness. He had heard her–the soft, ragged breaths she struggled to control, the muffled sobs she tried to desperately suppress. The sound of her quiet grief had pierced the silence, sharp and unavoidable, as though each sob carved a new ache deep in his chest. It wasn’t just sorrow that filled the room, but her frustration as well. He had listened to her toss and turn in the darkness, her sobs giving way to agitated huffs as she shifted beneath the covers, restless and seeking peace that would not come as easily as she might’ve desired. 

Now, the room was quieter, her breathing slow and steady, a soft rhythm of sleep that had finally claimed her. She had been like that for  a while, and though the air felt lighter without the weight of her sorrow, Aemond found no comfort in it. Instead, he lay there, rigid, his own weariness deepening as his mind wandered further into thoughts he wished he could silence. 

The ache behind the sapphire in his eye lingered–a cold, creeping pain, like a serpent coiling and writhing behind it. It was a familiar sensation, one that had haunted him since the day he lost it, growing more relentless since Storm’s End.

But there had been a brief, fleeting reprieve. For a moment, the pain had dulled to nothing when she had touched him, when her hand had grazed his face with a tenderness that betrayed the cruelty of her previous touch. He had seen something in her eyes then, something soft and fragile, teetering on the edge of love–or at least what he thought love was. 

And when she had let him between her legs, when she had let him feast on her, that aching void had vanished altogether. Her body–her touch–had been his refuge, her surrender a balm to the endless torment in his mind–he always felt so dangerously close to peace when he was with her. But like all things, the moment had passed, and the ache had returned, gnawing at him once more. 

The ache returned more sharply than before when she had flung the pillow at him, her voice cutting as she spat the word–Kinslayer. The accusation had cut deep, sharper than any blade, as he knelt before her, stripped of all the pride he wore like armor. He had crawled to her–humbled, desperate–and laid his heart bare, as much as a man like him could. The effort cost him. His heart, though blackened and rotting with the weight of his sins– his desires, his wants–was still hers, offered willingly, if only she would take it. 

But she hadn’t.  

The rejection had torn through him–still tore at him–leaving him raw and bleeding as if she had driven a blade beneath his ribs, angling it upward to pierce his heart and twist it with cruel precision. Every word, every look, felt like a fresh cut, and the festering blackness inside him–his heart, darkened by years of bitterness and resentment–seemed to weep with new wounds. 

He had remained on his knees before her, his pride shattered, his desire for her consuming him like a fire that refused to die. His body burned with the unquenched ache of yearning, the need for her twisting low in his gut, making him feel hollow and desperate. The sharpness of her rejection was unbearable, it left him feeling as though he had been plunged into icy waters, his body burning white-hot with heat like iron drawn from the forge, only to be submerged into cold water. The act of it left him feeling brittle and dejected.

He had wanted to speak, to demand something–anything–that would have bridged the widening chasm between them. But the words had died in his throat, choked by the heavy weight of her disdain. All he could do then was rise from the floor and clean himself up, while his body remained burning for her, desire withering to a hollow ache under the sharp edge of her rejection.

The silence between them was suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth. It mocked the fire that once burned between them, now reduced to ashes. His breath came shallow, his chest tight with the frustration of wanting her and the agony of knowing she did not want him in return. 

The thought that she could reduce the love they shared to nothing more than a base, cardinal desire filled him with bitterness. It made the fire that still simmered low in his stomach, unfulfilled and aching, feel all the more wretched.

But it was love–it had to be. What else could this wretched weakness be but love?

Love was a weakness, and oh, how it weakened him for her. He had never wanted it, had tried to deny it. He had fought against it, tried to uproot it from within himself, but no matter how fiercely he battled, he was powerless against its hold. It had sunk its claws into him, taken root deep inside, growing around his heart like a creeping vine–slow and relentless, choking him with its presence. It was like the stubborn weeds that sprouted on the battlefield long after the bodies had been cleared, or the plants that pushed their way through the cracks in stone walls, thriving where they weren’t meant to. 

It had grown, this love–whether either of them had wanted it to or not. He could feel it in the beat of his heart, in the ever present ache that gnawed at him whenever she stood just out of reach. It was in the way his instincts, so ingrained in him, bent and softened in her presence, in the way he was willing to cast aside everything that he clung to for even a moment of closeness with her. 

Was this not love?

This maddening, weakening force that made him bare his soul to her, that stripped him of the armor he had spent years forging around himself, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. It was the feeling of pressing a blade into her hand, of offering his heart with it–daring her to strike, yet hoping she wouldn’t. And yet, even if she did, he would savor the cold bite of steel against his heart, revel in the pain, if only because it was hers to give. Love was both agony and ecstasy, destruction and devotion. 

What was love if not a matching set of bleeding wounds? Holding onto something that had the power to wound so deeply? Or was it merely madness? 

It didn’t matter how much he bled for her, how she pressed her words to his heart like a blade. As long as she haunted him, as long as she was tethered to him in some way, he could endure the pain. He welcomed it. He could never let her go. 

It made him weak, weaker than he had ever imagined he could be. And he despised it–despised that she had this power over him. Yet, no matter how much he loathed the vulnerability that came with it, no matter how much he tried to sever those vines that choked his heart, they continued to grow. He was ensnared, trapped in a love that had taken root against his will. 

Love had grown between them, whether they wanted it to or not. And now, it was too late to tear it out. She could deny it all she wanted–call it desire, possession, anything to diminish what had bloomed between them. But he knew it was more. And he hoped–desperately–that somewhere, deep within her, she still knew it. That she could still feel it. She had loved him once, after all.

Aemond lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. The soft rhythm of her breath lingered in the air, barely audible in the distance between them–a distance that seemed to nip at the tip of his fingers. 

He raised his hand before his face, turning it slowly in the dim, flickering glow of the hearth. The firelight danced across his skin, casting shifting shadows over the small ridges scattered across his palm–wounds that were slowly mending. They were marks left from that day, when he had told her the truth about her brother, when he had confessed his love, when she had said she loved him too–when he had lost that love. 

Those old wounds were fading now, healing in time, but new ones had joined them–shallow cuts and scrapes, freshly inflicted when he had crawled across the floor to her, desperate and aching, seeking something–acceptance, love, absolution. 

His gaze settled on the scar that slashed deliberately across his palm, the faint pink line standing out against his pale skin. It was a clean, deliberate cut, not jagged like the others, but purposeful–etched with intention. A vow.

He held the memory of the night they had bound their souls together as something sacred. It was etched into him as deeply as the scar on his palm, which still seemed to burn with the weight of the memory. 

He could feel it even now–the sharp sting of the dragonglass as it cut into his flesh, the warmth of her blood mingling with his as they pressed their palms together. Their vows had been spoken in whispers, sealed with the heat of their shared breath and their heart’s blood. She had given herself to him willingly, then–and he to her. 

But now, as he lay in the dark, listening to her quiet breathing, the memory felt distant, as though it belonged to another life. The scar on his palm burned with a dull ache, a reminder of something he couldn't grasp anymore, no matter how hard he tried. He held onto it–the memory of her love, of her choice, of the night when she had been his completely. 

He traced the surface with his eye, as though searching for something in the line–some answer, some reassurance that the bond still held despite the growing distance between them. The light shimmered and wavered, making the scars seem almost alive, as though they too remembered that night, remembered the blood that had sealed them together. 

Aemond clung desperately to the faint, fleeting satisfaction that came with the scars she had left on him. It was something real, something to hold onto in the midst of the growing distance between them. This scar was proof that what had passed between them hadn’t been a dream or an illusion–it hadn’t been solely desire. It had been real. It was real. A stolen moment that shouldn’t have been, but was. Something they had shared. 

And she bore the same scar on her palm. No matter how much she tried to deny him now, she could never erase that. The bond they had forged was marked upon her flesh, just as it was on his, an indelible reminder of what they had shared. She could try to distance herself, speak coldly, reject him–but that scar told the truth she refused to acknowledge. It was as much a part of her as it was of him.

Aemond found it strange, almost unsettling, that he took comfort in this scar, in bearing something so raw and undeniable upon his skin. It was another wound, another brand, yet it grounded him. This, at least, could not be taken away, could not be denied or removed, no matter how much time passed or how distant she became. It was more than just a scar–it was proof of what they had been to each other, a bond sealed in blood and flesh.

As his fingers traced the faint pink line, he realized how bitterly he clung to it. All the words, the rejections, the coldness between them–they couldn’t erase this. The scar was as permanent as the love that had taken root inside him, both a comfort and a reminder of the pain that came with it. 

Yet, even in the agony of her denial, he knew she could never undo what they had done. It was branded into them both.

He flexed his hand, spreading his fingers wide as he felt the pull of his skin stretching over the shallow wounds. The fresh cuts tugged tightly, struggling to hold themselves together, and the scar across his palm grew taut with the motion. The faint ache of healing flesh sent a dull throb through his hand the longer he kept it flexed. 

The faint scent of herbs lingered on his skin from the salve he had dabbed onto the wounds earlier. It was a simple, familiar smell–soothing, meant to heal–but it only made his heart ache. The scent brought back memories of her hands on him, once gentle, once caring. Now, all that remained of that tenderness was the salve she had made long ago. 

He had kept it tucked away in the drawer of his desk, a quiet relic of better days, and had brought it with him when he moved into their shared chambers. It was one of the few personal items he had chosen to bring.

Slowly, he curled his fingers, letting the skin stretch and draw tight over his knuckles before he flexed his hand once more, stretching his fingers, watching the way the muscles shifted beneath the pale surface, the faint tug of pain accompanying each movement. The flickering orange glow of the hearth cast shadows across his hand, the light dancing over his scars, painting them in soft, fleeting patterns. 

Aemond lowered his hand, his gaze shifting towards the bed. The weight of his actions–and the cost–bore down on him, the memory of the boy he had killed creeping into his mind like a cold draft slipping between the stones of the room. 

The chill deepened as the familiar, haunting apparition appeared at her side–Lucerys. He lingered there, a ghostly presence at the edges of Aemond’s consciousness, clinging to him like an unwelcome shadow. No matter how hard he tried, the boy remained with him. 

His jaw tightened as he stared at him. Lucerys stood there, milky eyes staring blankly back at him, his pale skin gleaming sickly in the dim firelight. His dark curls, soaked and matted, clung to his head, his clothes drenched and dripping onto the stone floor with a steady, maddening drip, each drop seeming to echo in the silence. Water pooled beneath the boy’s feet, spreading like an accusation.

The apparition came and went, slipping in and out of existence throughout the night, as real in Aemond’s waking hours as in his nightmares. He had tried to will the boy away, to banish the specter from his mind, but Lucerys lingered, silent and spiteful. 

Aemond gritted his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the apparition, even as the cold, insistent ache in his skull flared sharply–slithering and writhing behind the sapphire like a serpent. The pain intensified, as it always did in the boy’s presence, a cruel reminder of what he could never escape. Lucerys, it seemed, would not let him forget, as though Aemond needed any reminder. The memory of that night was forever branded into him, and now, it seemed, so was the boy he had come to kill. 

He pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, on the unscarred side of his face, trying to quell the sharp pain that radiated through his skull. It was a cold, biting sensation that made him wish, for a fleeting moment, that he could kill Lucerys all over again. Had the boy not taken enough from him? Was he doomed to be haunted, tormented by this ghost for the rest of his life? The constant ache, the searing guilt–had he not paid enough?

His gaze flicked to her sleeping form, soft and peaceful in the dim light, just beyond his reach. All he wanted was to rise from the chaise, crawl into bed beside her, and bury his face in the crook of her neck, to let her warmth chase away the pain, even if Lucerys still stood there, watching with those milky eyes. Somehow, he believed her presence, her touch, could ease the torment, could quiet the relentless pounding in his head–after all, it had done so before. 

Restlessness prickled beneath his skin and with a weary exhale, he pushed himself up from the chaise. The chill of the stone immediately sank into his feet as they touched the floor. His body felt heavy, weighed down by sleeplessness and the ache that never truly left him, but he could no longer remain still.

The familiar leather creaked softly as Aemond reached for his boots, slipping his feet into them with practiced ease. The quiet sound felt oddly grounding in the stillness of the room. He fastened the laces methodically, his fingers moving more out of habit than deliberate effort, his gaze lifting to cast a glance towards the window. The sky was still a deep share of pre-dawn blue, the horizon just beginning to show the faintest light as night slowly receded. 

Aemond rose slowly from the chaise, his body protesting the movement as stiffness clung to his limbs, a dull ache spreading through his muscles. The position he had laid in was far from comfortable, and every joint seemed to remind him of that fact. He stretched, feeling the tightness in his shoulders and neck before turning his gaze to the dying hearth. His steps were heavy, each one weighed with the exhaustion that had plagued him for days–what sleep he had managed brought little relief to the weariness that now seemed a part of him. 

The sharp crackle of glass splintering under his boots shattered the stillness of the room, a jarring intrusion that seemed to reverberate in the silence. The remnants of the broken glasses lay scattered like the wreckage of a memory. The shards caught what little light remained, reflecting it in jagged gleams that danced on the cold stone floor. Each step he took was deliberate, carefully paced, his footfalls softened as much as possible to avoid disturbing Daenera. 

A lingering chill clung to the room, persistent and uncomfortable despite the faint warmth that clung to the dying embers in the hearth. The heat they offered was weak and fading as the fire burned itself out.The embers pulsed weakly, like the final heartbeat of something fading, struggling to hold on. 

Crouching, he picked up a few logs and added them to the embers, watching as the heat slowly seeped into the wood, blackening the edges. The logs began to crackle softly, the glowing embers clinging to them, devouring them inch by inch until the first flicker of flame emerged. He watched the orange tongues of fire lick at the air, growing stronger, feeding off the fresh wood with a quiet but insistent hunger. 

The heat began to radiate off the hearth, curling towards him, warming his skin in gentle waves. It lingered for a moment, a brief comfort. Aemond rose to his feet, the warmth fading almost as quickly as it had come, and cast a glance back towards the bed. The room would be warm by the time she stirred from her sleep. 

Aemond turned from the hearth, his footsteps soft and measured as he moved through the room. He came to stand where Lucerys had once stood, at her side in his ghostly torment. But now, there was no pool of water on the floor, no trace of the boy’s presence–no reason there should be. Lucerys had never truly been there, nothing more than a cruel figment of his imagination, a haunting fragment that clung to him like a shadow. 

His gaze found Daenera–as it always did. She rested peacefully on her side, her dark curls fanned out over the pillow, spilling across the crook of her shoulder and neck. A few wild strands fell into her face, brushing against her cheek. The sight of her stirred something deep within him–a tightening in his chest, that terrible, creeping vine of love twisting itself tighter around his heart. It was an awful, wretched feeling, the kind that both comforted and suffocated him at once.

Her dark lashes fluttered delicately against her cheeks, her lips parted slightly in the soft rhythm of sleep. He watched her in silence, his gaze lingering on the rise and fall of her breath. 

There was a peacefulness to her face as she slept, a softness that seemed so elusive when she was awake. In sleep, her features mellowed, free of the tension and coldness that she wore so well around him. She looked impossibly soft, and Aemond felt a deep, aching longing to climb into bed beside her. He yearned to wrap his arms around her as he once had, to feel her wrath seep into him, to lose himself in her presence and find, if only for a moment, a fleeting sense of peace. Perhaps then, the relentless cold ache behind his sapphire eye would ease, as it had in the past when he held her close. 

The sight of her should have brought him peace, but instead, it only deepened the ache inside him, that unbearable longing for something just out of reach. She seemed so close, yet impossibly distant, her warmth lying just beyond his grasp. 

As he stood there, gazing down at her, he thought of the gaping wound she had left on his heart. She had cut him open in a way no blade ever could, leaving him exposed and vulnerable, a man brought to his knees by a love that unravel him. It was a love that made him beg–beg for her, for the closeness he craved, even though it went against everything he was, everything he had been taught to be. 

Love was a blade. And oh, how deeply he had cut himself on it. He wondered if he would ever truly feel whole again. 

He had made himself pathetic and weak in its pursuit, abandoning his pride and strength just to feel her in his arms again. And yet, despite the pain it caused him, despite the way it hollowed him out and left him bleeding, he still wanted it. He still wanted her. The agony of it was almost unbearable, and yet, there he stood, helpless in his desire, willing to bear the wounds if it meant he could have even a small piece of her.

The desire to reach for her itched at his fingertips. He extended a hand towards her, letting it hover above her sleeping form for a moment, his heart tightening in his chest. The ache behind his sapphire eye flared sharply, throbbing so intensely he could feel it in his teeth. His fingers trembled slightly, twitching with the need to touch her. 

Tentatively, he let his fingers brush against one of her dark curls, the softness of it tickling against his skin. The sensation was almost painful in its gentleness, a reminder of how far she felt from him even as she was right before him. But she was his–truly his. They were bound by marriage, bound by law, and nothing she could do would change that. 

She was his.

The thought echoed through his mind, dark and possessive. He might not hold all of her heart, might not possess her in the way he truly longed for, but she could not escape what they had become. She was his wife, and that fact alone tethered her to him in ways she could never truly sever. He would do whatever it took to keep it that way, to keep her by his side, to protect her, to ensure her safety–no matter what it cost him. 

Aemond cared little for the wounds she might inflict upon him, for the scars she’d leave behind. She could spit venom, claw and rage against him, he would endure it all–gladly, if it meant she remained his. He would bear her scorn, her fury, her resentment, so long as she remained his. 

He was a monster, after all. And monsters loved monstrously. 

He knew the truth of his heart–it was black, hollowed by the weight of his sins, a dark wretched thing shaped by violence and vengeance. He had never been holy, no amount of prayer would absolve him. No redemption awaited him. Yet, despite its darkness, his heart belonged to her–whether she wanted it or not. She could deny him, reject him with all the fury in her soul, but she could not disavow what was hers. He had given it to her, laid it bare before her, rotten with love, knowing full well there would be a reckoning for such vulnerability.

Aemond understood that vulnerability came with a cost. There would be consequences–she would take vengeance in rejection, a need to wound him for the pain he had caused, for the blood that stained his hands. But even as he braced himself for the inevitable sharpness of the blade in her hand, he couldn’t silence the small flicker of hope within him. Somewhere beyond the sharp edges of their reckoning, beyond the storm of anger and grief, there might be room for something else–reconciliation.

The path to reconciliation was far from easy. It was a bloody, broken trail, scarred by the pain and anger they both carried, by the wounds they had inflicted on each other–and the wounds they would inevitably inflict again. Aemond understood this. He knew their love was as much about blood as it was about passion, a bond that could not exist without the scars they shared.

His hand moved almost instinctively, the knuckle of his finger brushing softly against her cheek, the caress feather-light. He could feel the warmth of her skin seep into him, a fleeting comfort that he craved, though he would never admit it aloud–not now, not when the sting of her rejection still burned against his skin. She exhaled softly in her sleep, oblivious to the way his heart beat for her–the agony of it. She made him pathetically soft, and Aemond loathed how weak she made him feel. There was a part of him that utterly despised the vulnerability she drew out of him, hated how much power she had over his heart. 

He knew he couldn’t afford to be weak–not now, with the war looming on the horizon. He needed to steel himself, to lock away the softness she stirred in him. There was more blood to be spilled, and he knew his hands would be stained by it again–would be dripping with it. And when that blood was shed, she would hate him for it, despise him even more than she already did. He could feel that future unfolding, like a shadow cast ahead of him. 

He accepted her hatred–he deserved it, after all. 

But despite that certainty, he couldn’t help but hope for something more. Some part of him, the pathetically soft part of him, longed for her, for her love, even after everything he had done. 

He would wait for it. However long it took, he would wait for the day she might look at him and see something other than a monster. Until then, he would carry the weight of her hatred as penance, knowing it was all he could hope for–for now.

As his fingers hovered just above her, Daenera stirred, drawing in a deep breath and turning over in her sleep, rolling onto her back. His heart tightened, that familiar tension growing in the pit of his stomach–the embers of desire flared, burning low and insistent. His gaze drifted down from her serene face, lingering on her parted lips, then tracing the elegant line of her neck, down to the delicate curve of her collarbones. 

His eye traveled lower, to the smooth expanse of her chest where the low-cut nightgown had slipped from her shoulder. The soft, pale curve of her breast was exposed to him, rising and falling gently with her breath. The chill of the room had caused her nipple to tighten, the small peak of flesh standing out against the cool air. The sight of her stirred something primal within him. 

Aemond clenched his jaw and let his hand fall away, the burn in his lower stomach intensifying, clawing at him with a fierce ache that refused to fade. It had been with him since he had knelt before her and she had denied him. The memory of the rejection lingered, raw and tender. 

Aggravation twisted within him, itching beneath his skin. The tension coiled tight in his chest as he turned away from her, pacing through their bedchamber and out into the common room. His movements were deliberate, controlled, even as frustration clawed at his insides. 

As he walked, his foot knocked against one of the chests of fabric with a dull thud. He paused, body tensing, listening for any signs that he had disturbed sleep. Daenera sighed softly, her breath as calm and steady as before, undisturbed. 

The shadows of the night clung to the room, heavy and thick, deepening in the corners where the light from the dying hearth couldn’t reach. The space felt suffocating, cluttered with chests and gifts scattered about–items that seemed to loom in the darkness. Aemond gritted his teeth, a simmering annoyance burning in his chest, intensified by the struggle of depth perception. He had grown accustomed to navigating his own chambers, where every item had its place and the floor remained clear. But here, even in spaces meant to be familiar, he found himself having to tread carefully, mindful of each step, each movement.

It was yet another bitter reminder of what he had lost–a consequence of Lucerys’ actions. His frustration was only exaggerated by the darkness. 

The urge to curse Lucerys flared within him, a familiar anger simmering just below the surface. The boy’s death had done little to ease the resentment–it had not restored his eye. Even now, in the quiet of night, Aemond found himself haunted by what had been taken from him–by the limitations he despised, by the unevenness of his sight.

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily quiet as he stepped out of their chambers, the heavy door closing softly behind him. Night still clung to the space, casting long, thick shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly along the stone walls. Despite the faint glow from the inner courtyard and the braziers positioned throughout the corridors, their orange flames flickering weakly, the darkness remained dominant. The  sparse light did little to push back the gloom, leaving most of the hallways swathed in shadow, adding to the quiet stillness that permeated the air. 

Aemond moved with purpose, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone floor, the low, flickering light casting his form into a series of shifting silhouettes as he passed from one dimly lit patch to the next. He pushed open the doors to his chambers, the familiar space offering little in the way of true comfort. The room now felt as hollow as the ache gnawing at him. He moved swiftly, heading straight to the corner where his training doublet lay–a worn, padded garment that had seen years of use. Its rough texture was familiar under his fingers as he picked it up and threw it on with practiced ease.

Irritation flickered through him as he tugged his hair free from beneath the collar. The braids had come loose, tugged askew and ruined by her hands–the reminder was a small annoyance but enough to grate on his already fraying nerves. He undid them quickly, running his fingers through his silver locks before gathering them back into the usual style, securing it tightly with a leather strap. 

His movements were quick, impatient, the simple task unable to distract him from the restless energy coiling beneath his skin. Finally, he reached for his leather eye patch. The press of it against his scarred eye sent a flare of discomfort through him, his jaw clenching as the insistent ache intensified. The edges of the patch rubbed against the sensitive skin, constantly reminding him of it–reminding of what he had lost, of the pain he carried, and the vengeance he had sought. 

Aemond picked up his sword, the weight of it in his hand offering a semblance of comfort–familiar, heavy and deadly–and strode out of his chambers into the dimly lit corridor. The Holdfast remained eerily quiet, with only a few servants scurrying past him, their heads bowed as they hurried along their tasks. The halls felt emptier than usual at this hour, the air thick with stillness. He surmised it was due to the lingering effects of the wedding celebration. Few were awake, and even fewer were up and about, leaving the halls desolate–even from the usual scurrying of servants preparing for the day to come. 

As he made his way through the corridors and into the great hall, he descended the stairs with quick, purposeful steps, the sound of his boots echoing through the silence. The emptiness of the hall pressed in around him, heightening the sound of every movement. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was met by Ser Criston Cole, who emerged from the shadows of the hall. Criston’s gait was steady, coming from the direction of his mother’s chambers. 

Ser Criston glanced up, the frown on his face deepening with unease as Aemond descended the final steps. His dark eyes shifted cautiously as Aemond slowed, clearly unsettled by the unexpected encounter. “My prince,” Ser Criston greeted, his voice carrying a hint of wary surprise. “You’re up early…”

Aemond simply muttered in response, “Couldn’t sleep.” His tone was clipped, and he shifted slightly on his feet, not in the mood for conversation. His gaze flickered briefly to the white cloak clutched in Ser Criston’s hand, a small detail that drew his attention more than the words exchanged. He dismissed it, thinking nothing of it.

“That makes two of us,” Ser Criston replied, shifting his stance. “I thought I’d make myself useful and take over for Ser Richard Thorn, standing guard for Her Grace.”

Aemond nodded curtly, his mind already elsewhere, the conversation doing little to distract him from the gnawing frustration that had driven him out of his chambers. He glanced towards the direction of his mother’s chambers, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword as the weight of the night settled further on his shoulders. 

He gave a noncommittal hum before turning sharply on his heel, heading down the corridor that followed the inner courtyard. The cool bite of morning air greeted him as he stepped into the open space, the chill brushing against his skin. The sky had grown lighter, though just barely–there was still some time before the sun would break over the horizon. 

Pushing through the heavy doors of the Holdfast, Aemond made his way towards the tiltyard, his steps steady and purposeful. The pre-dawn quiet clung to the air, a stillness only broken by the crunch of gravel and mud beneath his boots. The walls of the Red Keep loomed around him, their stone taking on a deep, wine-red hue in the dim light, shadows stretching across them from the flickering braziers that lined the walls. Guards patrolled the battlements, their figures dark against the faint glow of the torches, some walking the perimeter in a steady, vigilant rhythm. 

The world around him was quiet, but Aemond’s thoughts were far from it. The tension of the sleepless night, the restless energy that churned inside him, pushed him forward, his sword heavy at his side. The tiltyard lay ahead, and though the morning air was cold, it wasn’t enough to temper the heat that smoldered within him.

Aemond gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his knuckles pale against the steel, before drawing it from its sheath with a sharp, ringing sound. The steel sang as it cut through the air, a familiar sound that stirred something within him. He tossed the empty sheath aside, forgotten, and immediately advanced on the wooden training dummy.

Each swing of his blade bit into the wood with a solid thunk, the force of the blows reverberating up the sword and into his hands. He felt the vibrations, but they no longer pained him–not after years of relentless training. The strikes came fast and furious, his frustrations pouring out with every hit. In his mind, the dummy became a stand-in for all of his anger: his indulgent brother, his brother’s foolish friends, his uncle, the boy who haunted his nights, and then, inevitably, the Rogue Prince himself. 

The sound of wood splintering filled the air as he hacked and slashed at the dummy, each swing more aggressive than the last. His breath quickened, his body moving with brutal precision as he carved into the wood, driving his frustrations deeper with every blow. He spun his sword expertly in his hand before delivering another devastating strike, the blade slicking clean through the dummy’s arm. The severed piece fell to the ground with a dull thud, the wood jagged and splintered at the break. 

Aemond’s chest heaved, his breath sharp and fast in the cold morning air, which burned in his lungs. His body was warm, slick with the excretion, but still the frustration simmered inside him. His hands tightened once more around the hilt, ready for more, as if the act of destruction alone could soothe the tempest within–as though the ache of each blow that reverberated up his arms would ease the ache in his head, in his heart. 

The world around him gradually brightened, the sky above shifting from the deep blue of night to a soft, glowing hue as dawn approached. A warm spill of color began to stretch across the horizon–gold and orange bleeding into one another, deepening into a rich red before lightening once more. The early morning painted the sky in a slow, fiery sweep, the first rays of sunlight beginning to touch the stone walls of the Keep.

As the sky changed, so did the stillness within the castle. Slowly, the Keep came to life, the once-silent courtyards stirring with activity. More servants emerged, starting their day as they moved purposefully, preparing the morning tasks and services.

Some servants began the quiet task of dismantling the remnants of the wedding celebration, moving with purpose through the now-stirring Keep. Bouquets of flowers were gathered and carried away, their vibrant colors faded by the dawn light. Trays of half-eaten food were swiftly collected, remnants of the previous night’s indulgence gathered to be distributed to the orphanages of Flea Bottom. Linen tablecloths, stained from spilled wine and merriment, were stripped from the tables and carried off to be washed. The grandeur of the night before was being methodically erased, the hall slowly returning to its usual state as life resumed its unrelenting routine.

Aemond ignored the activity around him, his focus narrowing as he stepped away from the battered, splintered remains of the wooden dummy. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, the steel slicing through the air with a sharp, satisfying swish. He moved fluidly, going through the practiced motions–blocking, parrying, and thrusting the blade towards where his enemy’s heart would be. 

Even as he moved, he could feel the weight of eyes on him, a prickling sensation that grated on his already frayed nerves. His gaze flickered briefly to the side, catching sight of Ser Wyllam Lefford and Eddard Waters leaning casually against the wall, their arms crossed as they watched him with amused expressions. The sight of their smug smiles only served to fuel the irritation simmering beneath his skin. 

“A fine morning, Prince Aemond,” Ser Wyllam called out, offering a nod that was anything but deferential. “I trust your wife bears no ill will for being left so soon to her own company…”

His grip tightened on the hilt as he launched another strike, pouring the tension of the night’s torment into each movement. Each step was a study in control, every movement deliberate and exact, etched into muscle and memory by years of relentless discipline. He had no patience for conversation, especially not with one of his brother’s lickspittles. Ignoring their presence was as much a mercy for them as it was a choice for himself. 

Ser Wyllam exchanged a look with Eddard, their amusement deepening as they continued their idle observation, clearly hoping for some reaction. They whispered to one another, their voices low but pointed, just loud enough to graze Aemond's awareness without fully drawing him in.

“Most men would be tangled in their sheets–or their wives–come the morning after a wedding,” Ser Wyllam remarked, his voice carrying across the courtyard with a needling, mocking edge. He chuckled as he spoke, as if his jest was too clever to keep to himself, the smirk on his face deepening as he waited for a reaction.

At his side, Ser Eddard Waters shot his friend a look of mild reproach, reaching out to clap Wyllam’s shoulder in a gesture meant to check his boldness. 

“Ease off, Wyllam. Not all of us are made for dawn practice, especially not when we’re nursing last night’s wine,” he muttered, casting a wary glance toward Aemond, whose mood was all too evident in the tightness of his grip and the intensity of his stance. Even Eddard seemed to sense that this morning, Aemond’s patience was thinner than the mist rising from the cold stone.

But Wyllam only laughed, shrugging off Eddard’s caution with a lazy grin. “Oh, come now,” he replied, his tone laced with insolence, “surely the prince won’t mind a jest or two? A bit of morning mirth, to start the day?”

With a controlled, deliberate movement, Aemond turned his sword in his hand, the blade glinting faintly as he twisted it in a slow, restless arc. The edge of the steel caught the morning light, a flash of cold promise, as his gaze settled on Wyllam’s with an unwavering intensity. His stare was cold, sharp, and unamused–a silent warning, the only one he would give.

The tension in the tiltyard thickened, the quiet dawn seeming to hold its breath. His pulse thundered in his ears, his senses narrowing as if the world had shrunk to the space between him and the smirking knight before him. He could feel his muscles coiling, his body tense and poised as though preparing to strike, every nerve taut with the barely restrained desire to put an end to Wyllam’s insolence.

But he held back–just barely. His self-control, honed to an edge as sharp as his blade, kept him anchored, though every second that passed tested the limits of his restraint. With each heartbeat, each blink, Wyllam’s smug expression seemed to grow more insufferable, his very presence fueling the simmering annoyance that threatened to break through Aemond’s tightly held composure.

“I didn’t expect to find you here, of all places. Especially at such an ungodly hour.” Ser Wyllam hummed, with a slight smirk. “Well, I’m sure the princess knew who she was marrying–a man who takes his devotion to the sword quite seriously.”

The barb twisted deeper, needling at Aemond’s already fragile restraint. He felt the heat surge in his chest, his knuckles tightening around the hilt of his sword until his grip nearly ached. Had it been up to him, he would have spent the night–and day–in bed with his wife, losing himself in the feel of her body, in the warmth and closeness they should have shared. But, as with so many things in his life, that had been denied him. She had recoiled from him, rejected his touch, and refused to believe in the love he had bared so vulnerably. She didn’t believe that his heart bled for her, that he would bleed for her.

The thought seared through him, feeding the fire that simmered just beneath his skin. Without a word, he continued, spinning his sword with practiced grace, taking a few measured steps before pivoting sharply and swinging the blade in a clean arc. The steel sliced through the wooden dummy’s head with ease, cleaving it neatly in two. The bucket that had been perched atop the dummy’s head shattered on impact, falling to the ground with a heavy thud, splintered pieces scattering across the courtyard.

A slow, mocking clap cut through the air, punctuating the silence left by the splintered remains of Aemond’s assault on the training dummy. Ser Wyllam leaned against the wall with a lazy smirk, his hands coming together in exaggerated applause. His expression brimmed with insolence, and he took his time before speaking, letting his words drip with a mocking reverence.

“An impressive display, my prince,” Wyllam’s voice carried a lilt of amusement as he took a step forward, his eyes alight with gleeful malice. "A shame, though, if such skill failed you in… gentler pursuits.” He paused, savoring the effect of his words. "All that mastery, all that precision–spent on wood and steel, rather than on the woman you call wife. What worth has a blade so finely honed if it cannot answer the call when true need arises?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles paled against the dark leather. Wyllam’s voice, laced with thinly veiled scorn, grated against him, stoking the fire simmering just beneath the surface. The knight’s words, like so many barbs, pried at Aemond’s restraint, twisting in deeper with each calculated pause and contemptuous smirk.

He said nothing, holding Wyllam’s gaze with an unblinking intensity, his single, steely eye cold and unyielding, a silent warning that the knight was testing the limits of his patience. The training yard felt smaller, the walls closing in as the tension in the air thickened. A faint breeze rustled through the yard, catching stray leaves that scattered at their feet, but even this quiet movement seemed hushed, anticipating the violence brewing in Aemond’s silence.

Wyllam, either too foolish or too emboldened by his audience, continued with a satisfied tilt to his grin. “Or perhaps,” he drawled, his voice softening with false sympathy, “the problem lies not with you, but with the lady’s own heart–”or lack thereof. Sad, truly, when a man’s blade meets only cold steel in return.”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed, his entire stance coiled with a deadly tension, ready to strike. He did not lower his sword. Instead, he let the tip rest against the ground, a deliberate move that allowed Wyllam to see he was one word away from inviting a duel that would end any notion of mercy.

His stare cut through the space between them, cold and unflinching, a gaze stripped of any pretense of amusement. His single eye held a seething intensity, a barely contained storm that lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. His grip on his sword was steady, the hilt held with the ease of long familiarity but bearing an implicit threat. 

“Ser Wyallam,” Aemond hummed, his voice low, each syllable measured and deliberate, “do you fancy yourself a brave man?”

The question fell like a weight, heavy and sharp, slicing through the taunting air Wyllam had stirred. It lingered, taut as a drawn bowstring, the silence around them thickening, suffused with a palpable tension. The humor that had lit Wyllam’s smirk began to wither, the edge of his confidence dulling as the gravity of Aemond’s words sank in. He shifted slightly, his posture faltering as the faintest flicker of unease crept into his expression, a crack in the mask he had worn so arrogantly.

“You’d need to be brave,” He said, his voice held no trace of humor, each word laced with an icy menace that matched the cold steel resting in his grip. “Or exceptionally foolish to speak so freely to me now.”

Slowly, he raised his sword, the blade gleaming faintly in the morning light as its point aligned with Wyllam’s chest, a silent promise of consequences yet to come. 

“Do you think mocking me is wise?” His words cut through the cold like a knife, each syllable sharpened with purpose–spoken with such deliberate softness it seemed to only sharpen them. He took a measured, predatory step forward, his gaze unrelenting as he closed the distance, his sword unwavering. 

The air between them felt as thick as smoke, heavy with a tension that seemed to pull tighter with every passing second. The smug confidence that had shaped their expressions only moments ago now flickered, faltering under the weight of his scrutiny. The easy arrogance that had curled their lips faded, replaced by a creeping unease that neither could fully mask. Brief, uncertain glances passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the danger they now faced.

Even Eddard Waters, who had mostly held his silence until now, shifted his stance and cast his gaze away, visibly unsettled by the prince’s icy intensity. The easy bravado that had carried their taunts felt brittle now, cracked beneath the pressure of Aemond’s unyielding scrutiny, leaving them both stripped of their earlier assurance.

“Hmm?” Aemond hummed with dark amusement, the question more taunt than inquiry. They all knew exactly who he was–what he was. The Kinslayer, the rider of Vhagar, the largest and most fearsome dragon alive. The knowledge lingered in the air like a shadow, a reminder of the power he held and the devastation he was capable of unleashing.

He let his fingers flex around the hilt of his sword, his grip tightening as he moved forward. The sharp crunch of his boots against the gravel rang out in the stillness, each step steady and deliberate, a rhythm that underscored his threat. The men before him dared not stir, but their sideways glances betrayed their unease, as if they wished they could dissolve into the shadows.

Aemond’s gaze fixed on Ser Wyllam, his lips curling in a slight sneer that conveyed both disdain and warning. His voice, when he spoke, was as sharp as the blade he held, cutting through the silence with an authority that left no room for misinterpretation.

“What became of that boldness you flaunted just moments ago?” Aemond’s voice dripped with contempt, his head tilting slightly, his single eye gleaming with an unmistakable malice. A faint, mocking smile touched his lips as he took another slow, deliberate step forward, savoring the tension that crackled in the air between them.

“You seem rather… invested in my affairs, Ser Wyllam,” he continued, his tone sharp and biting. He closed the distance further, letting the weight of his words sink in, his gaze locked unerringly on the knight’s face. “I wonder–could it be jealousy that drives your tongue?” he hummed softly, the mockery threaded through his words like venom.

He let the question linger, each syllable cutting deeper. “A man like you,” he said, his voice a low murmur of disdain, “I imagine has precious little else to occupy his time. Wagging that tongue of yours, drowning in wine, praying for the King to toss you some small scrap from his table, hoping for a position you’ll never deserve. Tell me, Ser Wyllam,” he sneered, “does it chafe, knowing you are little more than a craven, desperately clawing for relevance?”

The word ‘craven’ dropped from Aemond’s lips like a blade falling, weighted and contemptuous, and he watched the insult strike Ser Wyllam with unerring accuracy. The knight’s face darkened, his smug expression faltering as his pride took the blow. His brow knit in anger, his lips thinning to a tight line, and a wounded gleam flared in his eyes.

Wyllam pushed off the wall, fists clenching at his sides as anger contorted his face into an ugly sneer. His voice, now sharpened by the boldness found in fury, cut through the air. “Who are you calling craven, Kinslayer?”

Ser Eddard Waters stepped forward quickly, his hand coming down firmly on Wyllam’s shoulder, his voice low and urgent. “Don’t–”

“Who are you calling craven?” Wyllam barked, louder this time, shrugging off the hand that sought to restrain him. “Who are you to call anyone craven when you murdered your own nephew?”

The words tore through the crisp morning air, sharp and irreverent–a reckless challenge that left a chilling silence in its wake. Aemond’s face was a mask of cold fury, his single eye narrowing to a dangerous slit as his composure coiled like a serpent poised to strike. Slowly, with the deliberate grace of a predator, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. The blade came forward in a measured arc, its cold steel tip pressing into Ser Wyllam’s chest, a touch as sharp as the threat in his gaze.

“Say it again,” he commanded.

Aemond’s voice was low, deceptively calm, but each word held the unmistakable weight of a promise–a quiet menace that carried the promise of violence barely held at bay. The gathered men froze, their breaths shallow, as if the very air had turned colder under the weight of Aemond’s presence. The silence grew thick around them, heavy with unspoken consequences, as his blade remained steady, the authority in his words settling over them like a funeral shroud.

“Say it again,” He repeated, his voice even softer this time, though the razor-sharp edge in his tone was unmistakable, as cutting as the steel pressing against Wyllam’s chest.

Aemond’s lips twisted into a mirthless smile, his face a cold mask of fury. “Call me kinslayer again,” he murmured, “and let’s see how sharp your tongue is once I cut it from your mouth.”

Ser Wyllam’s face hardened, though his bravado faltered, and a flicker of fear betrayed him in his eyes. He squared his shoulders, forcing the words out even as his voice wavered. “You can’t harm me,” he managed, though the tremor in his tone was plain. “Your brother, the King, wouldn’t allow it.”

Aemond tilted his head, a cold smile curling at the edge of his lips. Without a word, he cast a slow, mocking glance around the courtyard, his expression almost amused, as though genuinely searching for his brother. The tension in the courtyard hung thick, the onlookers watching in a tense, breathless silence, eyes locked on the scene as Aemond’s disdainful gaze swept over them. The weight of his unspoken challenge settled heavily in the air, daring anyone to interfere.

His gaze returned to Ser Wyllam, sharp as a drawn blade. “I don’t see my brother here,” he said in a low, dangerous drawl. “And even if he were, I doubt he’d be foolish enough to value your miserable tongue above me… or my dragon.”

A glint of amusement flickered over Aemond’s lips, his gaze never leaving Wyllam as he tilted his head with a mocking hum. “Shall we put it to the test?” he challenged. “Or are you too much of a craven to stand by the words that spill from your tongue?”

Wyllam’s face contorted in a scowl, pride stung past the point of reason. His jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed, anger flashing in his gaze as he shrugged off Ser Eddard Waters, who tried to pull him back.

“Let it go,” Ser Eddard murmured, voice tight with apprehension. “There’s no need for this.”

“I wonder, Ser Wyllam,” Aemond’s voice dripped with mockery, “are you truly a man, or merely another fool hiding his behind knightly armor?” His lips curled in a mocking smile. “Perhaps the court could make better use of you. You certainly have a fool's tongue, well-suited to wagging for laughs rather than wielding steel.”

Wyllam’s sneer deepened as he shoved away Ser Eddard’s restraining hand, striding off toward the weapons rack beneath the shadow of the battlements. His boots crunched against the gravel, each step bristling with anger, his posture rigid and his gaze fixed forward.

Aemond watched him with a faint, satisfied smile, a flicker of dark amusement sparking in his chest. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, but he remained motionless, his stance calm, assured. There was no urgency in his demeanor, no need to chase or hurry; he knew his own skill, and he anticipated Wyllam’s next move with a serene confidence. Whatever fight the knight intended to bring, Aemond was more than prepared to end it.

He spun his sword in a fluid arc, the blade slicing through the crisp morning air with practiced precision as he moved back onto the training grounds. The tiltyard stretched around him, a space marked by years of relentless training, where he had pursued mastery with singular focus. Though the morning was cold, Aemond’s body was warm, his muscles primed from the earlier exertion, each movement flowing with effortless confidence, a subtle arrogance radiating from him as he readied himself for the clash ahead.

Opposite him, Ser Wyllam took his position, his posture stiff, shoulders lifted, his entire body wound as tightly as a drawn bowstring. There was a prideful defiance in his stance, a sharp edge born of anger, but Aemond noted the tension lurking beneath it–a sign of the fury and frustration simmering just below the surface. The grip of Wyllam’s sword was rigid, his knuckles blanching, as if he believed brute force alone would see him through the duel.

Aemond’s gaze traveled over Wyllam’s stance, absorbing every detail, a faint, confident smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he observed the knight’s strain, already understanding the weakness within it.

He stood with an almost languid ease, his sword resting casually in his hand, his posture relaxed and unhurried. A faint smirk played at the corner of his lips, the look of a predator patiently circling its prey. His confidence was not merely a match for Wyllam’s; it overpowered it entirely. He was here to show that he was not a man to be mocked but one to be feared. His heartbeat was steady and controlled, a slow, deliberate rhythm beneath his ribs, unlike the frantic pulse he imagined was pounding in Wyllam’s chest.

With a sharp intake of breath, Ser Wyllam moved first, lunging forward with a sweeping strike, his sword arcing down with all the force he could muster. But Aemond reacted with practiced fluidity, slipping easily to the side, the blow missing him by inches. His movements were seamless, every step calculated, every shift deliberate, his single eye locked onto Wyllam with unwavering focus.

The knight recovered quickly, whipping his sword around in a swift attempt to catch Aemond off guard. But once again, Aemond was faster–his blade met Ser Wyllam’s with a ringing clash that echoed off the stone walls of the tiltyard, the sharp sound of steel against steel reverberating through the crisp morning air.

Aemond allowed Wyllam to press the attack, his movements fluid and controlled, sidestepping and parrying as though he were dancing rather than dueling. Each swing from Wyllam grew harder, more desperate, yet Aemond countered every strike with effortless grace, his feet unshaken, his breathing calm and measured. He was toying with the knight, letting him believe he had a chance, and all the while a mocking smile played on Aemond’s lips, deepening with each of Wyllam’s increasingly frantic swings.

With each dodge and deflection, Aemond’s amusement only grew, the predator’s satisfaction gleaming in his eye as he watched Wyllam’s movements unravel into raw frustration.

The courtyard echoed with the relentless rhythm of clashing steel, each strike resounding off the Red Keep’s walls. The crisp morning air filled with the sharp clang of metal, a steady, discordant drumbeat of tension and fury. But Aemond’s patience began to wear thin; the frustrated growls escaping Ser Wyllam with each missed blow no longer held the same amusement. With a shift in stance, Aemond pressed forward, his strikes becoming sharp, swift, and merciless.

Ser Wyllam, still stumbling in his own frustration, struggled to keep pace, narrowly dodging Aemond’s precision strikes, his attempts to counter awkward and clumsy. Their swords met in another jarring clash, the force vibrating through the courtyard like a crack of thunder. But Wyllam, seemingly fueled by wounded pride, took a bold risk–stepping forward, he seized Aemond’s wrist in a desperate grip, his face twisted with effort as he tried to bend Aemond to his will.

For a brief moment, they were locked together, swords forgotten as Wyllam strained against him, his knuckles white with the force he exerted. His grip tightened, and he leaned into Aemond, attempting to force his arm down. Aemond’s eye flickered, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he allowed Wyllam to believe, just for an instant, that he’d gained the upper hand.

Then, without warning, Aemond’s free hand shot forward, seizing Wyllam’s shoulder in a bruising grip. Rather than pulling away, he let the knight draw him in, moving with the momentum. In one brutal, fluid motion, Aemond drove his knee up into Wyllam’s gut, the force of the blow cutting through him like a blade. Wyllam doubled over, the air leaving his lungs in a pained wheeze, his grip slackening as his face twisted in shock and agony.

Aemond’s expression remained icy and implacable, satisfaction flickering across his face as he seized the moment, twisting sharply and effortlessly throwing Wyllam to the ground.

The knight hit the ground hard, a resounding thud marking his fall. He lay sprawled, struggling to draw breath, veins bulging beneath his eyes, spit glistening on his lips–utterly defeated. The courtyard seemed to absorb the finality of his collapse, as the fight drained from him and he lay gasping, exposed and humbled at Aemond’s feet.

“Is that all you have?” Aemond drawled, tilting his head slightly, his tone laced with bored contempt. “I expected more from you, Ser Wyllam. I thought, at the very least, you’d make me work for it.”

Ser Wyllam, battered and breathless, forced himself upright with a ragged gasp, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword for balance. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing spit and sweat across the dark fabric, his face flushed an angry crimson. His eyes were still watery from the force of the blow that had emptied his lungs, and his stance wavered, though he managed to steady himself enough to meet Aemond’s gaze.

“You–” he spat, pausing to catch his breath, his voice strained with barely concealed fury. “You think knocking the wind out of me makes you strong? I suppose it’s the only thing you’re good for–stealing the breath of a man… or a boy.” He straightened, bitterness hardening his expression. “And little else.”

The words hung in the air, cutting and deliberate, and for a moment, even the chill of the courtyard seemed to sharpen as Wyllam met Aemond’s eyes with a defiant glare.

Ser Eddard Waters had evidently seen enough. He strode forward, placing a firm hand on Wyllam’s shoulder, his voice low and urgent. “Stop this, Wyllam,” he muttered, his concern unmistakable as he tried to pull the knight back, his grip steady yet pleading.

But Wyllam’s wounded pride proved too consuming. He shoved Eddard aside, stubbornly advancing, his sword raised, the blade trembling slightly but still leveled at him. Aemond stood a few paces away, watching with an air of detached amusement, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips as he observed the knight’s faltering resolve.

“Did–did your wife ask you to keep that eyepatch on?” Wyllam spat, his voice strained and breathy from the effort, each word a gamble. Despite his faltering strength, the taunt hung in the air, aimed to sting.

In an instant, Aemond’s amusement vanished, dissipating like mist under a harsh sun. His chest tightened as a spark of rage flared, igniting the carefully controlled embers of his temper. He stood utterly still, his eye narrowing into a cold gleam, now filled with a lethal warning.

“Wyllam, enough!” Ser Eddard hissed, desperation edging his voice as he stepped in once more, casting a pleading, apologetic look back at Aemond. “Forgive him, my prince. He’s had too much wine, and it’s made him foolish and insolent. He speaks without thought–”

Indeed, Aemond thought, his grip on his sword tightening, his stance shifting with the slightest inclination toward violence.

But Wyllam wasn’t finished. He tore himself from Eddard’s grip, his bitterness sharpened to a sneering edge. “I imagine she would,” he spat, his voice a labored hiss, barely concealing the resentment twisting his features. “Anything to avoid staring at that scar of yours… though keeping it hidden doesn’t help much, does it?”

Eddard made a final attempt to restrain him, but Wyllam struggled forward, his body trembling with effort. “I wonder,” he taunted, forcing the words out between heaving breaths, “if she wishes for anyone else in bed than you. Must be why you’re out here, isn’t it? She can’t stand the sight of you!”

The words hung in the air, barbed and venomous, each one more reckless than the last. Aemond’s face remained composed, but the air around him seemed to turn colder, crackling with a silence that carried the weight of imminent violence.

Wyllam’s sneer twisted further, his words biting deeper, each syllable laced with scorn as he let out a hoarse, mocking laugh. “Who would want you?” he spat. “And you call me craven? You–”

“Enough!” Eddard’s shout cut through the air, his voice trembling with desperation as he stepped firmly between them, his hands pressing hard against Wyllam’s shoulders, trying to force him back. “You need to stop this!”

His gaze darted to Aemond, alarm flickering in his eyes, fully aware of the danger Wyllam had provoked. The tension thickened, and Eddard’s hands tightened against his friend’s shoulders, as though sheer force might restrain the foolishness that now threatened to cost him dearly.

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile, a low hum escaping his throat. “Mmh, I wonder,” he murmured, his eye fixed on Ser Wyllam with a predator’s focus–gleaming with the promise of violence. He raised his sword, the blade catching the pale morning light as he made a subtle, deliberate gesture for Eddard to step aside. “How far that tongue of yours will carry you…” His head tilted, the cruel edge of his smile deepening. “When I am finished with you.”

A shadow of grim understanding flickered across Eddard’s face. He hesitated, his eyes shifting between Aemond and Wyllam, as if searching for any hope of retreat. But the weight of what was about to unfold pressed down like iron; there was no path left to stave off the storm gathering in Aemond’s gaze.

With a reluctant breath, Eddard stepped back, his hands falling to his sides as he accepted the futility of his efforts. His eyes held a brief, regretful glance toward Wyllam before he moved aside, understanding fully that his words had no power left to prevent what was to come.

Aemond’s gaze stayed locked on Wyllam, his single eye wide and ablaze with cold, controlled fury, a fire that burned with a deadly purpose. His chest felt taut, each breath fueling the smoldering rage coiled tightly within him. To be branded a Kinslayer in hushed tones was one thing, a whispered insult in the shadows; but to have it hurled openly at him, accompanied by jabs at his marriage–that was a slight he could neither forgive nor ignore.

His grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles whitening as he stalked forward, every step deliberate, each movement underscoring his intent. There would be no mercy, no restraint–he would make an example of Ser Wyllam, a lasting reminder of what it meant to cross him.

Aemond hummed softly, his head tilting in mock contemplation. “Or perhaps,” he mused, his tone laced with false sympathy, “you’re hoping I’ll be merciful? I have been known to hold back… on occasion.”

The lie was evident to everyone present. Aemond had never been merciful.

There was no mercy when he had demanded Lucerys carve out his own eye as payment for his, his demand cold and unforgiving. He had pursued the boy like a shadow, laughter ringing sharp and merciless through the wind. Lucerys’s terror only fueled him, each taunt slicing through the thunder as he drew closer. And there was nothing close to mercy when Vhagar’s jaw had closed around him, swallowing the boy in a single breath.

At least, that’s what they all believed. None of them knew the truth–that in that final, irreversible moment, he had lost control, that Vhagar had acted on her own, beyond his desperate command. They thought it had been his intention all along, and he had no desire to correct their beliefs. Let them think it had been his will, let the world whisper the name Kinslayer with horror.

That cursed title would follow him until his dying breath. But if they were to curse him, despise him, he would ensure they feared him above all.

Wyllam lunged first, his sword sweeping forward in a wild, desperate strike that Aemond sidestepped smoothly, the blade slicing through empty air where he had stood only moments before. Wyllam’s sword swung around again in a frantic arc, and this time, Aemond met it head-on. Their blades clashed, the sharp ring of steel echoing through the tiltyard, a brief, violent harmony that held for a heartbeat as their swords locked before breaking apart.

They traded blow after blow, the air between them alive with the hiss and scrape of metal. Aemond moved with a calm, calculated grace, each strike precise, every motion controlled. In contrast, Wyllam’s attacks were frantic and unsteady, his form crumbling beneath Aemond’s relentless composure.

Then, without warning, Aemond drove his elbow into Wyllam’s face, a brutal blow that connected with a sickening crack. The knight stumbled back, his expression contorted in shock and pain as blood poured from his shattered nose, painting his face a vivid crimson. The fight was rapidly slipping from his grasp, and the fear in his eyes betrayed the grim realization that he was utterly outmatched.

Aemond allowed the knight no chance to recover. In one fluid, merciless motion, he swung his sword with ease, disarming Wyllam in a single swipe. The knight’s blade clattered to the ground, the sound swallowed by the force of Aemond’s next move–a brutal kick to his chest that sent him sprawling backward into the dirt. Dust rose around him as he hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping once again.

Aemond advanced, his expression cold and implacable. Without a moment’s hesitation, he raised his boot and brought it down squarely on Wyllam’s face, a sharp, sickening crack reverberating through the courtyard as the knight’s jaw snapped under the blow. Blood poured from Wyllam’s mouth, forming a dark line that dribbled from the corner of his lips, his wide, tear-filled eyes betraying the searing pain that gripped him.

Towering over the defeated knight, Aemond drove his heel into Wyllam’s chest, pinning him against the earth as the knight's hands clawed desperately at his boot, fingers scrabbling for any hold, trying in vain to pry himself free. But Aemond only pressed down harder, his heel grinding into Wyllam’s breastbone, the pressure relentless as he watched agony contort Wyllam’s bloodied face, cold satisfaction flickering in his gaze.

The sharp, labored breaths of Ser Wyllam filled the courtyard, each ragged inhale cut by pained gasps as he struggled beneath his boot. The sound was coarse, strangled–a fitting backdrop to his utter defeat. Aemond held his heel firmly against the knight’s chest, his gaze chilling and unsympathetic. Beneath his boot, he could feel Wyllam’s ribs yielding, each fragile bone straining beneath the pressure, dangerously close to cracking. 

Aemond’s gaze flicked to the growing circle of onlookers gathered at a careful distance–servants clutching their skirts, guards keeping to the walls, even a few nobles peering with wide-eyed interest and thinly veiled horror. Their faces varied between revulsion and fear, unease weaving through them. But he saw more than fear in their eyes–there was judgment, an accusation simmering beneath their lowered gazes, whispers of disdain held tightly behind closed lips. 

Good, he thought, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smirk. 

Let them watch. Let them carry whispers back to their halls, their whispers of his cruelty and ruthlessness. None would dare voice their contempt openly, now, not as they witnessed his swift, calculated retribution. He was aware of their judgments and disgust, yet he found himself untouched by it. After all, power bred resentment, and fear was a far more enduring currency than any show of kindness.

Lowering his gaze back to Wyllam, Aemond leaned in, letting his voice fall low, each word laced with chilling clarity. “You seemed so confident in your taunts, Ser Wyllam,” he murmured, his voice a venomous whisper. “So eager to test me. Tell me, does courage fail you now?”

The knight struggled for breath, his face twisted in pain, yet defiance flared in his eyes. His trembling hand clawed weakly at Aemond's boot, each movement a pathetic attempt at resistance. Aemond only pressed down harder, feeling the bones beneath shift and yield, a subtle, ominous creak beneath his weight.

Aemond lowered the sword with precise, measured intent, letting its tip hover just above Ser Wyllam’s cheek, the steel catching a glint of morning light. The blade's cold edge grazed the knight’s skin, biting just enough to make Wyllam flinch, his face twitching involuntarily as he twisted to pull away–but there was nowhere to turn. The steel kissed his flesh with a chilling promise, its weight pressing closer, a hair’s breadth from slicing through skin.

Aemond’s voice dropped to a murmur, each word chillingly calm, laced with an edge sharper than his blade. “Mock my scar all you want, Ser Wyllam,” he drawled, his tone deceptively soft, each syllable deliberate. “But let’s see how well you wear yours when I’m done carving it into that smug face of yours.”

He pressed the blade harder, letting it prick the skin, a bead of blood forming where the steel grazed. Wyllam's eyes widened in terror, his pride and bravado obliterated in a single, desperate breath. His voice came out broken, slurred by his swollen jaw and stained with fresh blood.

“Please… I–I’m sorry,” he stammered, the words thick and garbled, desperation choking his voice. “I–I didn’t mean–”

Aemond remained unmoved, his gaze icy and devoid of even a trace of the mercy Wyllam sought. His single eye held a frigid focus, as if he were regarding something no more significant than an insect. “You dared to suggest my wife finds me repulsive,” he murmured, each word slow and deliberate, his voice barely above a whisper. “That I cannot satisfy her.”

In one swift, calculated motion, he pressed the sword into the tender flesh of Wyllam’s cheek, the blade sinking just enough to draw a line of crimson. The knight’s body jerked in response, a strangled noise forcing its way from his throat–a twisted mix of a groan and a scream, raw and guttural, born of fear as much as pain. His fingers clawed desperately at Aemond’s boot, gripping weakly, their tremor a testament to his helplessness. His legs thrashed in the dirt, kicking up a feeble cloud of dust, each movement more pitiful than the last.

Aemond leaned in, voice soft but merciless, his tone laced with contempt. “You’ll be fortunate if anyone can stand the sight of you after this,” he murmured, a dark promise laced in his words.

His blade moved with ruthless precision, slicing across Ser Wyllam’s cheek in one smooth, measured stroke. The initial cut was shallow, a thin red line blooming across the knight’s face, but as the blade traced toward the corner of Wyllam’s mouth, Aemond pressed harder, and the flesh split under the pressure, jagged and deep. Blood welled from the gash, spilling into Wyllam’s mouth, coating his teeth and staining his lips as it smeared across his face in thick, crimson rivulets.

He raised his blade, his single eye fixed on the fresh, bleeding gash he'd carved across Ser Wyllam’s face. The cut stretched up in a grotesque arc, turning the knight’s mouth into a twisted, eternal smile that dripped with blood. Satisfaction settled coldly within him as he studied his work, his gaze unwavering, savoring the fear that flickered in Wyllam’s eyes.

A faint smirk touched Aemond’s lips, devoid of humor, his tone sharp with mockery. “You enjoyed smirking at me, didn’t you, Ser Wyllam?” he said, tilting his head in cold assessment. The silence that hung between them was thick with menace. “Seems a shame to leave your grin only half-done.”

Without a hint of hesitation, Aemond pressed the blade to the opposite corner of Wyllam’s mouth. The knight’s face contorted as he tried to pull away, but Aemond kept him pinned, holding him in place. He drew the blade slowly, savoring each agonized twist of Wyllam’s body, the metal slicing easily through flesh. The jagged curve extended upward, the cruel arc mirrored on the other side of the knight’s mouth, leaving his face frozen in a grotesque, bloody smile.

“There,” Aemond murmured, stepping back to admire his work. His voice was chillingly soft, his satisfaction almost serene. “Now you'll always wear that grin.”

Wyllam’s screams echoed through the courtyard, shrill and desperate, each one weaker than the last as the reality of his mutilation sank in. Blood streamed from his face, staining his mouth and chin in dark rivulets that seeped into the dirt beneath him. 

Aemond observed him without so much as a flicker of sympathy. His heel remained firmly planted on Wyllam’s chest, holding him pinned, a man utterly defeated and trapped beneath his boot. Wyllam’s breath came in frantic, wheezing gasps, his face twisted in agony and humiliation as he dared not move, his broken hands twitching helplessly in the dirt beside him.

“Were it not for the demands of war,” Aemond murmured, his voice low and cold as steel, “I’d slice that insolent tongue from your throat and leave you bleeding in the mud like the wretched dog you are.” He pressed down harder with his heel, emphasizing his words, a barely restrained satisfaction in the cold fire of his gaze. “Consider this mercy,” he continued, his tone dripping with disdain. “Your feeble sword might yet have some worth to the crown.”

He lifted the blade from Wyllam’s cheek with deliberate slowness, savoring the silent gasp of relief in the man’s shuddering breath. The blade glistened with blood, catching the faint light as Aemond held it steady at his side, its edge still fresh with evidence of his authority. His gaze lingered on the knight, unyielding and frigid, allowing Wyllam to feel every ounce of his scorn.

“Mock me again,” Aemond said softly, his voice laced with a quiet menace. “And see what happens when I no longer hold back.”

He held his heel firmly on Wyllam’s chest for a moment longer, savoring the knight’s helpless gasps and the weight of his dominance pressing down. Only then did he ease his stance, lifting his boot with deliberate slowness, as though releasing Wyllam was a reluctant concession rather than an act of mercy.

Wyllam wheezed as his lungs filled, his body convulsing slightly with each painful inhale. He lay sprawled in the dirt, the strength drained from his limbs, his hands first clutching his chest as he steadied himself, then rising shakily to his face, fingers brushing tentatively over the bloody gash Aemond had carved into his cheek. A raw groan escaped his lips, a sound thick with pain and humiliation.

The knight’s face twisted further, the wound leaving his expression a grotesque mask of pain and fear. He trembled, unable to muster any retort, the weight of Aemond’s threat sinking into him like a brand. His groans filled the still morning air, blending with the low, uneasy murmur from the onlookers who had gathered along the edges of the training grounds. They stood at a careful distance, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and awe as they watched the prince in the aftermath of his brutal display.

Without another glance or a word, Aemond turned on his heel. His boots crunched against the muddy gravel as he strode away, leaving the training yard in a silence broken only by Wyllam’s ragged breaths. The onlookers quickly moved aside, parting to clear his path, their eyes lingering warily on him as he passed. A few averted their gazes altogether, unwilling to meet the steely gaze of a prince who had just demonstrated the depth of his ruthlessness.

He didn’t pause or look back as he headed toward Maegor’s Holdfast, his stride measured–almost lazy. Behind him, the broken knight lay sprawled in the dirt, awaiting the Maesters who would soon arrive to tend to his wounds. But Aemond knew well that healing herbs or stitches could erase the scar he had left–a mark that would long outlast the physical pain, a reminder etched permanently onto Wyllam’s face of his own insolence.

Aemond knew, better than most, that scars lingered far beyond the flesh. They became silent declarations, visible proofs of power and consequence, bound to a person’s very skin. The morning light sharpened as he made his way back into the Keep, his expression hard, his mind already settled into the cold satisfaction of knowing that his warning would not be easily forgotten.

Aemond knew his hands would be drenched in blood by the end of this war. He did not shy away from the thought–he welcomed it. There was no escaping the inevitable; his hands were already stained, and more blood would flow before it was over. The thought didn’t unsettle him. His name was already tarnished and it could never be cleansed, not after the sins he had committed–the boy he had killed. He accepted this, knowing there was no redemption for someone like him. Perhaps his fate had been sealed long before, on the day he lost his eye, or maybe even earlier.

He would not be remembered kindly. History would brand him as the kinslayer, a cursed name that would echo through time, whispered with contempt. But Aemond had long since accepted that fate. If he was to be the villain, then so be it. He would bear the weight of every life he took, every drop of blood spilled in the name of his family. He would carve his name into history with steel and flame, ensuring their victory at any cost.

The burden of it didn’t frighten him; in some twisted way, it even comforted him. If he could carry all the blood on his hands, if he could bear the darkest part of this war, then perhaps it would be worth it. He would see this war to its brutal end, no matter how many bodies he had to walk over, no matter how deeply his name would be cursed. As long as they won, as long as the crown remained on his family’s head, he would make the sacrifices–make sure the weight of it all rested squarely on his shoulders.

Because, in the end, there was only victory or death, and Aemond had already chosen his path.

[myladysapphire]

His Sapphire Princess (IV)

After the night in the brothel Rhaenyra is married to Laenor Velayron to protect the birth of her child. who in the years to follow is the only one of Rhaenyra's children that is believed to be his, she is loved by all in the red keep, even queen Alicent adores the girl, so when Rhaenyra proposes a marriage between Aemond and Rhaenyra's daughter Visenya, Alicent happily agrees.

The children having been best friends in their youths are more than happy to be wed but when the incident at drift mark occurs things change, will it be for better or worse?

word count: 2,327

CW: violence

Fem!oc x Aemond Targeryen (can be read as x reader)

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

disclaimer:  i do not own any of claim any of the A song of ice and  fire characters, all rights belong to GRR MARTIN, all characters are his  except for my OC

Visenya

Her brothers woke her in a panic, pulling her out of bed and dragging her through the halls of Driftmark, claiming Vhagar had been stolen.

“You can’t steal a dragon” she yawned, wiping at her eyes, confused as to what they meant.

“but she was mine to claim, someone stole my right!” Rhaena whined. of course, cloaking him, she hoped it was Aemond, though she would admit Rhaena should have been able to attempt to claim her, but if it was Aemond that truly claimed her she could find no fault in it.

“dragons aren’t inherited Rhaena, anyone could claim Vhagar, not just you” Visenya spoke, her tone harsher than she meant “I’m going back to bed” she went to turn back but luke jumped in front of her, his best puppy eyes on display

“Senya, please, what if it’s a bad guy, we need your help” Luke begged.

“fine” she sighed in defeat, she had her dagger she supposed if someone had  actually taken Vhagar she could defend them, though she saw no point of this escapade.

Vhagar roared as she landed, her new rider, a beacon of silver in the night sky, climbing down her rope.

“it’s him” spoke Jace.

it was Aemond, just as she hoped. His face was smug, his walk confident. he was like a whole new person. 

“Aemond?” she questioned softly, rubbing up to him, “you claimed her?”  

his eyes glimmered as he looked at her, a true smile gracing his lips. He wasn’t a new person, he was still her Aemond.

“Vhagar is my mother's dragon” Rhaena stated.

“your mothers dead” he replied, scowling. “and Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“Aemond” she chined, elbowing him softly. 

“she was mine to claim” Rhaena declared.

“Vhagar choose her rider, if Aemond weren’t meant to claim her then she wouldn’t have allowed him to claim her” Visneya reasoned, trying to calm the group, though it was all for nought as shouts of protest were heard from the twins.

Aemond moved forward,  placing her behind him “Then you should've claimed her!” he looked at Jace and Luke then back to Rhaena, “ Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride… It would suit you.”

Baela launched herself at Aemond, before being pushed off. “come at me again, and I’ll feed you to Dragon”

The next few moments were filled with yells and screams as her brothers and cousins attacked Aemond.

“stop!” Visenya demanded, moving to pull Baela off of Aemond, only to be elbowed and pushed against a rock. 

“Senya!” Aemond and Jace screamed, the attack coming to a halt. 

“it’s ok,” she tried to reassure, rubbing her head as she sat up “just stop fighting, it will not give Rhaena a dragon, nor will it take Aemonds away from him!” 

“he stole Vhagar, she was mine to claim!” Rhaena once again insisted.

“yeah, yeah we get it ok! just stop this fighting!… please” 

Baela turned to look at her, sighing as if ready to coincide before looking at Aemond. his hand rested behind Visenya's back, his face still smug.

she charged at him again, pushing him away from Visneya and to the ground. Jace followed punching him in the face before shoving them away.

she wasn’t sure what would happend next, her head pushing too hard, liquid filling her ears. the words flame and bastard sounded, her brother Jace in Aemonds hold, a rock to his head.

“no stop!” she screamed, crawling over, unable to find balance, her dagger falling from her pocket as she pulled Jace away. 

Luke grabbed her dagger and dived at Aemond, Visneya despite the fact her blurred vision, she managed to jump in front of Aemond, the dagger driving through his eye and the side of her neck.

After that, it all went black.

The hall was tense as a maester worked with Aemond and Visneya. 

No one dared to speak.

Several maesters cared for Visenya, her neck seeping in blood, her body still unconscious, and her brothers crying beside her. Luke begging for her to be alright. 

Aemond had insisted on being as close to her as possible, refusing to let go of her hand, and only doing so when it became apparent it was interfering with the maesters work. 

“How could you allow such as thing to happen?” Viserys demanded, furious “I will have answers”

“The princes and princess were supposed to be abed, my king” Ser Harold spoke

“Who had to watch” Viserys demanded

“The young prince was attacked by his cousins, your grace, and the princess by her brothers,” Ser Criston remarked

Outraged with these responses Viserys shouted “you swore oaths to protect and defend my blood”

“I’m very sorry, your grace,” Ser Harrold told him

“The king's guard has never had to defend princes from princes, your grace” Ser Criston spoke

The hall was quiet, the fury of the king growing. His granddaughter lay on the table, unconscious as blood seeped out of her neck, the Maesters still trying to locate the bleeding. 

“That is no answer!” Viserys spat

“It will heal, will it not maester?” Alicent asked she knew that the eye would be lost, but she still had hoped the seven would be merciful.

Solemnly the maester replied “the flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, your grace”

Nodding, a tear falling from her eye, she looked towards Visenya “what of the princess maester?”

Giving a small sad smile the lead maester working on Visenya stepped back to look at the king and queen, “we cannot tell yet your grace, we cannot seem to locate the bleeding and until we do, we cannot say”

Letting out an anguished cry Alicent moved to Aegon slapping him “where were you?”

Recoiling away Aegon spoke “me? Ow! What was that for?” he complained, almost ashamed. He had been getting drunk whilst his brother and niece suffered, that was enough to sober him. He worried the sight would make him burst in tears.

Alicent sneered “that was nothing compared to the abuse your brother and niece suffered while you were drowning in your cups” looking down ashamed, all Aegon could do was whisper a small as sorry.

“Where is Rhaenyra, her daughter has suffered a grave injury at the hands of her sons… where is Rhaenyra!” Alicent demanded to the room. The people equally confused as to where the princess was, remained silent.

Lord Corlys and princess Rhaenys entered the hall, demanding what had happened “what is the meaning of this”

Princess Rhaenys quickly went to her granddaughters, before catching sight of Visneay on the table, a small cry leaving her lips “what has happened?” she demanded. “What has happened to my granddaughter” the silence once more filled the room, as no one could answer.

Rhaenyra and Daemon were the last to enter the room, Daemon smug and nonchalant, Rhaenyra confused and guilty. She was quick to tun to her sons, not even bothering to look for her daughter. “what happened? Jace, Luke? Show me, show me!” taking Luke’s face in her hands she asked, “where is your sister?” both boys looked down before pointing to the table surrounded by maesters.

“Oh, my sweet girl” Rhaenyra cried taking Rhaenys place next to her daughter, as Rheanys moved to her Beala and Rheana.

“They attacked us!” Aemond spat, causing the other children to being shouting contrasting statements.

“He attacked Baela”

“He broke Luke’s nose!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!”

“ENOUGH” Viserys demanded, his confusion only increasing at the children's ranting, 

“He was going to kill Jace!” Luke shouted

“I didn’t do anything! And you’re the one who attacked Visenya!” Aemond shot back, furious, she was defending him from their attack, they were to blame not him. He had lost his eye, his Visenya was wounded and unconscious. 

“Enough!” Viserys demanded, once again. 

Rhaenyra had made her way back to her sons, allowing the Maesters their space to work, as they finally located the bleeding.

“It should be my son telling the tale” Alicent demanded.

Luke whispered what was said to his mother “he called us bastards”

Hitting his cane on the ground Viserys demanded once again “silence” moving to look at Aemond he demanded the truth “Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened, now!”

“What else is there to hear? Your son and granddaughter maimed…Her son is responsible”

“It was a regrettable accident” Rhaenyra spoke, she didn’t want to believe what Luke had done, let alone to his sister. 

“The prince Lucerys brought a blade to an ambush. He meant to kill my son, he might yet have killed your daughter” Alicent spoke viciously, how could Rhaenyra defend her sons after what they did to her daughter, to Aemond?

“It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves… Vile insults were levied against them” Rhaenyra declared

“What insults?” Viserys asked

Hesitating, knowing it was the unspoken truth, Rhaenyra replied “the legitimacy of my son’s birth was put loudly to the question”

“What?”

Speaking up, Luke has a tremor in his voice as he casts a look at his sister, guilt filling his body “he called us bastards”

“My sons are in line to inherit the iron throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons…. Prince Aemond must be Sharpley questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders” Rhaenyra spoke

In disbelief at Rhaenyra’s audacity, Alicent spoke “over an insult? My son has lost an eye! What of your daughter what is your sons’ excuses for her!?” she demanded, looking over to Visenya, the Maesters had finally stopped the bleeding, but she was yet to wake. 

“You tell me boy, where did you hear this lie?” Viserys demanded, he knew the truth, he was not blind, he knew they were not Laenor’s and guilt filled him that he did not give his daughter a husband who could give her more than one child, even that he doubted, that she had to look elsewhere.

Worried, everyone knew it was Alicent who spread the rumours “this insult was training yard bluster, it was nothing”

Ignoring his wife, Viserys asked again “Aemond, I asked you a question!”

Interrupting again Alicent asked “where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The children’s father? Perhaps he might have something to say on the matter.”

“Yes, where is Ser Laenor?”

Rhaenyra admitted, “I do not know, your grace, I could not find sleep, I had gone on a walk.”

Alicent rolled her eyes and muttered “entertaining his young squires, I would venture”

Asking again, Viserys spoke “Aemond, look at me. Your king demands answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

Aemond shifted his gaze to his mother, “It was Aegon” he answered. He would not sell out his mother, even if they all knew it was really her.

“Me?” Aegon asked confused, he did not care nor ever mention if they were bastards. He was rather fond of Luke and Jace, they often had fun together. He could care less about their parentage.

“And you, boy? Where did you hear such calumnies?” Viserys spat “Aegon! Tell me the truth of it!”

Giving up, with a sigh Aegon spoke “We know, father. Everyone knows. Just look at them”

“This interminable infighting must cease! All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it.” Viserys spoke.

“That is insufficient. Aemond has been damaged, permanently, Visenya who knows if she will wake. ‘Good will’ cannot make Aemond whole” Alicent spat

“I know Alicent, but I cannot restore an eye,” Viserys said with a deep sigh, he looked to Visenya. Her face was terribly pale, her neck was being wrapped and her head stitched.

“No, because it’s been taken!” 

“What would you have me do?”

“There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return” Alicent declared, gasps filling the hall.

“My dear wife-”

Her eyes watered, her son, their sons’ eye had been taken and he does not seem to care “he is your son, Viserys. Your blood”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment” Viserys warned

“If the king will not seek justice, the queen will. Ser Criston… Bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Alicent ordered.

Luke let out a nervous shout for his mother, moving to hide behind her. 

“he can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son” Alicent spoke, Ser Criston stared down at her, unsure of what to do.

Speaking to Criston Viserys demanded “you will do no such thing… Stay your hand”

“no, you are sworn to me!” she shouted at Ser Criston, as he stood unsurely “As your protector, my queen.”

“This matter is finished, do you understand?” Viserys spoke to Alicent, moving away before declaring “and let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed!”

“Thank you, father” Rhaenyra spoke, Alicent enraged moved towards Viserys grabbing his dagger and charging at Rhaenyra and her sons.

Shouts filled the hall, trying to get Alicent to stop, but she continued.

“you’ve gone too far” Rhaneyra spoke, grabbing Alicents arm, preventing the dagger from diving into her son's eye.

“i? what have I done but what expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you, please” Alicent spat in reply. “Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? And now you take my son's eye, and to that event, you feel entitled”

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness” Rhaenyra replied, seeing Alicent face drop and her grip on the blade began to loosen. “But now they see you as you truly are,” she said lowly, the dagger slipped from Alicent’s hand, down Rhaenyra's arm, blood dripping to the ground.

“This proceeding is at an end” Viserys declared.

next chapter

[delusionalmishka]

Blue Blood pt.4

(pt1)(pt2)(pt3)

Summary: After the turmoil at Driftmark, King Viserys attempted to mend family divisions by arranging a marriage between Alicent's son, Aemond Targaryen, and Rhaenyra's daughter, Lucenya Velaryon; when King Viserys died and the Greens and the Blacks war began to unravel, the arrangement fell through. On the brink of war, Lucenya was sent to Storm's End as an envoy. Aemond didn’t plan on letting his bastard bride slip through his fingers one more time. She’d owned him for his left eye.

warnings for this chapter: none for now.

The day of Lucenya's presentation to Aegon's court had come too quickly. Her body was still frail, her bruises fading to a shade of light green and purples and there was a sharp pain in her right side, but she had to endure, it was Alicent’s command.

The maids dressed her in an emerald green velvet gown that clung to her slender frame, the deep color contrasting starkly with her pale skin. The gown's bodice was intricately embroidered with silver thread, tracing delicate patterns of vines and flowers. The sleeves were long and fitted, ending in graceful points at her wrists, while the skirt flowed down in soft, sweeping folds that brushed against the floor with each step.

Her hair, a rich dark brown hair had been carefully arranged into loose waves cascading down her back. Atop her head, she wore a Valyrian steel tiara that had belonged to her grandmother, Aemma. The tiara was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its delicate filigree design adorned with small, sparkling gems that caught the light with every movement.

Lucenya glanced in the mirror, her reflection a painful reminder of her current situation. The gown was exquisite but symbolized everything she despised about her captivity, although the tiara she wore, as a token of her lineage and strength gave her a small measure of comfort. 

Aemond was in the dressing room with her, as he always seemed to be, his presence a constant shadow. His single eye tracked her every movement, a mix of possessiveness and something she couldn't quite identify.

He was also dressed impeccably in rich fabrics and his long silver hair was braided. A sword hung from his belt, a constant reminder of his martial prowess and the threat he posed.

"It's time," Aemond said quietly, offering her his arm. She hesitated for a moment before taking it, feeling his strength and warmth through the fabric of his sleeve. His touch was steady, grounding her amid this nightmare.

As they slowly walked through the grand hall towards the Iron Throne room, respecting Lucy’s slow pace, Aemond's mind wandered. He imagined himself sitting on the Iron Throne, with Lucenya by his side as his queen. He pictured her in the same emerald green gown, her tiara gleaming as she looked down upon their united realm. The thought filled him with bitterness. If only he were the eldest son, he could have had all this without the need for bloodbath and betrayal.

They approached their destination, and the sound of bards and conversation from within made Lucenya's heart pound inside her chest. She hated the spectacle that was being made of her, a clear display of power to show that they had Rhaenyra's daughter.

As they entered the packed throne room, Lucenya's eyes immediately found Haelena, who sat quietly to the side, right next to Otto Hightower. There was a softness in Haelena's expression, a sympathy that Lucenya found herself grateful for. It was a small comfort in this, amid endless hostility.

The Iron Throne room was packed with nobles and supporters of Aegon, their presence suffocating as Aegon lounged on the Iron Throne, a smug smile playing on his lips. Alicent stood nearby, her face serene but her eyes sharp, dressed in green from head to toe. The courtiers whispered among themselves, the air filled with pity and curiosity. Lucenya's eyes scanned the room, desperate for a familiar face among the sea of enemies. The looks of other noblemen, hungry and curious, made her skin crawl. She tried to maintain her composure, but the pressure was immense.

Her eyes widened when she caught the eyes of no other than Allun Caswell. The bald and older man has been a fierce supporter of her mother’s cause, he and Lady Caswell even visited Dragonstone a couple of times. She quickly turned her gaze away but Lucy felt Caswell’s eyes on her. 

Aemond's presence was stifling, Lucy knew his presence was there to keep her in check, his single eye always coming back to her.  To Aemond, Lucenya was the prettiest lady in the room by far. Despite being a bastard, she carried herself with a regal grace that matched his own. In his eyes, she was royalty - she was even fluent in High Valiryan- and the thought filled him with a twisted sense of pride. She was officially his in the eyes of the court, and he relished the idea of having her by his side.

As they moved closer to the throne, Aegon's gaze settled on them, his amusement evident. "Welcome, Lucenya Velaryon," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "You honor us with your presence," Lucy noticed his slurred words. 

Lucenya could not quite grasp the belief that Aegon would be a better ruler than her mother. 

Lucy forced herself to meet his gaze, her chin held high despite the fear and anger boiling inside her. "Your Grace," she replied, her voice steady. "I am here under duress, not by choice."

Aegon's smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Nevertheless, you are here. And you look quite ravishing in green, niece. It suits you!"

Lucenya's grip on Aemond's arm tightened, but she kept her expression neutral. "I wear it as I must," she said coldly.

Alicent stepped forward. "You will find that duty often comes with sacrifice," she said. "Embrace the honor you have been given." 

Lucenya's stomach churned with anger and helplessness. She wanted to lash out, to scream at them for their arrogance and cruelty. But she knew that now was not the time. She needed to bide her time. Aemond sensed her turmoil and squeezed her waist gently, a silent reminder of his presence and support. She glanced at him, seeing the conflict in his eye. There was a part of him that genuinely cared for her, despite the obvious distaste for her and her family.

 It was a twisted, possessive kind of care, but he still cared.

The Iron Throne room had been transformed for the banquet, filled with the sound of music and the clinking of goblets. Tables were laden with an extravagant feast, the finest food, and endless supplies of wine and ale. The atmosphere was one of forced merriment, an attempt to celebrate the frail strength and unity of Aegon's rule. Lucy felt anything but festive.

Lucenya took her seat next to Aemond, who sat close. The wine flowed freely, and she welcomed it, downing several goblets to numb the discomfort of her injuries and the ache of her heart. Each sip dulled the pain, both physical and emotional, but it did little to quiet the storm of thoughts in her mind.

Across the room, Aegon reveled in the attention, his laughter loud and grating. Alicent sat beside him, her face a mask of composed satisfaction. Lucenya caught her eye briefly and saw the woman nodding her head at her. 

She’s been behaving well.

Her eyes turned to Allun Caswell again, the older man’s eyes still on her and a glimpse of worry crossed his features when their eyes met. 

{...}

The music played on, a lively tune that felt out of place in the oppressive atmosphere. Lucenya forced herself to smile and play the part of the compliant captive. She engaged in polite conversation with the nobles who approached her, their thinly veiled curiosity and disdain evident. Every so often, she glanced at Allun Caswell, who lingered at the edges of the room. His presence was a small comfort, a reminder that she wasn't entirely alone.

"Are you enjoying the feast?" Aemond's voice broke through her thoughts, his tone was rushed and gentle. 

She turned to him, offering a strained smile. "It's... quite a spectacle," she replied, choosing her words carefully.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before shifting back to the room. "You look beautiful tonight," he said, his voice so low she almost didn't catch it.

"Thank you," she responded, her heart not in the compliment. "It's the dress your mother chose for me."

Aemond's expression darkened briefly, but he said nothing more. Instead, he reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. Lucy noticed how his hand was much bigger than hers, his skin covered in thin scars and roughness, years of training behind them. "Stay close to me tonight," he said, his voice firmer. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

Lucenya's thoughts raced. She knew his protection came at a cost, but for now, she needed to play along. "I appreciate that," she said softly, her eyes meeting his. "But why are you doing this? Why care so much?"

Aemond's jaw tightened, his gaze intense. "It's my duty as your future husband," he replied. "We've been promised to each other since we were children. I will uphold that promise."

Before she could respond, Aegon called for a toast, raising his goblet high. "To the future of our realm!" he declared, his eyes glittering with malice as he stared in Lucy’s direction. "May we crush our enemies and secure our legacy!"

The room erupted in cheers, the sound ringing in Lucenya's ears. She raised her goblet reluctantly, her heart heavy with the weight of her predicament. As she took another big sip, she caught Aegon's eye, his smile was chilling as he downed his own golden goblet. Lucy broke the eye contact, she did not have time to let Aegon get under her skin. 

After the toast, the banquet continued, the revelry growing louder and more chaotic. Lucy leaned back in her chair, her head spinning from the wine. She glanced at Allun again, trying to convey her desperation with a look. He gave her a small nod and started to walk in their direction.

Her heart raced. Did he misunderstand her silent signals? 

When Allun reached Lucenya, he extended a courteous hand, as was customary. With a practiced grace, he took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a respectful kiss. It was during this seemingly innocent gesture that Allun made his move. With a subtle shift of his fingers, he managed to slip a small, folded note into Lucenya’s hand, his touch light but deliberate.

The note was tiny and folded tightly. Lucy’s heart raced as she felt the paper’s weight in her hand. She quickly closed her fingers around it, ensuring it was hidden from view.

“It is a relief to see you in good health, Princess Lucenya.” 

Aemond’s keen eyes were on them, his expression unreadable but alert. As Allun withdrew with a bow directed to the prince, his gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, filled with a hint of concern that Lucenya hoped was genuine. Aemond’s irritation flared when he noticed the interaction, and he immediately moved to interject, his hand closing around Lucenya’s wrist with a possessive grip.

“What was that about?” Aemond’s voice was low and edged with frustration as he pulled Lucy’s attention away from Caswell. His eye was sharp, searching for any hint of deceit or hidden meaning.

Lucenya forced herself to maintain a calm facade, though her pulse quickened and her stomach churned. “Nothing of importance,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tension. “He was just being polite.”

Aemond’s scrutiny did not waver, but he chose not to press the matter further. Instead,he took another sip of how wine, but his hand did not left her wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. The conversation continued around them, but Lucy’s thoughts were consumed by the note clutched tightly in her hand.

{...} 

As the banquet drew to a close, Lucy found herself feeling the effects of the wine she had consumed throughout the evening. The alcohol buzzed in her veins, dulling the sharp edges of her fear and anger but leaving her mind in a haze. She stumbled slightly as she rose from the table, and Aemond was immediately at her side, his arm steadying her.

“Careful,” he murmured, his tone softer than she expected and she felt heat rising to her cheeks when she caught a glimpse of his smirking lips. Aemond was overwhelming, his height and the aura of command he exuded making him seem larger than life. As much as Lucy hated herself for it, she had to admit her uncle had grown into a fine man, much taller than her and even taller than her brother Jace. It was a realization that hit her with a mix of emotions she couldn’t fully process in her inebriated state. 

Aemond guided her through the winding and corridors of the Red Keep, his hand firm but gentle around her. She felt the warmth of his touch through the fabric of her dress, a sensation that confused her muddled thoughts. When they reached her chambers, he led her inside and carefully closed the door behind them.

Lucenya expected Aemond to call the maids to help her undress and get ready for bed, but she was not surprised when he started to work on the laces and ties of her dress himself. She stood still, feeling the wine's warmth in her veins and the buzz of the banquet still lingering in her mind.

Aemond’s fingers moved deftly, loosening the intricate bindings of her emerald green dress. His touch was firm yet unexpectedly gentle, and Lucenya couldn’t help but notice the careful way he handled her. The fabric slowly slid off her shoulders, leaving her on with the thin and see-through undertunic. Chills raised in her skin when she felt his cold fingers brush along her skin, his touch lingering. The was silence thick between then, the only thing heard in the room was the crackling of the fire. 

“You should rest,” Aemond murmured as he continued his work, his voice low and soothing. He moved behind her, untangling the ribbons and curls of her hair with the same careful precision. She watched his reflection in the mirror, noting the intensity of his gaze, the way his single eye focused on the task at hand.

Her mind drifted as he worked, and she thought about the note Allun Caswell had slipped into her hand earlier in the evening. It was hidden beneath her pillow now, a small sliver of hope blooming in her chest. 

Aemond’s hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment before he guided her to the bed, his expression softening as he looked at her. Lucenya’s thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and exhaustion, the alcohol in her system making it hard to think clearly.

She was surprised when he didn’t immediately leave. Instead, he hesitated, standing over her with a conflicted look in his eye. Then, without warning, he leaned down and held her face, his hand cupping her chin as strands of his silver hair tickled her skin. He pressed his lips to hers in a kiss.

Lucenya’s thoughts were swirling in her head, the strong wine she'd consumed blurred the lines between her desires and her will. For a moment, she let her wants speak louder and kissed him back. Her lips moved against his, responding to the unexpected tenderness. There was a part of her that craved the connection, the comfort, even if it was from him.

The kiss deepened, a swirl of conflicting emotions as Aemond's hand moved to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. The intensity of the moment made her heart race, and for a brief, intoxicating instant, she let herself get lost in it. The world outside their kiss faded away, leaving only the heat between them.

But as quickly as it began, it ended. Aemond pulled away, his breath warm against her skin. His gaze lingered on her face, his thumb brushing against her rose tinted cheeks. "I will see you in the morrow," he said quietly, turning to leave.

Lucy lay there, her mind a mess of regret and confusion as the door closed behind him with a soft click. The reality of what had just happened sank in, and she felt a pang of guilt and anger at herself. She had given in, even if just for a moment, and she knew it would only feed into Aemond's feelings of possession he had over her. 

She touched her lips, still feeling the ghost of his kiss, and her resolve hardened. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down, no matter how desperate or lonely she felt. 

Instead of wallowing in those feelings, she forced herself to take a deep breath. She had to stay focused. She searched the room, her eyes darting around until she found Allun's note tucked under her pillow. 

Allun's note, hastily scribbled but clear, read:

Lady Lucenya,

Do not lose hope. There are those loyal to your mother even here. At midnight tomorrow, find a way to the servants' entrance near the kitchens. A small boat will be waiting for you. We must move quickly and quietly.

Stay strong.

— Allun Caswell

Holding it in her hands, she felt the tears well up in her eyes. 

As she read the note again, tears spilled over. Allun's message gave her a glimmer of hope, a chance to escape and return to her family. She had to be strong, not just for herself but for her mother, her brother, and everyone who depended on her.

Lucenya tucked the note back under her pillow and wiped her tears away. She would have to be clever and resourceful to pull off the escape. The servants' entrance near the kitchens—it was her only chance. She had to find a way to slip past Aemond and the guards.

She lay back on her bed, her mind racing with plans and possibilities. The thought of freedom, of reuniting with her family, fueled her determination. She would not let Aemond trap her any longer. She had to escape, no matter the cost.

(AO3)

[coffeebooksrain18]

Let's start with the fact you made me believe I was getting a cute Father Daughter moment only to BREAK MY HEART! Not angry just bitter (I'm just joking by the way)

And then we see that Aemond team of spies didn't even try talking to her they just drugged her and then ran out! Like bro at least TRY talking to the girl!

And then we get a sweet scene between Ali girl (who I adore and will defend with my life) and Royce! I could feel her NEED to feel that motherly love and it broke my heart!

Oh and let's not forget she said the words!!!! Girl showed she's a bad bitch and I'm so proud! And then Aemond went dick mode and made her kneel to Vhagar but we got some horny action (no smut though) so I'm not gonna complain!

I'm so excited to see their relationship develop and see more dad Daemon to little Royce! Also I'm only 2 chapters in and you got me OBSESSED! I'm so glad you convinced me to read this!

The Price of Pride (2/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: the angst, sexual tension, imprisonment, physical abuse, abuse of power, violence, panic attack ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

"Rȳbās." She heard her father's voice in her memories. "Repeat."

"Ribās." She mumbled, rocking her small, short legs as she sat on his knee, looking at the book in which were written the commands by which dragon riders could communicate with their dragons and soar through the skies.

She had only seen Caraxes from afar and always squealed with joy at the sight of him.

It meant she would see her father.

"No." Her father sighed, twisting in his seat. "Rȳbās. Again."

"Ribās." She repeated, this time confident that she had said the word correctly.

Her father rose and set her down on the ground, closing the book, throwing it on the table, her body instantly moving to follow him in a subconscious reflex, a cry escaping from her throat as it always did when she failed to please him, and he walked away.

"No. No, let me try again. Ribās. Ribās. Ribās." She wailed after him, choking on her own tears, watching his silhouette disappear into the depths of the corridor, his short white hair.

She couldn't remember his face.

When her mother's body was found among the hills away from the fortress, voices were raised by people who said that they had seen Caraxes in the skies that same day. She knew that her mother would not have thrown herself off the precipice, and she understood that in doing so her father had freed himself from them once and for all.

She felt satisfaction at the thought that his second wife had given him only daughters.

The gods had punished him.

He had no heir.

She didn't remember her mother's face either, but perhaps that was because she didn't want to recall her disappointment – she knew that she didn't want to carry his child, that she abhorred him, and yet she had been forced to give birth to his daughter.

She knew she should not have been born, and yet she existed.

She decided to pretend that she was the child of ordinary lords, giving up the right to inherit Runestone to one of her cousins in return for being allowed to stay in the fortress. Royce's family, although rather stodgy in their dealings, showed her much care and support – she couldn't say she lacked anything, and her life was peaceful as long as King Viserys lived.

And then it happened.

Two men burst into her chamber, pressing a cloth soaked in some foul-smelling liquid to her mouth which made her lose consciousness and she only woke up in a carriage that was closed on both sides.

For a moment she naively believed that her father had done it.

That he wanted her on his side in the battle for power for his third wife, heir to the Iron Throne.

And then she noticed the emerging silhouette of King's Landing in the distance.

She had only heard of this place from stories: the great Red Keep towering over the entire city and harbour, sunshine and cloudless skies all around it.

She wanted to laugh at the thought that one of her father's opponents had thought they would be able to pact with him because of her.

However, it turned out that she was mistaken once again.

Her one-eyed cousin was like a statue, his jaw drawn and sharply pointed, adding even more severity to his impassive, stony expression. He was proud and vain, she thought at once, seeing the way he stood, erect and sure, one hand holding a torch, the other placed behind his back, sword and dagger strapped to his belt.

Rider of the greatest dragon in the world.

"Do you know who I am, woman?" He asked, and she struggled not to smile, hearing his forced pretentiousness, the choice of his words such as to instantly degrade her.

Of course she knew.

His black eye patch betrayed him.

"It's hard not to guess." She replied.

His pupil narrowed in frustration, his tongue ran over his lower lip in some subconscious reflex.

He didn't like being spoken to like that.

When he was not shown respect.

When he was not feared.

He was weak, she thought.

"Do you understand why you're here?"

She sighed heavily, looking down at her fingers in boredom, feeling nothing but immense fatigue.

"Because of my father, I guess. You are wasting your time. I don't represent any value to him. He will not pact with you for my sake." She muttered reluctantly, wanting to let him know that whatever hopes he may have had of her were vain.

She looked at him surprised when he chuckled, turning his gaze away, staring at her a moment later with a look that made her feel discomfort in her stomach.

"You are mistaken. We need your blood." He hummed, as if he were speaking of the weather, something childishly simple and obvious.

She shook her head, looking at him in disbelief, not understanding what he expected of her.

Were they going to slit her veins?

If someone else drank it, would they be able to become a dragon rider?

"We will find one of the wild dragons hidden in the mountain caves and you will try to claim it. You will die, or you will succeed and join the war on our side." He said lightly, and for some reason she burst out laughing, horrified at how ridiculous his words were.

She was going to claim a dragon?

Were they really that desperate?

"I know nothing about dragons or their riders and have no desire to learn about them. This, I think, is something that is destined for those endowed by the gods with white hair. I have no intention of sacrificing myself for your family. Behead me or burn me, but spare me this farce." She said mockingly, looking away, recognising that this man had simply lost his mind.

She shuddered and rose from her knees when, a moment later, he opened the door of her cell and rushed in like an enraged bear, throwing his torch to the stone floor, his hand grabbing her neck, her head and body slamming against the wall making everything around her seem blurry for a moment.

"Do you think I'm asking you for your opinion? You will serve me, and you will serve me well, or I will burn not you, but all of the fucking Vale. Only dust and ashes will be left of the people you knew. Is that what you want, my Lady?" He scoffed, arching his full lips and eyebrows in a way as if he sympathised with her, however his gaze was blank, cold, mad, his breath heavy on her face, his chest rising and falling in rage.

She shook her head quickly, feeling his fingers dig into the skin of her neck even harder, making her unable to take a deeper breath despite the fact that she needed the air so badly.

Her head was spinning, his voice seeming to come to her from far away.

"So we have an agreement, as I understand it?" He whispered, leaning over her so that the tips of their noses were almost touching, towering over her to make her feel who had the power, who had the strength, who had the last word.

She merely nodded, breathing loudly through her wide-open mouth, a cold feeling of humiliation surging through her stomach.

"Mmm." He hummed and let her go. She fell to the ground, drawing in air loudly, clutching at her neck, feeling her heart begin to beat anew.

"You will be moved to one of the chambers. You will not lack anything. Serve me well and no more harm will befall you." He said calmly with a kind of threat from which a shiver ran down her spine.

Serve me well.

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Indeed, true to his word, the guards came for her and she walked out of the smelly, dark cell where rats ran around to the upper floor of the Red Keep. The light blinded her and for a moment she could not see where she was going, but then, despite all her reluctance and trepidation, she marvelled for a moment at the rich, beautiful architecture of this castle.

If only she could have come here under different circumstances, at her father's side when she was a little child.

But her father was not here.

Instead, there was her cousin, exactly as self-obsessed as he was.

She thought with pain that they were just alike.

In the small chamber that had been assigned to her, the Queen Mother was waiting for her, accompanied by a knight with rather tanned skin: she thought he came from Dorne.

"My Lady. I ask you to forgive us for what inconvenience you have suffered. I place my old gowns and two of my servants at your disposal." She said, looking her straight in the face with her big, warm brown eyes, plucking at the cuticles around her fingernails in some involuntary, nervous reflex.

She lowered her gaze, silently acknowledging that she had nothing to say to any of them.

"This is the Queen speaking to you. Show respect." Said the knight, Queen Alicent however rebuked him immediately.

"I do not recall allowing you to speak, Ser Criston."

The man looked away and fell silent. The Queen sighed, closed her eyes and swallowed hard, as if she felt shame looking at her.

"Rest." She said simply and left, immediately followed by Ser Criston with a clatter of his silver, shining armour.

She was left alone.

She felt that she needed a bath, tired, sweaty, soaked in the smell of the disgusting cellar they were holding her in – she called one of the servants to bring a tub to her chamber and fill it with warm water.

She wondered, watching these young girls doing their chores, whether she might try to escape, seeing that they had left the door open, but decided that it was pointless.

Even if she did escape, they would find her and bring her here again, and Prince Aemond would burn the Vale.

She lowered her gaze, recognising that she had neither the strength nor the will to stand up.

She was empty inside, she thought, and he could fill her with whatever he wanted.

With his ideas, his desires, his demands.

As she sank into the pleasantly warm water scented with oils of field flowers, she felt better. Her muscles relaxed and she leaned her head back, closing her eyes, deciding to calmly analyse the situation she was in.

Since they were so desperate to abduct her, it meant that her father and Princess Rhaenyra had the upper hand over them.

She was also sure that her cousin, Lord Royce, had already sent a raven to Dragonstone with the word that she had been imprisoned, and since the informations was spreading through the Kingdom like the wind, she was sure that Daemon would be furious.

Would he try to contact her?

She sighed, recognising that she didn't want that.

Because of how much she despised him, even though she was a Targaryen, she used her mother's name.

Royce.

She wanted nothing to do with any of them, but it seemed to her that Prince Aemond was truly mad and that in his rage he really could set off on his mighty dragon to burn and destroy if she betrayed him.

She didn't want to test how mad the Targaryens could really be.

After all, they were bedding their own siblings.

She sighed when one of the servants came in, saying that she had been summoned by the King, who wanted to see her in person. She had chosen a gown most similar to the ones she had worn in Runestone, but as soon as one of the girls wanted to touch her hair she pulled away, feeling an unpleasant shudder.

"No. I'll do it myself." She said, taking a comb in her hand, brushing out strand after strand.

A woman could only wear her hair loose in the privacy of her chamber, for it was a sign of her freedom but also of chaos, where in the world of men there always had to be order.

She decided she didn't care about that.

She was horrified by how many people were sitting in the chamber she had been led to – at the table, she understood, sat the Lords, Queen Widow, the King, and Prince Aemond, looking at her with a malicious grin.

He was proud of himself, she thought and let out a quiet breath, looking away, thinking they were all pathetic.

The King smiled broadly at the sight of her and nodded, as if someone had indeed given him a wonderful surprise.

"Come closer, cousin." He said lightly, so she took a reluctant few steps forward, wondering what she would hear this time.

"We are overjoyed by your presence, even though you were brought here under not very pleasant circumstances. I hope you will quickly forget about these … discomforts and support us in our cause. My brother is extremely eager to prepare you for this." He said as if what they had done to her was no great thing, a mere joke at which she should laugh along with him and willingly go to her death in dragon fire if it turned out that their plan would fail.

That's why she remained silent, recognising that the man sitting in front of her was an imbecile.

"Are you not glad to face your father? Did he not forget you and abandon you for so many years?" He continued, seeing the expression on her face, and she looked at him, feeling absolutely nothing.

"I have nothing to say to you, cousin. Do with me what you wish."

The men around her twisted uneasily in their seats, glancing at the King, clearly afraid of his reaction to her insolent words. King Aegon, however, leaned forward, looking at her intrigued.

"Our family has forgotten you. Left you the fuck knows where, motherless and fatherless. And I am deeply sorry for it."

She swallowed hard, letting the air out loud, feeling the pain in her chest at his words – this reaction of her own surprised her. Looking into his eyes, she thought in disbelief that while he was certainly a fool, the words he had spoken to her a moment ago were sincere.

The last thing she expected from him was sympathy, and it surprised her how much it hurt her.

"You may leave." He said, and she nodded and left, thinking with relief that just a moment longer and the King would have seen something in her gaze that she didn't want.

What she desired.

As long as they didn't know it, none of their threats could do anything to her.

The guards escorted her to her chamber and as they closed the door behind her, she simply threw herself on her bed, wondering if it had all just been a bad dream.

What if she died in the dragon fire?

Did she want to end her life without really experiencing anything?

She never wanted to be a wife or a mother, but she hoped to see something more, to find her own purpose, her own way, away from the dragon war.

Meanwhile, she found herself at the centre of it.

She knew that Prince Aemond would summon her – she could see it in his displeased expression after his brother's words. He did not like the fact that he was trying to besmirch and get close to her, his little toy – he had made it clear in his words that she was not to serve Aegon or the Kingdom, but him.

He had brought her here for himself, to spite her father, and she was to be what he desired.

What he had imagined in his head.

Very well, she thought.

When she walked into his chamber, he was sitting with his back to her; his room was much more spacious than hers, maps and books spread out on the table he was leaning over.

He was planning a war without his brother.

"Come here. Sit down." He said coldly, casting her one weary glance over his shoulder, going back to whatever it was he was preoccupied with before he summoned her.

She walked over to the table and sat down in the chair beside him with a quiet rustling of her gown – he hummed as he slid an open book towards her apparently on a page he cared for her to focus on.

"Can you read?" He asked, and she looked up at him, wondering if he had heard himself.

His gaze changed, suddenly frustrated and impatient so she just looked at the book and started reading, hearing what he was saying in between.

"The dragons understand the language of Old Valyria, and this is how the dragon riders communicate with them. You have to learn to speak the commands properly." He sighed, spreading out comfortably in his seat with his legs crossed, tilting his head back.

"Dohaerās means serve. Rȳbās means listen. These are the most important words, right next to Lykirī, which commands a dragon to remain calm. Repeat."

She felt a powerful, cold shiver run down her back, the memory of that evening, of her, sitting on his lap and his voice.

"Rȳbās." Said her father in her imagination. "Repeat."

She stared dully ahead feeling that she couldn't open her mouth, her throat squeezed tight, her breathing accelerated, heavy with the terror that possessed her, her heart pounding like mad in her chest.

He left because she couldn't say it properly, but after all, he hadn't even explained to her what she had done wrong. He didn't give her a chance to improve, disappointed that she wasn't what he wanted her to be.

Over the years, she kept asking herself the same question.

Did she really not deserve a second chance?

And then she saw darkness before her eyes, and her head hit something hard.

She dreamt that her father was holding her hand. She wasn't sure if it was a memory or her imagination, but she could smell his scent and was sure she heard his voice, though she was unable to open her eyes, her body burning with fever.

"Will she survive?"

"Only the gods know." The Maester replied.

Her father was silent for a moment, his fingers tightening on hers.

"Perhaps it will be better this way."

When she finally woke, the light blinded her. She squinted, closing her eyes, feeling that someone was indeed holding her hand – when she opened her eyelids again she saw Queen Alicent sitting beside her on her bed.

The gesture, the touch of her warm hand on hers was at once pleasurable, motherly, and at the same time uncomfortable – she was not her child, but a stranger, and to her it was an act filled with her guilt, her attempt to alleviate what they wanted to condemn her to.

"How do you feel, sweet girl?" She hummed, though she didn't understand what purpose this question was intended to serve.

Did she think that she would cry now in her arms like a fool, saying that she missed her mother and was afraid?

Even if that were true, she had no intention of confiding in the mother of two self-obsessed men, one worse than the other.

Did she blame herself sometimes for the way they were?

Queen Alicent let go of her hand and lowered her gaze, as if embarrassed by her silence, understanding what she must have been thinking about.

"My son, Aemond. He was such a sweet boy." She said in pain, shaking her head, biting her lower lip.

"After his nephew took his eye he sank into a sense of injustice. He says that Luke's death was an accident, but I don't know if I believe him. I don't recognise him anymore and I warn you that he's unpredictable." She whispered and looked at her, clearly thinking that her words would make any impression on her.

She, however, felt nothing.

"I know."

Prince Aemond circled around her bed like a predator, watching her vigilantly, pacing with his hands folded behind his back, listening to what the Maester was saying.

"The momentary weakness has passed, but she should not strain herself." He said, and the prince hummed under his breath, stopping at the height of her head, looking at him with satisfaction.

"She won't. Leave us alone."

She turned her head away from him, not feeling like listening to what he had to say to her.

"Daemon tried to teach you. Didn't he?" He asked haughtily, apparently convinced that he was right.

She just swallowed hard, feeling a squeeze in her throat at the thought that he wasn't wrong.

"I wouldn't call it teaching." She replied dispassionately, feeling that she was sinking deeper and deeper into the bedding, wanting to melt into one with it.

She shuddered as he leaned over her suddenly, his hands on both sides of her head resting on the pillow, strands of his long hair brushing her face.

"Is there really no desire for revenge in you? To prove him wrong by rejecting you? Don't you want him to curse the day he left you?" He asked, looking her straight in the eye.

He's changed tactics, she thought, wanting to get to her hidden frustrations, pain and disappointment now.

She smiled at his words, his lips twisted in a grimace of displeasure at the sight.

He was enraged.

"I don't care about him. However, I can see that for you the person of my father is very important. You are alike, you and him." She whispered, and he swallowed hard, something in his gaze extinguished, making his iris dark.

"Daemon is a challenge I welcome. I will face him if the need arises. I will not allow the bastard children of my sister-whore to sit on the Iron Throne." He said slowly, choosing each word carefully, as if he knew he needed not only her, but also her loyalty.

And for what reason would she remain by his side if the opportunity came for her to betray him?

"Do you want your brother to remain King?" She asked quietly, and his expression changed – his forehead cleared, his jaw relaxed into an expression that was strangely calm.

Silence.

They looked straight into each other's eyes, and with every second in which his mouth did not leave the confirmation her heart pounded harder and harder in her chest, her lips parted in a sigh of disbelief.

His lips parted too, his gaze grew misty, as if he felt arousal at the thought of what he saw in his head.

Himself on the Iron Throne.

"Serve me well and I will reward you. When the time comes." He whispered and, to her amazement, she felt an unfamiliar sensation between her thighs, a warmth and a pulsing, as if someone had tickled her there.

He rose with a smirk and moved towards the door, telling her that they would begin her training the next morning.

He had her riding attire prepared for her and arranged for her to meet him in the courtyard of the Red Keep. In order to be on time, she had to rise before dawn – by the time she left the gates of the fortress in the company of the guards, the sun was just rising lazily over the horizon.

Prince Aemond gave her one sharp glance before mounting his beautiful brown steed, nodding his head for her to do the same. She therefore climbed with lightness and ease onto the black mare standing just beside him and set off at a gallop after him.

She thought with amusement, feeling the wind in her hair, the front strands of which she had braided back, as he did, that she could easily try to escape with such a well-rested horse at her side, knowing her riding skills.

For the first time, however, she wondered why she should return there?

What kind of life awaited her in Runestone?

Certainly not death in flames, she thought with a smile, but for some reason she didn't fear that.

She would simply become dust and fly with the wind high into the sky.

The prince stopped suddenly, indicating to her with a raised hand to do the same, and jumped down from the saddle. She followed in his footsteps, sinking onto the soft dew-damp grass, trying to catch her breath after the physical exertion, looking around.

She wondered what they were doing among the glades and woods, until she felt the ground around them shake and something she thought was a hill began to slowly rise, a large eye similar to that of a lizard opened.

A dragon.

A dragon as big as a mountain.

"Lykirī, Vhagar." Said her rider, stepping closer to her, extending his hand to her.

Vhagar leaned towards him, apparently trying to understand what was happening, allowing him to touch her jaw – his hand seemed to her to be just the head of a needle compared to her huge body, her muzzle opened in an expression as if she was pleased to see him.

Her heart was pounding like mad, her mouth open wide in a quickened, excited breath.

"Come closer. Slowly, step by step." He called out to her, and she looked at him as if he had completely lost his mind.

Gods, she was so big.

She probably wouldn't even feel it in her throat if she swallowed her.

She felt her legs grow soft, her body quivering all over as she took an uncertain first step forward and then a second, Vhagar's gaze shifted lazily to her, her nostrils releasing the air loudly, enveloping her in warm steam.

She stopped, terrified, as the dragoness suddenly opened her maw, something red appeared in the distance of her throat, as if someone had lit a fire there.

"DAOR, VHAGAR! DAOR!" Exclaimed her rider, and in some act of despair and fear she shouted to her as if she were chastising a little child.

"Rȳbās!"

Vhagar froze motionless, as if confused, staring at her small silhouette standing before her.

"Rȳbās, Vhagar. Daor."

Vhagar closed her maw, a loud sigh escaping from her nostrils, which hit her and made her fall over, dropping to her knees.

She looked at him from a distance and saw that he was pale, his mouth open in a heavy, shuddering breath.

She didn't know why she started to laugh – why she grabbed her stomach, bent over and died of amusement and bitterness, thinking that her father had made a mistake, that he had wasted years of her life, had rejected her believing that she would never be able to do this.

She was panting, feeling her laughter turn to sobs, heavy tears of shame one by one began to run down her cheek onto the grass beneath her hands, her mouth wide open trying to catch air.

She did it, and he wasn't here.

She still remained a nobody, just as she had been before.

Playing with dragons didn't change anything.

She gasped as he grabbed her by the hair and lifted her head up with an aggressive motion of his hand, kneeling beside her, pointing at his dragoness lying right in front of them.

"Do you know what it is? Do you know how much I sacrificed to achieve it? This dragoness has seen Old Valyria, fought in wars when your great-grandparents were not yet in the world. You should fall to your knees before her, you fucking whore, not laugh." He hissed and pushed her forward so that she bent over, as if praying before a statue of a god.

She clasped her hands in the wet grass, panting all over, whooping with her tears, wondering how long she was supposed to last in this position, his fingers clenched in her hair, not allowing her to move away even a little.

"That's it. Show some fucking respect." He sneered, and she clenched her eyes shut, drifting her thoughts away to the pleasant scent of the forest around her, the singing of the birds, the sound of the wind.

She swallowed hard as his embrace eased, her heart thumping harder in her chest as his fingers ran through her smooth curls, sinking finally into the soft skin of the back of her neck.

Her lips parted in disbelief, wondering what he was actually doing, the familiar pulsing between her thighs told her that she was both terrified and aroused by this new, unfamiliar sensation.

She felt her lips swell and her nipples harden as his thumb stroked her skin, her thighs clenched involuntarily with her silent sigh.

He heard it and gasped, tightening his fingers in her hair again, leaning over her ear.

"This position suits you." He whispered and let her go with a firm tug, moving towards his dragoness, placing his hand on her jaw.

"Stand up and repeat everything again."

[desireangel]

Bad Things | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond is plagued with doubts and seeks refuge in the one place where he is at peace with himself; between his beloved wife's legs.

Pairing: Aemond x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only!! this is so in Aemond's thoughts, self doubt, lack of remorse, smut, oral (f receiving), talk of sex, slight breeding kink, Aemond is lost in his head and obsessed with eating his wife out, Aemond may be prince regent of Westeros but he is king of eating pussy, unedited, hmm kinda just porn really - let me know to add anything if need be!

Author's Note: Came home drunk (typos??? potentially. unnecessary droning on??? potentially.) after a couple cocktails and had the urge to erm write. About oral sex specifically, of course. Anywayssss, enjoy (I hope!) - xoxo kisses!!! <3

Masterlist!

Sometimes Aemond let his mind wander to all that could have been and all that could come to be had he only made his decisions differently. He seldom felt regret - never felt as if he would change the things that have led him towards the path of greatness he was on. But what ifs and the memory of failures are as stubborn as a newborn plague and Aemond was just as vulnerable to illness as those whom he revered and those whom he detested. 

It was warm under the light of the setting sun, a kiss on his skin as Aemond rested against the balcony at the window and watched over what he longed to have for himself. If things had been different, at any time and any place, where would he be now?

The thought of living his life without his injury had come to sicken him but it lingered at the back of his mind. Had certain moments taken a different turn, would he still feel the need to drive people to respect him through fear and prove himself worthy at every chance he could find? Aemond swallowed at the thought. And he stood there, looking to the skies as if the clouds could free him from the suffocation of the feelings that had haunted him since the night he lost his eye. 

Feelings of failure, feelings of defeat, feelings of fear and feelings of humiliation. 

Even after meeting you, and understanding that loving you meant different things - things he wasn’t familiar with, things he wasn’t sure he was capable of becoming familiar with - the lingering thought of what if was all consuming.

Aemond could hear you coming seconds before you were beside him. He was thankful you stood by his side, silently and wordlessly as your eyes dragged across his face, analysing what you could of his thoughts from his perfected emotionless expression. Quiet moments like this, where Aemond got lost in his mind grew fewer at each move he made within this war.

But here you both were, silently in each other’s company. Aemond was a passionate lover. But he was also at times a cold and imperfect partner. And some of those times where he retreated into himself, although he had rarely lost control of himself in front of you, left him vexed at your presence.  

Because to Aemond, you were perfect. Frustrating at times but that was often the fault of his own lack of patience and tolerance. You were, at the end of the day, too perfect. He saw your compassion, your empathy, your kindness. And he saw your strength, your wit, your fearsome loyalty.

And here Aemond was, unable to even regret many of the times he acted without any of those perfect things. After the fate that Lucerys had met, Aemond found he could not find it in himself to feel remorse for much else. 

You let your fingers graze along the leather sleeve on his arm, your light touch burning into his skin through the fabric. He closed his eye and kept it closed for minutes of silence that felt like hours before he spoke lowly.

“I have done bad things.”

You sucked in a breath. “Would you be here today if you had not done those things?”

“No, you do not understand me. I cannot bring myself to care for some of the vile things that I have done. That I have caused. I should care, should I not?” 

Releasing a long sigh, you shifted on your feet. Aemond knew that you were different to him. You didn’t agree with many of his actions and decisions but you knew there was nothing you could do except to be there when he needed you. It had taken time to realise you couldn’t change the way he thought, the way he felt, the way he reacted to things - you weren’t sure if you truly, deeply wanted to take on that burden. 

As Aemond grew more honest with you, you had come to realise that when it came down to it he was not a completely good man. But he was good to you and while Aemond saw your strength, you knew you were weak when it came to him. Loyalty and love for your husband burned painfully in your chest no matter his imperfections and you never bothered to try to justify it. 

“Perhaps if I had acted differently, somewhere,” Aemond’s words were rushed, a switch from his normally slow drawl. He would curse himself tomorrow for his moment of weakness but he couldn’t ignore the pit in his stomach. “Then I would not be the way that I am now.”

You stared at him for a moment. His expression was of ice and had you not known him the way that you do, then you would never have noticed the confliction in his eyes. “There is no use-”

“I know there is no use in thinking about what may have been, I know,” Aemond spat. 

“Alright,” you paused. “But you will never know what could have changed. You made your decisions, you were the author of your own fate, Aemond. ‘Tis the way things go - we must face it. What difference would it make if things could have been different? You cannot undo what you have already done.”

Aemond’s jaw ticked and he moved so that his arm hung at your waist. You briefly glanced back inside at the servant who prepared your nightly cup of tea at your bedside. Aemond seldom made a show of your relationship when you weren’t entirely alone. Nevertheless, you didn’t let your mind linger on that fact. 

He gazed down at you, his ocean-strong eye never failing to make your breath hitch and goosebumps to rise on your skin. You were relieved that he seemed to agree with your words. Aemond’s shoulders had lost much of the tension they held and the start of the sweet smile that was shared only with you played on his lips. 

He had to try hard to believe what you had told him. Because here you were, no matter what he did and no matter his lack of conviction, at his side and wrapped around his finger. You were the calming breeze that cooled his heat, you were the shade that gave him relief from the scorching sun and you were the water that flushed the burn from his skin. Aemond was not one to be an emotional man but he knew that he had love for you and your endless, boundless support. And he dreamed of how he would share with you the world that will one day be at his feet. 

“I shall share your bed tonight, my love.” Aemond’s words were as they always have been; smooth with honey but laced with venomous promises. You bit back a smile as he pulled you inside, addicted to whatever venom dripped from his words, from his eye, from him.  “And that shall serve as all the reminder that I need to be sure I have not been so misguided that I have lost my way to no return.” 

When he pressed his nose into the crook of your neck, dragging it along your soft skin, he inhaled deeply. Aemond thought for a moment of how perfect it would be if he could bottle your scent and keep it with him forever. A reminder of the woman for whom he wished he could become a good, honest man. 

Your body felt so familiar to him that it made his mind turn quiet and Aemond could only think of having you closer, closer, closer. And it was never close enough, no matter how hard he squeezed at the flesh of your hips to pull you in, no matter how your breath tickled his skin and  how your eyelashes fluttered against his hair as he dragged his lips over your shoulder and along the side of your neck. 

If there were no roof atop your heads, you would have thought that it rained flames onto the both of you and to relieve the burn of it, you melted into Aemond, pressing yourself further into him and squirming for more as he grabbed at your nightclothes to toss them to the floor. 

You tugged hopelessly at the buckles on his tunic, whining. “Get it off, Aemond.”

Aemond didn’t need to be told a second time because hardly a moment later he was as naked as you were, pushing you until the back of your legs hit the edge of your bed and you fell onto it gently. A strained groan fell from his lips as he let you pull him down with you, holding his face in your hands as he held himself above you with an arm beside your head. You gently removed the leather that covered his glimmering sapphire, sighing contently. 

Admiring Aemond as he was, bare and honest and beautiful had become your favourite way to see him. Without the need to hide any part of himself from you. 

Smirking, he let his lips graze yours softly. It was a stark contrast to the way Aemond’s other hand was roughly grabbing at whatever flesh he could hold, squeezing you and sending shockwaves straight through to your core. 

You could barely get the words out of you. “Kiss me–Gods, kiss me.”

And he did kiss you, his lips desperately clashing against yours with a new kind of vigour. Aemond rarely kissed you with such force, such rage and such raw, unfettered need. But as his teeth knocked against yours, catching your lip in between and drawing blood, he entertained the thought that maybe he did regret something. All of the kisses he never had the chance to give you. 

The air between you was charged with something sharp and electric, a primal energy that clouded your head and had you gasping Aemond’s name at the way he brushed his knuckle against your core. Normally, he would have taken his time with you. But despite the fact that you had the entire night ahead of you, Aemond was rushed and impatient. 

“Always so ready for me,” he murmured, taking in a sharp breath as his fingers rubbed through your slick folds, pulling a soft whine from you. Aemond’s cock twitched at the perfect sound and he ground his hips against the plush of your thigh. He dragged the pads of his fingers teasingly up from the slit of your hole to the hood of your clit, drawing teasing circles so softly you could have been convinced his touch was a figment of your fantasies. 

“Aemond, please-”

He shushed you softly. “Patience, my sweet.”

Aemonds lips, wet on your jaw, travelled down the expanse of your neck and over your collarbones. He nibbled at you, amused at the way you arched and squirmed, replacing his fingers with his cock and sliding it against your clit. When his lips met your nipple he sucked harshly with a flick of his tongue, giving your right breast hardly enough attention before turning to the other. 

It sent shivers down your spine and you were sure Aemond felt you shudder against him when his lips travelled lower, leaving a wet trail down your skin until he was finally just below your naval. Aemond turned his head, his teeth pinching the flesh of your thigh harshly, just above where your thigh curved into your pelvis. You squealed. 

“Hm,” He chuckled darkly, smiling up at you and shaking his head with a deep tsk when your legs instinctively moved to shut. His hands groped at your thighs and pushed them up so that you were folded yet entirely spread in front of him. “I will fuck you with my tongue first. And my fingers. Then I will fuck you with my cock and fill you with my seed, only after I have made you quiver and shake from the pleasure of my mouth on your perfect cunt.”

Aemond’s eye dropped to your sopping cunt and his words coiled in his throat, coming out as a muffled moan. You gasped as he lewdly spat, his head falling downwards in an instant, wave after wave of pleasure stealing the oxygen from your lungs as he sucked on your pussy, tongue weaving across your clit and back down. 

All of the loud doubts that plagued his mind turned into whispers of incoherence the moment his mouth met the velvety skin of your womanhood, Aemond’s favourite place to lose himself when his thoughts became unbearable. The tangy, sweet taste of your arousal pulled a deep growl from his chest and when your hips jerked against his face, he wrapped a strong arm over your hips to hold you in place. 

As Aemond’s tongue dipped into you, his lips latched on the expanse of your cunt, you let out a cry, your hand falling to his hair and pulling hard. Your body was hot with desire, thighs squeezing your husband’s head as he greedily feasted on the most intimate parts of you. He pulled away for one quick second to catch his breath before burying himself in you once again, the obscene smacking sounds of how he relentlessly sucked and lapped at your slit. 

For such vulgar noises, they had become increasingly beautiful. 

“I dream of staying here forever,” Aemond’s words were muffled, difficult to hear over your own whimpers and the movement of his lips on your folds had you bucking to follow his mouth. He hid his grin in your wetness. “I can do no wrong with the taste of you on my tongue.”

The pleasure that Aemond always submerged you was almost becoming overwhelming and you lost the ability to form sentences, muttering and mumbling in response. He could decipher his name, falling for your flushed lips so many times, and his eye flickered up to watch how your body climbed to the highest point of satisfaction where such a sinful act became heavenly. 

You were always beautiful, Aemond thought. But you were at your most beautiful when you came undone for him, lost in the throes of bliss and grasping at him as if you could not live for another second without his touch. He carried you through your orgasm, unrelenting as he greedily devoured every part of your pussy, looking up at you with his darkened eye and shining sapphire, strands of his hair that had come loose sticking to the wetness on his jaw. Aemond relished in the strangled, melodic sounds that you made for him. 

When you jerked away from him with a squeal, so sensitive when the tip of his tongue flicked against your clit that your hips bucked suddenly, Aemond pulled away while chuckling and placing featherlight kisses along your shaking thighs. He watched how your cunt continued to clench around nothing as you came down from your orgasm, the messy mixture of his spit and your arousal glistening under the light from the lamps. 

You let yourself relax into the bedsheets and moved to close your legs, tugging Aemond to meet you for a kiss and giggling when he stopped to quickly wipe your slick from his face. But before your knees could come together, he caught them, settling himself in between and you could feel the steady heat from his hardened cock grazing across the outside of your slit. 

“I think my pretty wife believes she is going to have a restful night,” Aemond teased against your lips, sliding a hand down between your bodies and spreading your folds once again to make way for his fingers. You shuddered against him with a mewl. “You are mistaken, my love, if you believe I will not have you full of my seed by the time I am done making love to you. I am a man of my word, am I not?”

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Husband's Duty

Summary: The day Aemond Targaryen wields power over the Realm has finally arrived | Word Count: 2.4k~ | Warnings: semi-public sex, oral sex (m recieving), rough sex, degradation

She knew the moment Lord Wylde and Lord Lannister filed out of the Small Council Chambers, chest puffed out like prize pigeons and an inflated sense of male ego what had transpired. She was no fool to the endless politicking her husband had been involved in of late. And such that he was embroiled with his mother, the Dowager Queen Alicent.

Maester Orwyle merely followed, head lowered as if he were tired of listening to such ruinous plans for the Realm. Endless murmurs swirled, all with her husband's name on their lips.

Her mother by marriage did not even raise her eyes to her when she passed. At least Ser Criston had the decency to lower his head in greeting, but it mattered naught to her. She herself did not pass a single glance to Lord Larys, despite feeling his gaze on her as he limped away.

No. She was here to see what her husband had always felt destined to become.

The air crackled with tension once the door was closed behind her, leaving them both alone in the vast space where her husband would now command. He stood proud, and no crown adorned his brow, but he appeared as if he had one. Envisioning hin in the Conqueror’s Crown, Targaryen locks falling around his shoulders, was enough for her lips to quirk up.

Seeing him poised for power made her heart race with excitement. His single eye glinted with satisfaction, but she saw the restrained hunger she knew well beneath even that. She had always adored the way his gaze would rake over her, with that alone, he possessed more power of intimacy over her than some married couples saw in a lifetime.

“You wear it well, my love,” she mused, rounding the table to step closer to him, her fingers trailing over the fine embroidery of his tunic. “The weight of the Realm suits you.”

The sharpness in his usual expression softened for her. “Does it now?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He stepped toward her, his tall, imposing frame did not shadow her confidence. “The Realm bends to me. As it should.”

“And it pleases me beyond words,” she whispers, carrying a teasing lilt, “I wish to show you how much.”

Her words were a promise, and Aemond's pulse quickened. She had always admired his strength, his cunning, his ability to wield both sword and strategy. But now, as Prince Regent, she was more than willing to worship him in a way only she could.

“You were made for this, Aemond,” she whispered, her lips now at his throat, kissing a trail of heat against his skin. He was warm, his scent curling around her pleasantly, feeling the familiar thrum of his pulse. “The crown. The throne. And me.”

Gently, but with purpose, she guided him down to his seat once more with a firm hand on his chest. The air between them crackled with anticipation as she knelt before him, her fingers deftly working at the laces of his trousers. His breath hitched, his hands tangling in her hair as she sank to her knees before him. She looked up at him, eyes full of devotion and raw hunger.

"Let me honour you as my Prince. My King."

He felt the rush of power and pleasure mingling in his veins as he looked down at her, his queen in all but title. He felt the very ground fall beneath him as her velvety hand took his length into her palm and worked him to arousal. Aemond hissed through his teeth, jaw tense, even before her at this moment, he had no desire to fall completely to her mercy. At least not yet. There was something in her tone, a hint of playful challenge. He could feel it, the way she always liked to push him, even here, even now.

“You speak of honour,” he murmured, his voice low, edged with warning and yet noticeably shaken by the way her small hands worked him to hardness. “And yet you toy with me.”

Her smile widened, her fingers brushing lightly over the tip, watching the way his brow twitched. “And what if I crave to see you undone?”

His grip in her hair tightened, and she gasped softly, though her teasing look didn’t falter. His eye blazed down at her, the pleasure mixed with the irritation she stirred in him. "You are bold tonight. Perhaps too bold for your own good."

As if by way of confirming, Aemond watched her tongue slide between her lips, painting a soft, and entirely too gentle line from the base of him to the very tip. She did not miss the way his hands tightened around the arms of his seat, the tension in the muscles of his thighs.

Her lips quirked upward, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Bold enough to know that you do not wish for me to stop.”

Any smart reply Aemond had was quickly swallowed by the heat of her mouth on him. His breath left him in a sharp exhale, his head tilting back as she worked him with slow, deliberate care. With a slow, careful rhythm, her lips wrapped around him, tongue pressed to the underside of his length, feeling his pulse throb with arousal beneath it. The musky, pleasant scent of his wanting skin wrapping around her.

Her hand remained, stroking what she could not fit into her mouth. And even with his cock, hot and heavy on her tongue, her eyes briefly flicked up to meet his gaze as she dragged her lips along him, humming contently and sending white hot pleasure right up his spine. 

“You test me,” he finally rasped, his voice rough, though the authority in it wavered.

She pulled off him purposefully slowly with a soft pop, stroking her palm over his achingly hard length with a sense of both amusement and pride, just enough to murmur, her breath ghosting over his skin. “What is a King if he is not tested?”

His lips parted as if to scold her, but the words caught in his throat when she resumed, her mouth working him with a fiery intensity that sent a tremor through him. A low, almost involuntary groan escaped him, and she knew then that any protest he had was slipping from his grasp. The hard line of his jaw flexed as he fought to maintain some semblance of control, but his body’s response betrayed him, the tension in him giving way to desire. His breathing quickened, rough and uneven, and she smiled inwardly, knowing she had him exactly where she wanted him, her other hand seeking to cup his stones, her desire to send him hurtling over the edge outweighing any consequences. 

“Damn you,” he growled, his voice thick with both frustration and pleasure, punishing her with his fingers tightening at the roots of her hair, pushing her mouth down onto him as far as she would go. Her whimper made his cock ache in her mouth, his hips jutting up to hit the back of her throat, his lips parting at the way she tried to suck in air around him.

For a moment, she yielded, letting him guide her, knowing how much it pleased him to feel like he had the upper hand. But she wasn’t done yet. She wasn’t one to be so easily subdued. With a quick, daring flick of her tongue, she made him shudder, a brief tremor running through his body, and she could feel it, the edge he was teetering on.

She pushed back against his hand, trying to slow her movements, taking her time, her lips working him expertly as she attempted to unravel him. His grip in her hair faltered, just slightly, and she smiled inwardly, sensing his undoing was near. His breaths had become ragged, uneven, and she knew if she just kept going, just a little longer, she could make him fall apart completely.

But Aemond wasn’t so easily conquered.

With a rough, guttural sound, he yanked her back, pulling her mouth from him. Her lips were glossy, swollen, and bruised from her efforts, but she didn’t miss the way his chest heaved, or the flash of raw need in his eye. He had been close. So close.

“Enough,” he rasped, his breath heavy but resolute, his hand still fisted in her hair. He forced her up, and before she could catch her breath, he spun her around, pushing her forward. Her hands braced against the cool surface of the Small Council table, the polished wood smooth under her palms as her body pressed against it.

She gasped softly, a thrill of excitement racing through her as his hand pushed down on the small of her back, bending her further over the table. His fingers slid along her waist, possessive, commanding, as he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. 

“You forget yourself,” he growled, his hand moving down to bunch up the fabric of her skirts, hiking them up with a sharp, decisive tug.

She tried to glance back, her lips still tingling from where they had been on him, but his hand on her back kept her pinned in place. He leaned down, lips brushing the nape of her neck as he whispered against her skin. “Allow me to remind you, wife.”

The sharp, initial pain she felt was nothing. Nothing compared to the way Aemond felt her soft, silky walls yield to him. Pushing himself into her as far as he would go would rival the Seven Heavens, he would wager, her soft, delicate skin pressed to him, all bent over and willing to his needs in the Small Council Chambers of all places. And all she could do was choke out a quiet, almost swallowed moan as she felt him fill her, his thrusts immediately hard and unrelenting. A reminder perhaps, that no matter how much she tested him, that he would always crave control. 

Each thrust was deliberate, claiming, his hips snapping against her with the raw force of a man who refused to be tested. The sound of their bodies meeting echoed through the otherwise silent chamber, in a place usually quiet with authority, there was a thrill knowing that their acts were debasing the very purpose of the room.

She whimpered as his hand tightened on the inside of her thigh, pushing the supple flesh aside as if to glimpse upon the way he drove forcefully into her. She struggled somewhat to keep her head from falling upon the varnished table, instead her breasts bloomed from the top of her dress, sensitive against the smooth furniture. 

"Do you understand now?" Aemond growled lowly, his voice a dangerous rasp against the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her hips as he pulled her back onto him with each thrust. 

She couldn’t respond, at least not with words. Her body, trembling beneath him, spoke for her. Every sharp intake of breath, every involuntary shudder as he filled her, was an admission. But even in her submission, there was something in her that refused to completely yield. Her walls clenched around him, the warmth of her body trying to coax him deeper still.

And Aemond felt it, and his grip tightened, feeling her resist. “You still think you can fight me, don’t you?”

Without warning, he pulled her upright, his arm wrapping around her waist as he pressed her back against his chest, bringing her knee to rest against the table, her legs wide and eager for him to continue. The new angle sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through her, and she gasped, her legs trembling beneath her.

He thrust into her again, harder this time, and she couldn’t hold back the moan that tore from her lips. Her hands reached back, grasping at his forearm, trying to ground herself in the overwhelming pleasure and pain that blurred together into one intoxicating sensation. Aemond chuckled darkly at her helplessness, his grip never loosening, his pace never faltering.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice thick with lust and command. His arm snaked up, between her breasts for his hand to hold her neck. "Say who you belong to."

Her breath hitched, her mind clouded by the rush of pleasure. "You," she managed to gasp, her voice barely a whisper.

He gave a harsh thrust, making her cry out this time. "Louder."

Her body buckled under him, her breath ragged as she finally choked out the words he wanted to hear. "I belong to you, Aemond."

The raw pleasure tore through her, and her entire body trembled, collapsing against him as she cried out his name. He groaned low in his throat, the sound primal as he released into her, his forehead resting against the curve of her shoulder as he let himself come undone.

Aemond's pulse thrummed against her skin, his breath warm as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She remained still for a moment, her mind catching up to the rush of sensation. Her body hummed with the aftershock of what had just transpired, her skin flushed and damp. But secretly, she felt victorious.

He slowly pulled himself from her trembling walls, his touch lingering on her skin as he helped her stand, righting their clothes to decency once more and turning her in his arms so that they were face to face. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb gently brushing over her bruised lips, swollen from the force of their passion. She could not help herself but smile at his insatiable nature. And hers as well.

“I am as much yours as you are mine,” Aemond uttered, his fingers threaded through her hair, smoothing it where he had earlier tugged so fiercely. His gaze lingered on her face, drinking in the sight of her, flushed and breathless.

“Come,” Aemond said softly, his voice attempting that familiar coolness, though his hand remained firm at the small of her back. “We’ve lingered long enough. They’ll be wondering where their Prince Regent is.”

“I’m sure they’d be scandalised to know how you’ve spent your first moments as Regent.”

Aemond’s smirk mirrored hers as he adjusted his tunic, his eye gleaming with amusement. “Let them wonder,” he replied, his tone dripping with satisfaction. He bent down, kissing her temple with a possessive finality before pulling her toward the door. “T’was merely a husband fulfilling his duty.”

...

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[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Avarice and Arrogance (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Aemond Masterlist | HOTD Masterlist 

Synopsis: Aemond was always confident that he could protect you and his family from any threat, but the Gods had to dole out a lesson for his impunity, and a particularly cruel one at that. 

Warnings: TW! Character death, violence, torture, angst, Aemond being somewhat toxic?? 

Word Count: 2.6K words 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for the reader. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: You guys asked for angst, I delivered an overdose. I hope you enjoy, although I’m not very proud of this one shot. Inspired after overplaying the epic version of Aegon’s Coronation theme. Ramin Djawadi is my true King of the Seven Kingdoms 

wonderful dividers credited to @firefly-graphics

“He whispered his final wish that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him!” 

To anyone, Prince Aemond seemed the portrait of composure: his arms clasped behind his back, his expression cool and disinterested. Yet if one looked closely enough, they would see the tension in his jaw, his teeth gritted, his posture bordering more on stiff than of calmness. His lone violet eye glittered as he observed Aegon walking under the raised swords of the knights, looking as recalcitrant as always. 

‘Had that been me…’ he thought bitterly, ‘I would’ve carried myself with pride. The smallfolk would’ve took one look at me and trusted that I had the greatness, the capability, to lead House Targaryen into the apex of our power.’ 

‘And yet,’ Aemond mused to himself as his mother kissed Aegon on the forehead, ‘reality is often disappointing.’

His fists clenched at his sides. It was unfair, his brother was naught but a wastrel, a fool constantly drunk in his cups and oft found buried in the tits of some common whore. What right had he to rule, save for being the firstborn son? How could someone as useless as him be Lord of the Seven Kingdoms? Even with their grandsire by his side giving him counsel, when his half sister received word of the coronation, and of their father’s death…Aemond dreaded to think what would happen. Would Aegon be able to rise up to the defence of their family?

Aemond took a deep breath to steady himself, when suddenly, he felt a warm hand grasping his, gently unclenching his fingers from his tightly formed fist. Surprised, he looked over to the unexpected source of comfort. His lady wife stood next to him, an indifferent expression on her lovely face as she kept her eyes fixed on the smallfolk. He noticed that she was holding his sweet sister, Helaena’s hand in her other hand, and his mind halted in its baleful, raging course to settle on her instead, admiring her. 

My beautiful, brilliant lady wife. 

She would’ve been the most wonderful queen, he thought, and the wave of resentment began its course once more. As if sensing the switch in Aemond’s thoughts, she squeezed his hand lightly in hers. Aemond marvelled at his wife, amazed at how she always could sense the slightest shifts in his moods, even when her eyes were not on him. And just like that, the worry and the resentment fell away, and his envy for his brother became a little easier to bear, even just for that moment. 

But…he felt a sense of strangeness creep over him as he took in his wife’s features. Her face was impassive, but it was hard and cold, as if she did not approve of this very scene. As Aegon raised Blackfyre and rallied the crowd, and his wife squeezed Helaena’s hand tighter, Aemond realised that mayhaps her gesture was not done solely out of comfort, but for anxiety.

For fear. 

You were chewing on your bottom lip, Helaena’s hand still in yours as you both stewed in contemplative silence, each engulfed with thoughts and worries of your own. Aemond frowned as he watched his sister and his beloved. Aegon had ridden in a separate wheelhouse with their mother and grandsire, and mayhaps it was for the better, given the gloomy atmosphere. 

When they were back in the safety of their apartments, Aemond followed his wife’s every movement in rapt attention. You began unravelling the tight updo that your hair was in, running your hands through your long locks pensively. It was done now…you were true traitors to the Crown. You sighed, wanting nothing more than to crawl in bed and hope that this was nothing but an unpleasant dream. 

Suddenly, you felt warm arms engulfing you from behind. Aemond dropped his chin onto his beloved’s shoulder as he embraced her, breathing in her scent. “Tell me what troubles you, my love,” his voice husky. 

You shook your head slightly, trying to mask your thoughts. “Tis nothing, my love. I swear it.” 

Aemond chuckled, a dark and soft sound. “Liar.” 

He spun his beloved round to face him, taking note of her expression. “I know you are worried,” his voice was soft, “We are husband and wife, my love. Whatever troubles you hold, I want to know all of it. We swore before the Gods, did we not? To share each other’s burdens? We will honour our vows, do we not?” 

Your lips twisted slightly, trying not to grimace. “If vows were of any matter to us, then we would not have committed such a grave sin.” Aemond frowned, the reasons for his wife’s anxiety suddenly becoming apparent to him. “Aegon is the King now,” he reminded her, “My father named him so.” 

You let out a humourless snort. “He was an old man, half senile and drunk on the Milk of Poppy.” Aemond opened his mouth as if to protest, but you continued before he could. “The late king had named Rhaenyra as his heir. Even when the Stranger drew close, he had forsaken his health and braved through his pain to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim during Vaemond’s speech. Does the Hand expect all of Westeros to believe the King changed his mind all of a sudden on his deathbed? It is insanity, and even a deaf fool would know better.” 

“Enough,” Aemond’s voice was low, tinged with warning. “You will not insult my grandsire like this. It is done now, and that is the truth.” You persisted, however. “Putting that aside, Rhaenyra will seek to have all our heads when the news breaks. How can your grandsire be as foolish as to put all of us in danger like this?” 

Aemond arched a brow, “Is that what you’re worried about?” “Are you not worried about that?” Aemond laughed, “We have dragons, my love. I should think Vhagar, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre are enough to defend us. That whore on Dragonstone will soon realise that she can get angry, and she can spit and curse all she wants, but she cannot match against our might.” 

You looked unconvinced, which irked Aemond a little. Why was she so worried? “Do not tell me,” his voice was low with menace, “That you are loyal to Rhaenyra. That you are sympathetic to that whore’s cause.” You kept mum, but your eyes told Aemond everything he needed to know. He snarled, moving to pin you against the wall. 

Your eyes widened with panic, your hands moving to push Aemond away, but he held your wrists in a vice grip. You had never seen him so angry with you before. “You are my wife,” he hissed angrily, “Your priorities should lie with me, with my family. Our family. In keeping us safe from that accursed whore and my uncle.” “And making Aegon king, usurping the rightful queen, is supposed to keep us safe?” You argued, unintimidated. “Have you lost all your senses, Aemond? We are traitors! Usurpers! You claim protecting your family is your priority, but yet you allow your grandsire to risk our lives for his mad grab for power!” Aemond’s grip tightened on your wrists, causing you to wince and fall silent. Aemond took notice of that, but he couldn’t let you go. Not just yet. He needed to make his point. 

“I said, do not speak of my grandsire in that manner,” he seethed. “He is my family, and I will not tolerate you insulting him.” He took a deep breath, letting go of his wife’s wrists, and she took the chance to push him away before fleeing to their bed. He sighed and sat down next to her, but she only moved away and folded her arms, turning her back on him. He heard a soft sniffle, and he realised with horror that she was crying. He had made her cry. 

A pang of guilt shot through Aemond’s heart, and he tentatively reached out to put his hands on her shoulders, dismayed when she flinched away from his touch. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier, my love,” he said quietly, “I got carried away, and I hurt you. I apologise for that.” He saw her shoulders lose some of their tension at his apology, and a glimmer of hope shone in his violet eye. Mayhaps he could make her see his viewpoint after all. He knew of her house’s loyalty to Rhaenyra’s claim, and how she might be swayed to support Rhaenyra’s claim, but she had to see. That this was the best for their family. 

“My love…” he bit his lip, “I know my words were harsh, but it is true. What is done is done. Even if I dislike Aegon being on the throne, he is my brother. If Rhaenyra had taken the throne, she would’ve had us executed. She would not suffer any presence that could be a threat to her claim to the throne. Even if she did not, there is no doubt Daemon would.” He took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “Rhaenyra is impulsive, violent and reckless. You saw how she took off Vaemond’s head when his only crime was speaking the truth. Her son blinded me when we were naught but boys,” Aemond’s voice became hard. “If we allow her to ascend the throne, that means that the Strong bastard, Jace, would ascend the throne after her. Do you really think the realm would really bow before him?” 

Your hard gaze softened a little, and Aemond saw a window of opportunity. “Think rationally, my love,” Aemond pleaded softly, “My father may have named Rhaenyra the heir, but it is an irreplaceable fact that the lords of Westeros would never bow before her. The Seven Kingdoms would plunge into chaos, do you really want that?” Aemond raised her hand to his lips, kissing it gently. “I know you’re afraid of Rhaenyra’s wrath, but I ask of you to trust me. Trust that I will keep us safe, no matter what.” 

“...I’m not sure if you can, Aemond.” Aemond’s heart dropped, “Whatever do you mean?” You finally turned to face him, and he was alarmed when he took note of the tears glistening at the corner of your eyes. “Aemond…I’m with child. For nearly three moons now.” 

Aemond swore his heart stopped at that very moment. But his shock only lasted briefly before he pulled you into his arms, voice filled with excitement and wonder, “You’re with child? Our child?” When he broke the embrace, you were surprised to see the corner of his violet eye wet. Aemond dropped to his knees in front of you, stroking his hand over your stomach reverently, in disbelief almost. “We’re going to be parents…” he murmured, “I’m going to be a father.” 

But even in Aemond’s joy, you could not find it in yourself to smile. Not with the threat of the impending succession war. Aemond noticed your discomfort, but nothing could take away the happiness he felt at the moment. “My love, you don’t have to be afraid,” his voice was reassuring, “I swear on my honour, on the Old Gods and the New, on the Seven and all my ancestors, that I would burn the world to ashes on Vhagar before I let anyone lay a finger on you or our child.” He took your hand, cradling it in his, tilting his head upwards, a pleading look in his eye, for you to believe in him, to trust him to keep you safe. 

“But even all the dragons in this world will not keep us from reaping the fate we sowed,” you said quietly, eyes never leaving Aemond’s. “The gods will strike us down for our treason.” 

Aemond rolled his eye, exasperated that his wife just didn’t seem to grasp the true extent of their power. “We are Targaryens, my love,” Aemond said self-assuredly. “We possess dragons, the largest, most dangerous and powerful creatures in the world. The gods may try as they might, but they can never strike us down. Seven hells, I would dare say we are the gods, my love,” Aemond chuckled at how your eyes widened at his brazen words. “For what other than a god can mount a dragon, and command it?” “Don’t say things like that, Aemond,” you were aghast, “The Seven will-” 

“Fuck the Seven,” Aemond said bluntly. “When men pray, the Gods never answer. Why should we fear the consequences inflicted upon us by some unknown higher power?” He resumed his seat on their bed, pulling you back into his embrace and gently stroking your hair. “We need not fear the Gods, my love,” he murmured softly. “You will see soon enough, when war comes, and the Gods do nothing to interfere, then you will come to revere them less. In the meantime, you will come to see who the true gods are, when our dragons raze the earth and win this godforsaken war.” 

It was known to all that the gods despise hubris, and perhaps they were watching that evening, when you laid your head on Aemond’s chest with a sigh and allowed him to soothe and comfort you, making promises that he would keep you safe no matter what. 

Aemond had been so sure in his words, so confident in his beliefs and in his abilities, and blinded by his ego. Mayhaps this was what drove him when he bade Vhagar prowl around Lucerys Velaryon and his dragon Arrax in the stormy skies of Storms’ End, shouting for the Strong bastard to repay the debt he owed. 

Mayhaps his pride was what had blinded him to the possibility that he could never keep his family safe after his act of kinslaying. 

But he knew for sure that he had regretted making an enemy of the gods when he saw you, eyes wide with fear, a sharp dragonglass blade to your throat as you were held hostage by some cutpurse. An eye for an eye, a son for a son, the cutpurse had grinned, before slitting your throat and lodging the dagger into your stomach. 

It mattered not how much Aemond had howled with grief as he held your lifeless frame in his arms, begging for you to wake up. It mattered not when Aemond personally tortured your assassin with the most vicious methods he could devise, flaying every inch of skin from his body until he had expired. Even in death, he was not spared of Aemond’s wrath. His body was marked with incisions when it was finally fed to Vhagar, courtesy of Aemond cutting out his heart and crushing it with his bare hands. It mattered not when Aemond had sworn to avenge you no matter the cost, to cut down Daemon Targaryen and give him the same treatment he had for the cutpurse. It took the combined efforts of the Queen Dowager, Queen Helaena, King Aegon, the Hand, and many other lords and knights of the Kingsguard to prevent him from mounting Vhagar upon the cutpurse’s death to fly to Dragonstone. A fool’s folly, they called it, but Aemond had drawn his sword and snarled at them to get out of his way, lest they wish to be the recipient of Vhagar’s flames. It was only when Alicent motioned for Ser Criston to deliver a blow that rendered Aemond unconscious that they could restrain him at all. 

A part of Aemond had died that day, and he rained curses upon the Seven, on his uncle, on his wretched half-sister as he took his seat in the Small Council, being the advocate for absolute and brutal violence against the Blacks. And yet he did not repent for looking down upon the gods, not even till the day when he faced his uncle Daemon in battle and died in the cursed halls of Harrenhal. Another casualty of the Dance of the Dragons. 

After all, even the Valyrian dragonlords of old had not been able to escape the Stranger’s clutches when death came for them. And Aemond Targaryen was no different. 

...i’m very sorry :( but I swear, happier Aemond one shots are coming 😭

Aemond General Taglist: @aiyaiy​ 

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[arabellasleopardcoat]

We light the way (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 

Summary: House Hightower doesn't have dragons. But they have a magic of their own. 

Warnings: Canon typical violence and language. Dialogue lifted from the show. Strong!Reader

A/N: I intended to finish the bingo, so I prompted myself: Aemond + witness + friends to lovers. 

The magic had always been there. It was in his blood. It had always been. When Aemond was four years old, he had woken up in the middle of the night, screaming in terrible agony. Years later, with greater pains to serve as reference, he would compare it to the loss of his eye. 

The wet nurse that tended to him and his siblings had burst into the room to find him clutching his arm to his chest, but was unable to identify what was wrong with him. She had called for help, and soon, the Queen and the Maester had been roused. 

“This is most unusual.” The Maester pressed down on the inside of his forearm, and it had felt as if a thousand needles were digging on his skin. Aemond screamed. “I can't see any wound, nor has he have a fever.” 

His mother stepped closer, a grim expression on her face. Her eyes were worried.

“Aemond, love. Tell me what's wrong.” She gently cradled his face, examining him frantically. 

“Mother, make it stop! Make it stop!” 

Alicent's gaze drifted downwards. On Aemond's inner arm, in green ink, there were letters appearing in a pretty, feminine handwriting. Aemond did not know how to read yet, but whatever it said, it was not good. It wasn't normal. Words did not suddenly appear on people's skin. 

“Out! Everyone out!” She yelled, so forcefully for the normally polite Queen, that the Maester and the wet nurse scrambled to obey without questioning her decision. When they left, she brushed his hair back from his face and hugged him very tight, until the hurt went away. 

Aemond looked down. The letters had stopped appearing on his skin, and now, words in green ink remained. 

“What does it say, Mother?” 

“Stop hurting my brothers.” Alicent’s face scrunched up, as if about to cry. She took a deep breath.

“Why is it here?” Aemond pointed angrily at his arm. Like any boy of four years old, pain and tiredness made him cranky. “What is going on?” 

His mother looked at a loss for words. When he was older, she would tell him she was not too sure how to explain it, and had merely used her own father's version of the tale to make Aemond understand.

“Our family is different, love. Do you remember our words?” She gently scratched his scalp in the way he liked. 

“Fire and blood.” Aemond nuzzled his face on her stomach, hiding. 

“My words. Grandsire's words.” Her voice held a certain degree of annoyance. 

“We light the way.” 

“That's correct. We light the way, just as the Seven do for House Hightower.” She gently grabbed Aemond's forearm, and traced the letters. He shivered. “For some of us, the special ones, they light the way towards our destiny.” 

“My destiny is hurting someone's brothers?” 

“No.” Alicent laughed. “Your destiny is the person who will say those words to you. The words are how you will identify your soulmate. No one else, except us special Hightowers can see them.” 

“Not even her?” 

“Not even her. But she will have a mark like yours.” 

“And she won't be able to see it?” 

“No.” Alicent smiled. “You are very lucky, you know? Other Hightowers get less clear marks.” 

“What do yours say?” 

“I have no words, but a red thread.” And she lifted her finger, showing how a string of wool wrapped around it, and pooled, crimson red, on the floor. 

During the coming weeks, Aemond watched. His mother's red thread twisted around hallways and stairs, passing over torches and bathing rooms, like blood flowing down the walls of the Red Keep. His sister, Rhaenyra, held the other end. Aemond realized then that if he wanted his soulmate, he would have to tie her securely to him, for a mark did not ensure anything. 

Aegon and Helaena had no marks. Nor did anyone else outside his mother and Rhaenyra. 

♧

The first thing Aemond noticed about you, upon meeting you, was that you were loud. You came into the world crying. No, wailing. As he stood near the birthing chamber, by his mother's side, he felt confused. 

“Are all babies this loud?” He asked her. Alicent frowned. The cries sounded much more pained than it was normal for a babe, but Aemond did not figure that out until he was older. 

His father had ordered that every member of the family had to be present during the birth of Rhaenyra's first babe. On the floor, Helaena was chasing a caterpillar, as Aegon played dragons and knights with one of the guards. His father was silently praying. 

Aemond and his mother were sitting by a window, trying to ignore the screams. After enduring almost six hours of Rhaenyra’s agonized sounds, and now hearing the babe, Aemond had come to a decision. He would not have children once he found his woman, for it sounded hurtful to her and if she was meant to be his, then Aemond could not allow any harm to befall her. 

“Not always.” Mother answered, with a wince. And then, another wail could be heard, joining yours. 

“The Princess has birthed twins!” The midwife announced, joyfully. “A girl and a boy.” 

King Viserys stood, clapping. 

“Can we see them?” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” The midwife opened the door a bit further, allowing them to step in. Aemond, curious about the babes, was the first to approach. They were so tiny but… 

“Your hair is brown.” He said to one of them, perplexed. Aemond carefully rubbed the babe's hair, trying to get the grime out. Then, he turned towards the midwife, accusingly. “You didn't clean them properly.” 

His father's and Rhaenyra's smiles froze. 

“She is not dirty.” Rhaenyra said, shortly. “She is like that, and she is perfect.” 

Aemond frowned. He wanted to ask his mother how it could be, that the babe had hair different from her parents. But his mother squeezed his hand, harshly, and Aemond understood that she did not want him to ask that. 

He looked at the babe. At you. You were rather pretty. 

“She is pretty. Though she is tiny. I expect she will grow.” He gave a questioning glance towards Rhaenyra, who looked unsure. She didn't seem to like Aemond's questions, but he was at that age. 

The terrible twos had turned into the horrible threes, and the curious fours. Right now, he was just entering the questioning fives. It would be an affliction that would follow him for the rest of his life. 

“Of course she will. And you will protect your niece, won't you?” His father ordered, and Aemond nodded solemnly. He would. 

Aemond failed to notice then, but on your arm, in childish black letters, the proclamation of the color of your hair was plain to see. 

♧

Lady Laena's funeral had put you in a melancholic mood. Just like Jace, you were old enough to see the truth of your parentage and were mourning Ser Harwin. You thought it stupid, having to attend a funeral for a woman that you never met, while your father's charred remains were put to rest at Harrenhall without even his brother's attendance. 

If it were you burying one of your brothers, you would have been inconsolable. You didn't understand why Lord Larys wasn't. 

Watching Lady Laena's remains go back into the sea made you think of your father, and it was all so sad, you had started crying right along with Baela and Rhaela. Your uncle, Aegon, had laughed at you, commenting on your weakness for crying for a stranger, which only made you sob harder. 

It was only natural that you had sought the comfort of your other half during the night. As of late, your mother insisted that Jace and you should be in separated rooms. She had said something about how improper it was, since you were growing older. You had not understood that either. 

You had gone to him in the middle of the night, and fell asleep hugging him close. Jace was a source of comfort despite being younger than you. Your mother often said that you had to protect him, being the eldest, but Jace always said that he was going to protect you because he was going to be King. 

“Jace, Jace.” A voice interrupted your slumber, and you felt the warmth pulling away. You held it tighter, refusing to let go. 

“Jace, wake up. Wake up.” The voice insisted, and you pried your eyes open to see Baela's face staring down at you. The sight confused you, and you squinted at her. She was starting to tear up, and Jace still gave no sign of waking up. You shook him hard. 

Jace mumbled something. 

“Someone stole Vhagar.” Baela said, more urgently. It prompted your brother to sit up fully, jerking you upwards too. 

“What?” 

You did not hesitate. You jumped out of bed, put on your slippers and went to wake Luke. 

After that, it was chaos. Vhagar's roars could be heard clearly in the distance, and you ran into Aemond slipping inside the castle, fully dressed. You did not need further explanations. 

The girls and Aemond traded insults. Then, they were coming at him and they were rolling on the ground. Aemond made mention of your parentage, egging on Jace and Luke. You were too horrified to do anything but scream. You would have done nothing, four against one already seeming unfair without your intervention, if Aemond had not started choking Luke. 

“Stop hurting my brothers!” You screamed, launching yourself at him. Then there was a rock, and a dagger, and you had given Luke an opening, and Aemond was screaming in agony. 

The sight of his maimed eye made you shriek louder. There was so much blood, and you pressed your hands on it, as you had seen the Kingsguard do when someone was injured. Aemond slapped you, wailing. 

“I am trying to help!” You said, stubbornly. Your tiny hands went to grab for his eye again, but Ser Harold was entering and removing you from him. For the first time, you looked down and realized your nightgown was soaked in blood. You started sobbing harder. 

You had to be carried back into the hall, nearly catatonic. When your grandfather took in the sight of Aemond and you, he demanded answers. He started to yell, and gesture at the Kingsguards, only frightening you more. 

Finally, your mother appeared, and you rushed to her, grabbing fistfuls of her dress with blood soaked hands. 

“What happened?” Your mother picked you up, examining you closely. “Why is my daughter not being tended to?” She asked the Maester. 

“Luke and Jace are hurt.” You cried. 

“Show me.” Your mother said to the boys. Then, she scowled and repeated. “Why are my children not being tended to?”

Queen Alicent laughed. It was an ugly, grating sound. 

“Who did this?” 

“They attacked me!” Aemond complained. 

“He attacked Baela.” 

“He broke Luke's nose.” 

“He stole my mother's dragon!”

Everyone was talking at the same time, making a terrible noise that didn't allow the King's words to carry. Even the Queen was screaming, until…

“He called us bastards!” 

“Aemond… I will have the truth of what happened. Now.” Your Grandsire said, creeping towards Aemond. You felt a bit bad for him, being reprimanded by his father after losing his eye. 

“What else is there to hear?” Queen Alicent sounded exasperated. “Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.” 

You flinched. She sounded so angry. Your hand reached for Luke's, holding him close. You were afraid he might be hurt by the Queen. 

“It was a regrettable accident.” 

“Accident? The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush.” The Queen pointed at Luke, harshly. You whimpered. “He meant to kill my son.” 

“It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them.” Your mother stepped in front of Luke, Jace and you. 

“What insults?” The Queen seemed distracted by something Aemond was muttering to her. They were too far away for you to hear, but by the way his lips moved, you thought it was something similar to “Mine… She… mine.” 

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question.”

Queen Alicent was starting to turn very pale. You doubted it was because of your mother's words. It was no secret to anyone that Jace, Luke and you were not Velaryons. You did not look the part. At all. It was no wonder that someone had finally said it to your face. 

“What?” Your grandsire's eyes widened. Had he not known? You didn't understand why he was so angry.  

“He called us bastards.”

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.” Your mother quickly interjected. Queen Alicent looked about to lose her mind. 

“Over an insult?” Alicent sounded odd. Her mind was clearly elsewhere, but she kept arguing. “My son has lost an eye.”

The King started interrogating Aemond, but you were focused on something else. The Queen, despite still defending Aemond, had her eyes fixed on you. At first, you thought she was looking at Luke, but then you realized she was focused on your arm. Or your sleeve. Uncomfortable, you tugged your sleeve down. She was probably looking at the blood in your hands.

Slowly, very slowly, she was creeping closer. Her hand reached forward as if to grab you when Aegon spoke. “We know, Father. Everybody knows. Just look at them.”

More recriminations were to follow. Your mother, noticing Alicent's attention was on you, shoved you back behind her. 

“This interminable infighting must cease!” The King proclaimed, loudly. His eyes darted from your uncles towards you and your brothers. Even at such a young age, you could feel something was irreparably broken between your mother and the Queen. Luke and Aemond too had broken their bond beyond repair. “All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!” 

Jace looked perplexed, as did Aegon. To them, the request sounded as unreasonable as it did to you, despite their short ages. You knew then you would never be a family again. 

“That is insufficient. Aemond has been damaged, permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.” The Queen complained, her brown eyes narrowing.

“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye.” Your grandsire sounded exhausted. 

“No because it’s been taken.” Alicent answered.  You shifted in your place, ignoring Jace's hands urging you to stay as you were. You felt dirty, hands and sleeves covered in Aemond's blood. It was sticky and it smelt bad. 

“What would you have me do?” The King’s tone was exasperated, but cautious. He could sense there was something else at play, that the Queen would not allow the slight to go unpunished. Aemond, in the corner, was unusually quiet. 

You squirmed even more into place. Jace squeezed your hand in warning. The Queen looked like a wolf about to pounce, and it scared you. You feared of what she could do to Luke. 

But instead, her eyes darted to you again. 

“There is a debt to be paid.” You felt as if her words were being spoken directly to you.  “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.

You gave a horrified gasp. Your mother looked ready to gut Alicent. Murmuring broke out across the room, everyone speaking at once. Luke hid between Jace and you. 

“My dear wife.”

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood.” Alicent's eyes were watery with just indignation. She was about to cry out of sheer frustration. 

“Do not… allow your temper to guide your judgment.” 

“If the King will not give me his eye, then I want her daughter. Who will marry Aemond like this? It will mean the loss of his ability with his sword, ladies will not want him.” She spoke hurriedly, as if afraid that if she let anyone get a word in, no one would listen to her. Alicent's voice raised. “I want her betrothed to Aemond. She will return to the Red Keep immediately. I do not want Princess Rhaenyra to find a way to damage that too.”

“My King, surely no one would reject a Prince of the blood.” Your mother said, weakly. Her hand clutched at your shoulder, fisting in your nightgown. You risked a look at your grandsire. He looked thoughtful. 

“Ser Criston… Bring me the girl!” The Queen ordered, and Ser Criston took a step towards you. You cowered.

“That will not be necessary.” Your grandsire said. “Girl, come.”

Your brothers cried out. Aemond's face stretched into a satisfied smirk. Aegon looked bored, and your cousins horrified. None of that you took notice, but your mother. She was making a wounded, hurt noise. It sounded much like a wail.  Her hand around your shoulder tightened. Daemon leaned in and whispered something to her, making her grip loosen. 

“Go.” Daemon said, shoving you slightly. “Go to your Grandsire.” 

And so you went. Up close, King Viserys was much more intimidating. There was a certain stench around him, of flesh rotting, that not even the medicine could mask. You lowered your eyes, staring at your slippers. 

“Do not be afraid, child.” He gently tilted your chin up with a finger. “Look at me.” 

You obeyed. He examined your face curiously. One of his hands grasped your forearm, and he looked at your hands as well. Self-conscious about the dirt and the blood, you made your hands into tiny fists, before relaxing them. 

“Why are you covered in blood, but your cousins and brothers are not?” 

“I tried to help him, Your Grace.” You answered, truthfully. You had thought you were really helping then. The answer seemed to please him. 

“You are a good girl. You wish to help, and you will.” Viserys smiled. He seemed glad to have found the answer to his troubles almost accidentally. “Your marriage with your Uncle will unify both sides of the family. Go with him.” 

Without any other choice, you went to stand beside Aemond. His eye was swollen and shut by stitches. He stared at you with his good eye, before his hand shut like a vice around your wrist. 

Like your grandsire, Aemond forced your arm up. But instead of examining your hand, he looked at the inside of your forearm. You didn't see anything, but he seemed pleased. He grabbed a handkerchief and wiped your hand clean. Then, he grabbed your other hand and cleaned it too. 

“You are mine. Mine, you understand?” He squeezed your wrist, sharply.

You nodded, eyes filling with tears. 

“Yes, Uncle.” 

“Do not mourn me, Mother.” Aemond said, slipping your hand in his. He looked at Alicent, evenly. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.” 

“This proceeding is to an end. Whoever questions the legitimacy of Princess Rhaenyra’s children again will lose their tongue.”

And then, Queen Alicent was leading you out of the room with her family, a firm hand between your shoulder blades and the looming shade of Ser Criston behind you. You tried to look back, go to your mother, but you only managed to see the desperation on her face as Daemon led her and your siblings out of the room. 

She would fight for you. You knew she would. This was only temporary.

♧

Alicent sighed, tiredly. She had just put you to bed on the loveseat inside her rooms. She was too afraid of Rhaenyra whisking you away in the middle of the night to do otherwise. You had taken a long time to settle. Poor thing that you were, you had been crying silently as the maids made you bathe and found you a clean nightgown. 

Alicent was sharply reminded of when she was told she would marry the King. She had been afraid too. Terrified, in fact. Back then, Viserys had seemed like such an imposing man, and he had not been kind to her. As the sickness got the better of her, Alicent felt a secret pleasure at seeing him humbled. She actually enjoyed doing her duty and caring for him, if only because she could remind herself he was weak. The cruel man who had hurt her now had started to rely increasingly on her. Her stomach twisted in dark satisfaction. Not so great now, huh? 

That was not the point. It was for the best, Alicent tried telling herself. You would be happy with Aemond. This was nothing like her situation. The gods had made Aemond and you perfect for one another. You just had to get used to him first. 

Alicent had been older, though. You were a girl not yet flowered. And she had her father at court. Alicent had never wanted to go to him, but she had had the option. 

You had no one. And you knew it. You had sobbed quietly into your pillow as Alicent whispered reassurances and rubbed your back. When you had finally calmed down, you had given her big pleading eyes and asked for her to allow you to say goodbye. She had felt as if she was the worst person in Westeros.

“The Hand, Your Grace.” The voice startled her. She looked up to find her father already in the room. 

“Say your piece.”

“Now, what piece is that?” Her father raised his eyebrows. 

“I’ve conducted myself in a manner… unbefitting my station. I lost composure and made a scene.”  

“All true.” But despite his words, Otto sounded amused.

“I disgraced myself.” Alicent went on, unsure of what he was thinking. She disliked that he was so difficult to read. She could never tell if he was about to reprimand her or congratulate her. “But it was necessary. The girl is…” 

“I have never seen that side of you, my daughter. I even doubted its existence.” Otto's reply was calm and measured, but there was a hint of pride in his eyes. 

“It was an ugly thing. I regret it.” Separating a mother from her daughter, no matter how wretched the mother was…. You would need Rhaenyra, in the years to come. You would flower, grow, need to be told about heirs and taught womanly things. But Rhaenyra would have never allowed you to come, if Alicent had not forced her hand. She would not understand. She was not a Hightower. 

This was best. No matter how lonely you got, you would always have Aemond. 

Yet Alicent remembered her own maiden years without a mother, and her heart hurt. You would be lost at court. You were a child. But just as Rhaenyra had not spared Aemond, she could not spare you. 

“We play an ugly game. And now, for the first time, I see that you have the determination to win it.” Her father spoke, and it was then she realized they were having two different conversations. 

“No, Father. That's not why…” Alicent sighed. Sometimes, it was better that certain things were seen rather than told.  “Get up. Come.” 

She led him towards where you peacefully slept. Her father remained puzzled. 

“Alicent…” 

And it was then that you rolled onto your side, showing the inside of your arm. In scraggly, black letters, the insult remained exactly the same as it had been spoken aloud. “Your hair is brown.” 

Otto staggered back. 

“You see, now?” Alicent asked him, voice wavering. “I had to take her. I had to, Father. Right? She is Aemond's. Rhaenyra already took so much from him, I couldn't let her have her, too.” 

“You did the right thing.” Otto squeezed her shoulder, as he bent down to cover you more with the furs. “She is his, yes. But she will also prove invaluable in the years to come.” 

“How so? Preventing war?” 

“She will sit on the Iron Throne. Why should a man rule, if she was born first?” Her father smirked. “Keep a grip on your passions. And I promise you, in time, you and I together will prevail. What that rogue Aemond has done in winning Vhagar and her to our side… The boy was right. It’s worth a thousand times the price he paid.”

♧

Aemond had found he did not like his soulmate very much. You were shy and easily frightened, and you spent most of your days crying in the corners. 

You were little, his mother said. It was normal that you were taking your time to adjust.  

This was nothing like Aemond expected. You being his seemed like a great jape. You cried at everything and managed to be more annoying than Aegon. Then, there was the fact of your parentage. Why would he be cursed with a bastard for a soulmate? Had he slighted the Seven in some way? 

“Stop crying.” He snapped at you. “You look like a fool.” 

You sniffled, quietly. Helaena had invited you to go catching bugs with her, but you had started sobbing when the first caterpillar was placed on your arm. Aemond had to intercede, pulling you aside, but you had only cried harder. If there was something in which you resembled Rhaenyra, it was in the fact that you always made your displeasure known. 

The only time you seemed at peace was with a book in your hands. His mother had noticed that particular miracle when one afternoon, upset at Aegon tugging on your dark braids, you had disappeared. Alicent had been frantic, sending servants to turn the Red Keep upside down in your search. She had found you by accident, sitting in the library with a book open on your lap, comically large for your childish body. The attempt at self soothing had been noted and tucked away to ruminate later on. 

“Aemond.” His mother said, sharply. He sighed. It wasn't like he tried to scare you on purpose. Just that Aemond was not too sure what to do with you. Girls were not his primary concern, but he supposed you were to be endured.

Later that day, his mother pulled him aside. 

“If you treat her cruelly, she will grow to resent you.” He was too young to catch it then, but there was a glimmer in Alicent’s eyes that indicated she spoke out of personal experience. “This is not how you win her over.” 

“She is mine, though.”  Aemond scowled. There was no need to win you over. His father had already ordered your marriage to him. Not even Princess Rhaenyra could oppose it. 

Besides, you were a bastard. It was obvious to anyone with eyes. You should be grateful Aemond paid you any sort of attention, even if it was negative. When you grew older, and your strong features made themselves even more known, no one would want you. 

You were the lucky one. Not him. 

“Soulmarks do not ensure anything.” His mother said, her tone turning slightly less patient. 

“But father gave her to me.” 

His mother looked up, as if begging to the Seven Heavens for fortitude. 

“Betrothals and marriages can be annulled by a King.” Aemond frowned. Why would his father change his mind? “Or a Queen.” 

“Oh.” Aemond had not considered that possibility. He would have to ensure the two of you were married by the time your mother took the crown. And hopefully, if he could manage, get a babe too. That would be much harder to annul. 

“You need to make her want to stay.” His mother had a point there. It was a much simpler solution than what Aemond was concocting. There was only the issue of how. Aemond had no clue what to do with girls, and you cried so much it was off-putting. 

“How?” 

“Be kind. She is lonely here. She needs a friend.” 

He found you crying again the next day. You had scrapped your knee on the dragonpit, after visiting your growing dragon. You were inconsolable, face covered with snot and eyes swollen from so much crying. 

Aemond would have scoffed at your weakness, were it not for the lingering memory of his mother’s words. 

He fetched water and a clean linen, and kneeled in front of you. Big, teary eyes stared down in confusion. Your dark eyelashes, clumped together with tears, and another reminder of your bastardy, fluttered. You gave a few harsh blinks. 

“The King gave me you.” Aemond enunciated, slowly. He wanted to make sure you understood his meaning. “You are mine to guard and protect. And to care for.” 

Your dark eyes, pretty for a bastard, widened.  You pulled your leg back, but Aemond made sure to hold your knee firmly, and continued tending to your injury. 

“Nothing bad will happen to you. I ride Vhagar, the biggest dragon in existence.” 

That didn't seem to reassure you much, either. You flinched as if hurt by the thought of Vhagar. Probably scared, remembering exactly how he had won her. 

Aemond tried to recall what normal girls liked. Helaena was no use, but of the few times he had crossed paths with his other nieces, he had a lasting impression of romantic gestures and delusions. 

“When we are older, we will marry, and I shall be very kind. You will love me very much and you will never be alone again.”  Aemond rubbed your kneecap, gently. 

Your jaw was hanging open, but you didn't even make a peep. He sighed, exhausted again. You were stubborn, so there was no point in expecting you to… Aemond was unable to finish the train of thought. His mind had gone blank. 

Your arms were around him and you were not letting go. 

♧

It spirals, after that. You are quiet, the consequence of a childhood spent near Jacaerys, Aegon and Lucerys. They seemed to have much louder voices than you. Yet, at the same time, you are always making yourself known. 

Be it a hand curling around his wrist to drag him to the kitchens to try the newest lemon cakes, or a swift tug to his jerkin to get Aemond to pay attention, your feelings are loud and clear. 

Aemond has never been particularly playful or fond of the outdoors. He much prefers studying philosophy and history. At two and ten years of age, it is a bit late for him to take part in childish games like monsters and maidens or come-into-my-castle, but you are younger than he by a few years, so he accepts his fate easily enough. You will grow out of it, Aemond muses, and it's not entirely unpleasant to be the one that causes you to shriek in laughter. 

Besides, it's not like the two of you only do things that please you. Often, you curl with him near the fire, a book in your hands, while Aemond studies his lessons. Aemond finds your weight against his side comforting, and he feels a vicious sort of pleasure at enjoying something you used to do with your twin. 

He might not be able to take Lucery's eye. He might never manage to hurt Jacaerys. But Aemond will take their sister, make no mistake. Soon, the day will come that they visit the Red Keep and something will happen, and you will run to Aemond's arms for comfort. Not theirs. And it will be all the vindication he needs, watching those stupid Strong boys gape at their beloved sister’s preference. 

You have been growing well. He is satisfied to notice that you have intelligent eyes and that you take well to your lessons. You curtsy and dance as well as a lady of twice your age, your manners are pleasing, and you know the Seven Pointed Star by heart. Once could almost forget you are a bastard and not a miniature copy of Alicent, with how often you have taken to following her around. 

Aemond is not a fool. His grandfather has taken an unusual liking to you, and is frequently imparting lessons. His mother pays you more attention than she does to Helaena. It may be guilt on his mother's part, but his grandsire does not have such qualms. He is no woman. They are grooming you to rule. 

“Aemond!” You run towards him, excitedly. “I want to go riding. Can we?” 

“I don't know, Princess.” He smirks. One thing he likes about being older than you is the ability to lord his knowledge over you. You get so huffy and pouty, it makes him understand why Aegon enjoyed teasing him so much. He would never be as cruel to you, though. You are too sweet for it.  “Can we?” 

“You know what I meant!” You scowl at him. Your limbs seem to be vibrating with the force of will it takes not to stomp your foot like a commoner. 

“Of course we can. You have a dragon and I do too, we are both very proficient…” Aemond teases, enjoying the way your face scrunches up in displeasure at the knowledge you will have to bend. 

“May we!” Your voice raises slightly. “Mean!” 

Aemond waits a moment, letting the suspense build. Your lower lip trembles, fighting the urge to pout.

“Please?” You say, brown eyes pleading. It doesn't bother him as it used to, your darker features. Aemond has found there is a certain beauty in your hair and eyes. Besides, Aegon has told him that the women at the Riverlands are much more pretty than those of House Targaryen. If he was not jesting, you would grow into a beautiful woman thanks to your Strong blood. 

“Fine. We will go.” He is careful to keep his tone gruff, as if he was doing you some great favor. In truth, Aemond enjoys the activity as much as you do. He has to be careful, with your dragon and you being smaller than Vhagar and him, but it is fun to race you. He even lets you win, sometimes. 

Sometimes, though, you win fair and square. It's very troubling. You have started to become distracting, and too often Aemond thinks of how pretty you look with the blue backdrop, riding a dragon like a true Targaryen. It's then that you take advantage and push your dragon further, faster, until you surpass him and Aemond shakes himself out of the spell you cast on him. 

He wonders if kissing is as pleasant as Aegon says it is. Your clever mouth looks soft, and Aemond knows you would yield to him easily. He is very curious about how your hair would feel on his hands, and how it would look coming undone from your braids. 

A joyful little sound brings him out of his contemplation. You are hiking up your skirts and breaking into a sprint. 

“Last one there carries the books for a whole week!”

“Oh, you are on.” And he is running after you, hot on your heels, as if he were a boy once more. 

♧

Alicent can't sleep. The storm raging outside keeps her awake, pacing. Viserys is getting worse with every day that passes, and she fears she is living on borrowed time. 

Will Rhaenyra kill Aegon? Even with the betrothal of Aemond to you, Alicent doubts she will stand down. The letters that have come are few and far in between, getting even more spaced out now that you are happier and Rhaenyra is having Daemon's children. 

Jacaerys is the only one who keeps a steady stream of communication with you. Alicent is guilty of reading his letters. She has committed that particular sin various times. Among the tales of your week and the recounting of how much you miss your other half, there are some troubling thoughts. Has mother replaced me? Does she not love me anymore? Will you too forget about me? 

He tries being reassuring, but he knows the truth. Just as Alicent does too. Rhaenyra hates being anything but the center of attention. She had been a regular mother to you, but she cannot stand the influence Alicent is having on your life, nor can she tolerate that you are happy with it. If you wrote tales of your unhappiness, of your unwillingness to marry Aemond, Rhaenyra would be loving and supportive. But you are too honest for that. 

At first, Alicent had taken to mothering you as a way of atoning for her sins. She had dragged you away from home when you were a child. She had gifted you to Aemond. It had been her fault that her father decided you would sit on the Iron Throne after Rhaenyra was dead. 

But now, caring for you comes naturally. You were an easy child. Sweet natured, and starved for affection. You were not like Helaena. Instead, you enjoyed placing ribbons in your hair and trying on new dresses, and you were actually interested when Alicent spoke of the Faith. 

Most of all, though, you loved Aemond with all your heart. You followed him everywhere, be it cheering for him in the stands as he trained, or helping him get to his chambers when the pain in his eye turned into a migraine. It made Alicent love you even more. 

There were times, though, when your love for Aemond turned problematic. Suspecting tonight was one of those times, Alicent decided to stop her senseless pacing and go check on you. 

The guards stationed outside your hallway squirmed in their posts when confronted with the sight of Alicent. 

“Let me guess.” She said, tiredly. “The Princess is not in her rooms.” 

“No, Your Grace.” One of them said, lowering his head in shame. Alicent fought the urge to scream at their incompetence. How could one girl, barely two and ten, manage to slip past two guards? Alicent loved you like you were her own, but you were just too much like Rhaenyra sometimes. 

“Thank you.” Alicent inwardly was cursing up a storm. She knew exactly where you were. 

It was not long before she found herself outside Aemond's chambers. This set of guards looked more grim. 

“Do not tell me. The Princess is inside.” Alicent asked, flatly. The guards only stepped aside, curtsying to her.

The bed was too small to hold both of you comfortably, so you were laying on your sides. Aemond was not wearing his eye patch, and Alicent thought him asleep. Your head was resting on his shoulder, half squeezed against his arm in a position that could not be comfortable for your neck. 

Both of you still had your nightclothes on. Alicent could have danced in relief. She had enough as it was with Aegon to add you two to the list. 

“Mother.” Aemond whispered, very quietly. He had you hugged to him, and now that she looked more closely, Alicent could tell he was rubbing your back up and down. She wondered how long he had been standing guard. 

“You are five and ten. She has already flowered. This has to stop.” She whisper-shouted. 

“I am not going to dishonor her, mother, for the Seven's sake! I am not Aegon.” Aemond whisper-shouted back, being careful not to move you. 

“What are you doing, then?” She placed her hands on her hips and looked down at your sleeping form. While it was true that you were entirely dressed, the way Aemond held you lately was less friendly and more of a lover's embrace. 

You sighed in your sleep, sweetly, and hid your face against his neck. Both of them went quiet for a few seconds. 

Only when you were settled again, Aemond dared to speak. 

“The same as always. She was scared. She used to climb in with…” 

Alicent rolled her eyes. She had heard the same excuse too many times to count. 

“Prince Jacaerys, I know. Just as I have known since you were ten, but neither of you is a child any longer.” 

“Mother…” 

“What will the maids think come the morrow? The guards? They will see her coming out of your quarters. You can't keep doing this. I have tolerated it far too long.” The guards already knew. Used as they were at keeping their King's secrets, no one had thought to speak yet. They, too, believed it was harmless behavior. But both of you were getting older and Alicent feared the day when Aemond's hands turned from consoling to groping, and your soft little hugs turned into passionate embraces.

“It's entirely innocent, Mother, I swear.” Aemond looks vaguely offended by the thought and Alicent has to steady herself because of the audacity of this child! No, she was surely atoning for all her past deeds with the two of you. Aegon was sent to taunt her with her failures as a mother, and the two of you were destined to remind her of Rhaenyra and her failures as a friend. Thank the Gods Helaena was normal, in comparison.“I wouldn't touch her like that. I don't intend to hurt her.” 

Alicent stopped her complaint before it left her mouth. Surprise made her eyes go wide. Then, with her softest voice, she tried to fix this. 

“It's… Oh, Aemond. It's not meant to be hurtful.” Poor child. Who had told him intercourse was meant to hurt? Alicent had kept her woes in that area strictly to herself. Aegon and Rhaenyra flaunted loudly that they enjoyed it very much. So why was Aemond so afraid?

“But it hurts you. It hurts Helaena. It hurts the girls Aegon…” 

She deflated. So worried had Alicent been about precocious youths, she had never stopped to think about how she had never explained to them what the marital duties were. Painful. Hurtful. Alicent could not deny that. Men did not care for the pleasure of women and were it not for the fact that she had been friends with Rhaenyra once, Alicent would think it hurtful by nature too. It was not meant to be that way, even if she herself had not experienced the pleasure people went on and on about. 

Alicent had to reassure Aemond. It was vital that once he married, he produced heirs. His grandsire's plan depended on it. That would not be achieved if he was afraid of touching you. Besides, your situation was different. You were marrying your soulmate. Your other half. 

She felt utterly unable to help Aemond realize it was not meant to be hurtful, but magical and blessed by the Gods. Her father was better suited to giving this talk than her. He was the one who had actually married his destined partner.

Sometimes, she wondered if you two were a way for the Seven to fix history. When you did willful, reckless things with no care for your reputation, she could see Rhaenyra running around the Red Keep, despite the different coloring. And when Aemond, dutiful, serious Aemond, got all uppity about the topics and scandalized himself, it was as if looking at herself during the past. 

Alicent would never say it out loud, but she liked your coloring. When she looked at you from a certain light, she could pretend you were Rhaenyra and hers. And when Aemond chased you around, long silver hair at his back, she could almost pretend it was the two of them again, racing in the hallways of the Red Keep. 

We light the way indeed. The Gods could be very cruel. 

No, Alicent thought bitterly, she had lacked the necessary parts to keep her soulmate by her side. Let her father take this one. 

“It does. But you will not be rough with her. It will feel pleasant, and that is why it is so dangerous. She will not want you to stop, you will not want to, either.” She keeps her tone reassuring. Aemond looked fully offended now, a fierce scowl on his face. As if he were being accused of a terrible crime. 

“Of course I wouldn't be rough with her. She is mine.” He scoffed, all haughty. Alicent fought the urge to laugh. Boys. Always so dramatic. She much preferred mothering Helaena and you than this. It was almost easy in comparison. 

“And you are hers?” She teased. 

“I am.” Aemond seemed amused by the reference to wedding vows, lips twitching with the urge to smile. He fought it because Gods forbid he let his mother know he thought her witty. 

“Good.” Alicent smiled. “Have you kissed?” 

“Mother!” Aemond shook his head, turning red as a tomato.“I am waiting for her to be ready. She flowered so recently…” 

“That is very kind.” More kindness than she had been afforded by her husband. Aemond must be smitten. 

Alicent decides then she will speak to Viserys about expediting the wedding. And get her father to teach the both of you about marital duties. She does not want to risk the both of you siring a bastard. Not on her watch. 

[deadmenandthedivine]

dead men § the divine

table of contents

Lady Rhea Royce gave birth to a single daughter prior to her untimely death.

Princess Maetilda Targaryen was the sole heir to Runestone.

Her father, the Rogue Prince, kept her by his side, ensuring he always had a Keep to his name. Even after his marriage to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, he refused to accept an engagement for her. Runestone was his castle. Princess Maetilda was his daughter. The Seven Kingdoms was his playground. There only seemed to be one small problem: the Greens.

The Greens occupied the Red Keep for over half a decade while the Rogue Prince and his future Queen raised their children on Dragonstone as tradition. It would seem having the King's castle and the Conqueror's crown plays an advantage when the dragons dance. It became apparent as the virescent cause does not suffer by delivering the first blows.

Despite only holding claims to one of the foundational keeps in the Vale, Princess Maetilda finds herself wrapped up in the center of the conflict. At the mercy of the men around her. Prince Aemond seeks to take what belongs to him, most especially the Rogue Prince's bronze babe.

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, sexual situations, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

✧.*.·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·.*.✧

✫ prologue — rumors from runestone

✫ chapter one — cold landings and green castles

✫ chapter two — a father’s praise

✫ chapter three — mysteries that muddy the keep

✫ chapter four — what the trees see

✫ chapter five — the maids that bloom in spring

✫ chapter six — bound in old magic

✫ chapter seven — the fate of wagging tongues

✫ chapter eight — dead flowers and garden bugs

✫ chapter nine — new leather boots

✫ chapter ten — an old man’s guilt

✫ chapter eleven — the tower tapestry

✫ chapter twelve — drowned in insignificant details

✫ chapter thirteen — the ghost of years coming and years past

✫ chapter fourteen — what the lady beetle does

✫ chapter fifteen — dragons have horns

✫ chapter sixteen — relearning from the same mistakes

✫ chapter seventeen — last suppers and sealed deals

✫ chapter eighteen — a father’s last words

✫ chapter nineteen — when the canary sings

✫ chapter twenty — (to be titled)

✧.*.·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·.*.✧

A/N: i do bend the plot of hotd/tweak the lore of the vale just a lil bit for my own convenience. also i'm not well versed in historical outfits and stuff so my descriptions may not be accurate to the time. but it's gotta be like that sometimes, you know?