#aemond x female

[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]

Unabashed

Summary: Aemond wonders whether his pretty new wife is as shy in her sleep as she is awake, and intends to find out | Word Count: 1.6~k | Warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, oral (f receiving), feelings of shame

Thank you to @targaryen-dynasty for organising the event! <3 Make sure to check out the others!

The early dawn light filtered through the gossamer curtains, casting a soft glow across the spacious chamber. Aemond Targaryen, with his stern demeanour and battle-hardened visage, stood at the edge of their grand bed. His gaze softened as it fell upon his wife, a gentle and shy creature, who seemed out of place amidst the grandeur of a Targaryen prince's bedchamber.

They had been married but a few weeks, and her timidity was still evident in her every movement. She lay there, her breaths even and soft, her face relaxed in sleep. Aemond's heart swelled with a mixture of affection and protectiveness. He knew she struggled with the expectations placed upon her as his wife, especially when it came to intimacy.

He thought back to their wedding night. She had blushed deeply, her cheeks a rosy hue as she avoided meeting his gaze. Her hands had trembled slightly as she undressed, her shyness palpable. Aemond had taken her hands in his, his touch gentle, hoping to reassure her, but with a deep desire to claim her as his. Her skin had been warm, and he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his fingers. He had moved slowly, each touch deliberate, wanting to make her feel safe and cherished. Despite his efforts, she had remained tentative, her actions hesitant and reserved.

Many at court whispered that she was ill-suited for the intensity that came with being bound to a man like Aemond. They said she lacked the fire needed to stand beside him. Aemond had often wondered if there was another side to her, one hidden beneath layers of gentleness and timidity. A side that perhaps only he could reach, given time and patience.

This morning, he found himself wondering again. As she lay there, serene in sleep, he considered the possibility that in her dreams, she might be free from the constraints of her waking shyness. Perhaps, he thought, he could gently coax that hidden side of her into the light.

The sheets framed her form in his plush bed, her hair in somewhat disarray, a few pieces having escaped her careful and perfect braiding the night before. It had been hot in King’s Landing since their wedding night, and so as his eye drifted over her, he could see the gentle rise of her chest, and her perk nipples forming peaks against the near-translucent cotton bedding. A shy thing she was, but most certainly not without allure.

Aemond's breath caught at the sight, a primal part of him stirred by her unintentional seduction. The stark contrast between her modesty and the sensual image she presented tugged at some place usually kept hidden. She was a puzzle he was determined to solve, a delicate flower he was eager to nurture.

Before he knew it, his fingers bunched the sheets in his grasp, watching with deep satisfaction at the way her body was slowly revealed to him, inch by perfect inch. A map of unmarked territory he was determined to explore. The fabric slid against her skin with such ease, as if she were made of water and they were simply a ripple in her perfection, until eventually, once she was bared to him and she gave a quick breath-like shudder, he was able to take his time in forming his plan.

Aemond leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin. His lips pressed gentle, reverent kisses along the smooth expanse of her stomach, moving lower with each caress. Her body trembled slightly beneath his touch, her breath hitching in her sleep, as if her dreams were becoming more vivid and enticing.

When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, he paused, glancing up at her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted slightly, a soft sigh escaping her. Taking a deep breath, Aemond pressed a tender kiss against her inner thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his lips.

His tongue flicked out, tasting her, a heady mix of sweetness and desire. She stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips as her body responded to his touch. Encouraged, Aemond continued his ministrations, his tongue moving with careful thought, exploring every inch of her glistening slit with the precision he afforded everything else in his life. 

Her hips shifted slightly, a subconscious response to the pleasure building within her. Aemond's hands gently gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he deepened his efforts, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each moan, each soft gasp she made was a testament to the pleasure he was giving her.

There was a deep, primal part that glimmered in his eye at the way she responded, her subconscious sounds and movements a stark contrast to her demeanour when she was awake. Her slumber seemed to lower her carefully built walls, imprisoning her sexuality inside. Her hands gripped the sheets the same way he gripped her thighs, the warm muscle of his tongue dragging over her sex up towards her bud, enclosing his lips around it, the smirk he wore hidden in his actions. 

The sounds were so sweet to his ears he could stay between her plush thighs all day. A part of him was surprised she hadn’t woken yet with the way her hips were chasing his lips and tongue, and her fingers carding through his loose hair and pulling lightly at the roots to ground herself. Her movements were by no means erratic, enough for him to know without looking that she was still in whatever sleep-addled bliss she imagined, but it appeared his little wife was more and more an exciting enigma with every passing day.

Her breathing grew a fraction more erratic, her stomach clenching and unclenching with the warm, numbing climax that was steadily rising. She would blush and apologise profusely if she could see the way she was acting right at this moment, moaning and writhing with her cunt on his mouth. Aemond worked in rhythmic, intoxicating strokes, taking everything she was giving to him, the tartness of her arousal was addictive in a way he had never imagined. 

His little wife’s body arched only slightly off the bed, her grip tightening and thighs trembling, her release washing over her in powerful waves. The only sound she gave was a breathy, elongated moan, too sweet for the carnal, forbidden act he was performing on her sleeping form. Aemond watched with satisfaction as she slowly relaxed, her breathing returning to a more even pace. He placed a final, tender kiss against her sensitive skin before drawing back, his eyes lingering on her peaceful, contented expression.

He found it almost comical that his wife hadn’t woken to her husband devouring her sweet cunt, but that she had woken to the feeling of the mattress dipping as Aemond righted himself, looking down at her bare form, her chest shimmering with a dew of sweat. 

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked up at him, her gaze initially hazy with sleep. As her awareness sharpened, she noticed her state of undress and the lingering warmth between her thighs. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a mix of surprise and realisation dawning on her features.

"Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling with both shyness and residual pleasure.

He wiped his face, a victorious, cat-like smirk on his features, as if to emphasise her embarrassment. “Good morning, my love.”

She averted her gaze, her hands moving to cover herself instinctively, but Aemond's firm yet gentle touch stopped her.

"There is no need for that," he said softly, his smirk fading into a more tender expression.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of emotions, embarrassment, curiosity, and a budding sense of trust. "Did I... did I embarrass myself?" she asked hesitantly.

Aemond chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that made her cheeks flush even more. "Not at all," he replied, his voice filled with genuine amusement and pleasure. "You were perfect, and it was a delight to see you respond so…unabashedly"

Her blush deepened, but she managed to meet his gaze, her curiosity overcoming her shyness. "I did not wake up," she murmured, almost to herself. “I thought it was a dream.”

"A dream, perhaps," he said, brushing his fingers gently along her jawline. "But one that I was more than happy to make real."

Feeling her cheeks burn at his brazen behaviour, she tugged the sheets to her chest to cover herself, her expression pleasured but shy. “Such actions will not result in a child.”

"No, it will not," he agreed. "But there are many ways to show my desire. Not all of them are about creating heirs."

“Well I know that.”

His expression took on a predatory gleam, moving swiftly to hold her wrists down to the bed with ease. “You might know,” he murmured, “but you will feel it, every day and every night.”

Her breath hitched, a mixture of fear and excitement. The hardness in his gaze tempered by the affection she saw there. Something shifted in her eyes, a spark of defiance and curiosity he hadn't seen before. She reached up, slipping from his hold, her fingers trailing lightly over his chest, her touch both hesitant and bold. Her lips curved into a small, sweet smile that almost dared him to do more.

His innocent little wife had a hidden fire, one that both intrigued and excited him. He felt his desire flare even stronger, spurred on by the need to explore this new side of her, to see just how far she would go.

“And I intend to make certain you never forget.”

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[wordbreaker]

The Taming of the Dragon, 1 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

-ˋˏ following chapter ✶ ao3 ✶ my inbox ˎˊ-

         Aemond Targaryen was on the verge of going mad. Everyone around him, from his mother to his grandfather and even his failing father, had only one word on their lips: Rhaenyra. His half-sister, who lived in Dragonstone, haunted the Red Keep. Her ghost wandered the corridors and manifested itself on their lips. He no longer wanted to hear that cursed name, which brought with it bad omens and curses.

“She'll do anything to usurp the throne! Even if she knows Aegon is the rightful heir!’ Alicent Hightower shouted.

Her brown curls bounced with every step she took. Her incessant to-ing and fro-ing along the Small Council’s table was making his head spin.

His mother had summoned him—as if Aegon wasn't the first son—to this secret meeting where her, his grandfather Otto, Criston Cole and Larys Strong would discuss stratagems, politics, and manipulations: three things he had started to loath. His love for his mother and his sense of duty had kept him from leaving the minute she made that request.

His expression revealed his true opinion of this ridiculous spectacle which he was watching with a distracted eye. He had stopped listening a long time ago and was waiting patiently—as was expected of him—to be dismissed. These discussions had a way of boring him. They went round in circles, nothing more than paraphrases of a previous meeting. A constant déjà-vu fuelled by obsession and a thirst for power.

“Viserys will come round,” her father reassured her.

The Queen laughed, a mundane, almost inelegant, gesture that was incongruous with her status. Rhaenyra had the gift of unearthing his mother’s inner ugliness. She could turn the most important woman in Westeros into the common little girl full of rage she had once been.

“She has his favour. She is the favourite child! He won't change his mind, not even about his first son!”

And what a son! Unsurprisingly, Aegon was nowhere to be seen today. His brother had never taken to politics. He was probably busy fucking some whore in the Silk Alley or some maid in his rooms, happy to let Aemond take over the responsibilities he left vacant.

Although it pained him to admit it, Aegon was the first son and he belonged on the Iron Throne. Aemond would much rather see his brother sit there than his whore of a half-sister. Aegon wasn't evil, just a misguided soul that his mother and grandfather would set straight. He was sure of that. Leaving the kingdom in Rhaenyra's palms, on the other hand, was tantamount to condemning the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms. Her reign would only bring calamity.

He tilted his head back and looked up at the ornate ceiling. His fingernails beat against the wooden table as the minutes ticked by. Slowly. Much too slowly. He held back a yawn.

The tone had been raised, words had been shouted, orders, given, and in the midst of all this racket, Aemond felt like screaming. He couldn't care less about Rhaenyra, his uncle, and her brown-haired bastards.

Aemond didn't want to suffer what his birth had spared him—responsibility. The second son was merely the replacement, the forgotten one. He would only appear on stage if Death came too early.

He wanted to be left in peace until then.

A futile desire for someone bearing the Targaryen name. No ancestor of the blood of the Dragon had known peace and he certainly wouldn't be the first.

The sun had been down for at least three hours when Aemond finally escaped from the clutches of his mother and grandfather. He mourned a wasted day and headed for his rooms.

On the way, he came across Aegon, his eyes reddened, and his eyelashes still stuck with sleep. His fist itched. He felt a visceral need to bring it down on his brother’s face. Why wouldn’t he grow up? What would become of Westeros if his grandfather and mother succeeded in making him king? Aegon was an immature fool and Aemond was expected to pick up the pieces. What did he gain by doing so? No recognition, no respect, and certainly not power. He was asked to do it because it was expected of him. An unspoken rule he learned to obey from an early age.

Aemond Targaryen would forever remain the second son, obscured by the shadow of Aegon’s unworthy glory.

“Brother.”

Aegon nodded, but the sly smile on his lips threw off any semblance of politeness. Aemond remained unmoved. He would not play his game, not tonight, although a few insults came to the tip of his tongue. He clenched his jaw.

“I assume the council was as interesting as usual. I'm sorry I couldn't be there but, you understand... A pretty servant was waiting for me. Couldn’t disappoint her, you know?”

Aemond didn't reply. He had not even deigned to leave the castle, not even his rooms. His hands began to shake, and a stabbing pain seized his sapphire eye, as it did every time he was upset. Lazy bastard.

When Aemond was mastering the art of sword fighting, Aegon was swilling whole jugs of wine. When Aegon was thrusting his cock between the thighs of a whore, Aemond was immersing himself in the histories of Old Valyria.

They couldn't have been more different.

Aemond continued towards his chambers, his face tense. Behind him, his brother burst out laughing and tried to talk to him, but he quickened his pace. Tonight, he had no patience for conversation.

Soon, the large wooden doors of his rooms appeared at the end of the corridor. The relief he felt was dulled by a weight in his chest.

At the last moment, Aemond turned around and hurried back. He felt as if he were suffocating within the gigantic walls of the Red Keep. The vast corridors were no longer so. They closed in on him and whispered hissing words. They slipped into his ear and snaked into his mind to unearth his worries. Stories of legitimacy, inheritance, the throne and responsibility—everywhere he went, his duty followed and plagued him.

Aemond needed to see Vhagar. He usually avoided disturbing her in the evening. His dragon was no longer in her prime and slept more than the others. Tonight, he would allow himself to be selfish. The need was too great. He had to clear his head, or he would go mad like many Targaryens before him.

He continued walking until he came to a darkened alcove. Aemond slid his hand over the cold stones. Eyes closed, he savoured the sensation. Click. He pushed open the wall, revealing a long and abandoned corridor.

The secrets of the Red Keep were no longer unknown for him. Aemond had spent his youth wandering up and down the corridors of the building in search of them. The stories said that Maegor the Cruel had beheaded the architects, the masons, the carpenters... all the brains and hands that built this fortress. They took these secrets to their graves, secrets that only the blood of the Dragon could recognise.

After the loss of his eye—thinking of Lucerys Strong made him cringe—Aemond had redoubled his efforts to find them all. These passages had offered him the ideal refuge to escape from the gaze of others during the most difficult period of his life. This tradition had survived.

Aemond didn't even stop in front of Balerion's skull—not when his own dragon, alive on top of it, was waiting for him—and he rushed through the corridors, down some stairs, up others, turned left and then right, down some stairs again until he finally reached a door which he pushed open.

The fresh air whipped across his face. Immediately, all his worries evaporated, although his hands continued to tremble—a vestige of his wrath. He inhaled the smell of the shore, a delicious mixture of salt and air.

Aemond made his way down the stairs and onto the beach. He relished the sensation of walking on the white sand. It crumbled under his leather boots. Aemond found this instability reassuring. Nature could be unstable too. The wind had picked up and was blowing thousands of grains around. These whirlwinds, small storms of matter, calmed him and the proximity of Vhagar finished off the hurricane rising in his heart.

With a slight smile on his lips, he walked over to the dunes where his dragon had taken refuge since he brought her back from Driftmark, eight years ago. A mountain of green scales stood among the other mounds of sand. It moved with every breath. Aemond could almost feel the warmth of her breath, the hardness of her scales, and could already imagine himself riding her, hair blowing in the wind, free in his mind.

His joy was short-lived. The gods did not like to see him happy.

Aemond stopped dead in his tracks. Next to the gigantic figure of Vhagar, a small silhouette stood out. It was fidgeting and tormenting the dragon’s sleep. The short distance between the two made him clench his fists. They were close, far too close. Aemond had forbidden anyone to approach his mount. He had never had to repeat his request before. Who would be foolish enough to approach a sleeping dragon? Those who had risked it were no longer around to tell the tale. They had been burnt to a crisp and their loved ones had had to mourn an unrecognisable pile of ashes.

The stranger must have been unconscious or just mad.

Aemond stomped over to them.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he growled rather than asked.

He knew he was protective of Vhagar. Everyone around him had noticed. He had exchanged her for an eye, and this suffering had only redoubled his murderous impulses: Vhagar was his. Anyone who dared touch her would face his rage.

The latter rose in his chest and accelerated his heartbeat. It coursed through his entire being, leaving no part of his body untouched. His nails dug into the palms of his hands. His muscles quivered, waiting for just one thing—for him to attack.

He stepped forward, ready to confront the stranger, who jumped and turned but did not reply. This silence made him even more furious. Who dared ignore their prince?

Moving a little closer, Aemond recognised the gleaming black armour and scaled helmet of the Dragonkeepers.

A breeze of relief blew over his heart, but it didn't completely calm the agitation that had been building up inside. At least this person knew what they were doing.

Worry and anger gave way to curiosity: what were they doing here? Aemond had never come across a Dragonkeeper outside the pit. They lived there to ensure the well-being of the creatures. Like monks, the pit was their sanctuary, and nothing could keep them from their duties.    

Normally, at least.

He couldn't see their face. Vhagar's massive form cast an equally colossal shadow over their body, which was further darkened by the night. It was only when he was close enough to smell the smoke coming from their uniform that he realised it was a girl and, worse still, that he didn't know her.

The last time he had ventured into the dragonpit, he had been only ten years old and had two eyes. Back when he was still Dragonless-Aemond, the place had seemed unreachable yet idyllic—the embodiment of impossible dreams. Eight years ago, he would have easily been able to name the seventy-seven keepers with the time he spent there. He came every day, waiting for the moment when a dragon would accept him as a rider.

The Dragonkeepers’ faces had clouded over with time, reduced to vague memories that the satisfaction of having claimed Vhagar had swept away. Far too large to fit in the pit, his dragon had made her home on the dunes of King's Landing and, in doing so, had made the dragonpit a bygone era of his childhood.

“State your name. Now.”

She dipped into a clumsy curtsy, perhaps the worst he had ever seen. She almost tripped on air and fell face-first into the sand. He winced. This girl was cruelly lacking in grace. No doubt the keeper’s profession had damaged her manners, which already left a lot to be desired.

"Lucella Snow, yer ‘ighness.”

His eye twitched.

A bastard from the North.

The shamelessness made perfect sense now.

These people were nothing but barbarians, made savages by the cold and their proximity with the Wildlings. They prayed to their strange, faceless gods, remnants of a primitive past, and still clung to superstitions dating back thousands of years which bore witness to their backwardness. Too limited for the political intrigues of the South, they retreated into their icy fortresses and only left them to defend themselves.

Northerners were strange and even the Starks, although not the worst of their species, were no exception to the rule.

Add to that the absence of a father to beat her and train her like a lady, which she could have become with a little effort, and you had the bastard in front of him. She was not unpleasant to look at, Aemond decided. Her pale skin, hidden under the ashes smeared on her cheeks, and the few strands of black hair sticking out of her helmet leaped out at him. If she had been born in wedlock, many suitors would have fought for her hand in marriage.

“And what on earth is a Winterfell bastard doing here?”

“I’m sorry, yer ‘ighness, but I’m afraid ‘am just a bastard frum White ‘arbah.”

Her accent struck Aemond's ears and made him wince. Syllables here and there disappeared as the vowels struggled to make themselves heard properly in this gibberish. Her voice was deep, deeper than his mother's or his sister's—the only women of his life—, and dragonfire smoke had taken the evenness out of her tone, leaving it hoarse.

He didn't like the way she avoided his question or her undeniable lack of politeness. She looked at him with jaded eyes as if he were the one who shouldn't be there. He thought he saw a flame dancing in her amber irises. A strange colour for someone from a Northerner. In these lands, eyes were only blue, grey, or black: bland colours for a land saddened by the blizzard.

“Winterfell... White Harbor... Northern towns all look alike.”

“I suppose yeh won't mind if I call you Velaryon, then? Yeh understand... Valyrians… They’re all th’same.”

His indecency irritated her. A mouth like hers belonged in a dilapidated tavern, not in a place like the Red Keep.

Northerners didn't belong here. They weren't like them.

“What is your concern here?” he asked her again.

Why isn’t Vhagar killing you? he thought.

Next to Snow, the Queen of Dragons looked peaceful. His companion was used to the presence of the keeper of the North, Aemond realised. The thought worried him. How long had this stranger been roaming around his dragon without him knowing?

The bastard pointed her gloved fingertips at a sheep carcass, no doubt ready to be charred by Vhagar, judging by the hungry look on her face. Aemond had not seen it until now.

The presence of this woman was upsetting his plans and troubling his senses.

“I’m bringing her food.”

Her 'r's rolled off her tongue.

“I already feed her.”

“Not enough. Obviously,” Snow retorted without hesitation, pointing to Vhagar's visible ribs. “Age tends t’work up their appetite. Ain’t tha’ right, sweetheart?”

She tenderly stroked the dragon’s muzzle, who let herself be petted under Aemond's hallucinated gaze.

His mount, reduced to a common pet.

His nostrils flared. He abruptly grabbed her hand and pulled her away from Vhagar, ignoring the grimace of pain on the Dragonkeeper’s face. Good. Perhaps she would understand that lurking around his dragon was not without consequences.

Vhagar, the Queen of all dragons, ridden by Visenya, had fought and survived Aegon's Conquest. She embodied the glory of House Targaryen and would not be touched by a commoner. A Northern bastard even less so.

Without a glance at her, he climbed the rope ladder and settled into the saddle.

"Sōvēs," he commanded.

Vhagar, lethargic, took her time shaking her wings before flapping them and taking flight. She sent grains of sand and stones flying. Soon, the beach was nothing more than a pale speck drowned in the thick clouds bathing in the twilight’s silver light. The icy air invigorated him, but he couldn't find the comfort he had come for. His thoughts remained stuck on the Dragonkeeper.

When Vhagar lost altitude for a moment, when the two of them broke through the cloud barrier and the beach was visible once again, Aemond saw that she had not moved and that her eyes were riveted on him.

Aemond didn't understand her expression but decided he didn't give a fuck.

[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)

[the-common-cowgirl]

In The Woods Somewhere

This my entry to the HOTD Big Bang '24. The full fic will be posted with amazing artwork from @targaryenrealnessdarling ❤️

Warnings: Murder, Abduction, Non-Con, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Drugging, Swearing, Blood & Gore

Teaser:

In the air, smells of the dinner she had prepared over an hour ago still linger like stagnant water. His plate sits cold on the counter, attracting flies as she does the dishes in the dark. Mindlessly, she scrubs the stainless steel pans as she stares out the window above the sink with a taut brow, waiting anxiously for a glimpse of her husband’s silver hair emerging from the treeline behind their house. 

This has been her routine for the past three weeks. Since she had noticed the dried mud on the soles of his trainers, she watched and waited in the kitchen, wondering why he had to stray off the gravel path he had laid just a year prior in the woods behind their home. Anticipation thrums through her blood like a thunderstorm as she fixates on the mouth of the path. Her eyes strain on the spot in her vision where he is likely to return at any point. She picks up a glass without thinking, running her sponge over the same spot over and over and over again, in time with her rapid heart beats.

Coming to @hotd-bigbang in Autumn '24!

[aemondslefteyeball]

In The Flat Field (3)

Masterlist Future!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Gore, traumatic c-section, spooky shit, death, gun usage

Summary: Aemond and Y/N have entered an ancient Library at their own peril. Galaxies away from home with no possibility for communication with people they know, they are stranded in an ever-worsening situation.

Word Count: 3.9K

Camera eye flick shudder within

The smell of mildew and maple syrup clung heavily to the air as you and Aemond idled through the library. In this section old books sweetly scented the air despite their rough state. But it was silent and that gave you a minute amount of comfort. “It was like, bottled books but they snitch you out to the Lords if you open them.” You explained, half wondering why you were adopting the terminology of a madman. You flipped through the pages of the journal as you continued onwards, keeping your steps light. 

“And what was the… Lord like?” Aemond questioned, his eye boring into the left side of your face. He lowered his gaze to glance at the page you were skimming. After you finish a half-coherent line you purse your lips in consideration for a moment. 

“You know how when you’re a child you want to pet a dinosaur so badly?” You questioned. “But then you get to Jurassia III and realize that you’re actually good staying behind the plexiglass? Sort of like that.”

“I meant what did it look like” He stated, amusement pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Oh.” You considered for a moment. “Well it changes color, sort of like those octopuses off the coast of Myr.” You considered for another moment, almost wishing you had a cybernetic implant yourself. “Maybe a little under 3 meters tall, but it puts off this weird sort of energy.” You tensed at the memory. 

“What, like bad vibes?” He teased.

“No.” You shook your head, slipping the journal back into your bag before Aemond zipped up the pocket for you. “Thanks. It’s like a… you just get a general feeling of what the Lord is feeling as well. Directly in your brain whether you want it or not.” 

“Do you think it could be pheromone based?”

“I don’t think so, I know it sounds silly but it felt how psychic abilities are described.” Aemond paused to consider for a moment, implant flashing yellow as he glanced at you. 

“They must be a social species then.” You hummed in agreement.

“I’m not sure if their vocal cords are as developed as ours are though. It just kind of wheezed and clicked at me. Sounded like your Dad on a bad day.” Aemond smirked at that for a moment before shaking his head. 

“Is there anything interesting in the journal?” You shrugged in response to his question, lifting one hand in a 50/50 motion. 

“What is actually decipherable is still kinda crazy. The dude thought parts of this library would eat him.” 

“Mmm,” Aemond responded, a wry chuckle following. “With everything that’s happened so far, I’m not so sure we can count out being eaten by some books.” He pointed out. You rolled your eyes playfully in response before reaching to grab one off a shelf, opening it to mimic the snapping of jaws and guiding it closer to an unamused Aemond. 

“No,” You giggled. “A row that eats you, apparently. Much better, isn’t it?”

“Mmm.” He responded with raised brows, gently grabbing the book from your hands as the two of you stopped momentarily. He flipped open the pages and you leaned in close to him, following the same path his eyes were. As the two of you stared down at the book the letters shifted from an alien script into recognizable letters. The common tongue. Unease filled you for a moment and apparently, Aemond took notice of it, as he gently brushed a lock of hair behind your ear. You hoped you weren’t blushing. “If you aren’t shedding all over Vhagar, you’re blocking my view.” He teased, his fingers lingering where your neck met your jaw for a few more moments. You shifted your weight on your feet before he snapped out of it and started reading. 

“Jungfrau?”

“Jungfrau.” Aemond corrected, a yellow light blinking onto the pages briefly. You gave him a pointed look, raising a brow. “Another word for virgin.” You hummed curiously, taking a closer look at the page. An androgynous man rippled across the page, shining chestnut curls seeming to radiate their own light as his features shifted. You chalked it up to the book and looked at the glimmering aura around him. It shone with every color of the rainbow and some you weren’t even sure you could comprehend. For the hundredth time, you questioned whether you were on some sort of psychoactive substance before pulling your eyes away from the man’s aura to look at the text. “Apparently he’s the Dreamweaver,” Aemond said softly, turning the page to read more. For your part, you were grateful there were no more portraits of him. As beautiful as he was, it weirded you out. “But he can also bestow magical swords upon people.” You pulled your lips back approvingly before nodding. 

“Be nice if he bestowed one on us.” Aemond let out a dry laugh in response. 

“And what good would we do with a sword against a 3-meter tall shapeshifting monster.” 

“Well, it’s a magic sword, Aemond.” You said, leaning into the ridiculousness. “Maybe you hold it up and say some magic password then you get, like, an outfit change and your hair gets even more fabulous..” 

“Ha ha.” Aemond cut you off before you could finish, gesturing to the pistol that still sat on his hip. “This will be more useful than any magic sword.” 

“Oh, speaking of.” You murmured before grabbing yours, releasing it so the clip fell out. “Do you need any more ammo?” Aemond hummed approvingly before you pulled out a few bullets from the magazine, passing them to him so he could load them into the pistol. “Is it like shooting a phaser?” You asked, Aemond looked at you for a moment before smirking. 

“Yes, which is why the thought of you holding one is terrifying.” You let out a mock gasp, playfully hitting his arm. 

“Your implant has what, a gazillion terabytes of data but apparently no manners in the default program.” 

“Oh, no, it did,” Aemond responded, a wolfish grin splitting across his face. “I deleted them so I could save room for more important things, such as the time you shook a Whituan’s knee.” You let out a dry laugh, rolling your eyes. 

“Worst damn part about that thing, you’ll never let either of us forget any time I embarrass myself.” Aemond chuckled in good humor, putting an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer, giving you a light squeeze. 

“It’s adorable that you think I’d need the implant to do that.” You flipped him off in response and he stared at you for a moment before a red light flashed out of his implant. Concern twisted across your face as you reached to touch it. Aemond pulled back. “We ought to keep moving.” He said abruptly. 

“Uhh..” You let the silence hang in the air for a moment. “Are we going to talk about this?” Aemond shot you a weary look as he started walking towards a new row. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Your implant’s usually got a green light.” 

“It’s just the distress beacon.” He responded curtly. “My implant keeps trying to send it out but it’s unsuccessful so now it’s doing this. I plan to recalibrate it when we get back to the room.” A lie. You pursed your lips in response, figuring it was better to let it be for now. You could grill him later. You absentmindedly wondered if he knew you knew he was lying, but judging from the speed he kept up it was likely. You decide to let him squirm a little longer, figuring that if he could lie to your face he could enjoy the nervousness. You put your hand up to Aemond’s chest suddenly, pausing where the two of you were. A rhythmic thudding could be heard in the distance and you knit your brows in confusion. It was different from the Lord’s footfalls, at least the one that you encountered. Either way you figured caution was best. You and Aemond ducked behind a row as you moved to peek your head out in the direction of the noise. Aemond tutted disapprovingly and placed an arm around your waist, swapping places with you. You shot him a look before he shot you one in turn. Rolling your eyes, you acquiesced. 

“Can your eye pick up on anything from this distance?” Keeping your voice in a low whisper, you rested a hand on his left shoulder blade. He nodded, looking for a few more seconds. Your watch pulsed quietly against your wrist as the transmitted image popped up. Okay, so it was too small to be a Lord. But that didn’t necessarily bode well either. “Should we check it out?” Aemond set his jaw for a moment before nodding. He reached to grab his pistol and you reached for yours in turn. The two of you shared a brief look and Aemond moved to step into the row before you paused. Gesturing for him to wait a second you holstered the pistol once more then pulled out the map of the library from your backpack and grabbed the journal, making quick work of scanning them into your watch. Imposing the madman’s notes on the map, you saved the complete version before transmitting the data to Aemond. You figured he already had a download of the map but the former resident’s notes may be useful. With that done the two of you stepped out from behind the row, grabbing your pistol once more and keeping it pointed at the floor. The Archaeologist’s Guild leaned on weaponry only for self-defense but the two of you figured a creepy library with shapeshifting monsters in it justified staying armed. Stopping behind each row to scope out the humanoid you were shocked after a few more rows to find… a human man. It almost took you off guard more than a miniature Lord would. What was even worse was the Guild uniform he wore. You shot an unsure look at Aemond before he tilted his head to keep going. When you checked through the logs before heading out into Juliet Quadrant only a few Archaeologists had actually been there. A few had gone missing. The two of you figured it was the usual and that they had found a planet to settle down on or died due to catastrophic ship failure but the idea that one of them ended up here was even worse. 

“Y/N.” Aemond whispered, his right eye widening. You looked over towards him before your watch pulsed against your wrist. The two of you knew him. Not well, but you had bumped into each other at a few fundraisers that required you to kiss sponsor ass. You swallowed hard before running your lips over your teeth, praying he had some answers for whatever the hell was going on here. As the two of you approached your colleague he seemed ignorant of your presence, picking books up off the shelf, flipping through the pages, and dropping them into what remained of the sack on his shoulder. Without fail they fell out of the large hole in the bottom and onto the ground, resulting in the heavy thudding you heard earlier. Aemond held an arm out in front of you when you were a few paces away, hesitantly holstering his pistol. Following suit, you lowered Aemonds arm but held onto his hand. 

“Tommen?” You questioned. He looked worse for wear but was still recognizable. Gray, matted curls hung around his face before he turned to look at the two of you. You let out a gasp of horror. An unnaturally wide grin split his face as he glanced at the two of you momentarily before he turned back to the shelf, grabbing the next book to drop it on the floor. 

“Tommen,” Aemond stated more firmly, but the man in question continued in his movements. The two of you shared a look at each other as the automaton dropped another book. “Do you know where you are?” 

“Library” He didn’t stop his actions, the Cheshire grin looking painful across his face. “Lords.” You couldn’t honestly say that you had enjoyed too much of your time in the library but this pushed it to a whole new level of unsettling. 

“Do you know how you got here?” You questioned lightly, running your eyes up and down his emaciated frame. Gods, what in the seven hells had this place done to him? And what would it do to us? Tommen’s movements slowed briefly, yet did not stop. His face contorted slightly around the unnatural grin that split his features, looking unable to properly form the words needed.

“Found.” He rasped out, voice gravelly from what seemed to be years of disuse. You shot a worried look at Aemond, who seemed much more collected than you. Was this your fate if you stayed in the library too long? He wasn’t even blinking. Just dropping another book with another ominous thud. “Crrrhhhhhhh” He wheezed out, mouth unable to move to form whatever word he was thinking of. 

“Tommen.” Aemond said, his voice having a dangerous edge to it. You glanced over at him and saw unease flickering in the back of his eye. “We need to leave this place. You need to leave this place.” Tommen ignored him, making a few more wheezing sounds before Aemond lost his patience and closed the distance between them, grabbing him by the arm. “It’s dangerous here.” Distress flickered across the shriveled man’s face despite the unsettling smile carved into it and he tried to reach for another book to no avail. “Walk.” Aemond commanded and for his part, Tommen did, though it was with an unnatural gait. His steps didn’t match the rhythm of your footfalls, adding to the tension. You knew the two of you couldn’t leave him behind but you were wondering how much of Tommen was still in there. “Do you know anything about the Lords?” Aemond questioned, ignoring the look you shot him. 

“Lords.” He responded with a low wheeze, apparently unable or willing to answer Aemond’s questions. His uniform was raggedy, but the tatters of it that did cling to him reeked to high heaven. BO and something else that you couldn’t quite place. 

“Did you leave the box back in the room?” Aemond prodded as you shook your head. Tommen shuffled along, not answering. “Did you see the map?” His tone was growing more irritated with the old man. 

“Aemond. Maybe that’s enough questions for now.” You suggested, keeping your tone gentle with a slight edge to it. 

“Keeeeepp” The man wheezed out between cracked, rotting teeth “eeeeerrrrrr” Aemond was clearly trying to refrain from shooting you a smug look. The three of you continued onward as the man went back to silence. But thankfully he seemed to stink less as you progressed. That or you were becoming nose-blind to it. If you didn’t know better you would almost say it was starting to smell like maple syrup more, but with a slightly herbier edge to it. You looked over to Aemond wondering if he smelled that too, apparently so as he sniffed the air before shooting a wary look at you. Tommen started to let out more wheezes as the scent of maple hung heavier in the air. You shot a look back to Aemond, a deep pit of anxiety forming in your gut. You stopped for a moment, grabbing Tommen as he let out an excited warble. Between his wheezes, you heard the heavy footfalls that sent primordial terror through you. Looking at Aemond, you mouthed what you could tell he was starting to fear too. A Lord. 

“Creation!” Tommen explained, his mouth struggling to form the words as his cloudy, unblinking green eyes lit up. “The Keeper knew!” He started laughing as loud as possible, the sound barely being muffled when you clapped your hand over his mouth. With madness in his eyes Tommen started to scream about whatever incoherent thoughts he could muster, you looked to Aemond before the two of you nodded at each other. Letting go of Tommen, you pushed him back only for him to start screaming ecstatically. The two of you drew your pistols before you booked it in the other direction. Heavy footsteps grew closer as Tommen stumbled towards you two, still shrieking. Aemond moved to raise the barrel of the weapon in Tommen’s direction before you put a hand over his wrist, shaking your head. Tommen still stumbled after you two as quickly as was possible for him, cackling and shrieking simultaneously. As much as you were against the idea of killing a fellow Guild member, you wished you had a gag on hand to at least shut him the hells up. Thankfully you and Aemond had speed on your side and at least with Tommen’s screaming it provided a cover for your footfalls. You ducked behind a row momentarily to catch your breath, peeking back behind you to see Tommen stumbling as the Lord gained after him. It didn’t appear to be the same one you initially encountered but was around the same height as the other, the same clicking noises emerging as deep blues and reds bled into the all-consuming grayness of its body. An overwhelming sense of thrill wriggled its way into your mind as the creature advanced, catching up with Tommen. You and Aemond looked at each other for a moment, and you clicked your safety off. No sooner than you could do that had the Lord slapped the old man into a bookshelf, unable to restrain the gasp of horror as he knocked his head on the edge. Tommen’s jaw barely clung on and it did little to stop his shrieks, just interrupted them with gurgles of quickly coagulating blood. The Guild member tried in vain to lift the ruined left side of his jaw back to where it had been attached. Despite that, he dropped and the light began to fade from his crusted eyes. Apparently having heard your gasp, the Lord looked over in your direction. Shakingly raising a hand you cleared your mind and pulled the trigger three times.

 Miss

 Miss

Miss. 

Okay, maybe Aemond did have a point about your phaser skills. Thankfully he wasn’t going to gloat about it, and he did not miss. Yet despite hitting the being in what you assumed to be the eyeholes it continued on as if nothing happened. You put your pistol back into the holster as you started to run in the opposite direction. Without Tommen to cause a distraction there was no doubt it would have an easier time chasing the two of you down now. You ran until every muscle in your body burned and Aemond pulled you into one of the spots that Tommen had emptied with his antics earlier. He gestured to your wrist, having pinged onto the spot where the madman had marked the man-eating row. It would require a lot more running but given bullets seemed little more than an annoyance to the being it was your best bet. You nodded as you started running in that direction, refusing to look back as you pushed your body beyond its natural limits. You knew exhaustion would hit hard later but for now if you tired you would die. After what felt like an hour you were approaching the area and banked suddenly to the right as Aemond shifted to follow in your path. You took the row next to it as heavy footsteps gained on the two of you but you simply pumped your arms faster and refused to look back. When you finally got to the far end of the man-eating row you took a second to catch your breath before yelling. Whatever you could do to draw it into the row, you simply had to. Putting two fingers in your mouth you remembered a whistle your Dad had taught you as a little girl. You grew up on a planet that was mostly covered in water, and the landmasses that were there were covered in thousands of turquoise lakes. Ionic clouds interfered with radio signals so whistles were used by fishermen to communicate across the lakes. You blew as hard as you could, your heart dropping as the Lord looked to be following the path the two of you had taken there. Looking at Aemond, you glanced back over at the heavy wooden shelves. 

“We have to climb.” You panted out, reaching to pop a foot on the lowest shelf available before getting a handhold and hoisting yourself up. Aemond simply looked at you like you were insane. “It said not to step foot in the row.” You argued, and at the very least it hadn’t eaten you yet. You moved further upward, your arms burning as you hauled yourself up. Aemond followed suit as you moved closer to the middle of the row. When the Lord emerged where the two of you had been, it looked around in confusion momentarily and your heart dropped further. If the madman was wrong about this you were at perfect grabbing height for the creature. It would be like a shopper picking their preferred snack off the grocery shelf. As you moved right and up you stopped for a second to grab a book and throw it down onto the floor. An overwhelming sense of delight filled you as the Lord bounded two paces into the row. But when it did it let out a piercing shriek. Aemond pulled you into a crevice he had cleared for the two of you and you watched the Lord struggle against whatever had it. But the predator of your predator wasn’t so keen on letting up and a surprisingly hollow crack filled the air as the creature's leg was snapped clean off. Going into a frenzy, you acutely felt the Lord’s fear and rage as it slammed into the shelf opposite yours with enough force to send it wobbling. As the creature thrashed continually the other leg met the same fate. Aemond put an arm around you and pulled you as far into himself as he possibly could, pressing your backs flat against the wall of the shelving. The shelves on the other side wobbled again and toppled over in the opposite direction as the massive creature fell, an otherworldly shrieking filling the air. As the torso started to tear open a bright image was cast above the being. A woman with hair as silver as the moon was being cut open by a dagger, the rippled metal seeming to swallow the light. The creature screamed and you clapped your hands over your ears, Aemond moved to cover your eyes but you shook your head before he could. He moved to gently rub between your shoulder blades. A man dressed in dark green and red reached into the woman’s bulging belly and pulled out a slimy, scaly thing. The creature and the woman seemed to wail in unison, oil spill and red blood pouring out as they grew softer in volume. The man cleared the slime away from the little creature and you watched as it spread its wings. Shrieks softened until there was little more than gurgling with intermittent clicks, but up until the bitter end, you felt every depth of emotion the Lord did. Whatever cosmic abomination had brought forth that scene had disappeared with the dead creature. When you lowered your hands from your ears they shook before Aemond gathered them in his own. You lay your head on his shoulder, happy that at least the sea of emotions within you now were yours.

Taglist: @chainsawsangel

[hotdsworld]

So those who know me know that I'm mostly a smut writer and those who don't know me now know 😭 I have been thinking about Aemond x F!Reader angst where Aemond and Reader lose their child as a result of the war (similar really to Helaena and Aegon) I want to write how it affects them and how they are growing apart becaus of it.

[presidenthades]

Chapter 8 is posted!

Chapter Title: My Brother's Keeper

Chapter Summary: Aemond has lost his eye and his heart. He isn't sure which hurts more.

New HOTD Daughters-verse Fic!

Title: Compromise and Being Compromised

Rating: E (for eventual smut; it’ll take a little time to get there)

Pairings: Aemond/OC (primary), Aegon/OC, Daeron/OC (different OCs, no love triangles)

Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Targaryen prince in possession of a large ego must be in want of:

✅ A strong grasp of history and philosophy
✅ Mastery of the blade
✅ The largest dragon in the world
❌ Some goddamn respect from his family
❌ A Velaryon bride who happens to be the heir to Driftmark (optional, but not really).

Or: Lucera is a second daughter who is never good enough, and Aemond is a second son who is never satisfied. It takes a lost eye, at least one failed marriage proposal, and years of heartache before they both finally learn to compromise so they can have what they really want.

Notable tags: Genderbending, No Dance, Angst, Multi-Year Time Span, Mutual Pining

[flowerandblood]

The Last Drop (1/?)

[ modern • vampire • Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: description of blood drinking and bleeding in general, sexual tension, angst, memories of murders of both humans and animals, descriptions of violence + a lot of sadness ]

[ description: Encouraged by the information that the town he has landed in is not known for having the most vigilant police in the world, he decides to go on a little hunting trip to finally quench his burning thirst. However, not everything goes according to plan. (A lot of sexual tension, grumpy, gloomy Aemond). ]

Yes, Ewan's recent photoshoot inspired me to return to the vampire theme, this time in a modern version. I liked my idea for the character and their dynamic so much that it won't be a oneshot, but a mini-series! The general idea is that vampires in my world no longer produce their own blood, so they must drink the blood of others: however, once it enters their veins, the blood they drink takes on their own taste and smell, which attracts victims like a lure.

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

The night was cool and crisp, the sharp air pleasantly filled his lungs. Even though he didn't actually need to, he breathed: it allowed him to remember that he was alive.

The centuries he had spent in perpetual, primitive thirst, starving himself, only to finally succumb again, wove together in his mind into chaos. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since his body had gone cold and no blood flowed through his veins.

Nor was it flowing through his heart, although he needed it.

That was why he had to eat.

He made frequent use of the blood that was stored in hospitals, as did others of his kind; nevertheless, to his disappointment and dismay, this was not enough for him.

No matter how many litres of blood he would drink from a plastic bag, he still felt a hunger that only passed when he sank his fangs into someone's neck.

He didn't understand why he couldn't stop himself – why, despite doing what he was supposed to do, he couldn't fool his nature.

At some point he just stopped trying.

He didn't kill, or at least he tried not to, however, his victims didn't show gratitude for his generosity – for fear that someone would recognise him, he kept changing his location, having several flats across the country.

Alys had told him about this town – she assured him that the police did not act too quickly here, and that it was easy and pleasant to eat in peace in the large, badly lit park. Indeed, when he arrived he found, walking the quiet streets at night, that the place had enough inhabitants to remain anonymous.

This was his chance.

Although he usually watched and followed his prey for long days, that night, as she passed him, he felt a hot, strange shiver and his heart, half-living, half-dead thumped harder in his chest. He turned behind her immediately and stopped, feeling a drop of cold sweat run down his back.

She was young.

Too young for his taste.

If he overreacted and lost control, she might not survive.

But she smelled so incredibly good.

He felt his fangs lengthen involuntarily, his jaw tense as he took a slow, heavy step behind her, into the depths of the park lit dimly by only a few night lanterns.

She was probably coming back from work from a night shift at some club or bar, because she had a rucksack slung over her shoulder – even though it was the beginning of winter, she was wearing only a jumper, scarf and trousers, her hair loose, their scent reaching his nostrils even though she was far ahead of him.

Fuck, I'm not going to make it, he thought, desperate, feeling his desire intensify for some reason – his senses sharpened and his hands clenched into fists as she turned into a dark side street, between the trees.

Now.

He found himself there within moments and froze, ready to attack, seeing the void in front of him – her scent was clear, but somehow she had vanished into thin air. He swallowed hard, biting his lower lip with some kind of feeling of regret and disappointment, looking around.

"Are you thirsty?" He heard a soft, calm voice behind himself and turned suddenly, feeling his heart leap to his throat with fear.

How could she be standing far behind him when she had just been in front of him?

What was that question supposed to mean?

He wanted to lunge at her, but hesitated as he saw her cock her head, pointing her hand back at her rucksack.

"I have a few bags full of blood in my backpack. I can give them to you if you need them. I have more at home." She continued, undaunted.

He felt his lips part involuntarily in disbelief when he noticed that, indeed, her face was pale, her hair unnaturally shiny and thick, her eyes sparkling with some unnatural gleam.

He was so thirsty that he did not notice that she resembled him.

She lowered her hand and blinked, seeing that he was still silent, looking at him with some kind of worry, as if he were a stray, hungry dog.

"What do you need?" She asked at last, and his gaze fled to her neck, to the blood of others that her heart had just pumped.

Blood that would have her own unique taste.

"Not here." She said, moving suddenly ahead, as if she had changed her mind. "Come with me."

He didn't know why, but he did as she said.

Usually it was the others who obeyed his orders, but now he didn't have the strength to stand up.

Perhaps he didn't even want to.

He was so terrified, intrigued and excited that he was breathing through his mouth.

It had been a long time since he had felt his own heartbeat so clearly.

He didn't know where she had got so much courage to let a stranger, much less a man like him, into her flat. To his surprise, it was cosy and colourful, full of flowers and plants, prints and posters, soft blankets and cushions in fancy patterns.

He stood in the middle of the corridor, not knowing what to do with himself, unable and unwilling now to just throw himself at her.

She pulled off her shoes and backpack, entering the living room without turning on the light, just as he seeing clearly in the dark – she sat down on the couch and held out her hand to him, a warm smile on her face that had a hint of comfort in it.

"Come here. It's okay. You've been brave." She said softly, as if praising a small child, her tone of voice filled with serenity and melacholy, as if she had known him for years.

He didn't know why he pulled off his shoes and coat, looking straight into her eyes, why, drawn by some unknown, mystical force, some strange warmth that filled his chest, he approached her.

He watched, breathing heavier and louder, as she lay on her back, still holding her hand outstretched towards him – he grasped her fingers uncertainly in his, thinking with some kind of tenderness that they were as cold as his own.

And yet, for some strange reason, though he was dead, it seemed as if life was still pulsing within her.

He was ashamed to admit to himself that he felt not only desire at the thought, but arousal as he lay down beside her, smelling her scent more and more clearly with every movement.

There was something intimate about the way she looked straight into his eyes without fear, the way her fingers combed slowly through his short hair, the way they were both silent for a moment, just breathing.

"– it's okay –" She repeated in a whisper, running her knuckles over his cheek, making him feel a squeeze in his throat for some reason.

He was moved.

When was the last time he'd been close to someone in this way?

He moved closer to her, feeling a wonderful shiver of excitement and anticipation run along his back as he leaned over her neck – his lips, swollen with desire, ran tentatively over her soft skin.

He heard her quiet sigh, her hands clenched on his body as he slid his slick tongue out, trailing the tip of it over the crook of her neck. He felt his erection pulsate, pushing against her thigh as he opened his mouth wider and his fangs slowly sank into the delicate structure of her flesh.

The fact that she was a stranger to him, unlike Alys, whom he had known for years, made him, for some reason, not dare to be aggressive – even though he could certainly hurt her if he wanted to, he decided to show his gratitude for her understanding and be polite.

There was something pleasurable about being able to focus only on the taste of her blood as it spilled over his palate – because of the way it circulated inside her body, it was warm, though not like that of a normal human being. He didn't mind, because it was a strangely refreshing taste, while at the same time providing him with a feeling of comfort – he thought the last time he felt like this was probably when he was an infant, drinking his mother's milk.

Safety.

He took one sip, then a second, and a third, one hand holding under her back, the other trailing slowly over the skin of her neck and jaw, for some reason wanting to feel her this way – her flesh grew warmer from the gentle rubbing of his fingers.

There was something in her blood that gave him the conviction of her kindness, and he was surprised by this discovery – he felt his heart begin to beat more slowly again, and his muscles, all sore a moment before, relaxed.

He wondered if she felt that he was completely hard.

When he pulled away from her, he closed his eyes and just nestled his face against her chest, tucking his head under her chin. He swallowed hard as she placed a soft, warm kiss on his hair, stroking reassuringly his cheek and back with her hand – he knew their closeness was just an imitation of what they both desired and needed, but he was too desperate to deny himself that.

He would never have asked for it out loud, but for some reason he craved what she offered him.

He wanted to hide.

He didn't need to sleep to survive, but he liked to rest that way, even more so when he was tired and relaxed. That girl, whoever she was, didn't try to escape his embrace, which gave him the feeling that she wouldn't do anything they both might regret.

When he woke up, he could see through the thick, bright curtains that the sun was already high in the sky – he murmured, snuggled with his face into her cheek, not having the strength or desire to move.

Now, in the light, he could look at her clearly.

She had been transformed when she was no more than twenty years old – of that he was certain. Her behaviour and appearance, in his mind, indicated that this sudden, frightening change in her life was recent: fifteen years ago at most, maybe less.

He swallowed quietly and stood up, deciding there was no point in prolonging it – the girl turned towards him and rubbed her eyelids, sleepily.

"Are you leaving already? Wait until sunset." She muttered.

He froze and cursed in his spirit, glancing at the window.

If it had been cloudy he would have survived somehow, but in full sun the burns was the least he could hope for.

She stood up, apparently seeing what he was thinking about, and moved lazily towards the kitchen, massaging the back of her neck.

There were no more marks from his bite, but her neck was all dirty with blood.

She reached for a plastic cup with a straw that looked like an old Coca-Cola packet and began to drink from it, slurping loudly. She raised an eyebrow when she saw that he was staring at her without saying a word.

"What? You made me thirsty." She explained, however, without a hint of resentment or regret, looking into her fridge, filled from top to bottom with plastic bags filled with blood.

"If you want, I can make blood tart or jelly. Or soup. So you won't be hungry again." She said, still continuing the activity of drinking through a straw from a plastic cup.

"What?" It popped out of his mouth, probably because he didn't understand what he had just heard.

"You know, food. I miss it sometimes. Mixing it with blood makes it nourishing, tasty and more interesting than blood itself. It's good with ice as a drink. I once put it in a soda maker to make bubbles inside, but the experiment failed." She said with a sincere sadness that made him just hide his face in his hands.

Was she serious?

"Sit down. I'll make us some jellies. Blood and raspberry. Yummy." She decided on her own, apparently completely not needing his opinion on the matter.

Indeed, he decided that he couldn't leave as long as the sun was shining so hard, so he sat down, watching in disbelief as she pulled out the gelatine, bowl, blood, raspberries and a few other things she apparently needed to create whatever she had in mind.

Looking at her with pity, he stated with a kind of melancholy that it had been a long time since he had watched a woman cook – the last time was when he had seen his mother as she was baking a cake, his favourite one: yeast with plums.

He felt a sting in his heart at the thought that he could still recreate the taste of it in his head.

"Do you live here? In this town, I mean." Her curious voice snapped him out of his reverie.

He looked at her, or rather at her back, watching as she stirred the steaming liquid in a small saucepan.

His thumb began to pick at the cuticles around his fingernails as his whole body screamed for him to do what was better for him, which was to lie.

"Yes. Since recently." He replied.

"Oh, I see – I've been living here for four years now. I'll probably have to move out soon. For now, they think my unchanging appearance is due to good genes." She said softly, pouring the contents of the saucepan into two ice cream goblets.

God, she really does make fucking blood jelly.

He blinked and looked at her, hearing the silence around them, recognising that he should answer something after all.

"Thank you. For yesterday. For your understanding." He said finally, his thumb digging into his skin too hard, creating a small, red wound along his fingernail.

Blood.

He saw her flinch and look over her shoulder – her eyes were big, as if she was surprised by something, her lips parted slightly, as if she felt arousal.

"– oh – do you want a plaster? –" She muttered, turning back – he noticed that her hands were shaking as she set the cups down in the fridge.

He lifted his finger to his lips and licked the bright red, sticky liquid from it.

"– no need –"

He saw her reach for her plastic cup, her eyes closed as she drew a few deep, greedy sips from the straw.

His manhood twitched in his trousers with delight at the thought that she craved his blood.

He swallowed hard when she came to him close enough that he could smell her clearly again – the psychological advantage he thought he had gained over her dissolved into thin air when he realised he wasn't driven by desperation then.

She smelled so good.

She tasted so good.

Maybe he could stay with her longer?

"Maybe we could be friends?" She asked.

He looked at her, feeling that his eyes were wide open in disbelief. Seeing that he had opened his mouth to answer something, she continued quickly, as if she feared she knew what he would answer.

"I have no one here. I don't trust myself enough to spend time alone with other people. I'm afraid of hurting them. But with you, I don't have to be afraid. You're new here too, so... I want you to know that you can count on me in times of need." She said quickly, stammering a few times, as if she was ashamed of her own words.

Was that why she had brought him to her home?

Because she was lonely?

"I don't know." He muttered, this time answering honestly.

"Okay. I just wanted you to know that the door to my house would be open for you."

After all, you don't know me completely, he thought.

You don't know if I didn't kill someone yesterday, if I won't hurt you, rob you, destroy your life out of boredom, for fun.

"How can you be so naive?"

He wasn't sure if he'd really said the question or if he'd only heard it in his head, but her expression told him that the words had left his mouth after all.

"You think so?" She muttered, heartbroken, as if his opinion meant something to her.

Why?

"I was thirsty and you allowed me to satisfy my hunger. You invited a strange man into your home. I could have raped you, I could have killed you. I still can." He snorted with a wide grin, looking at her in disbelief.

He saw her swallow hard, something moist shining in the corners of her big eyes.

"Maybe that's what I wanted. Maybe that's what I hoped for."

He felt a twinge in his stomach at her words, serious and filled with regret.

What were they really talking about now?

Was she hoping he would kill her?

"What do you mean?" He asked, running his fingers over the soft material that covered the armchair he was sitting on.

I can end your torment if you want me to and drink your blood to the last drop.

"I am alone. I can't talk to my parents or the friends I had before I…" She mumbled and drew in air loudly, apparently trying not to cry.

He was wrong.

It probably hadn't even been ten years since she'd been transformed.

How was it possible that she was doing so well?

Young vampires were usually feral and hungry, seeking pleasure in orgies full of blood. She, meanwhile, lived in her small flat like some kind of hermitage and worked as if nothing had happened.

That's why she cooked food, that's why she dressed the way she did, that's why she decorated her flat according to contemporary fashion.

She didn't want to let go of her old life.

"I'm sorry." He said and once again, he was honest. "In truth, I admire your self-control."

"I killed my dog. My best friend. A labrador with big, brown eyes." She mumbled out, fiddling with her fingers, whooping with the tears that began to run down her face one by one.

She had no one to tell about this, so she treated meeting him like a confession.

"I see. Then you ran away from home?" He asked calmly, for some reason feeling towards her words nothing but understanding.

His father's numb body lying on the floor beneath him, his loud panting when he finally regained his composure – he could see perfectly his lifeless eyes open in horror, his mouth spread wide, his throat ripped apart as if it had been torn by an animal.

He loved him, but he never noticed him.

He showed him no support when his eye was taken away, instead comforting his daughter from his first marriage.

Why was it always her and never him?

"Yes." She muttered wearily, her breathing deep and laboured, full of suffering.

"Do they know what happened to you? Where are you now?" He asked further, and she shook her head.

"Good. You did the right thing." He stated.

He raised his hands slightly in the air, surprised, as she sat on his lap and snuggled into him, embracing him around the waist.

She was sobbing like a little child, and in a way she probably was one – torn away from her family and what was familiar to her, she was wandering around the world alone and aimless, filled only with longing and grief.

He struggled to accept the thought that he understood her all too well.

He shuddered when he felt her warm, heavy breath on his neck – his hand ran over her back reassuringly, giving her wordless permission to take what she needed.

Comfort.

He'd only let Alys drink his blood so far, but for some reason he couldn't and didn't want to refuse her – he closed his eyes and sighed, tilting his head back as he felt her fangs slowly dig into his skin with surprising gentleness.

He heard something that sounded to him like a grunt of pleasure when she swallowed a loud gulp of his blood – his lips parted as her hips rolled forward, brushing it against his half-hard erection.

His fingers clenched on her flesh as he involuntarily reciprocated the movement, reaching out to meet her – they both began to breathe louder, as if surprised that they were taking pleasure in two forms of intimacy at the same time.

Their bodies rubbed against each other in calm, gentle harmony, his nose sunk into her soft hair, which he combed with his fingers, the sound of her swallowing arousing him more and more with each passing second.

She needed him.

He wanted to be needed.

He always had.

When she finally pulled away from his neck she pressed her cheek against his chest, exactly as he did then, and took a deep breath, as if she had accomplished some great achievement by not drinking his blood to the last drop.

"…shall we eat our jellies?"

[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]

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.

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04

@buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @eddieslut69 @emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa

@hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust @minholy223 @mochi-rose

@natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics @primonizzutto @qyburnsghost

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Lust for love. // Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader.

Summary: Aemond's life has always been a bitter and sour one, the only sweet thing in his life was you, his wife, perhaps too sweet for his liking, yet he neglected you in the past but a series of events lead you both together into love.

WARNINGS: mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, cunnilingus, interrupted orgasm, horny aemond, martial duties, clit stimulation, tiddy succin, body worship(?), gentle and kind aemond but he gets rough during sex, + not proofread, lmk if I missed any!

WC: 2.9k

A/N: divider credits @cafekitsune

The cold breeze brushed against Aemond's face as he walked hastily towards your chamber, his boots clacking against the stone floor heavily while his heart banged in his ribcage.

He was feeling light headed, unable to form any thoughts and only the words of the maester rang inside his skull from earlier. ‘Your lady wife seems to be sick’ he had informed him and those mere words were enough to make Aemond spurt up from his chair in the meeting room and immediately rush towards you.

Aemond, frankly, did not know why he was feeling anxious at the information that you were sick, he did not even like you much and only merely married you for the connections and benefits your family provided.

You were just a mere duty to him, so when did he start caring about you?

He stood in front of your chamber door waiting anxiously as the guard gave him a bow before he opened the door, the mental hinges creaking as it slowly moved. He steps inside hurriedly and immediately lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you sitting up. You just stare at him confused.

“Husband? What are you doing here?” The tone of your voice indicated surprise, because Aemond had never visited your chambers even once since the beginning of your marriage and only called you to his chamber when he wanted to consummate.

“I had been informed by the maester that you were sick.” He replies nonchalantly, tone betraying the true feelings that were whirling on the inside. He wanted to get close to you, embrace you.

“I'm not with child.” You reluctantly tell him while looking down, suddenly feeling as though you are a disappointment. It felt humiliating to tell him that, especially when he came all the way to your chambers, he probably expected that you would be with a child.

Except that was not the case.

Aemond was confused on why you were bringing up that topic now, but then it clicked in his head and he cleared his throat, grabbing your attention before shaking his head, “Oh no, wife, I wasn't here because of that.. I was worried.” He admits and your eyes widen in shock.

Worried for you?

For as long as you can remember Aemond never seemed the type to show affection or concern for anyone, perhaps it was due to his past grievances, you had only heard about his eye through rumours, he never opened up to you about anything. You were a duty for him, someone he needs a legitimate heir from; because it is not as though he doesn’t have whores to seek pleasure from so what is the use of you? ; or at least that is what you had assumed and questioned.

But to Aemond, you were his sweet gentle wife, he was afraid of hurting you, in his vision, you were like a white swan, pure, elegant and graceful, he did not want to scare you lest you fly away from him. He did not know when he started perceiving you in this way, but as time went on, he had developed quite a soft spot for you.

“My apologies, Lord husband, I did not intend to worry you.” You apologised, he shook his head gently. “No need to apologise, how are you feeling now?” He questions and you simply blink at him, “I'm well, better than before.” You reply with a soft smile. Aemond's lip curved upwards slightly as he nodded, “Very well.” He says in a dismissive tone.

Awkward silence falls between you both as you look down, he clears his throat before speaking, “If you'll pardon me- I have to—”

“Would you like to take a walk with me?” The question leaves your mouth in a hurry before you could stop it, a desperate attempt at clinging onto this fleeting moment of affection. He seems slightly taken aback but he nods his head, “I'd love to.” He replies and you nod, stepping in his direction and standing next to him. “Shall we go?” You inquire, “Yes, wife.” He answers and you wait for him to take the first step, which he does; and soon you follow him out of the room.

You both stroll down the garden, admiring the scenery, the breeze was gentle today, and the weather seemed perfect, Aemond linked your arm in his, holding you close to him.

Your skin was soft to the touch and it drove him insane, he couldn't help but stare at the way your breasts pushed up against the material of your dress, he never really properly fucked you like you deserve.

Yet now, he just wants nothing to do but push you against the castle wall and fuck you relentlessly in the garden. Aemond realised that he never heard you moan, or show any type of reaction when he consummated with you.

He wondered how your soft voice would shriek in pleasure, calling out his name in pleasure, how you'd cling so tightly to him, he wished he could witness such a sight. He wished he hadn't gone to whores to receive pleasure while he left his wife dry. He missed out on a lot of things due to his decisions.

He mentally made a note to stop visiting brothels as it would taint your honour, he could simply seek the same pleasure from you. He became more bothered as his imagination went wild.

“... husband…? husband…!” He snaps out of his imagination, looking at your confused expression, “Y-Yes? Please excuse me, I was lost in thought.” He apologises and you give him a soft smile, “You were saying something?” He asks and you nod, “I was thinking about; well; if you excuse my rudeness, I realised we don't know much about each other.” You truthfully tell him.

Aemond furrows his brows in question, “What do you mean by that wife?”

“I want to get to know you, husband.” You stare at him in the eye and his eye widens slightly, and just then he recalls the memory of Aegon's words.

“That woman in the brothel knows more about you than your own wife, don't you find it amusing?” He was taunting Aemond, and at that time Aemond ignored those words, but now that you've openly admitted that you don't know him much made his heart shatter.

“Of course wife, what do you wanna know?” He decides to let his guard down, ready to tell you whatever you ask for. “Everything.” You reply, biting your lip anxiously, your hand travels up to his face, caressing his cheek before you trail your thumb down his scar. He knew what that implication meant and he smiles at you in a gentle manner, his own hand coming up to grab your wrist.

“Of course.”

Days pass by just like that, your marriage with Aemond had improved tremendously after your little effort to get to know him better, you felt bad for him when he began to reveal such vulnerable things, yet you never judged him.

He had shown you all of his vulnerability so openly, from the matter of his eye to everything else. You listened in silence, and he appreciated that.

As Aemond grew more comfortable, he began to show his emotional side, which included both his vulnerability and anger. He would utter treasonous things about his own brother.

This night was one of those cold nights, the cold breeze flew into the martial chambers you were waiting in, the maids prepared you for the consummation as they do, you and Aemond consummate according to your moon cycle since your only duty is to provide him with a heir.

And besides, he probably did not want to lay with you in an intimate manner, or for pleasure. You felt insecure because of that.

You were scared that after all this progress, everything would return to the same way it was before because of this night, you doubted that it would happen but your thoughts plagued you.

You winced when you felt the maid tug at a hair strand accidentally, “Sorry my lady.” She apologises to you, “It is alright.” You respond softly, you stare at your own reflection in the mirror, eyes trailing down your features.

The door to the chamber opens, and Aemond strides in hurriedly, the maids quickly finish fixing you up and leave the room immediately, you get up from your seat and turn around to see Aemond undoing his clothes.

“Let me help you.” You offered, usually he would decline and continue to undress himself, and you expected that again, but his actions shocked you.

He immediately dropped his hands to the side and turned to look at you, waiting for you to walk over to him and help him. You blinked rapidly before rushing over to where he stood before you stood in front of him.

Your hands immediately began to work on removing his vest, your fingers delicately undid the loops, you were too focused on the job that you failed to notice Aemond's piercing gaze. He watched with intent as you worked on removing his clothes, his eye taking in your form. His breeches felt tight.

You pushed his coat off his shoulders and peeled away the vest, revealing his tunic beneath the layers, his garments fell to the ground with a shuffle, you stepped back, leaving him in his undergarments.

He grabbed the hem of his tunic before he pulled it off and then began to undo his breeches, untying the strings. You took that as a gesture to lay down on the bed, facing up.

This is what you did when you both consummated before, you would lay down, he would spread your legs, insert himself, finish and leave.

You expected that to be the case, but you were surprised when climbed on top of you, his face right in front of yours, platinum locks curtaining around you. He stared at your lips for a moment before he leaned in, capturing your lips with his.

You were surprised, and didn't know what to do, so you stayed still, but he bit your lip, indicating his disappointment at your freezing up, and so you immediately tried to mimic his movements.

Your lips danced against his, yet it couldn't match the fervent passion he moved with, it was desperate, intimate and most importantly, filled with love and lust.

All your prior insecurities melted away under his warm lips which were filled with desire and want, he wanted you, he seeked you out.

You both pulled away to catch your breaths, his lips were glossy from your saliva and slightly swollen. Your heart was pounding loudly in your chest.

Aemond moved your night off your shoulder before ripping it apart, revealing your breasts which you immediately covered out of instinct. But he gently grabbed your wrists and pinned your hands to the side of your head.

He leaned down, tracing kissing down your jawline, to your neck and to the soft flesh of your chest. His hot breath against your bud made you shiver in delight.

He hooked his tongue on your hardened nipple before engulfing it with his mouth, you let out a squeal of surprise at his actions but you didn't stop him.

He suckled on it gently, using his teeth to trap the bud in between before licking it with his tongue, he grunted in delight, his grip loosening one of your hands, freeing it from his hold.

He grabbed your unoccupied breast with his now free hand, giving it soft squeezes and playing with the bud, rolling and pinching it. You were new to this, not having any understanding of what was happening, after all, you've only read about it, never experienced such intimate acts yourself.

You rubbed your thighs together, trying to ease the ache that was forming in between them, you realised how sticky the area felt, and how it made it difficult for the friction of rubbing to work.

He notices this, lets go of your breast with a pop, he smirks before he rises off from you and settles in between your legs, this was the position you were more used to.

He spreads your legs wide apart, pulling up your nightgown, revealing all of you. He pressed his thumb against your clit which made your breath, you stared at him confused until you felt him rub small circles upon it.

Your body felt pangs of delightful stimulation, you couldn't help but enjoy the feeling, all of this was foreign to you. Aemond takes a deep breath before he closes in on your cunt, before licking a stripe upwards to your clit. You jolt from the sudden pleasure.

Aemond wrapped his lips around it, sucking on the bud slowly, you whined, grabbing his head for support as his mouth worked wonders down there. You tasted absolutely divine to Aemond, your essence trailing down his cheek as your body produced so much of it. You whimpered, thrashing around lightly as his warm tongue flickered with your bud.

Aemond's tongue swirled around your clit before he captured it with his mouth once again; “Oh! Yes!” You moaned, throwing your head back in pleasure when you felt him nibble on your bud. An unfamiliar feeling of warmth rose in your lower abdomen, you felt as if there was a fire inside you, waiting to combust any moment.

Just when you feet the flames beginning to erupt, Aemond stops his manoeuvres, putting out the fire, you furrowed your brows in confusion, wondering why he stopped.

But when you looked at Aemond, he seemed like an entirely different being at that moment, he had risen up back to his haunches again taking deep breaths almost as if he was trying to contain himself.

He was.

He had never felt such an overwhelming of desire in his body, every time he touched you; his mind scrambled into pieces, he wanted to fuck you so badly.

“Aemond?” You call out softly, confused, wondering if he was disappointed by your behaviour but it seems to snap him out of his daze and he stares at you. “I apologise; I'm finding it hard to control myself.” He admits his thoughts.

“Then don't.”

Aemond swore he heard you wrong.

“What?” He questions you.

“Don't try to Aemond, Don't hold yourself back, I want this, I want you.” You admit shyly.

The atmosphere fell silent for a second and you could feel the awkwardness from your own words beginning to sink in, that was until Aemond moved suddenly.

You shrieked as he pulled your hips onto his lap, wasting no time in inserting himself, you gasped at the sudden stretch, feeling yourself become full of him. You grabbed onto his shoulders for support.

He held your waist tightly, grabbing onto your hips for leverage as he began to move, thrusting himself in and out.

This was a movement you were familiar with, yet somehow it still feels new because of the strange sensation, it felt more intimate and passionate, his thrusts held meaning and it was as if every time he pushed inside you; he was reaffirming his love and desire for you.

He pushed you into the mattress, grabbing your legs and shoving them to your chest as he thrusted hard, his skin slapped against yours loudly, the room echoing the noises.

You threw your head back at the sensation, and you felt the fire in your stomach rekindle and you couldn't help but desperately chase it. “Ah, right there.” You moaned, feeling him hit a sweet spot inside you that fueled the fire in you, you gasped for air as every thrust of his knocked it out of your lungs. “You feel so good, you're driving me insane, wife.” Aemond grunts, his thrusts never once faltering.

Everything about this night together was very different from the previous ones, Aemond had never felt this good and neither have you, he regrets not trying to get to know you earlier. He felt like he was in heaven with the way you clenched around him.

He felt his high approaching, and he desperately ran after it thrusting deeper inside as he groaned and moaned.

Your body jolted up and down the bed and you felt the fire beginning to spread out slowly, you closed your eyes, when you felt the fire suddenly go out, you were confused but as Aemond thrusted one more time it erupted in your body like volcano, coursing through your veins and to your mind.

You moaned loudly, grabbing the sheets and arching your back as your eyes rolled to the back of your head at the intensity, you have never felt this way before.

Your vision went completely white before you could see once again, you felt Aemond finish inside you, his cocking twitching as he spurted his seed deep inside you.

“Seven hells.” He groans, riding his orgasm off, you watch as he clenches his eye shut taking deep breaths.

He looked so ethereal.

He immediately falls down next to you, catching his breath, he pulls you close and kisses you on the forehead, “You did so well for me.” He praises you, and you blush shyly.

Neither of you moved from the bed, having no intention to.

Typically Aemond would leave the room right after.

Yet he didn't.

He was stroking your shoulder gently as you dozed off, head resting on his shoulder.

He looks at your closed eyelids and thinks you're asleep.

“I love you.” He confesses, realising his true feelings.

Your lips quirk up into a smile before you open your eyes slightly.

“I love you too.”

You then doze off into slumber immediately, Aemond's heart picks up its pace, embarrassed and shy that you had heard him, but your response made him smile.

[wordbreaker]

The Taming of the Dragon, 3 ✷ Aemond Targaryen

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen / F!OC

SUMMARY: One evening, Aemong, in dire need of clearing his head, catches a Dragonkeeper on the beach tending to Vhagar. The Queen of Dragons doesn't seem bothered by the stranger's presence. Quite the opposite. Aemond is immediately intrigued. Even more so when he discovers that the stranger is a girl who comes from the North and bears the name Snow.

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         How ironic for the House of Fire and Blood to concern itself with Water.

Driftmark and its succession haunted everyone's thoughts. A blue thorn in the back of those who held the kingdom together.

Aemond’s last vision of Driftmark had been one of blood and pain. Crimson waves had washed away his admiration for the endless sea and the sunny horizon. The only cherished memory he held close to his heart was Vhagar. The rest, he preferred to forget. His eye, hidden under his leather patch, seemed to burst into flame. The pain, petty and merciless, reminded him that he would never be able to get rid of this evening.

Lucerys Strong deserved neither Water nor Fire, and certainly not Driftmark.

The blood fever that kept Corlys Valeryon bedridden cured Aemond’s eternal suffering. Boiling water calmed the dragon's fire which, for ten years, had never stopped dancing and burning those who got too close. He was already looking forward to seeing his nephew's shoulders slumping, his chin drooping and his brown eyes glistening. The only sea he would rule would be that of his tears. Aemond had no regard for the succession of the island—the affairs of the Valeryons had long ceased to interest him—but the prospect of seeing the sadness and disappointment painted on his bastard nephew’s childish face would bring him more joy than any present.

For Lucerys Valeryon would not win, not when Otto Hightower sat on the Iron Throne in his father’s stead.

His half-sister, armed with her usual gall, would parade her bastards around shamelessly, proclaiming loud and clear that Driftmark was rightfully theirs. He laughed, alone in his quarters.

Lucerys Valeryon was not a leader and certainly not a lord. He remembered the little boy who always hid behind his older brother, always involved in Aegon's tasteless pranks. Lucerys Valeryon—no, Strong—was just a rag doll with no backbone, given life and the desire to rule by the stupid words his whore of a mother had insisted on pounding into his head.

“Your Highness, your mother the Queen asks that you join her at the gates.”

Aemond dismissed the servant with a nod and took one last look at his mirror. His violet eye lingered on the piece of leather that crossed half his face—the continuation of the scar on his cheek. No. Lucerys Strong didn't deserve Driftmark.

He turned and stomped off towards the entrance, leaving behind him the glimmering shadow of a blade which, that evening ten years ago, had blinded him as much as the blow.

The prince left his chambers. He could already see himself in the throne room, tired of listening to the pleas of people whose blood was supposedly as pure as his own. Vaemond and Rhaenyra would strut into the Red Keep and then into the throne room, chins up, shoulders straight—the very image of pride—to fight for a bloodline that was doomed. The dynasty of Old Valyria, tainted by the vices of a woman and the obsession of a man. The blood in their veins did not bleed red; their wrongs had blackened it.

Like many other houses, the Valeryon dynasty would kill itself, leaving behind only bastards and stagnant water. Aemond would feast on their demise in silence but with a certain jubilation.

“Do you know why I have been summoned?” he asked his sworn protector.

“Your sister the princess has arrived, Your Highness.”

His only eye twitched with anger. Of course she had. He took a deep breath but continued walking. The corridors of the Red Keep flashed by with his hurried steps.

The sooner he greeted them, the sooner he could leave.

Aemond soon reached the great doors. They alone separated him from his past. The swollen skin of his eye throbbed. It seemed to boil. Water had defeated fire once. He clenched his fist. Sometimes he felt like ripping off half his face. The pain had never subsided. It lay dormant, waiting for the right moment to leap up and paralyse him.

The sapphire in his eye socket had done nothing to appease his sorrow nor his pain. It was just a way for his mother to forget her son was now just a crippled. Its colour would always remind him of Driftmark. He carried the sea in his eye and, when he dared to face his reflection in the mirror, was reminded of it daily.

At the sight of him, the soldiers posted on either side of the doors opened them. He held his breath and rushed outside. The cool wind whipped across his face, calming for a few seconds the storm that was growing inside him. A few soldiers were training here and there. Others were making their rounds.

Aemond looked around but didn't see his mother, his grandfather and certainly not his father, confined to bed by illness and old age. This impotence had brought them this far. Vaemond Valeryon would never have dared contradict the King if he could still defend his beloved child.

Viserys was the cause of many things.

A roar made him raise his head. The long body of Caraxes twisted to land in the courtyard. Its red scales reminded Aemond of the flags his mother had had removed and replaced with the symbols of the Seven. His uncle, Daemon Targaryen, as proud as ever, dismounted nonchalantly, Black Sister swinging from his belt. Aemond dreamed of touching, even brushing his fingertips against, the legendary sword.

A relic of the Conquest.

Aemond did not feel the same visceral hatred for his uncle that sometimes paralysed him. Admiration and respect for Daemon mixed with rage to create an intoxicating concoction.

He only felt that way with another person, whom he preferred to leave to the beach and the night.

Syrax's yellow scales sparkled in his field of vision and tore the thin smile that had so far tugged at Aemond's lips. Vermax and Arrax, small as they were, enraged him to no end. One by one, the dragons landed and shook the ground. A dust storm whirled around and reached Aemond at the top of the steps. He rubbed his black tunic with his hand and gloated when he saw that none of their mounts compared to Vhagar, not even the Blood Wyrm. The prince felt a deep sense of satisfaction at this. It ran through his veins and soothed him.

Aemond, in a rare childish whim, refused to pay the slightest attention to Luke. The pain in his eye seemed to intensify at the mere proximity of the boy. He resisted the urge to cup the left side of his face and straightened his shoulders. The rustle of a cloth drew him from his thoughts. His mother stopped beside him and gave him a thin smile. Worry deepened the wrinkles that, over the years, had multiplied around her eyes and her lips, which were always pursed.

Jacaerys dismounted his dragon. His nephew, though still plain-looking, had grown. His build had thickened and reminded him of a certain Harwin Strong. He chuckled. His mother placed a hand on his forearm. A warning. He didn't care. No one could deny that his sister's first three children were bastards. Even a blind man wasn't naive enough to believe the sweet lies that his whore sister's angelic face spouted.

“Embrot.”

“Inkot!”

“Jātās! Jātās I said!”

Orders in High Valyrian rang out.

A horde of dragonkeepers, covered head to toe in their black armour, surrounded the newcomers and busied themselves around the restless beasts.

Dragonstone, carved out of cold stone, was warmed only by the fire of the wild dragons that populated the island. There were no keepers in this fortress. The dragons knew only their riders and would kill anyone who dared approach them. Arrax tried to char one of the guards, completely ignoring Luke's panicked cries.

If he couldn't control his dragon, how could he hope to rule Driftmark? The Blacks’ nerve could not erase reality—they were undeserving.

Aemond's eyes feasted on this spectacle of incompetence, but his smile soon faded when he spotted a female figure, a whirl of pale skin and brown hair, among the guards.

Snow.

He frowned and watched her walk towards Vermax. She raised her arms towards the dragon, palms outstretched, to calm it down. Beside her, Jace, instead of following his family as they gradually drew closer to Aemond and his mother, began to talk to her. Their heads came closer together. Aemond watched Lucella throw her head back and laugh, all under his nephew's satisfied gaze.

The prince clenched his fists. Why was she there? Wasn't she his dragon's appointed keeper? Vhagar needed her more than that miserable Vermax.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Lucella suddenly met his gaze. She frowned and turned back to Jace, who noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow. An unpleasant sensation lodged in Aemond's chest and made him itch.

Two bastards together. He laughed at the thought, but his hilarity painfully hit his throat. A lump had got stuck there and was choking him. Why did he feel the need to come between them, to pull Lucella away from his nephew? His hands tingled. Thousands of small needles were screaming at him to do something, not to let the snow be contaminated by water. 

The dragon's fire blazed in his chest, burning away any sense of sanity.

He wanted Jacaerys to perish in the flames of his rage.

Aemond hadn't seen her for a week. Yet her face and the contours of her lips had never left him. She haunted him. In the evenings, her accentuated voice echoed in his thoughts.

Since their eventful meeting, Lucella and Aemond had crossed paths several times on the beach. Their shared love for Vhagar prevented them from killing each other, although he often felt like doing so, for Lucella Snow couldn't keep her mouth shut. The few times they spoke, her sharp words, as sharp as a blade, cut into the cage around his chest.

This cordial understanding soothed his senses and prevented him from dreading his visits to the beach. He had given up going out alone at night, for Lucella Snow never left his side, even when she wasn't there. He couldn't ride his dragon without thinking of the keeper.

She kept looking after Vhagar. The carcasses of charred sheep and game piled up on the beach, staining the white sand with their blood. The dragonkeeper avoided him. He didn't know why. Nothing had changed in their exchanges. Their duels of words, the winner of which always varied, had retained the same tenor, the same intelligence.

What had made her run away from him?

Lucella Snow had blended into the background, disappeared into the shadows, and escaped his blind spot. Aemond should have been happy. No more northern bastard with an unpleasant accent raging in his ears and insulting him at every turn. Yet something prevented him from rejoicing at this absence. He felt he was losing control and hated it.

Across from Jacaerys, Lucella burst out laughing.

He had never made her laugh. His insults sometimes drew a smile, though it was always tinged with resentment, and, more rarely, a snort. Lucella Snow didn't laugh. She would glare and insult you.

Lucella Snow was no laughing matter. You had to decipher her Nordic gibberish, which— intermingled with the insults and stubborn retorts to always have the last word—became particularly irritating.

And yet, Lucella Snow was laughing out loud with his nephew. His plain nephew. Aemond railed against the bastard who, like his mother, stole everything that didn't belong to him. Driftmark, the Iron Throne... And now Lucella Snow and her laugh.

That melodious sound, so clear, so different from her hoarse voice, stayed with him all day. He nodded absent-mindedly to his half-sister and her bastards. Neither Vaemond's nor Rhaenyra's plea echoed in his eardrums. All he could hear was her laughter, and all he could see was her face, her pink, stretched lips revealing astonishingly white teeth. Her hair went round and round in his mind.

He closed his only eye and prayed for a moment's respite, but the Gods turned a deaf ear to his plea.

His father burst in, reaffirmed Driftmark's succession to Lucerys, Vaemond dared to say what everyone else was thinking and lost his head in the process. His sister yelped; his brother turned his head; Aemond remained motionless for that damned laughter never left his thoughts and drove him mad.

He clenched his fists as his eye stared blankly at Vaemond's decapitated head.

Lucella Snow was driving him mad, whether she was there or not.

That evening, she still hadn't left his thoughts. He kept seeing the image of her, head back, smiling. Happy. Happy to talk to Jacaerys. Jacaerys, sitting next to Aegon—who was already drowning in wine—and his betrothed, was talking as if nothing had happened. As if he had not encroached on Aemond's territory. This made him furious. He sank into his usual silence but felt flames dancing in his chest. He waited and waited.

It was Luke's sneer when the roast pork was served that made him snap. His hand came down on the table and shook the glasses. Aemond took hold of his, still full, and raised it in the direction of the only two brown-haired boys, yet another example of their difference, their defect.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong.”

“Aemond.”

“Come... let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again,” said Jacaerys, whose cheeks had become flushed.

The echo of a laugh resounded in his skull. The ghost of his nephew leaned towards Lucella. Aemond’s eye twitched. His thoughts darkened.

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?”

The bastard dared to punch him. Aemond threw one back and was delighted to hear his jaw crack. Their mothers stepped in as Aegon grabbed Luke by the hair and slammed his head against the solid oak table. Aemond could not contain his chuckled. He was reborn in the chaos and the pain of his nephew. His nephew who had dared to speak to Lucella, his dragonkeeper. Who had dared to make her laugh.

His mother dismissed him. He happily complied. Another second in Jacaerys' presence and he would have had to deal with much more than just a punch in the cheek. The fire that was burning every inch of his flesh—and whose first spark had ignited in the remnant of his eye—was not subsiding.

The flames intensified. They would consume him if he didn't get out of here.

Once outside, Aemond automatically headed for the Dragonpit. Fight fire with fire. He would feed off the dragons’ chaos and rejoice in their hot breath.

The prince didn't dare dwell on why. Why hadn't he headed for the beach, where he was sure to find Vhagar? Aemond kept quiet about this question—the answer to which he knew but didn't want to admit—and rushed into the pit.

His heart missed a beat and seemed to speed up at the same time.

Near the stairs where the Pink Dread had appeared years before, Lucella, staff in hand, was leading the dragons of Rhaenyra's clan forward. The eminent departure of the heiress to the throne had been quickly made known. The decision had been taken in haste. Rhaenyra would return to Dragonstone, where she reigned over her vices. King's Landing would no longer be contaminated by bastardy and manipulation. His grandfather and mother had made sure of that.

“Lykirī, Caraxes,” Snow's husky voice drew him from his thoughts. “Calm down. I don't want to use that.”

She shook her long wooden stick. Aemond had never seen Lucella use one. The other guardians never parted with it. They pricked the dragons' sides shamelessly and hit them when the creatures dared to rebel. Lucella did not stoop to such barbaric techniques. Her voice alone was enough to tame the most savage beasts. She had, after all, managed to bond with Vhagar.

Dragonkeepers forgot that the creatures in their care deserved respect and admiration. Only Snow understood this.

She grazed rather than poked Caraxes' rib.

Reluctance to hurt.  

Without being able to explain it, Aemond felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that she didn't need a stick when she was looking after Vhagar. The bond between the Northwoman and his dragon was unique. The first non-Targaryen to be able to touch her without dying.

A Northern girl who could tame dragons. She would inspire the minstrels of Flea Bottom, whose songs would overflow with metaphors about snow and fire. Lucella was a conundrum that Aemond couldn't decipher.

He hated not knowing. He had prided himself on his intelligence ever since he lost his eye. Luke had taken away his beauty, he would shine with his mind. Philosophy, science, nothing held any secrets for him except Lucella Snow, who symbolised everything her native land was not. 

The first time he had seen her, he had put her relationship with Vhagar down to luck. Perhaps his dragon, just as curious as he was, had become attached to this mongrel from the North. The days had passed. They had met again and Aemond had had to admit that the keeper knew what she was doing. He even dared to use the word “gift”, for no other dragon keeper possessed such an ability to tame beasts as she did: with love and respect.

For the first time in the history of Westeros, snow resisted fire. Ever white and strong, it extinguished flames.

Aemond did not move. He remained at the entrance of the pit and watched from a distance as Lucella calmed Caraxes with great gestures. The red dragon twisted in all directions to avoid her hands, but she was not discouraged. Her voice became firmer. He stiffened as he heard her order Daemon's dragon not to move.

“Lucella!”

The woman turned her head. One of the keepers appeared on the staircase. She was reluctant to leave the Blood Wyrm in the hands of one of the Elders. He had to pull her arm away from it. The Elder grabbed her staff and struck a clean blow into Caraxes' side. The dragon roared. A few waves of smoke escaped from his snout. A warning. Lucella clenched her fist and looked as if she wanted to say something to the Elder, but the other keeper called to her again. She joined him, shoulders tense, eyebrows furrowed.

Aemond watched them talk. From here, he couldn't tell what they were saying, but it seemed serious. They whispered urgently and glanced at the staircase. The keeper pointed to it. Lucella nodded. Aemond watched the girl disappear down the stairs. Something urged him to act. He pushed against the unpleasant memories—a winged pig and a dragon ready to char him— and followed.

Aemond could not see a thing. The dragons' only source of light was their fire. The guards armed themselves with torches to navigate this labyrinth of great galleries and endless corridors. Lucella strode with disconcerting ease in the complete darkness. A few torches here and there illuminated their surroundings, but he had to squint to make out Lucella's silhouette walking at a hurried pace.

Seeing that dragons were condemned to darkness, Aemond was glad that Vhagar didn't have to live in there. His gaze remained fixed on Lucella. She walked without hesitation. The pit held no secrets for her. She knew exactly where she was going and why. His guide in the dark.

“I have not seen you on the beach for a long time. Are you not supposed to be tending to Vhagar? The dunes and the fresh air are probably more pleasant than this… rat hole,” he glanced around wearily.

Lucella flinched, as she did every time they met. A small smile stretched Aemond's mouth. She was almost cute, startled out of her wits. He instantly chastised himself. Lucella Snow was not cute: she was an angry and sarcastic woman who constantly made inappropriate remarks.

The keeper rolled her eyes.

“What are yeh doin’ ere? Don't yeh ‘ave princely duties to attend t’?”

She had quickly abandoned all politeness. Had she ever had any? Their first encounters had exuded a certain reserve that annoyance had swept aside with a wave of its hand. The North and its lack of manners had quickly caught up with her. Aemond still couldn't understand why she spoke to him as if he were a commoner and not the prince, son of her king. The North may have worshipped their Warden, the Starks, but the Targaryen monarchy and power did not stop at the Neck.

“Vhagar don’t need me all th’ time,” she finally said when she saw he wouldn't answer. “She ‘as a rider. Would be good if he remembered. ‘ave neither t’ desire or t’ patience to carry dead sheep on me shoulder every day.”

“You are a dragonkeeper. The crown houses you, feeds you and gives you money to look after dragons.”

“Aye! Dragons. Not just one. Vhagar can look aftah ‘erself for a few hours. She survived Aegon's conquest, she'll survive three hours withou’ a pat on t’ ribs. Sunfyre needs me, Dreamfyre too. ‘nd wi’ Rhaenyra... Four more dragons is nah mean feat, let me tell yeh tha’. Not tha’ it matters anymore. People say you've lightened me workload. I thank yeh for tha’. I don't s’ppose dinnah went well? Was the meat not cooked to yer liking, yer ‘ighness?”

Lucella curtsied ungracefully. Her favourite mockery. Each time, she reminded him that she didn't care about his royal title.

“It concerns you not.”

“Hm… Well,” she shrugged. “I guess wine will loosen yer brother's tongue soon enough. Th’ Street of Silk is t’ best place t’ learn royal business. Everyone says so.”

She turned left into a seemingly endless corridor. He didn't know exactly how long they had been walking or the reason for this expedition.

“Just wish I could’ve looked after Vermax a litt’ longer. Tha’ an interesting character right ther’”

He laughed. It sounded bitter.

“His rider as well, I suppose?”

She turned and stared at him but said nothing. Lucella continued to advance into the pit. Aemond followed. An unpleasant feeling weighed down his shoulders. He opened his mouth several times but could not come up with something satisfactory to say. The image of her laughing at Jacaerys flashed in his mind. How had he done it?

“Do you not miss working in the pit?” he finally asked.

“Nay. It's not healthy t’ be so immersed in the dark. Some o’ t’ guards ‘ave gone mad. Even the North ‘s more welcoming. The dark always passes. Not ’ere. I prefer t’ beach, even if it means yeh’re there,” she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Vhagar is happier than any o’ those dragons. It's awful, t’ way they're treated. If I ‘ad me way, they'd be flyin’ free over King's Landing. A dragon is no slave that can be chained up in t’ dark ‘nd taken out when its rider wants t’ get some fresh air. I've always– Look out!”

Lucella pulled him out of the path of the flames. A dragon, illuminated by the blaze, appeared in his field of vision for a few seconds and disappeared into the darkness just as quickly. His heart pounded against his chest. His hands trembled. He saw himself again, ten years earlier, in the same position. He closed his eye.  

“Fuck!”

Lucella screamed in pain. The distinctive smell of charred flesh rose to his nose. Aemond looked down. In the darkness, he could make out the keeper’s burnt arm. She yelped. The sound tore at Aemond's heart.

A rumble sounded, followed by a second. One by one, the dragons awoke. Lucella swore.

Despite her injury, she pulled the prince towards the exit. He followed her like a puppet, with no resistance in his limbs.

She was touching him.

For the first time.

They left the darkness behind them. Aemond's violet eye fell on Lucella's arm. Her armour had taken the brunt of the attack, but leather was no match for the Dracarys of an enraged dragon. Iron, dragonglass, Valyrian steel... The fire nibbled at everything, leaving nothing but ashes. The usually pale flesh of the female keeper was now nothing but a jumble of black and pink. Melted leather had mixed with the raw wound. He grimaced. It would leave a scar. Only now did Aemond notice that, unlike the other guards, Lucella's face and body had not been marred by the flames.

Before him and his careless mistake, a small, petty voice whispered to him. He did not try to quiet it. It was right. Because of his stupidity, she was suffering. A lump caught in Aemond's throat.

They went out of the pit, onto the open arena. Lucella grumbled under her breath. She berated him for having followed her and distracted her.

“Princes ‘ave no business in the pit! Yeh always want t’ play great lords… saviours… Whatevah! And yeh expect people t’ pick up the pieces yer idiocy caused! The nerve of yeh!”

Hatred took over and soothed her suffering. He let her scream. Perhaps that was the best remedy, for, no doubt, the adrenalin would soon evaporate and leave her weak and feverish.

“We must treat the wound as quickly as possible. I will summon Maestre Mullynn. He'll know what to do. He's the one who stitched up my eye, so he'll probably be able to–”

“Leave me be. Yeh’ve done enough. Go do what princes do. Fuck a whore, play knight, whatevah... I don’t give no fuck. Go.”

For once, he didn't comment on her vulgarity and simply repeated what he had just said. If she didn't see a Maester and treat her burns immediately, she risked much more than a simple scar. Aemond dared to put a hand on her shoulder.

The feel of her skin against his made him lose his train of thought. In his heart, a flame different from the others ignited. He leaned into this pleasant, softer, warmth.

Lucella jerked away from his grasp and stomped on the flame, leaving him cold as stone. She held back a cry of pain through clenched teeth and pressed her arm against her chest. One eye wasn't enough to hide the tremors that shook her arm. He clenched his fist. He would carry her all the way to Maestre Mullynn if he had to. Lucella had to treat that arm.

“I must insist... He–”

“Get lost, for fuck’s sake!”

Aemond stood still, surprised by the explosion. He was not facing a Northern bastard, but a dragon. A dragon ready to destroy everything in its path. In her amber eyes burned the flame of resentment. She had become the Stranger and promised death to anyone who dared stand in her way. Aemond had come close to Death many times. It had never looked so frightening.

He watched her walk away helplessly, her hand trembling on her fragile arm.

His eye itched. He didn't understand why.

As he passed through the gates of the Red Keep, Ser Criston Cole summoned him to the Small Council Chamber. His mother told him that his father, the King, had died and that Aegon was to be crowned.

A tear rolled down his cheek. He was not sad.

[delusionalmishka]

Blue Blood (pt.5)

(pt.4)

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: blood, violence, Aemond being crazy.

Lucenya's nerves were fraying by the minute as she sat at the breakfast table with Aemond. The grand chamber was filled with the clinking of fine porcelain and the muted chatter of the maids attending to their duties. The morning light filtered through the large windows, casting a soft glow over the richly decorated room, but for Lucenya, it felt as though she was trapped in a gilded cage.

Aemond sat across from her, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. His satisfaction was palpable, and his eyes followed her every move with an intensity that made her skin crawl. His eagerness for their upcoming marriage was clear, and the anticipation in his demeanor was both unsettling and unnerving.

"I've spoken with the High Septon," he said, his voice filled with a quiet excitement. "He will bless our wedding. Although I wanted to marry you in the old Valyrian tradition, I will follow my mother's wishes and marry you under the Faith of the Seven."

Lucenya's heart sank further. The reality of her impending marriage to Aemond was closing in on her. She felt trapped, her options dwindling. She nodded absently, barely registering Aemond's words.

He reached out, his hand gently lift her chin, turning her face toward him. "Are you listening?" His voice was softer, a rare gentleness that only made her feel more trapped.

She forced herself to meet his gaze, swallowing her fear. "Yes, uncle. I'm listening. It's... it's just a lot to take in."

She thought about the note under her pillow.

Lucenya tried to focus on the task at hand—eating and maintaining a semblance of normalcy—but her anxiety was overwhelming. Her hands trembled as she reached for the milk, and her grip was unsteady. As she poured the milk into her goblet, her nerves got the better of her, and she accidentally spilled a generous amount over the table.

The milk pooled around the edges of the fine tablecloth, and the sight made Lucy flush with embarrassment. She quickly began to apologize, her voice wavering with fear. Aemond’s eyes narrowed, but he remained calm, a faint smile playing on his lips. He snapped his fingers, summoning a young blonde maid who had been quietly attending to them. She was quick to respond, her kind eyes filled with sympathy as she approached the mess.

Lucenya watched as the maid began to clean up the spill, noting how the girl had been one of the few sources of kindness since her arrival, her name was Dyana; she had tented to Lucy’s wounds, working closely with the Maester to care for her burns.

 As the maid worked, Lucenya caught Aemond’s gaze, but he did not press her about the spill or her obvious anxiety. Instead, he seemed content, a sense of satisfaction evident in his posture.

"Are you feeling unwell, niece?" Aemond asked, his tone gentle yet probing. He reached out and placed a hand on her wrist, his touch lingering longer than necessary. Lucenya could barely meet his gaze.

"I'm just cold," she replied, forcing a weak smile. Her voice trembled despite her best efforts to sound steady.

Aemond studied her for a moment. “I’m sure you’ll warm up soon,” he said. “We’ve made all the preparations for the wedding. I want you to be comfortable and ready for the ceremony.” he smiled in her direction although it did not reached his eye. 

Lucenya nodded, her mind racing with the implications of his words. Despite her anxiety, she managed to keep her composure as best as she could. She could feel the weight of Aemond’s gaze on her.

As the meal continued, she focused on the task of eating. Each bite felt like a chore, each sip of milk a reminder of her precarious situation. Her mind was fixed on the plan for her escape that night, and she could hardly think of anything else.

Aemond's demeanor remained unchanged throughout breakfast. He spoke of the wedding with an almost reverent tone, his excitement for their union apparent. His focus was entirely on her, and although he was suspicious of her nervousness, he chose not to press her further. Instead, he seemed content in the knowledge that their marriage was drawing near, a goal that had consumed him for some time.

Lucenya, meanwhile, felt a pang of fear and desperation. The stakes were high, and the possibility of failure was not an option. As the breakfast came to an end and Aemond prepared to leave, she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself for the night ahead. The time for action was fast approaching, and she could only hope that everything would go according to plan.

{...}

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the stone walls of Lucenya’s chamber, painting the room in a warm, golden hue. The door creaked open and Dyana, who had been assigned to tend to Lucenya, stepped inside. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of curiosity and concern, settled on Lucenya, who was pacing the room nervously.

“Is there something you need, my lady?” the maid asked, her voice gentle.

Lucenya turned, trying to keep her composure despite the turmoil brewing inside her. “Yes,” she said quietly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “I could use some assistance. Would you help me with something?”

Dyana nodded, stepping closer. “Of course, my lady. What do you need?”

Lucenya glanced around to ensure they were alone. She moved to her dressing table and carefully retrieved a small, velvet-lined box from one of the drawers. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it to reveal a magnificent ruby ring, its deep red hue shimmering in the light.

“This ring,” Lucenya said, holding it out to Dyana, “is worth a small fortune. I need your help to escape from the Red Keep tonight.”

The maid’s eyes widened in shock and apprehension as she looked at the ring. “Escape? But—”

Lucenya quickly lowered her voice, glancing nervously at the door. “Please, listen. I’m desperate. Aemond has no intention of letting me go, and I cannot remain here any longer. I need you to bring me some male clothing and a cloak. Tonight, after dark, I plan to leave, through the kitchen. Please leave my door unlocked before you retire from you duties tonight.”

The maid’s gaze flickered between the ring and Lucenya’s pleading eyes. She seemed to weigh the risk against the reward, the silence of the room making the decision all the more pressing.

Finally, with a hesitant nod, she took the ring from Lucenya’s hand. “I’ll get what you need. But please, be careful.”

“Thank you,” Lucenya whispered, relief flooding through her. “I’ll be ready.”

The maid gave a final nod before slipping our of the chamber, leaving Lucenya alone with her thoughts. As the door closed behind her, Lucenya took a moment to collect herself. She paced the room, her mind racing with plans and contingencies. The sound of her footsteps was the only noise in the quiet chamber, a stark contrast to the noise and activity she would soon leave behind.

Lucenya’s heart pounded. She knew the risks of her plan, but the promise of freedom was too great to ignore. Every moment counted, and she had to make sure everything was in place for her escape.

{...}

Later that day, as the sun was setting in the horizon, she heard a sharp knock at the door. Her pulse quickened, expecting Aemond to enter, but instead, Ser Criston Cole stepped inside, his armor gleaming in the orange sunlight that engulfed her chamber.

He looked at her with the same disdain he had always held for her mother, Rhaenyra, and by extension, for her. Lucenya could feel the chill in his gaze, the man was not Captain of the King’s Guard, Lucy knew he was dangerous. She straightened herself, trying to appear as composed as possible, though her hands still trembled slightly from the tension that had gripped her since morning.

"Prince Aemond sends his regards," Ser Criston said, his tone flat, "and wishes to inform you that he will not be joining you today. He is occupied with his duties on the Small Council."

Lucenya blinked in surprise. Aemond was on the Small Council? It was unexpected news, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit. The idea of Aemond holding a position of power within Aegon’s court only made her situation more precarious. His influence was growing, and with it, his control over her life.

But as Ser Criston delivered the message, an unexpected sense of relief washed over her. Aemond’s absence tonight will work in her favor. If he was occupied with council matters, he would be less likely to notice anything amiss until it was too late. The timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous.

Ser Criston, however, lingered for a moment longer, his cold eyes sweeping over her with an expression that made Lucenya’s skin crawl. "I would advise you to remember your place, Lady Lucenya," he added with a sneer, his voice dripping with the same venom he had always reserved for her family. "Prince Aemond is very fond of you, but that affection has its limits."

Lucenya held his gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of his words. "I understand," she replied quietly, masking the turmoil that churned within her.

With a final, contemptuous glance, Ser Criston turned on his heel and left, the door closing with a resounding thud behind him. Lucenya exhaled slowly, her mind racing. She knew that tonight had to be the night. There was no telling when she would have another opportunity like this, with Aemond preoccupied and the guards perhaps less vigilant.

The hours dragged by painfully slowly as Lucenya went through the motions of the day, trying to act as if nothing was amiss. 

Lucy hoped Dyana would keep her part of the deal. 

As dusk settled over King’s Landing, Lucenya’s anxiety grew. The fear of being caught was overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the dread of what awaited her if she stayed. Lucy missed Dragonstone, her mother and her brothers endlessly. 

Finally, as the Red Keep grew quiet and the sounds of the bustling castle faded into the night and the sky turned pitch black outside, Lucenya knew it was time. 

Lucenya's heart pounded in her chest as she approached the door of her chamber, her nerves fraying with every step. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the handle, terrified of what she might find on the other side. If the door was locked, her escape plan would fall apart before it even began. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and pushed the handle down.

Relief washed over her when the door creaked open, unlocked. A wave of hope surged through her, a fragile but precious thing in the suffocating misery that had become her life in King’s Landing. She peered outside, her eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor. There, just as she had hoped, was a small bundle on the cold stone floor, and more importantly, the corridor was empty. The guards who usually stood vigil outside her room were nowhere to be seen.

Lucenya silently thanked Dyana, for keeping her part of the deal. The maid had managed to lure the guards away, just as she had promised. Lucenya knew she had little time to spare. Quickly and quietly, she slipped back into her chamber, shutting the door softly behind her. She untied the bundle with trembling hands, revealing the dark pants, tunic, and cloak that Dyana had left for her.

She wasted no time in changing, discarding her feminine garments in favor of the rough, masculine clothing. The tunic hung loosely on her frame, the pants a bit too large, but she made do, tightening the belt around her waist. The cloak was heavy and coarse, but it would help her blend into the shadows. Lucenya pulled the hood low over her face, hiding her brown hair, and darted out of the door, her heart pounding in her ears.

The Red Keep was a maze of corridors and hidden passages, but Lucenya had spent enough time here to know some of its secrets. She moved swiftly, staying close to the walls, her footsteps muffled by the thick soles of her boots. The castle seemed to swallow her whole, the darkness pressing in on all sides as she made her way toward the exit.

Every sound made her flinch, every creak of the floorboards and distant murmur of voices sending her heart racing. She couldn’t afford to be caught now, not when she was so close. Her mind raced with thoughts of her family, of her mother and brothers who were surely waiting for her return. The hope of seeing them again, of escaping this nightmare, drove her forward.

The journey through the Red Keep felt endless, each corner turned revealing another stretch of shadowy corridor. But Lucy was determined, her fear overshadowed by the desperation to be free. She moved with purpose, guided by the sliver of hope that Dyana had given her, praying to the gods that she would reach Allun Caswell before it was too late.

As she neared the exit, the cold night air hit her face, filling her with a renewed sense of urgency. She was almost there, almost free. Lucenya quickened her pace, the promise of freedom just within reach.

Lucenya reached the docks of the Red Keep, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling with exhaustion and fear. The sight of Allun Caswell standing by a small fishing boat filled her with a rush of relief. Her nightmare was almost over. The older man’s face was grim, and there was no time for courtesies; he immediately gestured for her to hurry.

"Quickly, my lady," Allun urged, his voice low and urgent.

Lucenya didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled into the boat, her hands moving frantically to untie the rope that secured it to the dock. The knot was stubborn, but her desperation gave her strength. With a final tug, the rope came loose, and she turned around to help Lord Caswell into the boat.

But before she could reach out to him, a sickening sound tore through the night—a sharp, wet thud. Lucenya froze, her blood turning to ice. Allun’s eyes widened in shock, his hand instinctively reaching for his chest where an arrow had pierced through him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the dock. 

"No!" Lucenya's scream was choked with horror. She lunged toward him, but the boat rocked dangerously, and she was forced to steady herself. 

Allun’s eyes locked with hers as another arrow pierced thought his neck, blood gushing out of the wound. His lips moved as if to say something, but no sound came out. The light in his eyes faded quickly, leaving only a lifeless stare. His body fell with a heavy thud. 

Lucenya was paralyzed, her mind unable to process what had just happened. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. Her teary brown eyes stared at his lifeless body. The only men who stood up to help her, the man who was loyal to her mother was now dead. 

Panic surged through her. She had to move, desperation yelling at her to get away, but the boat was still tied to the dock. She fumbled with the oars, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she tried to push the boat away from the dock.

Tears streamed down her face as she finally managed to shove the boat away, the gap between the dock and the boat widening. The water beneath her was dark and cold, the current pulling her farther from the shore. But it was too late

They would catch her. They would drag her back to that gilded cage.

Then, she saw him.

Aemond Targaryen walked towards her with an unsettling calm, a bow slung over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. His face was illuminated by the flickering torchlight, and a wide smile spread across his lips. It was a smile that sent a shiver down Lucenya's spine. He looked almost... pleased, as if this was a game and she had given him exactly what he wanted.

"A little sport in the night, hm?" Aemond's voice was smooth, almost playful. He paused at the edge of the dock, watching her with a predatory gaze from above. "I haven't hunted in quite some time, thanks to the state of the realm. But this... this gave me a thrill I’ve missed."

Lucenya’s breath caught in her throat. The realization that he had been the one to shoot Allun—her only hope of escape—hit her like a physical blow. The older man’s body still lay on the dock, blood staining the stone, and yet Aemond’s eyes never wavered from her.

He was savoring this moment.

“You thought you could just slip away, didn’t you?” Aemond continued, his voice laced with mockery. He stepped closer to the edge, looking down at her with a mix of amusement and something darker. “You’re smarter than that, Lucenya. Or at least, I thought you were.”

Lucenya’s hands tightened around the oars, her knuckles white. She wanted to scream, to curse him, but the words stuck in her throat. The boat was drifting farther out now, the water widening the distance between them, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Aemond didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He reached for an arrow, his movements slow, deliberate. He nocked it to the bowstring and drew it back, the wood creaking under the tension.

Lucenya’s heart pounded in her chest, her eyes locked on the arrow aimed at her. She could feel the terror rising within her, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.

Aemond tilted his head slightly, his smile never fading. “Run all you like, Lucenya. But you’ll never be able to escape me.”

With that, he released the arrow. It whistled through the air, missing the boat by inches. He was toying with her, showing her that even if she managed to flee, she would always be within his reach.

Lucenya fell to her knees, her heart sinking as the full weight of her failed escape crashed down on her. The cold realization that there was no way out, no hope of returning to her family, was like a dagger to her chest. Her limbs felt heavy, drained of strength and resolve. She couldn’t even muster the will to fight when Aemond brought the boat closer to the shore.

She climbed out of the boat on her own, her eyes fixed on the ground, avoiding the sight of Allun’s lifeless body. The man who had risked everything to save her now lay dead, and it was all because of her. Her hands trembled, and tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She couldn’t afford to show any more weakness in front of Aemond.

Aemond stood before her, towering over her like a vengeful shadow. His pale silver hair framed a face twisted in a dark mix of fury and satisfaction. The thrill of the hunt had faded, replaced by the cold, simmering anger that now burned in his violet eye. Lucenya dared not look up at him, but she could feel the intensity of his gaze, like a predator who had finally cornered its prey.

Without a word, Aemond reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back. Lucenya gasped, her scalp burning with pain, but she remained silent, too shocked and defeated to resist. He started dragging her back toward the Red Keep, each step a painful reminder of her failure.

They passed by Criston Cole, who stood with a smug expression, clearly pleased with the sight before him. His eyes gleamed with a twisted sense of satisfaction as he watched Aemond pull Lucenya along like a rag doll. There was no pity, no sympathy in his gaze—only the cold, calculated pleasure of a man who had watched his enemy’s child be brought to heel.

Lucenya’s vision blurred with tears, her mind racing with fear and despair. She could barely process the situation, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of guilt, anger, and hopelessness. Aemond’s grip on her hair tightened as they approached the entrance to the Red Keep, and she could feel the fury radiating off him in waves.

Aemond’s grip on Lucenya’s hair tightened as he dragged her through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, his steps quick and determined. Lucenya stumbled along behind him, barely able to keep her feet under her as he led her deeper into the castle. Her heart pounded with fear and dread, each step echoing in the cold, unforgiving stone of the fortress. She could feel the walls closing in around her.

Finally, they arrived at the chamber of the Grand Septon, who had been summoned to the Red Keep for the impending marriage ceremony. The heavy door swung open, and Aemond shoved Lucenya inside, throwing her to the floor at the Septon’s feet. She landed hard on her knees, the impact jarring through her already trembling body.

The Grand Septon, an elderly man with a face lined with age and wisdom, looked down at Lucenya with shock and concern. His pale blue eyes widened as he took in the sight of the disheveled young woman before him, tears running down her face. He glanced up at Aemond, who stood looming over her, his expression dark and unyielding.

“Prince Aemond,” the Septon began, his voice quivering slightly with unease, “what is the meaning of this? What has happened?”

Aemond’s voice was cold and commanding as he spoke, his eye never leaving Lucenya. “You are to marry us, right here, right now.”

The Grand Septon blinked in astonishment, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the edges of his robes. “But… but, Your Grace, the ceremony is not yet prepared. There are rites to be observed, blessings to be given—”

Aemond cut him off with a sharp glare, his patience worn thin. “You will marry us now, or I will find someone else who will. This wedding will happen tonight.”

Lucenya’s heart sank even further as she heard the finality in his words. There was no escape, no hope left. She was trapped in this nightmare, with no way out. She could feel the Septon’s hesitant gaze on her, as if silently asking her for confirmation, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. She didn’t have the strength to protest, nor the will to resist.

The Grand Septon hesitated, clearly torn between his duty and the unsettling circumstances. But the fear of defying a Targaryen prince—a man known for his ruthless determination—overpowered his reservations. With a solemn nod, he finally relented, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke.

“Very well, Your Grace. If this is your wish… I will perform the ceremony.”

Aemond’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, and he reached down, grabbing Lucenya by the arm and hauling her to her feet. She felt like a puppet on strings, her body moving without her consent, her mind numb with despair. The Grand Septon began to recite the vows, his voice wavering as he performed the sacred rites in the cold, impersonal chamber.

As the words of the ceremony filled the room, Lucenya’s mind drifted, her thoughts far away from the scene unfolding before her. She thought of her mother, her brothers, and the life she had been so cruelly torn away from. The hope she had clung to, the sliver of a chance at freedom, was now gone, extinguished by the harsh reality of her situation.

When the Grand Septon finished the vows, he hesitated once more before declaring them man and wife, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders. Aemond wasted no time, pulling Lucenya close and pressing a possessive kiss to her lips. The kiss was harsh and forceful, lacking any tenderness or warmth like he had when they shared a kiss before. It was a claim, a final assertion of his control over her.

Lucenya didn’t resist, didn’t fight back. She was too numb, too broken to do anything but endure. As Aemond released her, the reality of her new life began to sink in. She was now bound to him.

The Grand Septon stepped back, his expression a mix of pity and resignation as he looked at Lucenya.

Aemond turned to leave, dragging Lucenya along with him, his grip on her arm firm and unrelenting. As they exited the chamber, the heavy door closing behind them, Lucenya felt the last remnants of her hope slip away, leaving her with nothing but the cold, suffocating reality of her new life as Aemond’s wife.

[lola-writes]

Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤️

Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering. 

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter. 

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut. 

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now. 

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet. 

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition. 

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind. 

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward. 

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency. 

_

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said. 

The council erupted in uproar. 

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.  

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved. 

It was palpable. 

It was mine for the taking. 

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs. 

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent. 

I cast my gaze on her. 

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest. 

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table. 

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain. 

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified. 

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty. 

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach. 

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.  

None of it mattered. 

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find. 

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut. 

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind. 

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead? 

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs. 

It wasn’t Alicent. 

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch. 

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions. 

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence. 

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me. 

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest? 

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother. 

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut. 

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement. 

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense. 

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear. 

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee. 

_

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape. 

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.  

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider. 

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current. 

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. 

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs. 

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread. 

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us. 

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union. 

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. 

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive. 

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile. 

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat. 

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye. 

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells. 

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash. 

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic. 

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown. 

And the crown needed heirs. 

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head. 

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach. 

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea. 

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue. 

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose. 

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea. 

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths. 

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us. 

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips. 

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand. 

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it. 

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all. 

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges. 

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.” 

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike. 

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid. 

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. 

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former. 

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. 

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace. 

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure. 

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin. 

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me. 

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate. 

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire. 

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat. 

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears. 

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal. 

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard. 

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me. 

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me. 

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle. 

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath. 

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince. 

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room. 

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air. 

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches. 

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead. 

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps. 

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze. 

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain. 

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might. 

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him. 

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease. 

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt. 

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace. 

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear. 

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me. 

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger. 

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other. 

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood. 

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me. 

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender. 

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue. 

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control. 

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone. 

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip. 

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release. 

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings. 

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing. 

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure. 

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls. 

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest. 

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap. 

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries. 

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm. 

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body. 

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips. 

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful. 

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting. 

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers. 

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.  

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire. 

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips. 

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm. 

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame. 

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly. 

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick. 

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest. 

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.  

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance. 

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me. 

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy. 

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss. 

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me. 

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself. 

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian. 

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells. 

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her. 

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust. 

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time. 

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire. 

Thunder rolled overhead. 

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed. 

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down. 

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)