#aemond x wife!reader

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Flower Faced

Aemond x wife female character

Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b

15th day of the 4th moon, 128

They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.

She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.

I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?

Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.

I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.

She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.

They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.

I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.

When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.

I despised her for it.

Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.

When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.

Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.

It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.

I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon. 

She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.

2nd day of the 5th moon, 128

The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.

She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.

I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.

I asked her why she did not wish to rest.

Her smile was as weak as her body.

“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”

She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.

Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.

They wilt in the damp, just as she does.

Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.

She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.

But she does not.

I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.

And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.

“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”

I had no reply for her.

11th day of the 6th moon, 128

She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.

The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.

Her breath was even, her voice was clear.

For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.

I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.

She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.

And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.

I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.

Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.

My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.

It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.

My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.

She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.

I never asked her for children.

True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.

I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.

And perhaps the latter is more cruel.

14th day of the 6th moon, 128

Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.

I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.

She never protested, and likely never would.

So I went to her.

Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves. 

It was she who broke the silence. 

“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”

I almost turned away then. 

She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight. 

It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.

When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze. 

Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me. 

- - the day of the 8th moon, 128

Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.

The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.

For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.

They speak of her. My wife.

“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.

I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have. 

Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The colour was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.

I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.

For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.

I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.

She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.

“Shall we dance, husband?”

I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.

I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.

I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.

“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.

I only said there was no need for her to apologise.

When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.

I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.

I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.

She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.

When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.

She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.

“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”

For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.

“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”

She replied with nothing.

Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.

19th day of the 10th moon, 128

She is with the maesters today. 

I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.

Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.

Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.

Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.

A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it. 

When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping, 

I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.

The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.

She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.

It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:

“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”

And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.

I stared at it for a long while.

And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.

I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.

27th day of the 12th moon, 128

The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.

She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.

“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.

Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.

When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.

I did not tell her that I am.

2nd day of the 1st moon, 129

The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.

She surprised me tonight.

I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.

I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke. 

But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead. 

“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”

Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.

“If you were to take a mistress.”

I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?

And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.

“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”

She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”

She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.

There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.

She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.

Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.

5th day of the 2nd moon, 129

Am I not a man, but a beast.

She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.

She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.

She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.

When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.

I do not know what possessed me then.

One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.

It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.

I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.

Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.

When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.

She smelled of vanilla and amber.

What have I done?

I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing. 

I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.

6th day of the 2nd moon, 129

I sought her out today.

The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.

She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.

I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.

She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.

“For what?”

For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.

She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

She must have seen the confusion on my face.

“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”

Surprised?

She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.

How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?

She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.

I only said that she is not simply a lady.

She is my wife.

She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.

“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”

Gods. She can.

She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.

4th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Father is dead.

I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.

Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.

They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.

Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.

My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.

I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.

Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.

She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.

Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.

If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.

I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.

9th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Aegon is king.

The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.

For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.

I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.

My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.

She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.

The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.

Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.

And then the ground shook.

Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.

But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.

I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.

My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.

And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”

I could have laughed if I were not so angry.

12th day of the 3rd moon, 129

The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.

She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too. 

Perhaps she fears that I might not return.

I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.

Could it be that I have changed?

I must go to Storm’s End soon.

The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.

Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.

It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.

She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.

“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.

She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.

I promised her I would return.

When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.

I do not wish to leave.

I do not wish to leave her.

- - - - - -

I am living in a nightmare.

She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.

The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.

I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.

Lucerys Velaryon is dead.

His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.

My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.

And such has ended in his death.

It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.

When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.

Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.

Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.

Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.

And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.

I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.

“I killed him.”

I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.

“Lucerys. I killed him.”

She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.

I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.

Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.

“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”

12th day of the 4th moon, 129

I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.

She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.

When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness. 

For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.

14th day of the 4th moon, 129

I was not there.

I was not there. And I should have been.

I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.

My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?

I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.

The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.

Where were the guards? How could this have happened?

I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.

Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will. 

I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.

She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.

And I wept with her.

25th day of the 4th moon, 129

The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.

Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.

At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting. 

Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.

I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.

I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.

I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her. 

This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?

2nd day of the 6th moon, 129

Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.

I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it. 

They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye. 

There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.

The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire. 

Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.

She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.

13th day of the 6th moon, 129

Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.

Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.

I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.

She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.

When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.  

I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.

She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.

I will not lose her.

She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive. 

She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.

But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.

She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.

She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced. 

I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?

I will not let it happen.

19th day of the 6th moon, 129

The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.

The council at least know my worth. 

Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.

The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction. 

The realm needs me now more than ever.

28th day of the 6th moon, 129

Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.

The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.

Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.

Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud. 

There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.

7th day of the 7th moon, 129

I had nearly forgotten her.

The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.

She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.

For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.

I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.

“I had to see you.”

It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.

I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.

Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”

Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.

I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.

“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”

I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.

“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”

Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.

The man she grew to love.

I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.

I did not help her.

I cannot shake the look on her face. 

I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.

And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.

24th day of the 7th moon, 129

Everything is unravelling.

Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.

Today was unbearable.

The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.

I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.

She has been here.

There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.

It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.

I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.

When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.

Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.

She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.

I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.

She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.

Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.

Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.

She is no fool.

“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”

I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.

I felt her fingers on my cheek.

“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”

I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.

I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.

I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.

1st day of the 9th moon, 129

Harrenhal is mine.

The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.

Save for one.

Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.

Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.

But I did not take her. I will not.

I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.

My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.

I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.

I will tomorrow.

For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.

17th day of the 11th moon, 129

Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.

Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.

And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.

I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.

Last night, I dreamt of her.

She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.

In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.

I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.

In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.

And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.

Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.

I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.

Dearest Wife,

I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.

I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.

How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.

I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.

Yours Always,

Aemond

4th day of the 2nd moon, 130

Alys spoke of visions today.

She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.

Almost.

She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.

She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.

She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.

They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should. 

I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.

I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.

Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.

When the time comes, I will be ready.

My Dearest Husband,

Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.

I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.

I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.

The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.

I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.

I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.

Yours Forever,

Your Loving Wife

- - - - 130

The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.

Alys.

Alys.

Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.

And then my wife.

My wife!

She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.

I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.

In water.

My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.

I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.

Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.

I am all and none. All and none.

The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.

But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.

My Dearest Aemond,

I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.

News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.

I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.

Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.

All My Love,

Your Wife

My Loving Husband,

Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?

Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.

Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.

I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.

I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.

I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.

Yours, always and forever.

Your Loyal Wife

My Beloved Wife,

I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.

Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?

Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.

Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.

I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.

Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.

Yours, now and always,

Aemond

My Dearest, dearest Aemond,

Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.

But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.

I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.

Please, remember me kindly.

Forever,

Your Loving Wife

My love,

It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.

Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.

Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.

I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.

I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.

I am yours,

Aemond

My love,

I await your reply like a lovesick child.

I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.

I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.

I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.

Please do write. My cherished flower.

Aemond

My darling wife,

I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.

But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.

You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.

Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.

Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.

I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.

This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me. 

Fix me. 

Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.

I will come for you.

Forever Yours,

Aemond 

21st day of the 5th moon, 130

The winds howl so loudly now. 

They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.

I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.

To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.

My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.

Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.

To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.

I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.

Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.

If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this. 

I loved you. 

With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.

The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.

[sapphire-writes]

Wildest Dreams ~ Aemond x Wife!reader

request: an arranged marriage between yn and Aemond, where he has married her to win the favor of her house, but the war is on and he meets Alys and yn hears the rumors and when she hears Aemond talking about Alys with Alicent she understands that she is not a simple lover, she talks about it with Aemond and he has a certain affection for her so he tells her to have adventures if she wants to and she is heartbroken, but she does not take the offer, but Aemond thinks that eventually he will and continues with Alys until at a ball he sees yn talking to a lord of a noble house and is jealous that she eventually took up the offer. Happy or sad ending, you decide, I just want to read how you develop it. Thanks for your work! ~anon word count: 1.8k warning: angst omg, some spicy themes nothing explicit, jealous & possessive Aemond note: I really liked writing this, especially exploring the relationship between the reader and her sworn protector 🫣 you can read more of my work here 💚

My lady, my Alys.

That name haunts you. It slithers through the halls of the Red Keep. It lives in the pitying eyes of those who look upon you, the forgotten spouse of Aemond Targaryen. His wife. His princess. What a horrid sham it was now. 

You knew Aemond to be a man of duty, you knew this when you married him. Though you hoped his affection for you would grow with time, you had never expected him to stray outside the marriage. He simply did not seem the type of man to do such a thing.

Until the war. Until Alys Rivers. 

You knew the people of court were aware of the affair your husband was having with the so-called witch queen of Harrenhal. 

It only became more apparent when he returned to court on Vhagar’s back, with his paramour securely against his back. Though you haven't seen your husband in months, as soon as you spotted her with him, you excused yourself from the celebrations around his return. 

You ran to your chambers and hurriedly pushed by your sworn protector Ser Cassian who stood outside your door. 

“My lady?” he asked, with a concerned look on his face as you made your way inside. 

He noted the tears on your face. For a moment he hesitated with his hand on the door handle, preparing to close it as he heard your sobs from within. Instead, he released the handle, stepping inside your chambers. 

“It pains me to see such a lovely lady crying,” Ser Cassian says as you face away from him. 

“Yes well then I would advise you to avert your eyes,” you snap, bitterly.

Ser Cassian does not heed your advice, he simply stands in the doorway. You feel guilt begin to curl its way into your stomach, under your skin. You turn your head to him.

“You must forgive me, Ser,” you begin, keeping your gaze low, “that was unkind.”

Ser Cassian moves to close the door, and you hear his heavy footsteps make their way over to you. 

You turn completely to face the knight, who now offers you a piece of cloth. Shame rolls through you at his act of kindness, as you offer him a small smile dabbing at the wetness that pools beneath your eyes. 

“There is no need for apologies, my lady,” he tells you. 

“Then you are too kind a man,” you tell him, eyes glassy with tears.

“I only wish for your protection and happiness, my lady,” he tells you, as you hand him back his handkerchief. 

You confront Aemond later on, in the privacy of his chambers. 

“Now you bring her to court to humiliate me further,” you accuse, blood running hot with anger. 

Aemond rubs the scarred skin above his eyepatch. 

“I’ve no wish to humiliate you, dear wife,” he assures you. 

“Then why?” you demand, “why parade her at court, in front of all these people?”

Aemond stands still, his mouth a tight line. He refuses to answer you, causing you to scoff. 

“I understand you love her?” you ask your husband, unable to meet his eyes. 

There is a moment of silence between you, the weight of your question hanging in the air.

“I do,” he says firmly, confidently.

You did not know your heart could break more than it already has. 

“I wish for you to be happy,” Aemond says, coming closer to you, “I am still your husband, I shall give you children to love and cherish.”

You make an offended noise at his words, cheeks heating up. How romantic a notion, being your husband’s broodmare. 

“You may do as you like,” Aemond assures you, “as long as you bear only my trueborn children, take pleasure in whatever you wish.”

You look at him, not believing the words he speaks.

“You do not mean that,” you tell him. 

The man you married may not have loved you right away, but there was a possessive nature about him beneath the surface of his cold exterior. 

“I do,” he tells you. 

“I have no wish for anything else. For anyone else,” you tell him.

“You shall, in time,” he assures you, “you have been lonely too long.”

“You think a lover would fix that?” you snap at him.

Aemond does not answer, he simply leaves the room to go to her. 

You spend a long time in the gardens, finding solace in the flowers, bathed in moonlight. The air grows cold around you but you would rather be out here than in the castle. You swear you can hear their pants and moans from your chambers. Your husband is taking another woman. Over, and over again. 

“You should be inside, my lady,” Ser Cassian tells you, watching as your teeth chatter in the cool night air. 

He removes the cloak from his back, placing the gold cloak across your shoulders. Your shoulders drop at the weight of it. 

“Allow me to escort you inside,” Cassian murmurs, hands lingering on your shoulders. 

You meet his gaze, nodding. 

You summon Ser Cassian to your chambers the following night, hearing his knuckles rap against the wood of your door just as you exit the bath. Your lady’s maid holds a dressing gown for you to step into, covering your wet, naked form. 

“My lady,” he says, clearly flustered by your state, the dressing gown barely covering your slick body. 

“Leave us,” you tell your lady who nervously scampers towards the door, shutting it behind her. 

Your hair is damp, sending rivers of bathwater down your neck, traveling through the valley of your breasts. 

“I can return when you are decent,” he manages to choke out.

“There is no need,” you assure him, “I am quite comfortable in your presence.”

Ser Cassian does not know where to look, he does not wish to offend you but is finding it increasingly difficult to focus.

“You once told me you wished for my happiness and protection,” you told him, “the latter is true. How are you supposed to assure the other?”

Cassian blinks slowly, eyes focused on your lips as you speak those words, the shimmering of water that rests on your upper lip. You look as though you are a river nymph who has come to seduce him to a watery grave. 

You begin to walk towards him, hands fiddling with the straps that tie your dressing gown securely around your waist. 

“I shall do whatever my lady commands,” Cassian says, eyes cast toward the floor. 

“I do not wish to command,” you say softly, “I wish to offer.”

Cassian meets your eyes then. He is very handsome, with dark brown eyes that match his curly locks. 

“You need not offer anything, my lady,” he assures you. 

“I want to,” you tell him. 

“If you do not wish this, that is fine,” you tell him, “I only ask you to leave and forget this conversation and we shall go about as we once were. Though I shall admit, I will feel rather foolish.”

Cassian watches the blush bloom across your cheeks. 

“Otherwise, you need only take my hand.”

You stretch your arm out toward him and for a moment he does not move. For a moment, your breath catches in your throat and you are sure he shall turn on his heel and leave your chambers. Then you shall be left alone once more. 

But he does not.

Instead, he places his rough hand in yours and allows you to guide him toward your bed, replacing your dressing robe with his lips, his tongue, and his hands. 

You have been happier as of late. Aemond has taken notice. You walk with a skip in your step, a flush on your cheeks. 

The maester has been said to visit your chambers weekly with a special brew. 

Aemond knows you have taken a lover. The knowledge curls in his stomach like a hissing snake, though he attempts to deny it. How hypocritical is he, to deny his wife happiness when he has found his own in another woman’s bed?

It isn’t until Maelor's name day celebration does he realize how furious your endeavors make him; the fire it ignites beneath your skin. 

The feast is a grand affair with singing and dancing, and several lords and ladies visiting from across the seven kingdoms. 

Aemond and you arrive together, but you quickly let go of his arm and make your way into the crowd. 

Alys is not present, as Alicent will not allow it. A paramour at court is scandalous in itself, she will not subject you to feast with her. 

Aemond keeps his eye on you, as you begin to dance. He watches the dreamlike look on your face, the way your cheeks redden and you cast your smile toward the floor as someone joins you.

He is a goldcloak, and Aemond recognizes him. The knight smiles down at you, entrapping you in a dance. Your smile widens as he whispers something to you, and your cheeks darken. Aemond feels a fire in his belly as he watches you dance with the knight, a strange sense of possessiveness flooding through him. 

Aemond moves through the dance quickly coming to your side. His hand finds yours dragging you toward the center of the dance floor. You struggle to keep up with his demanding pace, your wrist stinging from how tightly he holds you. 

The dance continues around you, people hardly noticing Aemond’s predatory circling of you.

“Is that who you desire?” he asks, voice low.

Your furrow your brow, a confused expression on your face.

“Is he whom you invited into your bed?” Aemond growls. 

“I did not think it mattered to you,” you quip back, anger evident in your tone.

“You choose a whoremonger for a paramour,” Aemond says sneering, trying to bait you. 

“And you a witch woman,” you snap, causing Aemond’s face to darken, “who I choose to spend my time with is of no concern to you.”

Aemond growls at this, an animalistic noise that comes from deep within his chest, that causes you to back up slightly. 

“You cannot have it both ways,” you tell him, noting his genuine anger. 

Aemond is breathing heavily, looking down at you, his mouth twisted in a sneer.

“You cannot have me, and her,” you continue feeling brave.

Aemond juts his chin out. 

“What makes you think I shall allow you to keep him?” he says referring to Ser Cassian.

You smirk then, stepping closer to him. 

“I shall just find someone else,” you tell him bitterly.

Aemond snaps forward, wrapping his hand around your throat and pulling you flush against him. The action sends a wave of warmth into your lower belly. You know you should be terrified, you should try to run screaming. But you do not. And when he brings his mouth to yours, you kiss him back.

When he leads you to your chambers, you let him.

When he roughly tears your dress from your body, you assist him. 

When he makes passionate love to you, nipping and biting your smooth flesh, you allow him to.

Aemond stays with you that night. 

Alys Rivers vanishes from the Red Keep before the sun rises. 

note: ooof im sweating 🥵

[bl4ckph0enix]

Daybreak

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: none

Summary: You've tried to help your husband. Yet, you are forced to watch the wrong person getting crowned...

Wordcount: 1.9k

A/N: So, maybe many of you cannot relate to this. The idea came to me while I listened to the song 'Daybreak' by Dimash Qudaibergen. But I just had to write this because as someone who has to fight with very intense emotions, I can relate to this so unbelievably well. My heart broke for both Aemond and Aegon during the crowning scene. Aemond may be the villain of House of the Dragon, but it wasn't really his choice. No one gets born this malicious, one is made this way. And even when it actually is a deliberate choice at some point, growing up in a family like the Targaryen's only means that this attitude is forced upon you without a real chance to escape it.

English isn't my first language, please forgive any mistakes!

Stiffly, you stood together with your family-in-law on the podium in the Sept. Thousands of citizens were gathered in the hall, squeezing each other in order to get in to be able to see the crowning of Aegon II Targaryen. Your facial expression was completely blank and shock cursed through your body, causing to numb every emotion and dull every sense, and coldness slowly seeped into your bones. It's been three years now since you got married to Aegon's younger brother Aemond Targaryen. The both of you hadn't had a great start. Mean words and accusations had been thrown in both directions and you had actually hit him one or two times. He was the only person in this world that could get you riled up this much. And he also was the only person that you loved more than your own life.

You hadn't been able to avoid to fall in love with him. The both of you had partially been forced to spend time together and over the course of months, you had come to know Aemond better. You knew of his favorite things, of the things he hated, of his doubts and dreams. Especially his dreams. They were ones you shared. Having spent three years in his family, you knew as much as Aemond that he was a better man than his brother. He should be the one to be crowned today. Instead, he stood next to you, as stiffly as you yourself, his eye looking over the crowd with no emotion. Your fingers were intertwined with his and you could feel the warmth of his hand on your palm. Normally, it was reassuring and calming. But today, it did nothing to you.

You felt completely numb as you watched the kingsguard enter the Sept and build a corridor in the crowd for Aegon to go through. The tips of your fingers became cold and your breath slightly hitched in your throat, barely audible. One second later, you could feel the gaze of your husband on you, almost burning the right side of your face with its intensity. Of course he had heard you – he would always hear you, no matter where you were or how far away. It was your special bond that you both shared with each other after your Valyrian marriage; a bond that had developed with hate and rage, pain and tears, and that had turned into care and happiness, passion and love over time. The surroundings receded into the background, only noticeable at the edge of your field of vision as your empty eyes followed Aegon walking through the crowd. Somewhere distant in your mind, you registered that he seemed as unhappy and desperate as you felt right now deep down.

The events passed you by in a blur. You vaguely heard the Septon speak from far away, not able to follow the words that were spoken; you saw Aegon accepting his fate, the crown on his head, and you barely managed to hold yourself together as the searing pain that you had buried deep within you for today began to rise to the surface. But you held on. Because you knew that right now was not the time to lose it. You knew the pain Aemond held within himself that he never allowed to be seen. You knew of his childhood and youth, full of the bullying from his siblings and nephews, the lost of his eye, the expectations especially his mother had with him which he hadn't been able to meet, and his burning wish to follow his father on the throne after Viserys' death, to prove himself. Your hand that still held Aemond's became completely cold, even his warmth couldn't prevent it as you saw your meticulously detailed plan going down the drain right in front of your eyes. You knew that Aegon didn't want to be king, as much as Aemond and you didn't want him to be.

You couldn't explain when it all had started to go down the hill. Everything had been perfect. A few days before this important day, you had spoken to Aegon after having gone through everything with Aemond beforehand, how you wanted to do it. You had explained it in detail to Aegon and he had not hesitated to give his approval. One of the preparations had been to bribe the right people who you knew would support you to make Aegon disappear. They had agreed to help you because they had been able to see in Aegon's face and attitude that he did not want to be king. After everything was prepared, everything had gone smoothly today, almost as if everyone around you just wanted to play into your cards. Aegon had disappeared to hide above the dragonpit where no one would suspect him and would just have waited for an opportunity to board a ship to leave Westeros. Even when Aemond had come to you to tell you that his mother had sent out Ser Criston in order to search for Aegon, you had known that this wouldn't change anything.

And yet, here you stood, helplessly watching how the wrong man got crowned.

You could feel tears bubbling up in your throat and swallowed hard to keep them at bay. Still not the right time. You were thankful that Rhaenys Velaryon freed her dragon and disturbed the crowning ceremony, causing utter chaos and pain as her dragon hurt and killed people. You barely registered Aemond pushing himself in front of you to protect you, his hand on the right side of your hips to reassure himself that you were in fact behind him. You saw Rhaenys escape with her dragon as they tried to close the doors to prevent both her and the people from fleeing. But what happened next, you didn't know. You had a few flashing pictures of the kingsguard escorting you through the Red Keep to your chambers, which you shared with Aemond. The door was quietly closed behind you, but you didn't react at first. You still felt eerily numb, though the ripping pain was lurking beneath the surface, and you couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened during the last hour in your life.

Your gaze wandered out of the window at an extremely slow pace while your heartbeat started to quicken as your brain tediously began to catch up with what had happened. You knew that your emotions would nearly kill you the moment they would start to devour you. You tried to hold it back, to give yourself more time to maybe prepare a little bit for what was about to come. But you couldn't. The first sob escaped your throat mere seconds after you felt the barrier that you had built around your feelings begin to crumble down. The quite rustling of clothes somewhere beside you drew your attention and you saw Aemond standing a few feet away from you as your gaze flickered over to him, looking completely desperate, pained, and defeated.

It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that the man you loved with every fiber of your existence had to suffer this much.

Something finally snapped somewhere in your mind. Burning pain ripped through you, hatred for Queen Alicent and her father melted your intestines and rage flowed through your veins like liquid fire. The first chalice crashed against the wall with a loud noise, accompanied by your furious scream. Everything had been perfectly planned, even Aegon had agreed to your plan and had supported you. And now, here you were, damned to see your soulmate suffer. The next chalices, glasses, and plates were thrown through the room, clattering to the ground and crashing against the walls, splintering into a thousand pieces just like your soul did at the sight of Aemond. You weren't able to hold yourself back; blankets, pillows, cups, plates, chairs, and books were thrown through the room by you while you simultaneously screamed your throat raw. For you, it was the only way to handle this all-surrounding pain, rage, and hatred within you that chewed venomously at you and devoured you whole. Tears were streaming down your face and your silver-blonde hair was an absolute mess, the long strands completely tangled, but you couldn't care any less.

Nothing was anymore where it had been before. Even the table had got toppled over by you in your rage. You didn't even really notice that you grabbed the glass vase that stood on the windowsill with pretty flowers in it – a gift from Aemond's mother yesterday. Now it seemed to mock you. Before you could do something more, your knees finally gave way due to exhaustion, but that didn't stop you. As soon as you were sitting on the ground, you slammed the vase onto the stone with your hand still attached. The physical pain that shot through your hand as a big piece of glass cut deeply into your palm, was what brought you finally back a little bit. Your voice went quiet and soundless sobs shook your whole body, big tears still streaming down your cheeks and dropping to the ground and on your dress. You could see the dark color of a pair of breeches as Aemond knelt on the ground next to you, carefully taking your injured hand into his own.

“Please,” you sobbed. Your throat was sore and hurt, your voice hoarse and raspy, cracking at the end and almost swallowing the next words you choked out, “Please, Aemond, make it stop. It hurts so bad.”

Another wave of tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him. New pain tore your heart to shreds the moment you saw the wet shimmer staining his beautiful face. “I know,” he whispered, his own voice breaking and thus barely audible. He looked down at your hand again, turning it around and inhaling sharply when he saw the large shard of glass that stuck in your hand, drawing blood that already started to drop to the ground, accompanying the new tears that streamed down your cheeks.

“It hurts,” you breathed. There was no need for you to explain to Aemond that you didn't mean your hand. Your other hand came up and the tips of your fingers grazed his hairline and the upper part of his forehead, lovingly and soothing. “I am sorry,” you whispered, causing his head to snap up again to look at you. “I have failed you, my love.”

You could see the pain in his eye as you said these words. “No,” he contradicted you and shook his head. “No, you didn't fail me, Y/N. You gave everything I could have asked for, and even more.”

“Avy jorrāelan, ñuhyz zaldrīzes,” you said weakly and finally started to calm down, exhaustion slowly settling in. “So much that it hurts.” (I love you, my dragon.)

“I know,” was all Aemond said to this. “I can feel it.” He grabbed the shard of glass carefully and started to pull it out, causing you to contort your face in pain. “We will fix this, byka mēre, I promise you.” (little one.)

“Okay,” you sniffed and wiped the tears from his cheek. All that you wanted was to see him happy, truly happy. It had become the center of your life the moment you realized that you loved this man that was still a broken little child deep down. You knew that sitting on the Iron Throne with that crown upon his head was what would make him truly happy.

And you would give everything to get him on that throne. In the end, even your own life.

Maybe one day, I'll write another part, but I just had to get that off my chest.

[hoteldreamss]

Aemond Targaryen || imagine

Метки: детские травмы; недостоверное описание средневековой одежды; читательница немного чудаковато себя ведёт или абсурдный юмор под конец; сцена 18+; скорее всего плохо отредактировано.

Слов: 3 074

Они все веселились. Кроме тебя и твоего мужа. Это должно бы немного успокоить, тот факт, что он тоже не сильно рад вашему союзу. Но тебя это даже расстраивает в глубине сердца.

Дверь за вами закрыта, ты не знаешь, ждёт ли королева Алисента за ней со старшим сыном, чтобы знать, что брак заключён полностью? Эймонд выглядит спокойным, хотя он всегда такой, как ты можешь заметить за недолгое нахождение в Красном замке.

— Ты ведь не хочешь этого.

Он подходит к тебе, ожидая ещё слов, но их нет, а ты выглядишь спокойной. За всё время общения с ним, ты можешь предположить какой он человек и чего может желать на самом деле. Поэтому у тебя есть небольшой план, который заставит тебя получить желаемое – сохранить своё достоинство и сделать то, что желает твой муж.

— Мы должны закончить заключение нашего брака. Церемонии возлежания и так нет. Тебе не о чём беспокоиться.

Ты почти можешь сказать, что он пытается успокоить тебя, видимо предполагая, что как леди ты слишком оберегаешь своё достоинство, слишком скромна и скована, чтобы позволить незнакомцам наблюдать за актом вашего соития.

Он почти прав.

— �� знаю, что не нравлюсь тебе. — Твоё откровение не стоит тебе ничего, но Эймонд кажется заинтересованным, думая, что получит больше, чем ты можешь дать. Он ошибается. — Я знаю, что ты вряд ли рад такой жене, как мне. Мечтал и желал другую, я понимаю это.

Ты отходишь от него к небольшому столику с кувшином вина и четырьмя кубками.

— Я думаю, ты желал увидеть кого-то другого своей женой... может быть свою сестру?.. — Ты наливаешь себе вино, параллельно прислушиваясь к Эймонду, приблизится ли он к тебе, потому что ты задела его за живое, или терпелив и как всегда неприступен. — Я просто хочу, чтобы ты мог получить почти то, что хочешь, как и я.

Эймонд с ожиданием смотрит на тебя, пока ты делаешь глоток.

— Чего хочешь ты?

— Сначала согласись.

— Так не заключаются сделки.

— Не в этот раз. — Ты мило улыбаешься ему, уже чувствуя, как твои руки дрожат, но к счастью он этого не видит. И ты надеешься, что он сегодня не увидит больше положенного.

Отставив кубок, ты смотришь на Эймонда.

— Раздевайся и ложись на кровать.

Ему не нравится, что ты командуешь. Но что-то в нём заставляет слушаться. Ты не наблюдаешь за ним, снова наливаешь себе ещё вина. Снова опустошаешь кубок до дна и оставляешь его.

Эймонд смотрит за тобой, когда ты направляешь к нему. Легко развязываешь шёлковый пояс на твоём платье, ты встаёшь перед Эймондом, смотря на него.

— Что ты хочешь?

— Завязать тебе глаза.

Он поднимается, возвышаясь над тобой, обнажённый и дикий. Это почти заставляет проявиться жар между твоих бёдер.

— Я не высмеиваю и не издеваюсь. Я не хочу, чтобы ты смотрел. Это проблема?

Он ее отвечает.

— Подумай, сам. Сможешь вообразить желанную женщину. Не смотреть на меня, думая, что тебе досталась не та, кого ты хочешь всем сердцем и телом.

Он на самом деле задумывается.

— Я не смогу ничего сделать.

— Я всё сделаю. Это не лекарство, люди делают это с момента своего появления, не думаю, что это сложно.

Эймонд лишь немного удивлён, но кажется что-то в нём позволяет довериться тебе или поверить твоим словам. Он кивает. И ты поднимаешь руки, завязывая ткань поверх его глаз, поверх его повязки.

— Не слишком туго? — интересуешься ты.

— Нет.

Он знает, насколько сейчас уязвим, но также знает, что его руки свободны и он мог бы просто стянуть шёлковый пояс со своего лица, чтобы ощущать себя более готовым или защищённым.

— Садись.

Он слушается. Пока ты быстро пытаешься расправиться с платьем и откидывая его, ты снимаешь сорочку, которая почти прозрачная и служила лишь небольшим способом защиты твоей кожи от грубой ткани платья.

Обнажённая, ты давишь на грудь Эймонда ладонью, заставляя его лечь и тогда нависаешь над ним. Твои колени упираются в кровать, по бокам от тела твоего новоиспечённого мужа. Твои волосы мягким водопадом спадают, закрывая вас от любого зрителя, вошедшего в комнату без предупреждения.

Ты хочешь поцеловать его, но на мгновение задумываешься, хочет ли он этого. И тогда твоя рука продолжает просто гладить его щёку. Ты опираешься этой же рукой в кровать, когда другой тянешься к полу твёрдому члену Эймонда.

Он чуть толще, чем ты могла представить, и тебе на мгновение страшно. Но столько женщин это делали, стольким женщинам пришлось пройти через это, и ты можешь предположить, что их партнёры могли обладать более крупными размерами. Поэтому ты подносишь ладонь к своему лицу, плюёшь и дотрагиваешься до члена Эймонда, размазывая немного слюны по нему.

Он прикусывает язык. Ему приятно это, но застонать при тебе кажется унизительным, пока его руки продолжают лежать по бокам прижатые к постели. Он думает, что должен бы схватить тебя за бёдра, он даже не знает какие они. Была ли ты одна из тех дам, у которой платье скрывало роскошную мягкую фигуру; или обладала чем-то по-другому изящным, может пытаясь есть меньше, а может просто повезло с наследственностью и сейчас твои длинные стройные ноги могли нуждаться в его прикосновениях. Эймонд одновременно хочет знать и не уверен, что должен бы.

Он думает, что он твой муж. Ему не следовало позволять так обращаться с собой. Он должен бы видеть как ты выглядишь, какое тело у его жены. Но вот, он без смущения стонет в голос, когда ты скользишь по его члену, опираясь на его грудь, крепко сжимая его свой женственностью и кажется он слышит твой скулёж, который ты должно быть быстро останавливаешь.

Ты скачешь на нём, но плавно, не желая двигаться слишком быстро, по всей видимости тебе не привычно. Эймонд не был так придирчив к невинности своей невесты, хотя и составил бы определённое мнение, если бы её не было. Но ему кажется, что он первый и это слегка раздувает его эго. Он всё ещё не касается твоего тела, и ты благодарна ему ��а это. Ты даже не уверена понравилось бы оно ему. Кажется его сестра обладательница других форм, ты точно не будешь выглядеть в её платьях хорошо, как и она в твоих.

Его семя заполняет тебя, пачкает и стремится вытечь. Ты слезаешь с него, падая рядом и глубоко дыша. Как только Эймонд тянется к повязке на глазах, ты подрываешься. Быстро надев платье, не оборачиваясь, пока полностью не скроешь своё тело под плотной тканью.

— Тебе нужно переночевать здесь. Моя мать желает, чтобы мы разделили покои.

— Этого не будет.

Он хочет сказать тебе, что ты не можешь отказаться, не можешь запретить или разрешить что-то. Случай с его повязкой на глазах уже слишком позорный для принца. Ты его жена, это он может делать больше, чем хочет, с тобой, но не ты.

Покидая покои своего мужа, ты надеешься, что тебе удастся продержаться достаточно долго, чтобы твой муж не увидел тебя обнажённой.

***

Твой смех одно из немногих, что слышит Эймонд ещё не зайдя в зал, где должен пройти завтрак. Голос Эйгона тоже доносится, но твой муж не может разобрать слова.

Когда он заходит, то сразу встречается взглядом с тобой, пока Эйгон, как обычно, не привлекает к себе внимание.

— Брат! Я должен поздравить тебя с заключением брака! — Старший Таргариен подрывается со своего места, направляясь к твоему мужу, разведя руки.

— Твоя жена рассказала мне, как прошла ваша ночь.... — Эйгон шепчет, но до тебя тоже доносятся его слова. К считаю с вами здесь только Хелейна и кажется она не слышит ничего кроме собственных мыслях, держа в руках букашку.

Эймонд смотрит на тебя, чувствуя лёгкое предательство, но это знакомое ощущение, он привык к нему. Однако он удивлён, когда ты отрицательно медленно качаешь головой смотря на него.

— Присаживайся! Нам привезли сегодня фрукты... виноград просто чудесен!

Эйгон возвращается на своё место, почти рядом с тобой. Эймонд садится рядом с тобой, и отвечает на твоё «доброе утро», «взаимно».

Дождавшись королевы, вам приносят завтрак.

Алисента обсуждает с тобой твои обязанности, так будто у тебя есть дела помимо не позорить своего мужа, родить наследника и в лучшем случае быть лишними ушами и глазами.

***

Ты снова это делаешь с ним. Завязываешь ему глаза.

Снова и снова.

Ты не позволяешь смотреть на себя из раза в раз. Когда идёт третье полнолуние вашего брак��, Эймонд начинает надумывать себе. Что если в тебе есть что-то чудовищное, что ты так стремишься скрыть? Он даже ищет в книгах, что-то о красавицах скрывающих под одеждой страшное. Он думает пробраться в твои покои и подсмотреть за тобой, но это кажется слишком не уважительным, не то, что к простой леди или даме, а к собственной жене. Поэтому он пытается прикоснуться к тебе однажды.

Но ты так резко и с поразительной силой хватаешь его за руку, что из-за удивления он не сопротивляется, хотя знает, что победил бы, делая это. Он не пробует больше прикасаться к тебе без необходимости, даже если желание в нём возрастает, а разум проигрывает.

Ты стоишь рядом с ним, когда Рейниру коронуют, когда народ приклоняет колено. Эймонд отмечает как чудесно ты выглядишь, как красное платье с чёрными вкраплениями и деталями подчёркивает твою красоту, а осанка напоминает о происхождении. Эймонд хочет взять тебя за руку, или позволить тебе продеть руку через его согнутую в локте. Но ты не подпускаешь его слишком близко. Единственный поцелуй который у вас был это во время свадебной церемонии и не больше. Он хочет снова ощутить твои губы на своих, знать, чувствуется ли вкус терпкого вина на твоём языке, или это будут лимонные пирожные от которых ты однажды мурлыкала, после чего покраснела и к счастью он был единственным свидетелем. Эймонд чувствует себя влюблённым дураком, когда осознаёт, что его сердце не такое холодное и надрессированное, как он надеялся.

Ты сидишь рядом с ним, пока люди замка пируют, празднуя коронацию Рейниры. Твой муж из раза в раз кидает на тебя взгляды, и ты знаешь это.

— Могу я пригласить прекрасную леди на танец? — голос молодого и совершенно незнакомого тебе лорда разносится рядом.

Ты смотришь на его улыбку, обаятельную, и блудливые глаза.

— Она принцесса, лорд Ланнистер, и я не желаю отпускать свою жену танцевать с вами.

Кажется молодой человек смущается, и ты даже не чувствуешь вины за поведение мужа. Ты благодарна, потому что не желала танцевать как оказалось с лордом Ланнистером.

— Спасибо, — произносишь ты невзначай, когда лорд уходит.

— Разве ты не огорчена?

— Не хотела слушать его, трогать его и находиться так близко, — признаёшься ты, заставляя Эймонда смутиться от такой искренности.

Он задумывается на мгновение. Может ли быть такое, что тебе вовсе не нравится мужчины? Может ли быть такое, что ты предпочитаешь женщин? Конечно, ни одна дама ещё не заявляла о таких желаниях, но Эймонд знает о существовании таких пристрастий у юных или нет дам.

— Подари мне танец, дорогая жена, — произносит он, внезапно подрываясь со своего места.

Ты медлишь, смотря на него с опаской, но протягивая руку к его.

Он ведёт тебя почти в центр зала, ловко обходя других танцующих парочек.

Ты выглядишь напряжённой, когда он кладёт одну ладонь на твою талию. Но ты не смотришь в его единственный здоровый глаз, отводя свой взгляд куда угодно. Эймонд ведёт и, на твоё небольшое удивление, он танцует лучше, чем ты могла предположить. Но ты можешь сказать, что он не чувствует музыки, он просто знает как должен делать.

— Тебе не комфортно? — интересуется он, внимательно следя за тобой.

— С чего ты так решил, муж?

Он хмыкает, кажется ощущая свою власть над тобой. Может это впервые, когда что-то приходит ему в голову на твой счёт, понимание, что он не видел тебя, не смог раскусить тебя, но не сейчас.

Он хочет сказать, что зайдёт к тебе сегодня ночью, но решает сделать свой визит неожиданным. Понимание, что ты не будешь готова, а значит будешь уязвима греет его удовольствие.

— Ты кажешься нервной.

— Мои навыки танца плохи и мне не хочется, чтобы кто-то из гостей узнал об этом, — произносишь ты.

Ложь, проносится в голове у твоего мужа. Но он слабо усмехается тебе, продолжая не отпускать тебя и кружить.

Как только тебе удаётся улизнуть, ты готовишься ко сну в своих покоях. Твоя ночная рубашка достаёт до щиколоток, халат на тебе плотнее, но ткань по-прежнему струится и намного мягче той, из которой сделаны большинство платьев.

Ты расчёсываешь волосы, когда слышишь как двери спальни открываются. Эймонд стоит в отражении зеркала, заставляя тебя напрячься. Он предупреждал о своих визитах, всегда говорил, когда придёт, чтобы исполнить супружеский долг, но видимо не сейчас.

— Я уже собираюсь спать, муж.

— Придётся отложить сон ненадолго.

Он направляется к тебе, слишком уверенными шагами, заставляя тебя испугаться, и подняться со своего места, будто это сделает тебя более готовой к чему бы то не было.

— Мы делали это вчера.

— Моя мать спрашивала как скоро у нас будет наследник. Слухи о не способности иметь детей уже ходят.

Он склоняется к тебе и накрывает твои губы своими. Это жадно и властно, тебе совершенно не нравится то, что он делает. Ты упираешься в его грудь ладонями, пытаясь заставить его отойти от тебя, пока он только и делает, что давит своим телом на твоё, чувствуя мягкие округлости, прижимающиеся к его плоской груди. Эймонд сжимает твои запястья, не позволяя тебе больше давить на него или пытаться сопротивляться перед ним.

— Эймонд! — ты вскрикиваешь, когда он отстраняется, давая тебе воздух и немного пространства.

— Давай. — Он тащит тебя к постели, пока ты поспеваешь за ним, тебе кажется, что если бы ты остановилась, то упала бы и он поволок тебя по полу. — Ты моя жена. Я имею право на твоё тело.

— Ты и так получаешь это!

— Не так как должен.

Он хватает твой халат, начиная стягивать его с твоих плеч.

— Нет!

Ты пытаешься остановить его, но он в разы сильнее, и ты искреннее удивлена, что такой тощий парень, как он, может обладать такой силой. Хотя это он поднимает меч и мастерски орудует им на тренировках.

— Сходи в бордель, если тебе так не терпится! — ты набираешься всех сил, что в тебе есть, чтобы оттолкнуть его и он делает два шага назад, чтобы не упасть.

— Я не мой брат. — Кажется твои слова только злят принца и он быстро сокращает расстояние между вами. Ты падаешь на кровать, когда он толкает тебя, падая с тобой.

Его тело прижимает тебя к постели, пока ты рыпаешься под ним. В какой-то момент, ты чувствуешь его ладонь на ноге, он задирает твою ночную сорочку, и тебя озаряет немного успокаивающая мысль. Что если тебе не нужно будет раздеваться, что если он возьмёт тебя так.

Успокаиваясь, больше не сопротивляясь, ты замечаешь лёгкую озадаченность в его взгляде. Но он молчит. Тогда твои руки спускаются на пуговицы его камзола. Ты быстро расправляешься с ними и расстёгиваешь его брюки.

Эймонд принимает это за такое же желаете и тогда тянется твоему халату, снова желая спустить его с твоих плеч, но ты хватаешь его за руку.

— Нет!

Эймонд хватает твою ночную сорочку, желая забрать её.

— Что с тобой не так? Почему ты запрещаешь мне взглянуть на себя?

— У меня человечное лицо на животе.

— Что? — он выглядит так будто ты сказала одновременно самое глупое и ужасное.

Но ты ничего не говоришь, и он резок в действиях, задирает твою рубашку, стремясь увидеть правда ли то, что ты сказала. Возможно ли то, что ты сказала. Несмотря на твои попытки сопротивляться и остановить его, Эймонд всё равно задирает тонкую и нежную ткань.

Но там ничего кроме твоего живота. Обычный женский животик и тонкие шорты в виде нижнего белья. Он кладёт руку на твой плоский живот, будто на самом деле ожидал какого-то ужаса. Но ничего, кроме мягкой плоти, тёплой и Эймонд даже хочет наклониться, оставить поцелуй. Но вместо этого из него вырывается смешок, и тогда ты быстро отодвигаешься, пользуясь случаям, когда его хватка ослабевает. Ты отодвигаешься, садясь на кровать, натягивая сорочку на согнутые в коленях ноги. Твои глаза слезятся, когда ты смотришь на своего мужа.

— Там ничего нет. Всё это время ты завязывала мне глаза, зачем? — интересуется он, не сразу замечая, как ты готова начать плакать.

— Я не хотела, чтобы ты видел меня.

— Я не желал своей сестры. — Эймонд садится рядом с тобой. — Я... был бы лучшим мужем для неё, чем мой брат, но я люблю её как сестру и не больше.

Ты утыкаешься в свои колени лицом.

— Ты мог представить кого-то другого, кого считаешь привлекательной.

— Ты достаточно хорошенькая, чтобы лорды обращали на тебя внимание, я слеп на один глаз, а не на два. Я всё ещё могу видеть то, что видят другие и больше.

Ты ничего не говоришь, и шмыгнув носом, выдаёшь свою печаль. Эймонд переводит на тебя взгляд, замечая, что ты плачешь. И это заставляет его сердце ныть.

— Обнажённо��ть это грех. Даже то, как люди пытаются зачать потомство, это греховно, — произносишь ты, почти бубня себе по нос, но Эймонд слышит тебя.

Поэтому ты не хотела его взгляда?

— И я знаю, что не настолько привлекательна, чтобы нравится тебе как женщина.

Он может сказать, что ты понятие не имеешь, насколько привлекательна и кто-то вбил тебе в голову странные и глупые вещи.

Его ладонь нерешительно ложится на твоё колено.

— Зачатие это не грех. И связь подобного рода между людьми это не грех.

Он гладит тебя по ноге.

— Ты красивая девушка, с красивым телом. Потому что если ты не привлекательна, то тогда мне следовало завязывать глаза тебе, чтобы ты не видела с кем ложишься в постель.

Ты поднимаешь на него взгляд.

— Это не так. Ты... не настолько отталкивающий.

Он усмехается.

— Спасибо.

— Я не это имела в виду... просто то, как ты держишься, твоё поведение, не внешность, отталкивает.

Эймонд кивает на твои слова, совершенно не оскорблённый. Он касается твоей щеки, вытирая мокрые дорожки.

— Я хочу поцеловать тебя.

— Зачем?

— Ты моя жена. Я на самом деле даже не должен спрашивать об этом.

Ты опускаешь взгляд, кажется смущённая и обиженная на его напоминание о власти, которую он имеет над тобой.

— Мне жаль, — спешит сказать твой муж.

— Не правда. Просто... каким бы милым и любезным ты не был, зачем это делать? Если через пару лет ты потеряешь ко мне интерес, может привяжешься к шлюхе или найдёшь другую леди, которая будет на самом деле мила твоему сердцу?

Молчание повисает между вами и затягивается.

— Я слышала, что твой дядя сделал со своей первой женой. Их брак был вынужденным, политическим.

Эймонд не хочет, чтобы его сравнивали с Деймоном. Он бы не убил свою жену, нашёл бы другой выход, если бы любовь к другой женщине возникла бы в его сердце, он принял бы правильное решение, остался бы предан своей семье и долгу.

— Я бы не убил тебя.

Ты кажется не сильно веришь ему.

— Как мило, — язвительно срывается с твоих губ.

Эймонд иногда удивляется твоей наглости и смелости. Но он ничего не говорит. Вместо этого он снова целует тебя, держа руку теперь на твоём затылке не позволяя отстраниться.

— Я буду тебя целовать пока ты не ответишь мне. А затем, мы ляжем в постель, как муж и жена, и я овладею тобой, и буду смотреть на тебя, как и ты на меня. И когда мы закончим, то ляжем спать вместе, как муж и жена.

Ты чувствуешь страх поднимающийся в твоём горле, но уверенность Эймонда кажется такой успокаивающей, что ты лишь киваешь. Это должно было бы произойти, верно? Он твой муж, он молод и здоров, он мужчина, а ты его женщина. Вам нужны наследники, и страсть в вас до сих пор не погасла.

[sapphirehearteyes]

I need help finding an Aemond x reader fic!!

So in it I believe it’s an arranged marriage and I’m not sure if the marriage is consummated because Aemond is very nervous but come to find out Aegon is trying to help Aemond woo his wife (who’s unaware he’s in love with her) and Aemond is just besotted and kinda not doing so hot with the wooing….

Does anyone remember who wrote this/which story??

[barbieaemond]

Religion

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: mild angst, misogyny, banter, pregnancy, childbirth, oral sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, dry humping, overstimulation, brief lactation kink, breeding kink, manipulation (to get some), some good ol' tying up, slandering of the Gods lol

Author's note: this is the third and final part following And I dream of a grave and A curse for a curse but can be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that Aemond did not cheat on his wife while in Harrenhal. He used Alys only for her visions.

Word count: 13k. Ye have to suffer for your smut darlin'

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language.

taglist: @multyfangirl @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @darylandbethfanforever9 @zaldritzosrose @alphard-hydraes-blog

Her mother had come to King’s Landing three days after she gave birth. Peering through the door, the Princess didn’t know if the woman was more surprised to finally see a baby safely tucked between her daughter’s arms or to witness that she was still breathing. She had chosen to believe both.

Since she was a little girl, she had been instructed in what was coming, for her and all the girls like her: how to serve men, how to serve the Realm. She knew pregnancy could be a time of great distress, physical and otherwise, and for her, it turned out to be nothing more than that.

She spent the first moons plagued by sickness, glaring at the Maesters who told her that morning sickness was perfectly normal. It would've been, if only it had lasted the hours the sun was at its highest. Instead, she couldn’t keep down her breakfast, just like her lunch, or dinner. She had lost weight, she couldn’t stand any kind of smell with the risk of rushing to her pot and empty her stomach.

Then, on one fine morning, while she was walking the gardens with two of her maids, she had suddenly bent over, hissing with pain while clutching her maid’s arm, dreading the trickle running down her thighs.

The Maesters said occasional bleedings might happen, that she only needed to rest and take some tonic to strenghten her body. But that day signaled the end of her peace and the beginning of her confinement.

Because clearly, at the first sign of something going wrong, slipping out of his control, Aemond would panic, albeit showing none of it, standing as tall and stoic as ever and somehow more than he’d ever done now that the Conqueror’s Crown weighted on his head. But she knew better. She knew how to look through all his walls. She knew he was scared—for her, for the baby, for his sister, for his whole family. It was simply too much for a single person to carry all of that on their shoulders. And it was precisely for that reason that she didn’t object to any of his orders. After all, she couldn’t. He was the King now, even if he didn’t choose to style himself as such.

Thus, her chambers became her prison.

Cobwebs didn’t have time to grow because she was quick enough to point them out to the servants. She was aware of the slight drop in the stone tiles just behind the terrace, as of the strategic point where to linger to gain some cool breeze from the sea. She knew the baby liked to sleep upside down in the early afternoon, occasionally kicking hard as he, or she, settled comfortably in her womb.

Aemond had picked some books for her, mostly about history, having her yawning at the third page. She had tried needle work, putting all her good will into it for the sake of doing something, and she had deliberately chosen to believe she was undeniably good at it. But that was a very generous lie. 

“What is that supposed to be exactly?” Aemond asked one day, peeking over her shoulder as he reached her on the terrace.

She didn’t look up, keeping her eyes fixed on her embroidery tambour, working the needle in and out. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He leaned down until she felt the long silver strands tickling her head and even without turning, she could feel him grimacing. “A bird?”

At that, she had raised her head, reading all the disbelief on his face. “It is a dragon. For the cradle.”

Aemond had simply furrowed his brow, unable for the life of him to consider what he saw as something even remotely resembling a dragon. But he thought better than to anger his pregnant wife, given her late sour spirit, but especially in light of how fiercely she had started to stick the needle in, likely picturing to stick it into him instead. He had built the most fake pleasant smile he could master and said “Very well. Excellent work, my love.”

“Thank you, husband.”

The trouble was that, as time went by, she only became sourer. She grew more and more uncomfortable, too tight in her own skin. Her back hurt, her breasts hurt, and she was starting to believe she was carrying a real dragon, with fangs and all; she had no other explanation for how hot she constantly felt, forced to lie in a thin white chemise all the time, despite the winds carrying the winter.

But maybe there was another reason why her spirits were so low and sour. She had come to learn that pregnancy affected every aspect of her life, including the most pleasant one.

She would grow wet for a kiss. She would close her legs and rub them together upon seeing him rise from the bathtub. She would moan into his mouth if he so much as grazed her nipples with his knuckles. But as she grew bigger and bigger, along with the discomfort, kisses and some intimate brushing were all she would get from him. Aemond had grown distant, not only with his presence, due to all the duties he had to fulfill wearing the Crown, but even when he was there, in their chambers, sleeping next to her, she felt him leagues and leagues away.

“Pregnancy is a very hard time for a woman.” The Dowager Queen had said to her “It is overwhelming to think that you are never alone and yet...somehow you are.”

She’d never understood what her good mother meant until she was confined to her chambers, alone with her thoughts and her fears. She didn’t expect Aemond to do something, this was women’s business. And she knew his reluctance to lie with her rested solely on concern and love for her.

No matter how much he craved to take her, he had decided to put his husband’s rights away for the delicate final moons until the baby was born. He still felt guilty, for Harrenhal, for the witch, for forsaking her only to get drunk on visions and prophecies. Yet, those visions turned out to be true. He had shut that voice in his head and tried to make amends. But they didn’t have the time to mend themselves together, to knit all the distrust and suspicions into something good; the baby was coming, and it seemed he or she did nothing but grow them more apart. 

He saw how tired she was, how some days she couldn’t even get out of bed. And how useless he felt when he would catch her crying, like that night when he found her all alone on the terrace at the hour of the owl.

She was sitting on her chaise filled with cushions when Aemond walked around her. Given the state of his white shirt and hair, he had likely just awakened and hadn’t found her beside him.

“What are you doing out here? You will catch a cold.”

“I cannot sleep.” she had kept her eyes far, on the Black Water Bay, far from him. But he saw them anyway, her reddened eyes.

“You cannot stay here in your condition.” He said almost tiredly, but when she didn’t even blink at his words, he called her name, with the tone he used in the Throne Room.

“Aemond, please.” She whispered, turning her head. “I—” she bit her tongue, unwilling to put this on him, but she knew he wouldn’t let go until she was safely back in bed. So, she said “I don’t want to hear her.”

It took him less than a moment to understand what she meant. Helaena. Helaena who lost a child, who saw her flesh and blood horribly murdered before her eyes. Helaena who couldn’t stop wailing in the dead of night.

She had looked at him, seeing that torn thing, broken and raw like a split wound; shame and guilt and rage all at once. Then, he lowered himself onto his knees until he took her cold hands and squeezed them tight. His mouth opened, but she was faster. “Don’t say it.”

You cannot keep such a promise, you cannot keep us safe. No matter how many times you say it. But she wouldn’t take that solace away from him, not that plainly. The more he said it, the more he seemed to believe it. So be it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and there was a beautiful, heartbreaking desperation in his hushed voice. “Tell me what to do.”

She had built a convincing smile, running her hand through his loose hair and pushing some strands back. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

Her spirits during the day would slightly improve. And between the Council and some hearings in the Throne Room, he always saved some time to go visit her in their chambers. She didn’t seem to enjoy being watched like a toddler, but deep down she cherished his concern. She cherished the way his hands would gently hold her own, or caress her hair, her belly. She found it hard to believe those hands could bestow such reverence and violence at the same time. And even in his absence, he managed to ensure she always had anything she needed. Even blackberries in early autumn.

“Myra, where have you been?” She asked in a late afternoon, when one of her most loyal maids entered her chambers after disappearing for the whole day.

The young girl had an awful look. She seemed exhausted, as if she had walked the entirety of Flea Bottom, twice. “Apologies, my Princess. It took me quite a while to find blackberries.”

“Seven Hells, it is only a craving. You did not have to go all the way through King’s Landing to find me blackberries.”

"No, I-I ought to.”

The Princess paused, frowning at the young girl. “Did someone else tell you that you ought to?”

“Well…yes…” the maid said, sinking her gaze to the floor “The King—uhm Prince Regent.”

She sighed deeply, and with heavy steps, she walked towards the terrace; her maid was immediately at her side to help her. “What did he tell you?” the Princess asked as they reached the chair outside.

The girl waited for her to sit, slowly and awkwardly given her big belly; then, a little timidly, she said “He…ordered me to go look for blackberries and not to…bother coming back if I didn’t find them.”

The Princess rolled her eyes in quite an unlady-like manner, “How in the name of Seven did he know about it?” She asked, grimacing as she desperately tried to find a comfortable position. “I have barely seen him this morning.”

The young maid helped her, fixing some cushions behind her back and whispered “The White Cloak at the door…I suspect he reports everything to his Grace.”

The notion didn’t seem to strike her that much, or maybe she was too tired, too uncomfortable and too hot to comment on the matter, or even scoff at it.

She grabbed a fan from her maid’s hands and unceremoniously shook her shoes off, placing her swollen feet on the cool tiles. Closing her eyes, she basked in that small relief; the floor was cold, the sun was about to set, and the baby was sleeping.

According to the Maesters, her time was close. She was eager to meet this little person but in truth, she just wanted it to end. She hated having no control over her body, her spirits, her marriage. She missed being a wife and being treated as such, not just as the mother of his child. She had come to think that, deep down, any woman felt that way, but they were forced to hide everything behind a joyful smile while sinking to their knees to thank the Mother. Wasn’t that the sole purpose of any girl in the world? To bleed on a birthing bed? Wasn’t that the way men measured women’s value?

She swallowed hard as the question spun in her head. Am I finally worthy of you, Aemond?

She wouldn’t dare ask him. 

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

She was too lost in her thoughts to even hear his footsteps on the terrace. As her gaze flew up, she read the deep concern on his face, all lumped in the steep furrow between his eyebrows. He must’ve seen her grimacing, thinking she was in some pain. She was, but she was too much of a coward to tell him.

She resumed her fanning, averting her gaze and stretching her legs out further on the floor. “I feel like I’m boiling.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He deadpanned, raking his eye over her disheveled state; sprawled on that chair with her legs slightly open, her white chemise all crumpled and unbuttoned, and a bead of sweat on the forehead, in the crevice of her swollen breasts. He thought the times when a mere look at this woman would make him hard were gone once the novelty of having a wife, someone rightly and thoroughly his, had dissipated. He was wrong.

“I’m well aware of my lack of decency.” She replied, seeing how he was staring, the little inquiring curve in his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I care very little about decency at this moment. Blame it on your son.”

His lips curled up, watching her gather her loose hair with one hand while she kept fanning herself quickly with the other.

“Are you still inclined to believe for certain that it’s a boy?”

“I know it’s a boy. Only men can be this insufferable.”

That little smile on his lips lingered, deepened, and then he moved, going to stand behind her. “Let me.” He said, and took her hair between his hands. She couldn’t see what he was doing but got the gist as she felt his deft fingers moving and her neck free to get some air. When he walked around the chaise to sit beside her, she saw that his hair was loose. He had tied her hair with the black lace he always wore to prevent the silver strands from ending up in front of his eye.

She loved to see him like this: hair loose, eyepatch lost somewhere in a drawer, sitting next to her, even without saying a word. The sapphire seemed to match his eye, glowing a soft violet under the setting sun. She felt that familiar lump in her throat, as she stared at him, a restless thing flowing through her whole body, demanding to be released only to be trapped under her teeth, biting down her lower lip, starved and yearning.

“A little bird told me you put a hound on my trail.” she said at one point, shutting her little fan.

Aemond didn’t look surprised to acknowledge that she knew. He had actually ventured with himself about how long it would have taken her to realise he was spying on her every move.

“You are well aware of my duties now.” He said, turning his head to look at her. But not quite. His eye seemed to linger everywhere at once, fleeting, snatching a look here and there, her legs, her sweated neck, her belly…his own testament, as if she wasn’t one already.

You left your mark on her just as she did on you. Those were Alys’ words, at which he had ugly sneered. And she had laughed at the sight, eerily, as someone who owned the truth. I’m your spoil of war and yet, you speak to me ten paces away. What are you afraid of, Kinslayer? That your skin would burn like brimstone if you touched another woman?

“Besides,” he resumes “any lady would be flattered by her husband’s genuine concern.”

“You could flatter me in different ways.” was her prompt answer and she moved incredibly fast, given her impediment, getting close to him until she filled his nostrils. She smelled different since she was pregnant. A thick smell, musky. She tasted differently. Sweeter and somehow sourer. He swallowed at the mere memory. “We have talked about this.”

“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”

His head spun around, forcing her to stifle a smile at his ever strictly reserved nature.

“They said there’s nothing wrong, or remotely dangerous, if we…engage in our conjugal duties.”

He tried to ignore her hand, her fingers traveling up his arm like a spider’s legs. “Did you need the Maesters to learn that?”

“No, but you do. You hang on their lips…I wish you hung on mine.”

Aemond heard her voice dropping a tone, and dropped his chin down, looking at her hand roving on his chest, shamelessly slipping beneath his dark green doublet, skin to skin. She glided on his planes slowly, making sure to trap one of his nipples in the little hollow between her index and middle.

“I don’t need them to know about my private matters.” He said mindlessly, trying to hold a grip on his thoughts.

“Seven Hells. It baffles me to witness how prudish you desperately want to appear while I perfectly know how debauched you really are, to the bone.”

“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”

“Oh, is it? What about that time on our way to the Grand Sept?” She tilted her head, so she was talking almost in his ear. “Do you remember?”

Her hand on his chest was burning, or was it his own skin? His own flesh simmering wherever she touched him.

“Don’t do that.” She whispered when she saw his long legs cross. “Let me see. You have condemned me to do nothing else.”

His eye chased her hand as she grabbed his knee and pushed to uncross his legs, so that she could see, the outline of his cock through the breeches, see how he ached for her. “Do you remember what you did in the wheelhouse?” She asked again, looking at him; the sapphire was the only thing flashing violet now. His eye was pitch black.

“You put your hand beneath my gowns…” she said and her hand slid up against his thigh “you grabbed me, harshly.” And she did the same, forcing his mouth open and a shallow breath out of his throat. “And you grinned…because my garments were soaked.” he closed his eye for a moment, perhaps recalling, or maybe because her hand was moving, palming all his length through the breeches.

“And then you slipped your fingers underneath…” and again, she did just so, unbuckling his belt and sinking her hand in. He opened his eye, and basked in what he saw: that sort of silent, desperate plea in the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, in her heaving chest, in the way she was rubbing her legs together.

Thus, just when she was about to grab him, he grabbed her wrist instead and crashed his mouth against hers with a low growling sound. She could do nothing but moan, giving him open room to slip his tongue in and taste every corner, driving his body closer and closer, but not too much as to crush her.

She, on the other hand, felt free, finally, to roam, to rummage. Her hands grabbed and pulled everywhere, at his doublet, the collar, the buttons, the thin white shirt underneath it all, until everything was loose, and she was free to touch him, all the while making the sweetest wanton sounds, close to desperate whines. “Please, Aemond…” she begged freely, holding his face “just this once…please…”

He shushed her with another harsh kiss and with a free hand, he clutched her white nightgown into his fist, pulling up, enough to stick his arm between her legs. She spread them for him, panting with anticipation, and stopped breathing altogether when he cupped her core with the large palm of his hand. Aemond trapped her lower lip with his teeth, biting softly upon feeling how wet she was, dripping on his fingers, so much that he wished to fall on his knees and wipe it clean with his tongue.

“Please…” she breathed, barely rocking her hips to urge him to touch her.

“Hush.” he said, and curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips against her centre, gaining a delicious wince from her. “Tell me of the wheelhouse.”

She smiled breathlessly, her eyes hungry and heavy, full of lust. “It was the first time I wore green.” she started to tell. “We were still betrothed. I wanted to impress you.”

“Hmm. You certainly did.” He remarked, watching her closely while rubbing his index pad against her entrance, teasingly, making her squirm. “Go on.”

She felt like burning, her face hot for the sun, the baby, the ache in her lower belly, stirring and coiling. “You told the White Cloak to take another round…” she said, breathing with her mouth open. “You grabbed my waist and forced me on your lap.”

“And you pushed me away. Twice.” he’d laughed, flashing a grin that made her willing to shove him away, to pull him closer. “What a farse you put on.” he continued, leaving a chaste kiss on her neck that resulted in her writhing some more, pushing her pelvis against his hand. “I had to cover your mouth for your mewling. You were so fucking loud.”

It was then that he finally granted her some mercy, slipping one finger inside her drenched lips, spilling a long gasp from her.

“No. Not quite.” He observed cruelly and slid another finger, this time gaining a proper loud moan. “That’s more like it.”

His two fingers started to pump slowly, and yet she was making the lewdest sounds he’d ever spilled from her, arching her back as far as she could, scrunching her face almost in pain and pulling at his collar, twisting, as if he were torturing her instead of giving her pleasure. She made his cock stir painfully, his teeth grind for the ache, for the fact that she was coating his whole hand. “Easy now…” he warned her, his tone all husky. “You don’t want to come already, do you? ‘Tis the only thing you’ll get from me, sweetling…you better make it last.” 

She whined in annoyance, forcing another grin on his ruthless lips, and with that same ruthlessness, he slowed his ministrations, only to cup one of her breasts with his free hand, squeezing softly until the thin, silky fabric slipped down, revealing her pink, swollen nipple. “I must say…I’m relieved you will summon a wet nurse…so these will be all mine.”

She had to stifle a breathless laugh at that. “Being jealous of your child is a bit too much, even for you…”

“Oh, my love” he crooned, freeing the other breast “I am jealous of the clothes on your skin.”

Wasting no time, he wrapped his lips around her nipple, causing her to arch against him once more, one hand flying down his shoulder, fisting his doublet, twisting it as he swirled his tongue and hummed with delight dripping from his tone, as if he were tasting honey, and the sweetest ever made.

His fingers resumed their frantic rhythm, sinking deep inside and stretching, hitting that special spot that made her sight go black, reduced to a mess of sweat coating every inch of her skin and a string of moans growing hoarse and high-pitched.

“Are you close? Hmm?” he rasped “How about another? Can you take another for me?”

He slipped a third finger in, causing her to wince and cling to his shoulders with her mouth open in a silent scream. “Good girl.” He praised at the sight. He wished he could savor it for a little longer, he wished to keep doing that again and again, until the sun went down and rose again, until there was nothing but ruin around them.

But she was so close now, he could feel it in her tensed arms around his shoulders, in her clenching walls around his hand, and quite frankly, the ache in his breeches was unbearable, twitching at every moan and squelching sound of his fingers inside her flesh. 

She came loudly, curling her ankles on the ground and writhing in his hold as if in a delirium. He kept her still, his hand buried inside her, feeling the quick pulsing that rivaled the one in her heart. And he watched her, gasping for air and throwing her head back, utterly spent, hair all sticked to her forehead. In his eye she had never looked this beautiful.

He pulled his fingers out, making her wince slightly, and brought them to her mouth, smearing her spent desire on her own lips, like the final touch to a painting. And then he kissed her, humming at her bittersweet taste. He held her face gently, grabbing her jaw and angling her head to taste her better, eliciting a blissful sigh from the back of her throat that made his hardness throb. As if she had felt that, her hand had slipped between them with purpose, sinking past all his layers and taking hold of him.

She rejoiced in the little whimper he gave her, and started to work her hand up and down, making it impossible for him to kiss her any further, if not for a sloppy and panting mess of spit and teeth. 

Given the unbearable pressure building past his navel, he knew he wouldn’t last long. And she knew that too. But she didn’t want to have him this way. Awkwardly, she stood up and spread his legs to make herself some room, but as soon as Aemond, despite the lack of blood in his mind, caught her intentions, he stopped her, grabbing her arms firmly.

“No…” he croaked. “Not on your knees.”

She couldn’t help the little surprise on her face. Aemond had never been this considerate, especially in bed. He could be gentle in his own way, subtly. Little hidden things in the way he would run his fingers through her hair once she had reached her peak, the way he would regain air once he’d spilled inside her, breathing into her neck and running his lips lazily against her skin. But most of the times, he was very diligent, all focused in giving her and himself the pleasure they both craved; he was somehow harsh, ruthless, a mirror of who he was outside the bedroom, possessed by some kind of urgency that would break her in the most beautiful and cruel way and put her back together at once.

But then again, she imagined the promise of his heir living inside her was affecting even one of the most ruthless of men.

She sat down again and watched him stand up, his breath labored and open-mouthed as he looked down at her, working the few laces of his breeches still tied. She didn’t need an invitation, an order, a mere tilt of his chin to sit upright and put her hands alongside his snatched waist.

She looked up, and he found himself swallowing hard, cursing silently at the sight of her looking straight into his eye with his cock a breath away from her, all hard and glistening on the tip. Shamefully, he thought that would have done it for him.

A coarse grunt left his lips as soon as she wrapped her mouth around it, teasingly swirling her tongue on the slit without ever averting her gaze from him. He hissed painfully when her lips started to travel along his length, trying with all his might to hold back and not spill into her mouth so soon.

She, on the other hand, seemed eager to watch him come undone, just as he had done to her a few moments earlier. She started to suck him eagerly, like a starved creature, because on all those nights and days when he had taken her apart, learning every inch of her and how to bend it to his will, she had done just the same.

She knew how to make him wince and moan openly, while on her knees on their bedroom floor or on a fucking terrace during a late afternoon, with likely anyone to walk on them at any moment. With the Gods watching.

She didn't care. The Gods didn't care for them anyway. Let them see to whom she fell to her knees.

He couldn’t stop looking, how pretty she was like this, swallowing him whole, up to the hilt, hitting her throat with a gagging sound. So lecherous, so holy.

He was so close he had to bite his lip to restrain himself, letting out a string of curses until he felt the pressure growing stronger, and then, he thought, he might as well have it his way.

“Stop…” he croaked, grabbing her cheek but delicately, slipping out of her mouth and running his thumb over her sore jaw. She closed her slicked mouth, a drop of spit running down her chin and she looked at him, with such devotion he thought he had nothing to envy the Gods.

“Let me…” he pleaded, wiping her chin clean with his finger. “Let me fuck your mouth, sweetling. Would you?”

A question that needed no answer. Indeed, he wasted no time and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it slightly up for a better angle. He sheathed himself all the way in, gasping deeply at feeling the hot walls of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

His fingers curled into her hair, but never in a hurtful way, enough to keep her still as he started to move his hips against her face back and forth, his open mouth quivering as the pleasure began to build where it left off.

“Fuck—” he cursed once, and then twice, fucking her mouth faster to chase his peak, pulling ever so slightly at her scalp until he went still altogether, pushed his waist hard against her, and grunted loudly, in a pretty uncharacteristic way, as his cock twitched and spilled down her throat until the last drop.

Panting harshly, he pulled himself out and watched her close her mouth, eyes fixed on him, working her cheeks and making no mystery of the white essence on her tongue before swallowing it, thoroughly.

Aemond let himself fall on that chaise and she watched, she drank that sight: his hair all disheveled and damp with sweat, a shade of pink on his cutting cheekbones as he slowly pulled himself together, breathing through his open mouth while buckling his belt and breeches.

“I think I’m going to take a bath.” She said at one point, clumsily standing up. He had mumbled something in return, still caught in the throes of what they had done, but before she got back inside, she turned and said “Oh, just so you know…all of this was a ploy.”

She smiled cunningly at his frowning. “I never had any cravings. And I knew about the White Cloak at the door since the first day you put him there. You are not as subtle as you think you are, my love.”

A man of few words, but loud actions.

Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.

In haste, nursemaids began their frantic rounds in and out of the Princess’ rooms like soldiers, carrying hot water and boiled rags. The Dowager Queen abandoned her perch beside Queen Helaena, or what was left of her, and went to assist the Princess. Having borne four children, she had quite a bit of advice to dispense, things she had learned on her own skin, things that any Master would never have told her because oblivious and convinced they knew what happened to a woman's body at such a delicate time based on how deep they had buried their nose in an old dusty tome.

Alicent helped the Princess rise from the bed, clutched her arm firmly and helped her walk. She said it was vital to walk, that it would ease her pain and help the baby come sooner. She told her to squat when the pain hit. She rubbed her back and wiped the sweat off her face as if she were her own daughter. It felt like that. Even though the Princess seemed to face it all with a stiff lip, Alicent could see that she was scared and in terrible pain, that she probably wished for her mother to be there. She had wished the same, no matter how many times she had faced it.

“Your Grace?” The Princess asked after another wave of pain had come and gone.

“Yes, child?”

“Do you think your son would forgive me If I said this one is both the first and the last?”

The Queen had smiled at that. “If the Gods bless you with more children, it will be easier, I can assure you. The first time is always rough. But it shouldn’t be long now.”

Well, her good mother turned out to be wrong. Because the pain plagued her for a full night, giving her no peace. At the hour of the nightingale, the nursemaids forced her to bed, and she gladly went. She was exhausted, she could no longer walk without hissing at every step, and by that time she was so used to the pain she no longer whined or anything, only scrunched her face and ground her teeth.

The servants stripped her bare and replaced her sweat-soaked nightgown with a fresh one. They dabbed her face with a wet cloth, but she could barely register anything, floating into unconsciousness only to be brought back to the present as another pain choked her breath.

“Perhaps some Milk of the Poppy?” One of the nurses said at one point.

“No.” the Maester said. “She may need to start pushing any moment now. We need her vigil.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes opened, wandering helplessly around the room. Useless research, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. She didn’t expect him to be. The birthing bed was no place for men, save for the Maesters, although she was starting to doubt their real usefulness when all they could do was pull her nightgown up, take a close look and shake their heads. They might as well let Aemond be there.

She imagined he must’ve been waiting outside, or in the Council, and yet she ached to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for him in her mind, clutching the sheets in her fist as if she could clutch his hand instead. And then she felt someone’s hand closing around her own, loosening her grip. Alicent, smiling down at her, and holding her hand tight.

It was holding her good mother’s hand that, at the first light of dawn, she gave birth to her child. A boy, healthy and all screeching as soon as he was out of her womb, clad in blood and grease.

Aemond had decided to name the child Aenar, if it was a boy, after the first Targaryen Lord, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes or force her tears back when he was finally admitted to their chambers and took their son in his arms for the first time. 

Alicent was beaming at the sight, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, my son.”

But Aemond didn’t seem to even register her mother’s words, or presence, utterly enraptured by his little creature. He cast a look at his wife, a secret little look that told her how proud he was of her, how relieving it was for both to have come this far after all that happened, to have this little thing, this little ounce of peace amidst all the chaos of war.

What she didn’t know at that time was that Aenar was not exactly a peaceful child.

She had believed there had finally come the time when she could be herself again. But from the earliest days, Aenar proved not to be an easy child to deal with. The newborn cried and cried for hours, plagued by belly aches, and seemingly able to calm down only when in his mother’s arms. They had obviously called on a wet nurse; highborn ladies did not feed their children themselves, let alone a Princess. But Aenar had categorically refused to latch onto his wet nurse’s breasts. Alicent had proposed to summon another one, but as they dawdled and wavered, the Princess felt her heart break into pieces each time she held her little baby in her arms, all red in the face, hungry and in pain, turning his head towards her cleavage, desperate for her milk. Thus, she had put aside ceremonial court and all of that and chose to feed him herself.

But it was a strenuous task. The Maesters had warned her it would be tiring, sleep depriving, but she really had no choice. She had to do it every three hours, sometimes less, because being latched onto her breast seemed the only thing that would prevent the baby from screaming at the top of his lungs all day long. The nursemaid had recommended fennel and chamomile for belly aches. And, instantly, Aemond had ordered an astounding amount of both to be delivered to the Red Keep’s kitchens.

Queen Alicent taught her to hold the baby on his stomach, to rock him, but not too fast. They told her to take several breaks during breastfeeding, to make the baby belch often and prevent air from his belly. In the first week after Aenar was born, her mind was all but a vessel of do this, do that. No, not this way. Don’t ever wake the baby when he’s sleeping. Try to sleep when he does. Don’t eat spicy dishes.

In the midst of all of this, Aemond turned more and more suffocating in all his well-hidden, self-consuming concern. A handful of white cloaks, the most trusted by Ser Criston, were constantly guarding the door, day and night. He had a secret passageway that led to his rooms walled up, and she could swear he slept with his dagger beneath the pillow. Evidently not at peace with such extreme measures, he had the cradle moved to his side of the bed, within his reach, so that every time she had to wake up because the baby was wailing, she had to walk around the bed and pray that she would not tumble to the floor in the dark.

However, she was at least grateful to have Aemond’s support, for the little he could do. If he wasn’t occupied with warfare or hearings, he spent all the time he had with her and their child. And in those moments, no matter how exhausted she was, she would always find the strength to smile at the view when he held their baby, tracing his long fingers over the velvety grizzled skin of Aenar’s small hands; even when he’d speak to him in Valyrian, at which she had frowned at first.

“You do realise he’s one week old?”

“”Tis never too soon.”

“Mh. What’s next? Bring him to the skies on dragonback?”

“I’ll have you know Vhagar is perfectly safe to—“

“Over my dead body.” 

He had smiled and stood up, going to place the baby in her arms. Aenar immediately began to fuss, whining and turning his head against her chest. She had started to unbutton her chemise but then stopped, looking up, where Aemond stood still like a sentry, and watching.

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I putting up a show?”

“Usually, you do.” He drawled. “Am I not allowed to watch? It seems my son and I already share a few interests.”

She looked away, smiling, and then she freed her left breast, watching as the baby immediately latched onto it. A moment later, Aemond took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He stared at her, and she saw that familiar glint his eye.

He trailed his thumb over her lip, barely breaching inside. “Soon?” was all he asked.

“Soon.” Was all she answered.

The soreness and the bleeding were reducing, and she was back in her tight flesh.

But the Gods must have cursed them some more, because that “soon” never seemed to become “now”.

The sickness didn’t seem willing to leave the poor child alone, along with his parents and the entirety of the Red Keep who had to suffer through his heartbreaking cries day and night.

The Princess had started to feel hopeless and guilty, no matter how many times the nursemaids, and even Queen Alicent, told her it was not her fault, that it was natural. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were right. Her heart broke any time the baby cried, wriggling desperately in her arms, in Aemond’s, in the cradle. She would end up crying too as she tried to soothe him, caressing his back with her cheek resting on his timidly silver-haired head.

She was working herself up to exhaustion, often falling asleep with the baby still latched onto her breast. It was Aemond who would take the baby to the cradle, it was Aemond who would button her chemise and pull up the blankets.

She hit rock bottom two weeks after Aenar’s birth, when she realised she hadn’t bathed in four days. Even Aemond, she could swear, was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. You don’t want to be King and take decisions in the middle of a war only to come back to a screaming infant at night.

But then, like a curse lifting, the sickness stopped. Amidst all those days she had stopped counting or even being aware of which was which, Aenar stopped crying. She was ashamed to admit that the first night he slept peacefully in his cradle, she had gone to check on him five times, to see if he was still breathing. 

She began to gradually return to her former self, able to enjoy motherhood with a more rested mind, at least. Physically, she still felt worn out, given how much time she spent breastfeeding or rocking the baby to sleep. But now she was strong enough to take the baby out, walking the gardens with her maids and smiling proudly as the court ladies stopped to congratulate themselves and say how beautiful her baby was.

By doing this, though, she also became aware that she had lived in a bubble for so long that she had almost forgotten there was a war raging, there were battles being fought across the realm.

Reality hits her one day when Alicent goes to visit her and her grandson, bringing the news of a very important victory near the Honeywine, a large river flowing in the Reach, thanks to Prince Daeron Targaryen who had arrived all victorious on that very morning, riding his blue scaled dragon, Tessarion.

The news stuns her for a moment. She had no idea of it, partly because she had been too caught up with Aenar, but also because Aemond had not told her. Yet her family came from the Reach, they lived there, not very far from the Honeywine; her older brother fought for the Green Army. Still, not a word from Aemond.

Taking advantage of Aenar sleeping and the fact that Alicent offered to watch him, she leaves her chambers and heads for the Council. There’s a bustle of lords coming out of the door when she gets there, barely paying her any attention as they hastily babble about armies and supplies and men; always more men to be sent to slaughter.

She stops at the door, widening her eyes at the silver head crossing the threshold, one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Prince Daeron.”

The youngest son of Queen Alicent and late King Viserys was nothing but a boy. But war had taken its toll on him too. He stood like a man, a Prince, and more than anything, a skilled dragon rider.

“Princess.” He says, tilting his chin down.

She curtsies and sees an immediate gentle smile softening his Valyrian features. “I believe some congratulations are in order.”

“Well, in all fairness, you shall be the most celebrated, my Prince. I’ve just heard of your recent victory.”

His gentle smile lingers, but loses its sparkle. “I must say I much prefer to celebrate life…rather than…the death of innocent men and women.”

There can’t be objections to such a statement; she just nods and casts a distracted glance inside the Council.

“Please…” the Prince says then, making room to let her pass “I won’t keep you away from my brother.”

She turns her head and smiles, tightly. “I’m afraid it is your brother who keeps himself away from me.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”

“Indeed.”

The Prince bows to her and leaves.

Closing the door behind her, she glances at Aemond sitting at the head of the table, in the King’s chair, with such effortlessness that he seems to have been born exclusively for that purpose.

“I thought I heard you.” he says absent-mindedly, scribbling down a small piece of parchment. She slowly walks to the windows, casting a single furtive glance down, but she can’t possibly make out what he’s writing, or to whom.

“How’s—"

“Aenar is fine.” She cuts him off. “He’s with your mother, sleeping.”

He stops scribbling, glancing up for a moment. Her voice is tight, cutting. He knows that tone. It’s the same one she used in Harrenhal, as if he should have fallen to his knees and be grateful for the mere fact that she was speaking to him. But he doesn’t have time today to circle around her like a coiling snake, so he goes straight to the point. “Is something the matter?”

“You didn’t tell me of the Honeywine.” She says after a moment, gazing at the Bay.

Aemond sighes, a sign that he was expecting such a question. “You were looking after our son.”

“And?” she’s quick to rebut, quick to reach him at the table and stare down at him. “You didn’t deem it appropriate to inform me of a battle raging in my family lands?”

“I am your family.” He says, stoically, as if common law, and she has to stifle a bitter laugh. The nerve of him. “That is a very lovely concept. Strange how it got lost on you in Harrenhal.”

“Enough!” he barks, and the sudden harshness makes the quill pierce through parchment. “I thought I’d made myself clear.” He warns. “I don’t want to hear another word about the witch. Ever.”

She obediently looks down, regretting having said that, but not entirely. Perhaps she has spent so much time beside him that she, too, can’t let go of her grudges.

“I did not tell you, for I did not want to upset you.” He says, resuming his collected tone. “You were worn out by the baby, I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders.”

She knows he’s sincere. Still, her nod is stiff as she looks away, biting her cheek. She is just so sick of it all. Of being regarded as a cunt to be bred at first and now a weakling nailed to a cradle with an infant sucking the life out of her. She knows she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last.

Aemond leaves the quill and stands up, circling until he’s close to her. “Your family is fine.” He tells her, lingering behind her. “Daeron spoke to your brother this morning.”

She keeps nodding, keeping her gaze down on the table, all scattered with maps and little dragon-shaped tokens, some black, some green. She frowns, letting warfare soothe her petty spirits. “What is this?”

“Our next move. A defense plan…which happens to be an attack plan too.”

“A pincher?”

She turns just in time to see the little surprise on his face. “My brother talked of nothing else when we were children. He slept with warfare books as pillows.”

“Hmm.” He muses, and takes a step closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his chin on her collarbone. “Show me.”

She shudders at his sudden proximity, at his breath blowing on her neck. She shudders at anything these days. A hand on her back, his legs fumbling beneath the covers and casually brushing against hers. She’s tight as a fiddle string.

“A pincher is nothing else but a decoy.” She explains. “You let your enemy believe they have you trapped…” and in saying this, she grabs his hand and moves it across the map. “And then…at the right moment…” she makes him hold a green token between his fingers and brings it near a little division of black ones “you strike on both flanks.” And with a swift flick of her wrist, his hand scatters all the black tokens across the table. To do so, she must lean over the table, accidentally brushing her lower back against his bulge. He’s not hard, yet, but it thrills her to feel the lightning quick effect she has on him.

“Hmm. Good. Very good.” He praises next to her ear as she withdraws her hand; his voice is so low it makes her spine shiver. But she keeps herself grounded and asks “When will this happen?”

“Soon.” he whispers, placing his hand flat on her stomach. “There’s another Small Council shortly but Aegon wanted to be present. They went to fetch him.”

“Well, then I shall retire to my chambers. I feel a bit lightheaded from all the thinking.”

He ignores her jab and keeps her still by the arm when she tries to move. There’s a little sly smirk pulling at his lips. “I have some time to spare.”

“And how do you propose we spend it?”

“Enough with your pantomimes. I can feel your legs squirming.”

Curse him.

He slips the other hand straight into her corset, cupping her breast and humming with delight at how full she is, how it fills his large hand entirely. “Are you wet for me, my love?”

His teeth sink down her lobe, and at the same time, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and index, forcing an indecorous whine out of her. “My, my…” he laughs darkly, torturing her sensitive skin until he feels something wet on his fingertips, probably milk. “I could make you come just by doing this.”

Powerless, she yields, leaning completely against him, rubbing her lower back for some friction. “What if someone enters?”

“We’ll make it quick.”

“But I don’t want it to be quick.” She pants, grabbing his hand on her breast and squeezing; the other crawls behind her back to try to feel him through his breeches. 

Hissing, when she starts to palm him, he says “Then we let them watch. They get to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers, or my cock. Which should it be?”

“Both. Anything.” She answers hastily, pulling at his collar to bring him close enough to kiss him. He hums contentedly when she does, twirling his tongue around hers. It soon gets messy, each of them fighting for dominance, winning and losing in turn, until he spins her around, so he can look at her and with both his hands, he seizes her gowns and pulls up, furiously rummaging through them.

“How many fucking layers have you on?”

“I’m not pregnant anymore.” she points out, unbuckling his belt.

“Pity. Perhaps I should fuck another one into you to keep you in your skimpy robes.”

“Don’t you dare, Aemond—” 

“Gods be good, brother! That eager to make another one?”

They both startle like little children caught doing something naughty, turning their heads towards the door, where two servants are carrying King Aegon on a chair. Aemond sighs annoyingly, letting go of her gowns as she does with his belt, trying to compose herself.

“My King.” She says, greeting her good brother with a tight little smile.

Aegon’s appearance has improved since Rook’s Rest, just as the burnings, but he carries with him the smell of Milk of the Poppy and rotting skin everywhere he goes. 

“Good-sister. What are you doing here? Apart from being ravished by my brother... should you not be breastfeeding?”

Aemond gives him a level stare and then looks at her, hoping she will not take the bait. Aegon and his wife never got along well, to say the least. Things had only escalated with time, to the point that whenever they found themselves in the same room, one of them would wisely leave, his wife most of the times, lest they start to hiss at each other like two cats fighting for territory.

“What if I intend to stay and attend the council?”

Aegon giggles, as the servants put down the chair, and after a quick glance below her neck he says “I’m afraid you would be a little distracting. And my brother is not one for sharing.”

Before she can ask what in the Seven he is blabbing about, Aemond takes her arm and makes her turn, shielding her from his brother and the Lords coming through the door.

“You should retire.” He curtly says.

“Are you taking his side again?” she asks, wriggling her arm to free herself from his hold.

“You’re leaking.” He informs her, flatly. 

At that, she frowns and dips her chin down, watching the front of her dress practically soaked in milk. “Oh.”

“I shall join you when I’m done here.” He tells her, and lets her out through the side doors.

Aemond did not join her.

The council lasted until the evening, a recurring thing when Aegon attended. Aemond was stern and concise in his decisions. Aegon liked to laze around, enjoying the wine in his cup, rattling his younger brother’s nerves. Deep down, she was convinced that Aegon did not really want to attend the Council because really interested in what to do, but only to remind his brother that he was still breathing and that the Conqueror's Crown on Aemond's head was a temporary measure.

But it didn’t matter. She would join him for the banquet in honor of Prince Daeron.

She was thrilled to go. It was not a proper feast. Since Helaena had fallen into grief, the atmosphere within the walls of the Keep had become rather austere. But a banquet still meant an occasion for conviviality, and after weeks and weeks spent locked up within four walls, the Princess was eager to spend some time outside her chambers. She had felt like a terrible mother at the mere thought. She loved Aenar, how could she not? But she also loved herself, her family, her marriage, Aemond. Especially Aemond.

Once she had put the baby to sleep, she had ordered her maid to prepare one of her favorite dresses, a green one, and to tie her hair in an elegant braided bun. When she had looked in the mirror, she had almost grunted. The scarce and troubled hours of sleep were all evident in the dark circles under her eyes, but it was nothing a little egg-white couldn't temper.

When she arrived at the banquet, Aemond was already there, standing in his usual soldierly stance, intent on talking to his mother. She approached them from the side, Aemond's blind side precisely, so that when she announced herself, he had to turn his shoulder to look at her. He cast a glance at her hair, ran his eye over her entire figure. She wasn’t expecting any kind of sappy words, and certainly not in front of his mother, nor did she desire them. She could feast on that look alone.

Queen Alicent excused herself to give order about the banquet, and they were left alone, while some musicians gathered in a corner of the hall.

“You said you would join me. I thought they abducted you.”

“More or less.”

“Ah. Yes, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you to listen to the lords snapping like little soldiers at your command.”

“It pains me to acknowledge how little you know me, when you think I'd rather talk war with those wimps who can't even hold a sword than fuck my wife till dawn.”

“That was your plan?”

“We have some unfinished business, don’t we? And don’t play dumb. You’re wearing green. You’re not as subtle as you think you are either.”

“Good. I’m sick of subtleties. So, are you going to ask me to dance?”

Aemond rolled his eye and gave her a stare that told her he’d preferred to walk barefoot on lava.

“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”

Prince Daeron suddenly appeared between them, with his cheerful manner and his head of silver curls, dressed in dark green just like his older brother. “Strange. You were the only one listening to the lessons when we were children.”

“Yes, because you and Aegon acted as court jesters the whole time.”

“I’ll have you know, brother, I have refined my dancing skills in Oldtown. So…may I dance with my good sister?”

Aemond gave him a simple nod, and Daeron bowed to her gallantly, raising his palm up.

She kindly accepted the invitation and placed her hand on his. “Don’t sulk too much.” She whispered to her husband before following his brother.

Aemond watched closely as they started to dance, stealing all the attention, and despite that little primitive tug at the sight of his woman dancing with another man, even though that was his brother and there was absolutely nothing malicious in his or her intentions, he was glad to see her like this, spinning and twisting around instead of lying still in the cold with dread eating her alive.

When the dance ended, Daeron escorted the Princess back to Aemond and took his leave. “Remind me again,” she asked as she watched the young Prince leave “How is it that your brother is still unmarried?”

Aemond sighed deeply and took her arm to escort her to the table. “I’d give you one week before you’d get bored of him.”

While they waited for dinner, the lords and ladies of the court were obviously very eager to hear Prince Daeron. Alicent in the first place, after so much despair, and after being separated from her youngest son for years, seemed to smile with her eyes every time she heard him speak.

“Hear, hear!” one of the lords cheered after listening to Prince Daeron’s retelling of the Battle of the Honeywine. “A brave soldier and a brave dragon rider! I propose a toast.”

At once, everybody stood up, raising their glasses. “To Prince Daeron, to House Targaryen!”

“And to House Hightower.” The Prince proudly stated, raising his glass towards his mother.

As they sat back, the Queen ordered the servants to serve the dinner. The table was gradually filled with a great variety of dishes, many of them Prince Daeron's favourites, specifically ordered by his mother to make him feel at home. It had been weeks and weeks since such a banquet had been seen at King's Landing. Prince Daeron seemed very pleased and grateful, as did all those present who watched the rich dishes crowd the table, and lastly, the huge tray of fresh fruit that a servant laid in the middle.

“I can’t quite believe my eyes. Blackberries? This far in the season?” said Lady Bracken.

“I’m afraid that is entirely my fault.” The Princess chirped, catching Aemond’s attention from across the table.

“I had a sudden craving, while I was carrying Aenar.”

“I had one too with my first.” Lady Redwyne joined in. “Plums, specifically.”

“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”

“Oh, very much indeed.” She stated, casting an innocent glance around, but lingering for just a moment longer on her husband. “I devoured so many…I still feel the taste on my tongue.”

Devious woman, he thought, fighting back his cursed smirk. He had half a mind to excuse themselves and retire to their chambers, if he managed to endure it all the way and not take her in the middle of a hallway.

She seemed able to read his mind, judging by the way she was looking at him, unfurling a napkin on her lap. He knew her well enough to foresee when she was in a teasing spirit, and he was all in for it.

But then, just when they were about to start eating, her trusted maid came in, going straight to the Princess. “Apologies your Grace.” she said to her ear “but the Princeling is awake.”

Aemond saw the concern instantly widening her eyes and then a shadow passing over her face. “Yes…” she said, and stood up talking to all the present. “My apologies. I must retire.”

“See?” said Lady Bracken as Aemond watched his wife leave the hall. “This is why I refused to breastfeed. No matter how my second would scream…”

By the time she had done breastfeeding, her chest hurt so much that the maid had to place some rags soaked in cold water directly on her nipples; the instant relief had made the Princess close her eyes and almost moan. She had planned to go back to the banquet as soon as Aenar had had his fill but as she gained relief by pressing those wet rags to her breasts, she realised her son wouldn’t let her get away that easily.

As soon as the maid had taken him, trying to put him to sleep, he had begun to fuss and wriggle, whining in what she knew would soon turn into a high-pitched, deaf inducing crying.

Perhaps he’s cursed too. She had thought exhaustingly, promptly kissing his silver little head.

She gave up on her plan to go back to the banquet and rocked the baby herself, pacing before the windows while whispering sweet soothing words.

As soon as he had dozed off, she put him in his crib and absent-mindedly grabbed a book from Aemond's desk, lazily leafing through it while rocking the cradle with the other hand.

Aemond finds her like this when he opens the door on his way back from the banquet. She looks up from the page and sees him striding purposefully towards her, snatching the little book in her hands and throwing it on the bed.

She’s shocked, to say the least. One might say he treats books far better than his subjects.

“What—“ she tries to say but he takes her hand and pulls, forcing her to stand up and follow his steady gait.

“Aemond?” she asks down the corridor, a girlish grin climbing on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t bother to answer but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out. They stop before a door down the corridor opposite to their chambers, Aemond pushes her inside without so much grace and shuts the door behind them. 

She looks around briefly; the room is warm, the fire in the hearth is lit, as the candles scattered all around. This is all familiar. “These are my old chambers…” she says with a little frown, turning to him.

“Quite the observer, wife.” He drawls, and takes a few steps. His stride is different now. Slow, contemplating, as his gaze raking over her, as if he in the first place doesn’t know why he brought her here and he’s assessing what to do. A war map, and he knows where all the faults lie.

“I thought we could spend some time together” he starts, walking past her to go sit near the fire “Alone.” he adds once he leisurely sits down, crossing his long legs and resting his hands on the armrests. “What better place than a vacant room? No one will come looking for us here.”

She tries as hard as she can to stop the little smirk at the corner of her lips; she walks closer, stopping right in front of him, staring down. “They might hear.” 

“Hmm. And that is much of a trouble for you, isn’t it?” he asks with the most fake genuine tone, taking a cup from the nearby table, and then “You sucked my cock on a terrace and begged me to fuck you in the Small Council…I thought I told you to quit your act.”

She smiles openly now, watching the wine pouring in the cup, his eye fixed on the liquid as his eyebrow shots up. “Besides, I know exactly what to do to muffle your noises.”

“You should be proud of my noises.”

“I am.” He says, taking a sip of wine, his eye piercing through her above the cup’s brim. “But for once, Aegon is right. I’m not one for sharing.”

His arm moves to put the wine aside but she takes it, only to feel his hand pulling the cup away from her. “You cannot drink.”

“Fine.” She concedes, leaning on him. “I’ll have it my way.”

She holds his face and with her left hand she glides her fingers on the left side of his face, delicately but with purpose, pushing the eyepatch off. And then she kisses him, eagerly, licking his lips and then breaching inside to taste the wine on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth.

She sighs deeply when he locks his tongue with hers, and feels his lips curling.

“Did you hear it?” He says breaking the kiss, breathing into her mouth. “That one is my favorite.”

“Your favorite what?” She asks mindlessly, chasing his lips but to no use, because he tilts his head back, his cursed smirk ghosting.

“Noise. It’s a little thing…” he tells her, locking one hand around her neck “in the back of your throat, close to a sigh but not quite…” his fingers trails against her throat, chasing her swallowing “It tells me you’re dying to.”

“To do what?”

“Fall on your knees for me. Be a supplicant.”

She grabs the back of his neck, driving his head close and looks down at his arched mouth “You cannot live without God, can you?” She looks up, her mouth open to breathe “Seven of them seem to have cursed me. I had to find my own.”

His eye widens at that. He looks straight into her eyes, so devoted, so raw. She’s right. The Gods would curse her some more if they saw she looks at him the way she should look at the Gods.

“Then do it.”

“What?”

“Flatteries don’t work on me, sweetling. You should know that.” With his hand on her neck, he slightly pushes her away, making some distance between them. “You will have to show me.”

“What would you have me do?”

His hands let go of her completely, resting on the armchair. The gemstone glints blue, and yet it’s nowhere near the bright cursed thing in his eye. “Get on your knees for me. Now.”

She should be ashamed of the pull in her bones, the muscles willing to move on their own accord and fall to the ground. But why, why does it have to be sin? Why can it not be religion?

When her knees hit the ground, she sees his chest rise, his long fingers spreading flat on the armchair. But her eyes fly back to his face as soon as he speaks, as soon as he commands. “Take off your dress.”

His eye sinks down, watching her hands work the corset, steadily. It’s the only sound in the room, this tugging, at the dress. But she tugs at his cock too. She tugs between her own legs.

When the dress is nothing but a pool of green on the ground, she goes to pull down her white chemise, but she suddenly stops. Aemond uncrosses his legs and the air hitches in her throat as his hands go straight to his belt, unbuckling it.

He revels in the little lump in her throat. Perhaps later he will let her have what she’s craving, but not so soon. “Give me your wrists.”

“My—”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

Swallowing, she keeps her eyes on him and raises her hands, like an offering. Aemond takes off his belt and leans forward, enough to take her hands and cross her wrists. She shudders at the sharp tug when he wraps the leather around, tying them tight.

“On your feet.”

And up she goes, testing her hands briefly but finding soon that she cannot move them, at all.

“Come.”

It takes one swift movement of his leg, bending the knee while the other rests loosely on the ground, for her to get the gist and walk closer, sitting on his knee, sideways.

“No. Like this.” Quite harshly, he grabs her hips and turns her so that she’s straddling his thigh. He can hear her little gasp when he pushes his thigh firmly against her core. He can feel her warmth through the fabric, stirring his cock. But he pays it no mind, for now.

“What now?” She asks, poised precariously on his thigh. 

Aemond tilts his head, and he just looks at her. In the spur of a moment, a boyish one that doesn’t sit well with how he’s built, he thinks he might be quite contented by merely looking at her. Because she’s beautiful and mine, mine, mine.

But his hands are burning, they might fray and wither if he doesn’t touch her. He unties her hair, running his fingers through them as they fall around her shoulders. The Maiden. The Mother. And yet something better, something worse. Because her eyes are hungry, her mouth is starving for air, for his flesh.

“You must toil to find God.” He says, and then he grins. A savage thing, full of promise. “Bring yourself to come.”

A flash of thrill lights up her face, darkens her eyes and Aemond tilts his head again, biding all the time in the world, for he knows she will.

Tentatively, she pushes her body down, against his thigh, feeling a timid shot of pleasure traveling up from her core, ending in a short, labored breath.

That noise, that might be his second favorite.

Soon, her hips start to move back and forth, each time trying to push herself down as hard as she can, making little breathless cries each time she fails to give herself the friction she needs. She has little balance due to her tied wrists, so she rests her palms on his chest to gain some leverage. And that seems to do the trick.

She tilts her head back, moving faster, doing little jumps on his thigh, panting harshly as sweat lumps on her forehead and pleasure coils in her belly.

Aemond hikes up her chemise, watches her cunt brushing back and forth against his leg, leaving a trail of wetness on the fabric of his breeches. He has to choke down a growl. “Gods, you’re soaking me…”

She looks down at him, her cheeks pink, her lips open in a little o. He can’t help himself. He sticks two fingers inside and how relishing it is that she waits for no invitation or order. She laps, twirls her tongue around his fingertips, sucks them.

“Look at you…” he croons, taking his fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva down her chin. “But you can’t, can you? Perhaps I should fuck you before a mirror, so you see. You see how pretty you are when you’re desperate for me.”

His hand travels down her neck, tossing her hair back and then grasping the strap of her chemise, pulling it down, revealing her swollen, turgid breast. He leans forward immediately, cupping it in his hand, and takes the nipple into his mouth, crooning contentedly and then some more when he feels her wince and cry out loud.

Her tied wrists writhe in their merciless hold and he stops her, gripping both her hands with one of his own, keeping her still, lapping and sucking at her nipple until he feels something wet and saccharine on his tongue, humming all the better. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, and she cries out again, bucking violently against him, turning sloppy and frenzy as she feels the fall close.

He feels it too, feels her thighs trembling around him, and that’s when he takes her hips in a tight hold and forces her to stop altogether.

“Did you think I would make it so easy?” he asks spitefully, seeing her dazed expression. Wasting no time, he holds her firmly close to him and stands up. It takes him only two of his long steps to reach the bed and place her above. In a moment of illusive freedom, her tied wrists fly to his breeches, to his evident hardness, but he’s quick to stop her, bringing her arms above her head, keeping them there with a firm hold. “Stay still.”

“Aemond—“ she pleads.

“Hush. Spread your legs.”

She obliges, eager for him to do something, anything to stop the aching. Aemond wets his fingers on his tongue and brings them down, breaching inside her with two of them, watching her gasp, arch her back and twist her wrists in his hold, uselessly. “Easy…” he cruelly laughs “I have just started.”

But she hasn’t. She’s a few steps away from the precipice of her previous denied peak, it would take him so little to push her over the edge. Instead, his torture is so slow that the whole coiling in her belly falls apart and she must climb her peak again.

His two fingers slip in and out ever so easily, their wet sounds echoing through the room, mixed with her panted breaths and his own. He aches for her to touch him, he aches so much that his cock is pulsing, painfully, but this is just too thrilling. Now he knows exactly how she felt in Harrenhal, when she had him chained up to a chaise.

Her hips rock frantically against his hand, trying to speed him, to get there faster. Mumbling nonsense, her legs tense like iron, her cunt clenches and sucks his fingers in like a vice. “Yes…yes, please…Aemond…please don’t stop—‘m so close…”

And just like that, he slips his fingers out; a dark pleasure dances on his candle-lit features as she writhes and whines for the loss of his fingers, swinging her lower back and forth, desperate for the barest friction that would end her misery.

“Aemond, please…” she says, and even with only one eye, he can’t mistake the tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes.

“What, my love?”

“Plea—” she’s cut off by his hand, pushing his sticky fingers inside to make her clean up her mess.

“We said enough with subtleties, did we not? Speak. Tell me…what you need me to do?”

“Let me come please…please…”

At that, he finally lets her wrists go, and she almost winces in pain, for the time she had them tensed above her head. He stalls for a moment, unsure, running his eye over her whole body, sweating and feverish, and so beautifully plump because of motherhood. He unbuttons his doublet, and then his shirt, his breeches. He bares himself completely, catching her eyes following his deft hands everywhere, breathing heavily.

He kneels between her legs, spreading them. And it’s embarrassing, really, the way she tumbles as soon as he puts his tongue flat against her drenched folds. If only she cared.

It takes only a couple of twirls of his tongue around her lips, and she comes undone, shaking all over, canting her slit against his face. He helps her ride out her climax, by not stopping at all. Instead, he doubles his efforts like a man possessed, pushing his mouth open against her cunt as if he wished to devour it, sucking harshly until she whimpers hard, choking on a loud sob. “Aemond—wait—I can’t—”

She cannot take more so soon. But he’s utterly deaf to her complaints.

He feasts on her, lapping and dipping his tongue in, parting her folds to go as deep as he can, humming while drinking all of her; his voice reverberates through her flesh, it makes her bones rattle.

His long nose rubs against her bud and he looks up: she trashes about the sheets, cutting herself as the belt leather scratches her skin. She tries to push him away with her tied wrists, to no use. She clamps her legs around his head, in a desperate attempt to chase him away, sobbing for the unbearable stimulation. And yet…and yet her hips move on their own whim, bucking with sharp jolts until the wave starts to rise, higher and higher, and she drowns in it, letting go a high-pitched cry, clutching his scalp with both her tied hands, scraping, pushing him against her as she rides her peak against his face.  

He swallows everything, licking her clean, moaning softly at feeling her pulsing on his tongue.

“Enough…I—Aemond you have to stop…” she rasps breathlessly.  

“Why?” he asks, finally rising from where he had perched himself; he climbs on her, until he speaks to her face. “I am only making up to you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

She can smell herself on him, she can see herself, glistening on his mouth, chin, even his cheekbones.

“Answer me.” His hand grips her jaw “You said you wanted everything.”

She chokes down a whimper when he leans completely on her, feeling his cock against her cooling flesh, while he’s hot and hard and heavy.

“I will give you more.” He says, brushing a strand of her sweat-soaked hair from her temple. “I will give you another child. Keep you all aching and wet for me while you swell with my child. Do you think I don’t know? How you ached for me? D’you think I didn’t?” he presses himself down, so she can feel it thoroughly, furrowing her brow as her body already answers to his call.

 “I can feel you in our bed…” he keeps rasping “rubbing your legs together. And you know how much that bothers me. Your pleasure is mine to take…and to give.”

Her lips part, gasping roughly. She was so hung on his lips that she hadn’t even registered that he had taken hold of himself, bending her knee on his left hip, and guided himself in.

She arches against him while he slowly sheathes himself all the way in, moaning with long-awaited relief. He stays still for a moment, adjusting, but also because he takes her wrists and sets her hands free.

Thrilling as it was, he wants her hands on him, he craves her touch.

He wants her to cling to his shoulders as she always does, digging her nails down.

He wants her to clamp her fingers on the back of his neck, scraping and pulling his hair to keep him close enough to moan into his mouth.

He wants her hands on his back, sliding down, to push him even deeper while rutting inside her.

And she does all of that. She finds God.

[entitled-fangirl]

Game of Thrones Masterlist

Back to Main Masterlist

Cregan Stark

#drew drools over cregan stark

Cregan Stark masterlist.

Robb Stark

A change of sigil.

Jace Velaryon

#drew drools over jace velaryon

I won’t burn you. SMUT

I can't promise that.

Unknown.

Staying warm. SMUT

Aemond Targaryen

I hate you.

The middle of war. Part 2

Thunder.

Reading late.

Chance. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

The crown.

Gwayne Hightower

Lady Hightower.

Cheeky. SMUT

Never happier.

A good father.

Foolish.

Sweet nephew.

Benjicot Blackwood

Devotion.

Violence through his veins.

Aegon Targaryen II

A ratcatcher's wife.

Rumors and the bastards of one Aegon Targaryen II.

[xxnymeriatargaryenxx]

being aemond’s wife consists of sitting on his lap and stroking his hair while he comes up with battle strategies 💜

also — the way this chair is designed is kinda perfect for riding him…. dont you think?

[g1rlken]

┏ Like real people do 2. ┐

Aemond Targaryen x wife!daemon’s daughter reader

⋆˚࿔ read part 1 here ˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

summary: blood and cheese, where daemon [the best dad (satire)] also orders for his daughter smuggled back to him, violent aftermath

an: there is no brothel Aemond subplot involved

word count: 5.2k

warnings: blood and cheese, canon violence, violence, daddy issues being mocked, arguments, once again blood and cheese

The war was afoot, degeneracies increasing, treacherous plans and endless councils. Amidst all of that y/n still found time to pay Haelena a visit as frequently as she could. Both of them had found impeccable friends in each other and the twins were always a delight. Striding through the halls of red keep, prodding her head inside with a soft knock on the queen's doors which were wide open as it is, "look!" y/n entered with a wide smile on her face. Twirling around she showed Haelena the dress she wore, it was a dress Haelena had embroidered for her with special spiders and other custom animals. Haelena had remarked on y/n's elegantly plain dresses, the edges could all use embroidery and y/n was more than glad to let Haelena design on her dress. "You made it so much better, the small bugs in blue thread it’s so beautifully assembled-" before she could comment more on the beauty of her queen sister's embroidery she was there to showcase, y/n was under attack of her niece and nephew, "why good morrow to you two!" she giggled as the two tugged at her dress for consecutive raise-me-ups. 

"I am very glad!" Haelena said offering her a smile as she scanned those designs, Haelena was warmly elated that y/n chose to wore the dress she had embroidered and the fact that she let her do it in the first place.

"You must teach me your ways" y/n commented whilst actively engaging with jaehaerys and jaehaera, she couldn't carry both the babies at the same time but she was trying to entertain them regardless, the two were latched to their auntie's knees like monkeys.

"I could always make you more, save you the time!" Haelena offered instead, she tried to distract whichever one of the children with a toy but both were way too smitten with their ever so busy aunt, now that she had the council she spent supposedly lesser time with the twins.

"That too would be so convenient!" Y/n said, Jaehaera was raised on her back, making mischief with her aunt as she tried to close her eyes with her tiny hands from behind. Both the twins laughing as she did so, regardless y/n laughed along trying to maintain her balance the best.

"That is enough..." Haelena trailed off in amusement as she helped Jaehaera off of y/n's back. The babe did not let go before whining about it, jaehaerys still tugging at his aunt's dress to get her to bend down so he could talk.

"It's alright" let out a small chuckle y/n's attention was caught down to the little heir pulling at her dress, for her to bend to his level. "Yes little prince?" She asked, attentive to her nephew's whims and demands.

"You said you were going to read to me" Jaeherys reminded her in a rather witty sense, having a sense of one upping her since she forgot about it.

"Oh did I now?" She paused for a second trying to remember when exactly was the reading session arranged for.

"Yes! The-the one with the fox and the-crows...where you do the voice!" The little prince was soon to remind her of which exact story they had left off from. He liked it better when his auntie read it to him than the wet nurses or his mum because she often did those giddy voices and the stories she read in were more entertaining than the ones with septa.

"Gods I must have forgotten" she said in a somewhat melodramatic tone to make the child think she took their reading session as a serious matter, "I have got some work on my hands at the moment but I assure you I will come continue the story-"

"When!" Jaeherys whined with a sort of tired expression given the delay in his story.

"Tonight." She answered genuinely, "Right after dinner!"

"Do you promise?" He asked wanting to take her aunty's word for proper surety.

"I promise." She said holding his tiny hands in hers giving them a gentle squeeze to assure him of her promise. Kissing both her niece and nephew on the forehead as she stood up, in attempt to take her peace Haelena stopped her.

"Are you not afraid?" Asked her sister in law with a tense look on her face, like those times when she would be out of it. As if she spoke another language and saw other things. "When the stones call you back?"

"What...what stones?" She asked, at first y/n thought Haelena was referring to some palace. Could this be in correlation to something with the council, is what y/n presumed.

"The stones. They will call you back!" Haelena gripped her elbows tighter, to emphasise the gravity of the situation she felt. "They'll take you away!"

"Nobody is taking anyone away..." y/n trailed off, shaking her head slightly as she ran her hand down Haelena's in a soothing way. "We are all safe here and there is nothing to be scared of. I promise you. I am not going anywhere." She assured her. Y/n assumed that it would worry Haelena to lose the best friend she had in herself if she were to go back because of the war waging. In her father's name perhaps, her worry was not unsolicited but y/n was sure her father's was a house not hers that is even before her marriage with Aemond.

Haelena could never seem to get her point across for some reason, she couldn't digest her wearies in a coherent way herself so she nodded with a small smile. The restlessness still consistent within her as y/n took her leave. Ever since the intimate moment with Aemond, their relationship had grown rather awkward. Aemond was closed off as always, unable to convey his infatuation. Awkward in this area, the young lovers found it difficult to navigate through a conversation. Bristling fingers through glasses, stealing glances, speaking out their love in small gestures.

That did not account for the fact that the council matters too seeped into the newlywed's marital bliss phase. Aemond too had a seat now, on the king's word. He would attend those meetings and at times the two would have drastically counter opinions. His lady wife, she would sit in the same line of seats after the hand and his mother. Speaking their minds against him, just as they had intended for her. A council within the council. "All you do is account for grand sire and mother, no such thoughts of your own. A mere puppet." Aemond scoffed as they were currently in a conversation in their chambers reflecting to that day's council meeting.

The day was at its end and as was y/n, end of her wits. His bickering was just what she needed, "And you?" she said in a tone more accusatory than his, rightfully so "all you add to the discussions is the warpath Ser Criston weaves."

"I stand for it, you just chew out what the council within the council spews" he scoffed, coming out harsher than intended but now this had become usual."I know you informed the hand of my meetings with Cole."

"Didn't do it as a snitch, had you asked me I would have told you I informed the hand." Y/n said trying to counter his condescending remarks. She wasn't a 'puppet' how he implied "Just because I do not agree with you doesn't make me a puppet to those with better judgment than yours."

"Better judgment than mine?" He let out a low huff finding it absurd that she believed Otto and his mother had a better judgment over the war than his, "you think writing to other castles, pleading, awaiting their help whilst we have three large dragons is a better judgement?"

"And what? What do you plan to do with the dragons? Burn all those against us?" She asked him growing agitated having this conversation again, "You are in favour of a lot of unnecessary bloodshed-"

"It is necessary. To make an example, to lay out a path." Aemond interrupted her, taking in a small breath "Raise your banners or watch them burn. This is what the blacks are already set to implement whilst we sit hand on hand sending out messengers!"

"You want to create a sense of fright! That is all you will accomplish with burning houses." She said in an assertive tone as she crossed her arms. This is what Ser Criston had told him too, the words struck him a small remembrance.

"Are you eavesdropping my meetings with Cole?" He questioned, as the reference resembled similar words to Cole's. Cole didn't exactly have the same notion as his wife but the words were vaguely same.

"You sit right across this room" she gestured to the adjoining room after their bedchamber. The small opening after their room led to the table against the wall where Cole and Aemond had their meetings, "The meetings you have after you assume I'm asleep, as it is too loud enough for me to not eavesdrop or be able to sleep."

"Of course" he couldn't help but roll his eyes, "You must have told the hand about it word for word yes? Like a parrot"

"Don't think of yourself too highly, your conversations are rather predictable even to those who aren't present" she replied. He wasn't wrong that she informed the hand about it but she took accountability for that.

"At least my conversations hold a spine" in two strides he reached the table she was leaning on to pour himself a glass of wine, "Unlike yours, but well that is what was intended for you" he shrugged.

For a moment, y/n sighed shutting her eyes "What are you implying?" She asked trying to maintain a calm composure because she was aware he would have words that would make antagonise her.

"You know, why you are in the council in the first place" he said in casual harshness. "Otto needed someone to voice his opinions like the righteous little lady that you are."

"I am on the council because of the seat I have inherited through my father." Y/n referred to the original conversation for her being on the council, he wasn't even part of that decision yet acted like he knew better than anyone. Smugly sipping his wine as he set his cup aside, the inherent smirk on his face irritated her to no end.

"You are claiming the father's seat who didn't even want to claim you?" He scoffed, Aemond could attest for the fact that he did not hate her in full surety. Rather fond of her too, but he was fond of his lady wife. The soft lover he did not knew he needed, big eyes that held love for everything they were laid upon. Tenderness and warmth seeping out the cracks of her which would mend the hollow cracks in him but it was the council member in her, otto's silent weapon which he could not stand.

In the process of wanting to get back at righteous council member he couldn't stand he truly hurt the daughter that begged for her world to sun, tears brimmed her eyes and she could not help it. She struck him across the face, the nerve of him. Shattered the home she thought she might finally have. He simply flinched at her action, his eyes widened a bit not at her gesture but at her tears. Registering her tears before the slap she landed her, at loss of words. "Leave." She spoke with a shuddered breath, couldn't even meet his eyes. Feeling stripped of the hope and pride she spent days building. Y/n had never raised a hand to anyone, that didn’t exactly harm Aemond in any way still the gesture in itself made her feel ugly after a moment’s silence marinated the interaction.

Without saying a word Aemond did leave, he didn't want to retaliate with her in any way. Because in that very moment both of them took a misstep and he did not want that moment to last longer. In a few strides he was out of their chambers. Y/n gripped the table to steady herself as the tears streamed down her face, a restlessness made home within her chest as she took heavy breaths.

The weight of all her despair was so heavy, at times she would just shut them in case and shove them deep inside her heart and inside her mind so she wouldn't have to face them in retrospect. It all just felt so inescapable, how she begged to be her father's daughter and how she was rejected the whole time. Now, farther away from him, bit by bit being at peace with the people she now surrounded herself with. Even in such state of distress she didn't feel alone any longer, she even felt loved. As far stretched as it sounded she even felt at ease with Aemond and he shattered all of it with just one sentence.

She lost the track of time since the moments of Aemond walking out as she just stood there falling apart, but when she felt some footsteps behind her she wiped her tears trying to compose herself. If there was anything she learned from her father it was that, nobody ever cared how much you fall apart so don't give them a reason to hold against you. Daemon always hated weeping children. Quickly she wiped her tears, she wouldn't want Aemond to think of her weak in these times. With a deep sigh she turned to face the footsteps she assumed was Aemond.

Apparently it wasn't. "Yes?" She asked with furrowed brows to the stranger who just walked into the room, not even a knock or an announcement like the guards or servants. The man wasn't even dressed like a guard or a servant. She stood alarmed taking a step further into the table as the man forwarded towards here without a word. "Guard-" she tried to yell as loud as she could but the man grabbed her head in a swift motion and shoved her into the table's edge. As if to knock her unconscious.

"Not another word or I kill you." Blood said with his hands around her neck, about to choke her as she struggled against him. Trying to grasp against his hands on her, trying to suffocate her she kicked her legs. Tried to scream regardless of his warning. With an extreme distaste for her, obviously, in blood's eyes the princess wasn't even worth so much and too much trouble to smuggle out. "Your daddy wants you back."

-

By the time the guards did find the princess, in the hallways, she was already half unconscious. Immediately rescued into the safest place in the keep, the council. Retrieved but not at all unharmed. The council was already set into course for the subject of the young prince when Larys walked in with y/n. He had previously informed her of what had happened with her nephew, his passing it hadn't really struck her yet given she could barely process all that had happened.

Queen alicent gasped as she stood up quickly running to y/n's side, all the bruises on her face, open cuts and bleeding out the torn sleeves in her dress. "Gods..." she exclaimed in horror as she helped her onto her seat. "What happened to her?" She asked Lord Larys.

"The guards found the intruder, trying to smuggle the princess out of the keep. A gold cloak known for his brutal nature, found with her, having inflicted his brutality upon her and...the prince's head, in a sack." He briefed the council as they all listened to him, everyone else but the king at loss of words. As Lord Larys left alicent was still tending to y/n, cooing at her, she seemed to be in a half conscious state.

"I am alright" she muttered to her mother in law as Alicent nodded but held her hand in hers to provide her whatever consolation she could. Just the sight of having suffered such assault sent the queen into a huge distress. Weakly holding her hand back as if to steady herself into this nightmare. When Lord Larys told her of Jahaerys's tragedy she did not believe it at all. She was confidently positive there must be some mistake in his information because that would not be possible at all.

If it wasn't for Aegon screeching in the background, y/n couldn't make out if she was actually awake in this very moment. The ringing in her ears still hadn't gone out and she wished that she would perish with that same ringing if it were to happen because living through this seemed so difficult. No way to navigate, circumstance so heavy she felt paralysed to meet anyone's face. Aegon was screeching as he wept for his son, blind with rage to kill the man found guilty for the crime. The member advised otherwise saying the king has a lot of enemies and they don't know for sure whose hand it could be.

"I suppose you are right..." Aegon trailed off slowly pacing down the table back to his seat, with an accusatory demeanour towards everyone else "it could be anyone of you, in this room."

A small silence fell, strengthening the tension and grief in the room as y/n just stared at the empty seat beside her. That very morning, just the day prior, where her nephew sat. Then Aemond after him, empty now. "It was Daemon." She declared of what she knew for sure, first time in her life she referred to Daemon with his first name instead of her father. After everything that he did, every misery she endured at the hands of her father, what happened now made her want to be distanced and foreign from him as much as she could. "His doing." She breathed and looked at the council, the drained colour on everyone's face she just registered-it was blinding her. "The man—the gold cloak" she continue, "trying to get a hold of me, h-he—he said 'your daddy wants you back.'" Repeating the words sent a chill down her spine as if she was in that very moment again, she still felt those hands on her, suffocating and heavy. A disgusting play in the mix. “That man came here, on Daemon’s order.”

The rest were comprehending that still, how a man could be so crude not only killing a child but having his own assaulted and kidnapped back home like this? " In one sense, as we determine what happened and...if we in the keep are still in peril. In another sense of course...it doesn't matter." Otto said and looked at Y/n. The princess surely did not seem to understand the hand's implication.

However Lord Tyland did so, "You mean to blame Rhaenyra." He said in a beat. "Tell the realm she had done this." Tyland spoke out Otto's implication.

"I'll have the realm told nothing! We were assaulted within our own walls, within our own beds!" Aegon spoke up almost immediately "Y/n, my brother's wife! The fucking princess almost beaten unconscious—being smuggled out?" He emphasised on the word brother, enraged even for his sister in law and the lack of his brother's presence when it must have mattered the most. "I will not be seen as weak!"

"You are already seen as weak aegon." Otto replied once again sending the king into a manic breakdown as he threw around more cups and vases. Otto theorised about how important it was to name Rhaenyra as a cruel person. Killer of infants, despite of whose direct orders those were. The narrative would be what they made.

"You would change, the blood that is on daemon's hand just to spite Rhaenyra." Y/n questioned, red eyes and characteristically on the verge of tears since she walked in here. Alicent found it so hard to look at her face, the cuts and bruises, poor thing. The heavy torment inside her head must be unimaginable, Alicent thought whilst holding y/n's hand a bit tighter. It felt like one of those moments when she was just a child, so many years ago. She would recall, the girl child was such a loner, always speaking in short words that is if spoken to. The shy little girl, who would just sit in a corner and colour or read. So much like her Aemond yet so different. When they would be in public settings, too many people, she would meekly hold Alicent's hand. Amongst all those unfamiliar faces. Little y/n just deemed Alicent familiar, comfortable. What was so wholesome years ago held such horror now. Alicent holding the lady's hand to provide her comfort her words won't be able to, the protection she could not. "Why won't you paint that man for the monster that he is?!" Y/n spoke as her voice broke, it felt unfair. Daemon not being held accountable yet again.

"Because, Daemon isn't the pretender to the throne. He would be the king consort. Banners are being declared for Rhaenyra, not in his name." Otto explained, to his preference narrative was just a useful toy. One name here or there did not make a difference.

"That is unfair." She said shaking her head, tears brimmed her eyes, taking in short breaths. In all these council meetings she did not speak up against Otto considering him respectable and more learned yet today, "how can you keep on accounting for him...again and again?!" Y/n asked but she was begging in agony. "Y-You were here. Always present. And you never did anything—all his heinous crimes! You always had the opportunity to hold him responsible and you did nothing!" She exclaimed, not being able to help herself as she thought back to a conversation at this very table. A conversation she must not have been there for, but the hand would have.

"It is perhaps your shock and grief speaking for you." Otto replied, not moved by the young lady's accusations at all. "I for one, do not understand your place of reference"

"When he murdered my mother!" Y/n said, growing more and more restless with her speech. Otto must be right, it was all the piled up grief inside of her speaking for her in this very moment but she could not let the monster that was her father be off the hook again, "You could've held a proper council, had him pay for what he did and we wouldn't be seeing this day today! We have that chance now and yet again you would rather Rhaenyra take the blame for his barbarism!"

Otto felt silent for a moment, the girl's rage was justified to the extent of him having no answer for her but he knew to trust his wit more, "I cannot undo...my regrets. I assure you I hold a lot of remorse in having a part in letting daemon go from daemon to the rogue prince and now this...monster. But if we don't do this, he would become king consort. The word consort is a feeble adjective." What he said was supposed to make sense to y/n but she could not see past the rage and need for vengeance she held against her father. Looking away, she wiped her tears. "A funeral progress. Let them see the child. Let them look upon the works of this pretender to the throne." Otto proposed once y/n was assuming-ly settled.

"Father" Alicent said with weary and concerned eyes, such tragedy being shouted out as a public funeral procession sounded so vain.

"My king..." Otto waited for Aegon's presumedly understood voice.

"No..." Aegon answered firmly "I will not have my little son's body dragged through the street like a dead dog." As he said that y/n felt nearly faint. To this very moment she did not accept that the child had passed.

"Not dragged, honoured." Otto corrected. "Escorted to the dragon pits to be burned as a Targaryen prince!" Otto went on and on about how he loved his grandson, his heart was in the right place with the grief yet the path he set was in accordance with the warpath. Just plots and schemes. Falling silent, paralysed y/n looked down to her lap. She refused to even register this conversation because it meant registering the fact that a darling child, Jahaerys...was gone.

Aegon couldn't stomach this proposal which came as an already arranged firm announcement either, looking around the room nobody said a word against the hand's plan. "You would say nothing?!" He demanded of y/n, why won't somebody help this mad notion. "Your dear nephew, have you nothing to add?" He was almost begging, hoping she would get the hand to change his mind for this funeral procession. She didn't, y/n just looked up at Aegon and then Alicent, tears in her eyes which just didn't seem to stop flowing. "Mother." Aegon called out when y/n couldn't speak up.

Leaving y/n's side Alicent walk's up to aegon, "the hand sets a difficult path, my darling. But it might be the right one." She told her inconsolable soul.

"Let the silent sisters ready the prince for his final journey." Otto said without waiting a moment for the king or anyone to come forth with opposition "And riding behind him, his mother the queen, the princess and the queen dowager."

"No, I do not wish to be spectacle." Alicent opposed instantly, the weariness and fright in y/n's eyes speaking the same "Especially y/n, not in this state. She can barely talk-stand, she has been terrorised. You can't simply—"

"The realm must see the sorrow of the crown. A sorrow best expressed through its gentle souls." Otto said followed by alicent sighing, then he looked at the side to y/n, "We need to display our heavily victimised as well" he said, the bleeding wounds on her face seemed like little trophies of sympathy to Otto. "I think you'll all agree the king himself must be spared."

-

A deafening silence lingered within Aemond, he had been out, sharpening out his swords, practising. Fucking practising on jute bags when he should've been there. Y/n was in Alicent's chambers because she could not walk into her own, couldn't even take in the sight of it. The thrashed furniture, from her struggling against the intruding gold cloak. The...the sack. In which he had stored the boy's head. Where the man had placed it in her chamber, at the entrance, it had created a circular stain of blood. Jahaerys's blood. She could not even think about the room within those four walls without picturing the insidious crime. She sat on the floor against the bed, windows open and soft white light of the day seeping in yet to y/n it still felt like a night of hailstorm. She didn't even look up to the footsteps of the stride coming inside the room, Aemond. He walked to her, kneeling down to the floor to her level.

Aemond was drenched with so much guilt in his heart, he felt pathetic to even breathe the same air as his lady wife. She had her face turned away from him, he could just see the small cuts on her face, the torn dress, still seeping out dried blood, her weary stature. It was all mortifying in the first place. He was so livid, with himself, with the intruder. Even with Larys, who informed him about the happenings at the last. By the time he rushed back inside the council was already done with. He had nothing he could say to y/n, no way of consoling her either.

It's not as if she would want to be consoled by him too, the emotional support he would want to offer her walked out with him when he walked out after their fight the previous night. With the disturbing things that had happened with her, she had almost forgotten the words he said. She couldn't even remember why she was crying before it all, that sick with grief. Aemond gently held her chin, hesitantly afraid she would turn him away. She had every right to do so. She didn't move him away, had no energy to do so. His heart sank as he saw the blood streaked stitches, poorly done and most of her wounds left untreated. "Why are these open?" He asked her softly, referring to her wounds, "Where are the maesters?"

"The hand, has asked for these to be left raw as they were planted." Y/n briefed him, her voice was so wavering, all that crying. "He means for them to be displayed for the funeral procession...so the realm can see" y/n scoffed softly as she repeated otto's exact words.

"You don't have to go." Aemond told her in a firm way, sure that he could get the hand to change his mind whether he liked it or not because y/n's comfort was his priority.

"No..." she trailed off, in agreement refraining to look at him her voice held no emotion. "But I do. I have to." She continued "Wouldn't want Haelena to be alone"

"Mother would be with her." Aemond added taking her hands in his softly, finally getting her to react to his presence as she looked down upon his gesture. Apparently to take her hands out of his grasp.

"But then I would be alone here..." She trailed off, a hint of frustration and fright in her tone. "I don't want to be alone."

"I would be with you, y/n." Aemond cooed softly fixing the loose strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear as he leant forward. “You won’t be alone.”

"I find myself unable to put faith in you, Aemond." She breathed looking down, she felt like a cornered animal, just so scared and full of distrust. "...in your assurance. I'd rather not."

Aemond had nothing he could say to that. She did not trust the integrity of his principles and rightfully so. He knew he had broken that trust of security within her. "My heart, I apologise for the distress I have caused you. I did not mean any of it" he told her but the heaviness in his heart told him his words would change nothing. She couldn't talk either, bursting into tears and her stitches seemed to hurt because her face moved but she was so much numbed to the physical pain in comparison to how she felt inside. Aemond could just offer her his embrace in this time and that is what he did. Enlacing her into her arms, rubbing her back in soothing circles her let her cry into his chest. "They will pay for this." He muttered softly as he continued to hold her. Even with the pain he made her feel, the distrust and hurt she felt just in seeing Aemond could not let her turn away the familiarity of his comfort. His was the only comfort she had ever known.

-

Once again clarifying that the brothel subplot is absolutely NON EXISTENT in this fic Aemond Targaryen is a lot of things but not a cheater <333

Pls let know what you think about this + added to the tg list🫧

-

🏷️ @love-is-a-dagger @daddzawa @1109002 @void21 @annedub @teapartydreams @batmans-love @ih8books @oopsdownloadedrumblragain-blog @aemondwhoresworld @unsweetenedpeatea @immyowndefender @aleemendoza2425-blog @vane282-blog @atargaryenlover @targaryenswhxre @sabii5 @vibescanner @darylandbethfanforever9

[theghooligan]

daemon and all the ghosts of harrenhall living it up every night:

[pinkykats-place]

Husband!Aemond x Wife!Reader Inserts

HotD FanFic Recommendations

Disclaimers!

The stories linked are not mine.

Some contain mature content.

All readers are female.

Credit to @winterswake and @hoosbandewan for the GIFs.

Note: if you read and enjoy any of these stories please like,reblog and/or comment on original post.

*************************************

Stolen moments under silk sheets (18+)

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of.

Bravery in love

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: For Prince Aemond Targaryen, bravery was in war and fighting. Until he met his wife and learned about different forms of bravery.

Leather gloves, jealous and dragons

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: After the moons pass and Aemond and Lady Y/n's marriage becomes increasingly stronger, there is only one creature capable of keeping the prince away from his wife for more than a few hours, Vhagar. Sometimes Y/n cares, sometimes she doesn't, but if there's one thing she never cares about, it's the thick black gloves that her husband wears when he goes flying.

Nocturnal Torment 

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: As your husband comes back to his chambers in the middle of the night, you finally confront him about his nocturnal whereabouts, and learn about his most shameful secret. 

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 led you both together into love. 

Nepenthe

Aemond x Pregnant!Wife!Reader 

Summary: In the aftermath of the death of Lucerys at Aemond’s hand, Daemon was dead set on vengeance. ‘A son for a son’, that was how the phrase went, and Daemon intended to live by that. It was known that you, Aemond’s wife, were pregnant with your first child. And there was no limit to the revenge Daemon intended to take.

Unabashed

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond wonders whether his pretty new wife is as shy in her sleep as she is awake, and intends to find out.

Electric Touch 

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Following your marriage to Prince Aemond, you did not imagine there would be a bedding ceremony. Nor did you imagine yourself falling so quickly for the one-eyed prince. But you quickly learned he was more than met the eye.

Sweet, Wonderful You 

Aemond x newlywed!fem!Reader 

Summary: Aemond finds himself pleased with his new wife

Sweet Nectar 

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader 

Summary: Aemond feels ever so slightly jealous when he watches his wife feed their babe, he'll have a taste for himself tonight. 

A Cure For A Bad Day

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader 

Summary: Aemond has one of his worst days ever, nothing seems to go right. At night, at least, he gets the company of his new wife as he bathes. 

A Balm

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader 

Summary: You assist Aemond in something and it brings you closer.

Dear Husband

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: It’s been a month since you’ve been wedded to Prince Aemond and he has yet to consummate your marriage. Fed up with waiting, you seek him out and prepare to seduce your own husband. 

Of Flowers & Dragons 

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Your daughter wants a sibling and makes it everyone’s problem. 

Distracting him while he is reading

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

I Come To You A Sinner

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader 

summary: Aemond's wife has been made aware of his whereabouts by Aegon. 

Urgency (smut)

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures

Thou Shalt Not Covet

aemond targaryen x wife!reader, unrequited aegon ii targaryen x reader 

Summary: Aemond is displeased to find his wife alone with his drunken brother.

Wine

aemond targaryen x wife!reader

A Dragon's Lullaby

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: Aemond’s fury is a challenge to contain, but it withers beneath the touch of his wife.

Lay Your Claim

king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader

summary: When rumors questioning his wife's fidelity reach the king's ears, Aemond seeks out answers in his own ways.

Morning Snack

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

synopsis | You're worried about your shape, and your husband's lack of worry about his.

To Touch Fire

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

Pearl of The Realm

Aemond x newlywed!fem!Reader

Summary: Duty meant a lot of things to Aemond. But he had hoped that it would not mean marriage. And when the day comes for him to confront it, he finds with his new wife, small, naiive and innocent, that there is some pleasure to be found there also.

Like real people do

Aemond x newlywed!Reader

summary: The reader is Aemond’s new bride, a match fixed some time before Viserys’s death. Daemon’s daughter through Lady Royce navigates through a difficult now into a new chapter of being married to the one eyed prince, council and war.

Battlefield of women

Aemond x pregnant!wife!reader

In The Comfort of Our Chamber

Aemond (Canon Era) X Wife!Reader

Parallel Lines

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

SUMMARY: He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other. Or at least, try.

A Cure For A Bad Day

Summary: Aemond has one of his worst days ever, nothing seems to go right. At night, at least, he gets the company of his new wife as he bathes.

Your Shame

Summary: Aegon taught his little brother to please a woman. Those memories are so ingrained in his mind he struggles to let go of those teachings.

Sharing is caring

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: Aemond walks in on his wife and sister messing around in his bed, what will he do about this discovery?

Where Death Cannot Reach

Aemond x wife!Reader

Summary: Your husband has been deeply troubled as of late. In an attempt to guide him from his distress, he brings a concern of his to light that only serves to tip you into your own fears.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Nūmioītsos

19/12: Future & Face Sitting - Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.5k~ | Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, oral (f receiving), prince regent aemond A/N: This is in the Pearl of The Realm Universe!

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

It's something he'd dreamt of, but never really envisioned. Perhaps he'd never allowed himself to. With Aegon severely wounded by dragonfire, the conqueror's crown would no longer sit atop his head with ease, so now it sat on his.

It was lighter than he imagined it would be. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was not King. But it was the closest he'd ever be to it.

The aura was strange at the Dragonpit, very much akin to Aegon's in that sense. 

He remembered standing beside Helena as she'd pressed her lips together and curtseyed before her brother-husband, who had become her king and made her his queen. Remembered how she had that distant, forlorn look in her pale violet eyes. Like she knew hardships were coming.

And as Aemond turned to his little pearl to see what expression she wore, he felt his heart ache for her like he had done for his sister.

She was visibly nervous. Clasping her hands at her front, and squeezing for dear life. Her eyes were trained on the space before her, away from anyone else's. He could not blame her. She married a second son. Who would inherit nothing but a name.

She never expected this responsibility, and in a way, above the power that the crown gave him, he felt awful that he could not give his wife, who deserved the world, the peaceful, calm life she always expected.

Not a word was spoken between them, until they reached their chambers, and the doors shut with a heavy thud, like he wanted to shut out that feeling.

“I am sorry…” she whispered suddenly, standing in the middle of the room.

He was transported in his memory back to their wedding night, when she'd apologised, for maybe not being as pretty as he wanted her to be.

She had come a long way, but she still always apologised too much.

He saw her throat bob before she continued, “I could not find the right moment to tell you…”

“What is it, my love”, he replied softly, moving a waved strand of hair from her face with all the sincerity of a husband so irrevocably in love.

Her eyes lifted to meet his gaze, leaning slightly into his hand before she took his one hand in her two small ones, leading it flat to her stomach.

And then he understands.

Her nerves. Her silence.

She was terrified.

And with child.

His face softened instantly despite the incessant weight of the conqueror’s crown on his temples, his violet eye searched her nervous face, as if trying to see what she was thinking.

“I am frightened, Aemond…” she uttered quietly, her cheeks pink and lips pressed together, trying outwardly to stop herself from falling apart and becoming hysterical.

His hand almost entirely covered her belly and he sighed as he rubbed it lovingly, his child inside her made him feel all hazy on love.

“Afraid of what, wife?”

She swallowed thickly before she raised her head, “Afraid of…what this all means for us now,” she replied, her eyebrows arched in worry, “for our child.”

He understood entirely what she meant. And he saw her eyes close contently as his palm rested against her cheek, brushing her hair away, “Oh, my little pearl. I will not let anything happen to you, or our babe.”

When their gazes met, she knew she had nothing but her belief in him. She had to believe him. Though her eyes were moist, with tears rimmed in them with fear of their future, she gave him a gentle smile, choosing to put her faith in her husband entirely.

“I will not have you go to sleep crying”, he whispered, softly running the backs of his fingers over her cheek, seeing her nod weakly.

“Unless you are crying my name”.

She gave a watery laugh, a pleasant smile stretching on her delicate features. And when she met eyes with him again, the smile faded into a blush, finding that her husband was in no mood for shallow promises as his hand drifted from her stomach to that sensitive spot between her legs, even above her thick skirts, she felt herself become warm.

“I-I thought…lords did not lay with their wives if they were…”

Aemond smirked, quite forgetting the crown placed atop his head when he leaned down to lay open-mouthed kisses to her neck, making her shiver.

“It is fortunate that I am no lord then, little pearl”.

His words made a warmth sink between her thighs, clutching onto his doublet tightly like he might disappear in a moment.

She sighed, eyes slipping shut as Aemond kissed and marked at her neck, not noticing that Aemond’s deft hands were undoing the laces of her dress and prying each section apart. It was only when his warm hands chased the curves of her hips and back that she lifted her eyes to him again. 

“Aemond-”

“Hush - do you not wish to please your King?”

The words make her mouth go dry, a chill settling on the little baby hairs on her arms as he tugs the heavy dress off her, like he was desperate to see what was underneath. As if he had not seen her bare since the day they were wed.

He tugged her close to him as he sat on their bed, his face level with her breasts which he mouthed over lovingly, taking one of her nipples between his lips and suckling gently, both his hands tight on her hips.

“Aemond…”

He still loved that, the way she said his name so breathily and needy like that. 

He fought the urge to grin, teasing the stiffened bud with his warm tongue before trailing it to the other.

“Hm - Oh, little pearl, I can hardly wait to see you fat with child - and these so full…”

She gasped in pleasure, a warm feeling sinking to the apex of her thighs. 

And Aemond did grin widely when she squeaked with surprise as her husband laid back on the bed, pulling her on top of him, with her legs either side of his waist.

Being on top was not something she'd done before. And being entirely naked on top of her entirely clothed husband, makes her head spin dramatically.

“Aemond, I…I don't know-”

She shivered as his warm hands traced the outline of her body, “I have not seen that lost, blushing expression in so long, dear wife. Are you nervous?”

She nodded softly, her eyes looking away, wanting to cover herself but knowing that if she tried, it would only inspire him to tear her hands away from herself.

“My sweet, innocent wife…I only wish to taste you.”

Her eyes widen, “Aemond, I do not want to hurt y-”

“You will not hurt me. I want your cunt on my lips, now.”

She could feel her stomach flipping with nerves as Aemond guided her higher, her cheeks aflame with the idea that all this was arousing her in the most forbidden way.

“Relax..”

She could do about anything but relax as Aemond tugged her hips down, a high pitched moan slipping out when she felt his warm tongue part her slick folders and dive in, his moan vibrating through her core as he moved his lips with passion.

He hummed into her womanhood, his fingers sinking into her flesh to keep her flush down to his mouth as he feasted on her. He is sure he could spend forever between her plush thighs, almost forgetting the weight of the crown slipping from his moonlit head as he tasted his queen.

The crown almost slipped all the way off as he hand grasped his hair, her hips moving atop his tongue in micro-movements, “Gods - Aemond-”

With his one eye looking up at her body, he squeezed her thighs tighter, increasing his movements and shifting his tongue up to suckle at her bud, enjoying the way she moaned breathily and tipped her head back.

He happily sucked every bit of release that came from her as he felt her trembling atop him, her fingers tightening in his hair almost painfully as she rode out her high by fucking herself against his needy mouth, prolonging her sweet rapture by sliding his wet muscle through her quivering walls.

She jolted when he placed open-mouthed kisses to her sensitive cunt, his hands soothing where he'd been gripping at her.

Equally, she whined when he pulled his lips from her, looking down at him with flushed cheeks and dreamy, misty eyes. Her husband grinned up at her, as if in victory, the conqueror's crown laid upside down on the bed above his head from the effort of his lust.

She briefly worried she'd upset him by nudging the crown from his head.

And her heart thudded with excitement, as did his, when she leaned down, to place it back atop his head.

Aemond was sure, he had never been more hard in his life at that moment.

And he smirked with mischief as he leaned up, making her sit astride him, still trembling from her release, and unlaced his breeches. 

It may take all night, but gods, he'd make her feel like a queen by the end of it.

Like his queen.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy @fan-goddess

[sapphire-writes]

Disobedience

pairing: Aemond x Wife!Reader request: Hello there! Would u mind doing aemond x wife! reader(the reader has the same attitude and personality as Anastasia Steele from fifty shades if that’s possible) where her husband, aemond punished the reader in his playroom (if possible tho) because she sneaked out to the city all by herself when aemond told her not to bc she could get herself in danger but she’s so stubborn and then her guards found out about it and told aemond straight away and bring her back to the castle and punished her. Pleaseee and thank you. LOVE LOVE LOVEE YOUR FICS BTW! ~ anon note: okay i took some creative liberties with this request but I hope you enjoy!! 💚 warnings: 18+ NSFW ~ spanking, oral (m-receiving) word count: 1.7k masterlist

“You did not have to inform him,” you say to Ser Criston Cole, a deep frown marring your face. Your husband Aemond stands with his back towards you in your shared chambers, as he leans over his desk. You can see the tense muscles of his back. He is angry with you. No.

He is furious. 

Ser Criston looks to the floor, clearly uncomfortable with the energy in the room between the couple.  

“Princess,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “it was Prince Aemond’s wishes that he be informed of any of your…. indiscretions.”

You scoff, crossing your arms across your chest. Of course, your husband would be this dramatic. 

“Going to the clothier is an indiscretion now?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow at the knight. 

You had simply wished to see some new fabrics that had arrived at your favorite clothier in King’s Landing all the way from Myr. 

Ser Criston gives you a pained look.

“I am simply following order, princess,” he tells you, desperate to leave. 

“You may go, Cole,” Aemond says, his voice icy. He does not turn. Ser Criston gives you a bow before leaving you alone with your husband. 

Your eyelashes flutter furiously as you wait for your husband's wrath. In truth, you knew Aemond would not be pleased with your adventures into the streets of King’s Landing. But you had been so very careful, taking only one of your ladies in waiting with you to the clothier. But Cole had found you all the same. 

You had begged him not to tell Aemond of your journey, but of course, the knight did not follow your commands. 

“Husband,” you softly call, as Aemond remains still. You walk over to him and place a hand on his back. 

“You could have been killed,” Aemond says quietly, finally turning to face you, “or worse.”

You take a deep breath. You know Aemond’s fury comes from a place of dearest love and adoration. 

“I am fine,” you assure him, picking up his hand and placing it on your cheek. Aemond’s lips part as he lets his thumb caress your cheekbone.

“Do you know the horrid things men think of you when they see you in the streets?” Aemond tells you, bringing his other hand to cup your face. 

“I am braver than you believe,” you tell him, as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth.

“It is not about being brave, it is about following orders,” he tells you.

“From you?”

“Yes, me,” he says.

“I simply wished to see some new fabrics.”

“I shall bring any fabrics you require, here, to the castle.”

“I am not a bird Aemond, I do not belong in a cage.”

“It is my duty as your husband to keep you safe, why do you make it so difficult?”

“Aemond, come now-”

“Do not use that tone with me,” he says harshly, causing your breath to catch. The look in his eye has changed to something predatory and primal. 

“Do you think this can go about unpunished?” he says, violet eye boring into yours. You hate the way you squeeze your thighs together at his words. 

“Hmmm?” he asks, hands moving down to your neck. You lower your gaze.

“No,” you answer, as his grip tightens on the back of your neck.

“No what?” 

“No sir.”

“I agree,” he tells you, leading you towards the chair before releasing his grip from you and sitting down.

“Take off your stockings,” he says, bringing a finger to his lips, and running it over his enticing pout. 

You know you should not keep him waiting, that would only prolong your punishment. You do what he asks. 

“And your small clothes.” 

You do this as well, clothes hitting the floor. Your cheeks are burning as you feel bare beneath your skirts. 

“Over my knee,” he says, motioning for you. You stand before him, wide-eyed.

“Aemond-”

“I do not wish to repeat myself,” he snaps.

You lay across his lap and feel the Aemond move the fabric of your skirts to reveal your arse to him. He squeezes the soft flesh of your bottom, causing you to gasp. 

“Do you remember your High Valyrian?” he asks, still squeezing and massaging the flesh. 

Your face grows hot. Aemond had been teaching you certain phrases, some numbers. It was not something that was very easy to pick up.

“Some, I suppose,” you tell him, clenching your thighs together. He hums at this.

“I shall make you a deal,” he croons, hands splaying over your arse, “if you can continue to count in High Valyrian during your punishment, I shall grant you your release.”

Your heart beats erratically in your chest. You could do this. Not so hard. After all, Aemond is a very good teacher.

“Yes sir,” you tell him, and he brings a hand down hard, delivering a stinging slap to your cheek. 

“Skoros iksos bona?” he asks. What is that?

“Mēre” you answer immediately and he hums with approval 

You nearly make it, answering after each slap. Feeling yourself grow wetter with each strike against your soft cheeks. You bite your lip, sharp cries leaving your lips and tears leaking down your face. 

Seven hells. What was eleven? 

Your brow furrows, and nearly cry out with frustration as you feel Aemond’s fingers slip between your soaking folds. He gives you no relief, just tantalizing strokes with his long fingers grazing against your sensitive pearl. 

“Hembar?” he asks, amusement evident in his voice. Next?

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying, as he delivers another harsh slap to your behind. 

“Gōntan ao ojughagon ūñagon?” he questions, delivering another slap. Did you lose count?

You let out a whimper, convulsing with his next slap. Unconsciously your thighs clench together, until you feel Aemond’s hand move between them, forcing them apart. 

“Such a naughty girl,” he purrs, in the common tongue, hands splayed on your aching ass. Aemond moves one to your hair, pulling your lolling head up. 

“How did I manage to have such a wicked wife?” he taunts, your back arching as he tightens his grip. 

“I am so good to you,” he murmurs, lips near your ear, “I even offer you a chance for release, after being so irresponsible. Do you think you deserve the mercy I grant you?”

A breathy moan escapes your lips. You can feel the sharp curve of his nose press into the sensitive spot below your ear, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. 

“I’ll be good,” you whimper, fingers clutching the hard muscle of his thigh, “please Aemond I’ll be good.”

Aemond hums against you. 

“Show me,” he commands, harshly releasing you. You pull your body from his lap, sinking to your knees in front of him. You can see how hard he is, straining through his leathers due to the punishment he awarded you. But you are still being punished. You look up at him through your lashes, eyes watery. 

Your husband’s gaze is hungry, and he takes his bottom lip between his teeth as you undo his laces with shaky hands. His cock never fails to impress you, no matter how many times you have seen it by now. How it slaps against his stomach whenever it is released, the vein underneath pulsating with every breath Aemond takes. 

“Go on then,” Aemond encourages, and you wrap your hand around him. Aemond hisses at the contact, as you swipe the precum that gathers on the tip before placing him inside your mouth. 

You hum with satisfaction as Aemond jerks his hips, ramming his thick cock down your throat. You bob your head up and down his shaft, hollowing your cheeks as he tangles a hand in your hair. 

You release him with a pop, running your hand along him, before using your tongue to caress the vein that runs up him all the way to the tip. You flatten your tongue along the slit, the salty taste of him making you drunk with need. You press your thighs together, taking him fully in your mouth once more, saliva dripping off of your chin.

“Look at you,” Aemond coos, as you meet his violet eye. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed. 

You hum again, bringing your hand to fondle his balls. You know he loves it when you give him this attention and you are rewarded for your efforts with a moan from the one-eyed prince. 

The sounds in the room are lewd and wet as you gag on his length. You move your head furiously, as tears leak from your eyes as he nudges the back of your throat. 

You can feel his cock pulsating in your mouth and know he’s close. Aemond drops his head back, his seeing-eye scrunched shut as he releases into your mouth. You suck him down greedily, eager to please. 

Aemond’s moan turns into a rough hum as he strokes your head while you release his softening cock. Only then does he open his eye, looking at you moving his hand under your chin. You swallow, knowing what he’s waiting for, and open your mouth presenting your clean tongue to him. 

He gives you a proud half-smile, using his free hand to replace his cock back in his trousers before standing. You remain on your knees in front of him, his hand still firmly on your chin forcing you to look up at him. 

“There’s my good girl,” he says affectionately, his rough voice washing over you like a sensual caress. Aemond tugs on your lip, before letting his hand drop from your face completely, striding towards the door. Your eyes widen with confusion. 

“Aemond-”

“Hm?” he says, turning on his heel. Your lips open and close, a small whimper escaping your lips. The ache between your thighs matches that of your stinging backside. 

Your husband tilts his head to the side.

“You didn’t think I would give you release after all that?” he asks, clicking his tongue. A dark chuckle leaves him and you feel your lower lip begin to tremble.

“No, my dear wife, I am afraid not.”

You pout, as hot tears run down your cheeks. You know better than to fight him unless you want a repeat of your punishment. You look away from him instead, towards the floor. 

Aemond watches as you pout at the floor, a defeated expression on your face and the muscles in your back relaxing. Something primal comes alive within him when he finally has you in submission. 

“Do not cry too much, my love,” Aemond calls, opening the door. 

“There is always tonight.”

note: hope you enjoyed! also absolutely living for the three requests I get the most for Aemond: soft, smut, or angst literally love all you readers so much 😂💚

[feyhunter78]

When the Night Turns

Description: The night before your husband leaves for battle, he tells you of his aspirations for the throne. You in turn confess your fears.

“I spoke with Cole, told him it is time for someone better to sit on the Iron Throne, and that will be me. Obviously.” Aemond says, his head resting on your thigh, his silver hair splayed out against the light blue fabric of your nightshift.

You say nothing, only continue combing your fingers through his hair. To speak in agreement with him would be treason, to speak against him would be your undoing.

“That this is where my reign begins.” He continues, the one arm around your waist tightening as he looks up at you, expectant.

You know what he desires, but you cannot give it to him, not here where Aegon is still King, where you do not have a dragon or an army of your own to keep you safe from accusations of treachery. Not when it is so clear that Aemond had no qualms about directing his anger at those closest to him, you cannot count on him or his dragon.

So, you choose the safe route. “Here, My Prince? I am no strategist, but I cannot say I believe my chambers to be the most effective place for anyone to begin their reign.”

Aemond hums in response, his good eye closed, his sapphire one glinting in the low candlelight.

You bite the inside of your cheek, stomach churning as you digest Aemond’s words. Of course, you believe him better suited for the throne but…

“I can sense the wheels in your mind turning issa prumia, speak, let your king ease your mind.” His voice still has that low, smooth tone to it, a gentleness to his words that you remember from when he said his vows, in the Great Sept. He promised that you were his, and he was yours, that none shall tear you asunder.

You smooth your thumb across his forehead, admiring the shadows his eyelashes cast upon his cheeks. “I wish you would take more care with your words. Your brother is the rightful king; it is what this war is all about, and I do not wish to see another conflict spring up when all of your focus should be on defeating the false queen.”

“And her craven of a husband.” Aemond says, unable to let any mention of his uncle go unsaid.

You nod, though he cannot see, and caress the curve of his cheek, fear flicking in your chest. “Yes, and that butcher.”

You shiver at the memory of the screams, of the rage and grief that echoed through the Keep after Jaehaerys’ death.

Aemond’s grip tightens on you once more, there is no need to speak, the consequences of Blood and Cheese’s actions weigh heavily on him, and you. They had been tasked with killing Aemond, but could not find him, Daemon did not know you and Aemond kept separate chambers, did not know your husband spent half his nights in your bed the other half in his own.

If they had not come upon Helaena first, if they had gone a few rooms down and found your chambers it may have ended differently, Aemond would have been able to stop them…

“I will not mourn when the Stranger comes for Daemon Targaryen.” You cannot keep the venom from your voice, even as flames of fear begin to climb once more within you.

Your hand must have stilled because Aemond brings it to his lips, his gaze meeting yours.

His amethyst eye is alight, a smug smile on his lips. “I will defeat them, I will win this war, and the realm shall have a king worthy of the throne. Rhaenyra and Daemon’s heads shall adorn the gates, and I shall decorate the Great Hall with their dragons’ skulls.”

You pull your hand away, your throat tight as the smoke from the flames of fear in your chest rise up and choke you.

Aemond follows, sitting up and taking your face in his hands, his eye inspecting every inch, his expression changed, softer, more attentive. “I am sorry, I should not speak of such things to you, they are far too gruesome for your ears.”

“I am afraid, Aemond.” You whisper, your hands coming to grasp his wrists, clinging to him. You know Vhagar is strong, that Aemond is smart, but you cannot help but be afraid, afraid that his pride will be his undoing.

“Do not be. Have faith in me, in Vhagar, in Cole. We are blessed, guided by the Seven.” He says, his long, lithe fingers threading into your hair, massaging the nape of your neck.

“I do, but I do not fear for you at Rook’s Rest, I fear that you will—” You cut yourself off, you cannot tell him you fear his pride will drive him to act foolishly, you are not the Dowager Queen, you cannot speak your mind so freely. “You are right. I will have faith.”

Aemond’s grip on you tightens, his gaze hardening. “Speak, y/n.”

You cast your eyes downwards, your voice soft. “I fear that you will be blinded by your ambition, that your pride will doom you.”

Aemond releases you with a sigh, and slips from your bed, his back to you as he gathers his things. “I expected such words from my mother. Perhaps you have spent too much time with one another.”

You follow after him, the stone floor cold against your bare feet. “I do not wish to lose you.”

He turns on his heel, eye patch in hand. “So, you think to insult me? To all but imply you do not believe I will be able to accomplish our goals, to win this war, and rule the realm?”

You take his hands in yours and press them to your heart, hoping he can feel how fervently it beats, how it beats for him, as it has since the day you met. “You asked me to speak, My King, to let you ease my mind. I did as you asked because I could not bear it if I did not speak, and you were lost to me because of the very thing I wished to warn you of.”

Your use of My King has softened him, if only a little, and he inclines his head towards you. “You think me prideful, issa prumia?”

“I think you a great man, with the largest dragon in the realm, but you are also a man who comes from hurt, whose family has been hurt.” You say carefully, as you keep a tight grip on his hands. “Your pain is real, and deserves recompense, but not at the risk of your life.”

Aemond’s eye flickers to the burning hearth, and you know you have reached him.

“Promise me, swear to me that if Daemon comes, however foolish it may be, no matter that you think he will not, promise me that you will use the aid of others to defeat him. Let that butcher gloat and preen, let him act as if he is the conqueror reborn, for we know he is a fool. And fools always reveal their weaknesses in time.”

Aemond slips his hands from yours and there is an ache in your chest, but he soothes it quickly, when he presses his lips to yours softly, his hand coming to cradle your cheek, the other settling on your waist. “My little wife, how clever you are.”

You lean into his touch, your own hands anchoring themselves in his tunic. “I must be, for how can I be the wife of King Aemond the first, if I am not?”

He smiles at your words, and pulls you flush against him. “I will have the servants move your things to my chambers, I want to return from battle to find my wife safe in my bed.”

Your heart leaps, when you first married you had hoped that you and Aemond would share chambers as your mother and father did, but he had shown little interest in the idea. In truth, it had served you and him well on that bloody night, but those routes in had been sealed, and his chambers were checked for other secret doors. It had been declared safe and for more than one reason now you could not be happier.

“You will find no argument from me, though I will need prior notice if you wish me to wear anything particular for your return.” Your voice takes on a jesting tone, though your words are true, and the way Aemond’s lips drift downwards, ghosting over the skin of your neck, tells you he hears them well.

“I have no preference, provided it is easily replaced.”

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes fluttering closed as Aemond’s lips find your pulse point. “Easily replaced?”

“How fond are you of this nightshift?” He asks in lieu of answering your question.

“I think it is pretty, but it is not my best one, I did not know you would be visiting me, so I did not have time to prepa—” The sound of fabric ripping accompanied by the clatter of a dagger against the stone floor and the cool air on your skin silences you.

Aemond hums appreciatively, his eye drinking in your form as he walks you backwards towards your bed. “This is why it must be easily replaceable; I cannot attest to the patience I will have when I return.”

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[hoteldreamss]

Aemond Targaryen || imagine

предыдущие 1 часть и 2 часть (не обязательны к прочтению для понимания этой части)

Метки: ревность

Слов: 1 255

Зал Харренхолла большой и переполнен всеми людьми, которых смогли загнать в него люди Эймонда. Вся прислуга, малые лорды, леди и другие люди обитающие здесь, теперь стоят перед небольшим подиумом, где стоит трон, который гордо занял Эймонд Таргариен. Они дрожат от страха. По приказу Эймонда, армия уже расправилась с некоторыми протестующими. Кровавые следы до сих пор остались на сером каменном полу.

— Следующий, — произносит Эймонд, сидя на троне.

Ты сидишь рядом, на подлокотнике, к счастью широком и поразительно удобном. Твой взгляд внимательный, пронзительный. Ты не одобряешь кровавые методы своего мужа, но ты знаешь, что перечить ему при людях будет глупо.

— Имя. — Кристиан останавливает темноволосую женщину с не самыми миловидными чертами лица. Он выставляет меч, не позволяя ей подойти ближе.

— Элис Риверс, — произносит она, слегка задрав подбородок, так будто все знают это имя и должны удивиться её присутствию.

Но ни ты, ни Эймонд не поражены. На ваших лицах те же эмоции.

Молчание, повисшее в комнате, заставляет женщину продолжить.

— Я могу быть полезна тебе, мой господин. У меня есть дар, который ты сможешь использовать.

— Какой дар?

— Я обладаю предвидением. Думаю, вы могли слышать о том, что я ведьма. Слухи не врут.

Ты внимательно смотришь на неё. Это то, что мелькает в её взгляде, и ты понимаешь, как что-то сковывает твою грудь. Она заставляет неприятное чувство поселиться внутри тебя.

— Прояви себя. Докажи свои таланты, — произносишь ты, кажется впервые что-то говоришь за всё это время.

— Я могу сделать это в более приватной обстановке.

— Почему не здесь? — интересуешься ты, моментально.

— Боюсь, вам могут не понравиться мои слова.

— Мне или принцу?

— Вам двоим.

Ты пожимаешь плечами, оглядываясь на своего мужа. Он встречается с т��бой взглядом. Эймонд заинтересован, конечно, его сестра обладает даром, которым все пренебрегают, кроме него. Поэтому он склонен верить женщине перед вами.

— Думаю мы переживём, — произносишь ты, и переводишь взгляд на Элис.

— Показывай, — приказ Эймонда откатается от стен, эхом разносясь по залу. Элис понимает, что у неё нет выбора.

Она смотрит на Кристиана, в немом свете жесте интересуясь можно ли пройти.

— Могу я подойти ближе? — интересуется ведьма, когда Коуль не отвечает.

— Да. — Даёт своё разрешение Эймонд.

Она ступает по каменным ступеням, всего две, и она приближается прямо к тебе. Эймонд не отрываясь следит за темноволосой женщиной, боясь, что та может что-то проявить, навредив тебе. Ты также насторожена, но стараешься не показывать этого. Твоя прямая спина и благородный, гордый вид заставляет понять всех присутствующих, что ты не просто жена будущего короля.

Элис осматривает тебя, твой не длинный, застёганный плащ намного удобнее платьев, большинство из которых ты оставила в Красном замке, твоя обувь виднеется из под него, на шее красуется ожерелье с несколькими синими сапфирами блестящими даже в небольшом свете мрачных Речных земель.

— Ты не получишь, того чего боишься. Тебе не придётся отдавать жизнь за продолжение себя и твоей любви.

Ты хмуришься, не совсем веря в слова женщины перед тобой. Но тебе не нужно больше слов, чтобы понять, о чём сказала Элис.

— Скажи лучше, то что я могу опровергнуть или подтвердить, — ты кидаешь ей вызов.

Элис вздыхает, заглядывает в твои глаза. Но затем она переводит взгляд на Эймонда, кажется что-то решая в своей голове. Он не выглядит заинтересованным, ему наскучил этот театр, это пустая трата времени. Даже если эта женщина ведьма, единственное, что она сделала, это вызвала раздражение. Она медлит и это действует на нервы.

— Ты так часто предавал своих близких, что Боги однажды ответят тебе тем же, заставив самого близкого человека вонзить клинок в твоё сердце.

Ты хмуришься, услышав слова Элис, смотришь на Эймонда, затем снова на ведьму, переведя взгляд с одного на другого в ожидании хоть какой-то реакции. Твой муж выглядит слегка испуганным, но это быстро исчезает. Только ты замечаешь холод прошедший по его душе. Он приказывает Кристиану отвести Элис в одни из покоев и держать под стражей.

Ты прикусываешь язык, злость и гнев переполняют тебя. Тебе уже хочется перерезать глотку этой ведьме, выдернуть её язык и скормить бездомным псам, но ты лишь опускаешь взгляд, чувствуя, как Эймонд смотрит на тебя слишком долго.

***

— Что ты собираешься с ней делать? — ты поспеваешь за своим мужем, идя по тёмным коридорам Харренхолла.

Он выглядит уверенным, но ты чувствуешь его взволнованность, и на мгновение ты думаешь что он раздражён, может быть из-за тебя, учитывая как долго он отвечает на твой вопрос.

— Проверить насколько сильны её способности.

Ты хмуришься и обгоняешь Эймонда. Тебе не нравится его рвение. И уж тем ��олее ты не хочешь быть его громоотводом. Встав перед Эймондом, ты заставляешь его остановиться в лёгком недоумении.

— Засунешь в неё свой член, я отрежу тебе яйца и ты больше никогда не увидишь меня.

Эймонд хмыкает, он на самом деле верит, что ты сделала бы подобное. И он подмечает, что у тебя есть небольшая фиксация касаемо его яиц. Это странным образом немного пробуждает его возбуждение. И сегодня ночью он удовлетворит это с тобой.

— Ты знаешь о чём она сказала тебе?

— Нет. — Ты настолько быстро отвечаешь, что заставляешь подозрение охватить его разум.

Молчание повисшее между вами нервирует тебя. Оно затягивается.

— Я слышала, что она тебе сказала, и если между нами есть что-то хорошее, что хотя бы близко подходит под понятие любви, то я под твоим подозрением. Но я никогда бы не предала тебя. Я бы ушла, если бы ты обидел меня, но я не сделала бы ничего похожего на предательство.

Эймонд склоняется к тебе. Он хватает тебя за волосы сзади, у самых корней, это не грубо, не слишком, но этого достаточно, чтобы лишь немного напугать тебя.

Его губы накрывают твои, в жадном поцелуе, воруя твой воздух и отдавая свой. Ты с желанием отвечаешь ему, наслаждаясь его вниманием. Оторвавшись от тебя, Эймонд прижимается своим лбом к твоему. Он прикрыл свой глаз, но ты смотришь на него, не совсем понимая, что твой муж сделает дальше.

— Она сказала правду про тебя, — произносит Эймонд. — Ты боишься родить, поэтому до сих пор не беременна? Кто-то носил тебе лунный чай?

Тебя будто бы окатывает холодной водой. Это неприятно, но это должно было бы вылезти. Сначала ты не собиралась этого скрывать, но Эймонд всё равно так и не узнал, теперь же ты скрывала это, зная, что твой муж желает наследника.

— Моя мать скончалась родив меня, Эймонд. Я слышала, как мой отец говорил, какая она слабая, какая неспособная сделать элементарных вещей для женщины. Как ты думаешь, что я буду испытывать, когда единственной желаниям ко мне от моего мужа является осеменить меня. Как только я забеременею, ты оставишь меня, сначала под предлогом заботы обо мне и ребёнке, а затем в открытую будешь говорить, как я тебя не привлекаю.

Ты смотришь на Эймонда слегка влажными глазами. Он никогда не думал, что нужен тебе на самом деле. Ты его жена, навязанная ему политикой, долгом, он знает, в каком вы положение. Но ваше время вместе заставило его поверить во что-то большее между вами. Вы открывались друг другу, медленно, постепенно, попутно наслаждаясь вашей близостью. Думала ли ты, что он так расположен к тебе из-за желания получить наследника? Эймонд не знает.

Он кладёт ладони на твои щёки, заглядывая в твои грустные и немного напуганные глаза.

— После того, как я выиграю войну, мы позаботимся о наследниках. Хорошо?

Ты киваешь и с твоих губ чуть не слетает «я люблю тебя», но ты вовремя прикусываешь язык. Тянешься к губам Эймонда и целуешь его, передавая всю свою благодарность.

Тебе не известно, принял ли он слова ведьмы за правду, думает ли он, что она просто хотела запудрить вам мозги ради собственной выгоды или он грешит на кого-то другого, а не на тебя. Может быть он уже насторожен с тобой, и если ты не будешь носить его ребёнка и оступишься, он знает, что ему будет легче разобраться с тобой. Эймонд не хочет потерять тебя, и надеется, что не придётся.

Вы направляетесь в покои, где должна быть заперта Элис.

[cregansdingdong]

ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ.

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!reader | no use of y/n | warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, soft!insecure!Aemond, mentions of his scar and missing eye, comfort himmmm; this man is so lana coded i cant even

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“I can do it myself, you know.” He murmurs, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. She’s quiet for a few moments after, her hands moving skillfully to distribute the oil along his silver hair. “I know you can. But I enjoy it.” Aemond couldn’t argue with that. Seated obediently at her vanity, allowing her to take her time doing his hair after their bath, he sat patiently and topless. On occasion, her fingers brushed against the lean muscles of his back, pretending it was an accident. He loved when she did that. His hair was still fairly damp under her touch—the comb gliding through the strands with ease. “Would you like for me to braid it?” She hums.

He thought about it for a moment, his eye taking in the sight of his angular face in the mirror, bare and visible with his blonde tresses combed back. There was a hint of anxiety brewing in his chest. “...Do you think it would suit me?” She seemed a bit surprised by his question, but answered in an instant. “Of course. You look handsome in everything, husband.” The corner of his lip quirked up at that. “You’re biased. Because we’re married.”

“I am not.” She laughs, leaning over his shoulder to look at him. “I am not. Have you ever considered that you're simply perfect?" He scoffs, a quiet sound that holds no malice and only the vulnerability of a scarred man. "Hardly, ābrazȳrys." His wife tuts at the dismissal, hands coming around to rub along his chest—a soothing motion she'd done since they'd gotten married. Her gaze meets his sapphire one, undeterred by the scar. It had taken him months to remove his eyepatch in front of her, and even longer to let her touch it. "You're perfect, Aemond. Regardless of what you believe, you're whole and deserving of my affections. Nothing will change that. Come on. Repeat it."

Despite the quiet sigh that flows past his lips, he pulls her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her comfortably. There was a low rumble of appreciation from him as he nudged his nose against her shoulder. "I am deserving. Happy?" She rolled her eyes at his lackadaisical attempt, but she was pleased enough that he'd said it. "Very. I love you, husband. All I want is for you to love yourself. No matter what people at court whisper. Because...?" She waits for a different answer this time, one they loved to practice when they were alone. "Because I'm married to the most beautiful woman in Westeros." He hums, gently taking her chin in his fingers to press a warm kiss against her mouth.

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