#alicent x aemond

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

alicent, aemond and helaena in the season finale.

credits for this art drawing to @paiges_of_art

[fearthhereaper]

aemond being arrogant and smug about going to war. he is overconfident in his conviction that he will come back victorious when alicent frets over him leaving for battle.

when the day he's supposed to leave with their army comes alicent is there to say goodbye and wish him well. he sees her worried expression and takes her hands in his promising that he will return having won the battle for their family.

he squeezes her hands and says his final goodbyes. climbs on a horse at the head of the army, next to criston and aegon who will be leading it.

suddenly he's overtaken by a feeling of unease. he turns his head back and sees alicent watching the procession. his stomach drops, he feels nervous, unsettled.

before he knows it he stops, gets off the horse and hearing criston yell his name in the background walks runs back to alicent and hugs her tightly. neither of them says a word until he lets go. she touches his face, caresses the scar on his cheek and he leaves without a word.

climbs back on the horse, ignoring aegon's sour, jealous expression and criston's questions.

he feels ashamed of showing that weakness, of feeling like a young man he is, when he's the one riding the most formidable dragon alive. especially in front of the soldiers he's supposed to help lead.

an older man rides up to him, clasps his shoulder startling him out of his musings.

"young or old, all men cry out for their mothers when they're dying on the field, my prince. only a fool would fault you for embracing yours."

[rhcenyra]

You wish to rule the Seven Kingdoms, but you rain ruin and death upon its smallfolk when you’ve been insulted because it makes you feel strong. And now you seek to corrupt your sister, of all our line, the gentlest and most deserving of your protection. And who will protect her if she cannot protect herself? And who will she be if her mind is broken?!

[thedragonqueens]

Aemond: I'd give my life for you

Alicent: I know, but please don't

random talk that happened with @bloodrvn

[ivy-lea]

alimond nation getting some food!

enter our ~marginalized multiship~ discord here!

LINK UPDATED!!!

we accept gwanicent, rhaegon, rhaenicent, helaemond, helaegon, jacelaena and aligon shippers.

[therealslimshakespeare]

My Mother’s Child

Fandom: House of the Dragon, GRRM’s Fire and Blood

Pairing: Alicent Hightower x Aemond Targaryen

Summary: im a sucker for any GRRM universe and setting but after the recent release of the trailer for House of the Dragon’s second season I can’t quite contain the muses. So here is my self indulgent spillage of thoughts i entertained while watching the first. Perhaps growing up obsessed with Greek Myths, Shakespeare Anti-heroes and Renaissance families took its toll on my moral fascinations but the minute I see a codependent dynamic in a brutally restricted society I go a little nutty on the psycho-analysis and then it turns to feelings and then it turns to fiction.

Timeline: I’ve entirely had my wicked way with events and outcomes, nothing is critically pertinent but Aemond’s time in the Riverlands is changed, the time of Maelor’s birth is fudged, Aemond doesn’t die but is recalled to be regent again after Aegon’s demise, I’ve really no clue which of the Blacks are alive but the gist of it is the war has gone in favor of the Greens for the most part and now Aemond can come into his Crafty Uncle Richard III Regent era while obsessing over his pretty mom. Cheers.

Authors Note: im in no way romanticizing or advocating for the universe typical incest, warped relationships, casual murder, deranged intentions or the dire outcome portrayed of a stunted mother’s dependence on her worrisomely dependable son. Not proof read, have mercy on my tired eyes. Specific warnings below the cut:

Warnings: 18+, dead dove do not eat -thematically disturbing. An exploration of Alicent’s dependence on Aemond during his regency and beyond, undertones of attraction on Aemond’s part and submission to him on Alicent’s, combined with their delusional domesticity by coparenting little Maelor may disturb some. There is some physical touch that Aemond makes weird, his impure thoughts that are blamed on Targaryen tendencies, his recollections of sleeping in her bed as a child, him fucking Alys Rivers and imagining his mom sorta? along with sending Alicent his cum stained letters, calling Maelor “their boy” as if they are his parents, open ending suggesting a potential escalation in the dynamic. I tried to keep this as in character as possible so these warnings sound far more stark and crass than I hope the actual fic reads

It was Aemond sent to fetch his wayward brother, it was Aemond relied upon to soothe his sister, it was Aemond who absorbed Ser Criston Cole’s teaching, it was Aemond who stood any chance of gaining Otto Hightower’s commendation and through it some crumb of praise for the produce of poor, weary, teary eyed Alicent Hightower.

It was little more responsibility for Aemond Targaryen to quickly become the closest thing his mother had to a bosom friend by the time of his maturity, easily adding so weighty a role to those he already held as Lord Regent, terror of the realm, kinslayer and learned heir. It came as naturally to him as had filling each of its predecessors.

Whatever hopeless compulsion, dragon bound and magic made, to be loyal to his family that already ran in his poisoned blood, it was only ever magnified by the sight of his mother’s dutiful martyrdom, year after year bleeding herself out -and all the while not a soul to staunch the wound but him. Surely her husband the King only made it larger with each neglect or attention he paid her, and Aegon had long since been the sour fruit of a painful initiation. Helaena for reasons as gentle as they were cruel could not bear her own mother’s company -nor was the realm that sweet daughter lived in that of the Seven Kingdoms, where Alicent spent her every waking moment dwelling on and maneuvering for her boy King. Helaena lived in dreams and lived to avoid dreams and all Alicent had were harsh realities and dreams so trodden under the march of time that they resembled very little to their former selves by the retelling.

Aemond lived in the bridge between the two women of his house. There were dear to him the cherished traditions of Old Valyria and also, there were crucial to him the pressing matters of harvest and uprising and famine and the throne of Westeros.

He too lived in the Seven Kingdoms, he was practically their king, and like the manner in which he had long led this family by innate authority, such a role came naturally to him, as did sitting by the hearth in his mother's antechamber each evening, a recreation of the way he had stayed with her night after night in the wake of Driftmark, and discussing with her the petitions of the day, outcomes whose decisions needed making before dawn and hopes for the future.

Aemond felt close to her then, and dismal though the Kingdom’s prospects often felt, between the two of them there was calm in these moments. For once in his life Aemond did not find himself chafing under its soothing influence, but instead he would match her in her reclining, legs spread wide in his chair and silver head tilted to rest on the gilt chair, their hands near to brushing and let the connection grow until he wondered if he too were a dreamer and could know her inner thoughts, know her bewilderment and also her relief when he took from her the weight of the day with his sober companionship.

It felt odd parting in the evenings after these talks, what had once been a ritual of her comforting his painful wound in his youth and holding him close through the nighttime terror now felt necessary to be repeated as cure from her own dejection. Only her last remaining grandson Maelor provided some support to Alicent, she herself a child grown old using her own children to soothe herself.

Aemond saw to it that Maelor was brought often to their evening chats, a docile boy with an intense interest in blocks, he was no distraction from their more weighty discussions but when the evening grew late and the moon high and Aemond’s better judgment waned at the soft sight of his mother’s tender form and unguarded appreciation for his presence by her side, there was Maelor to place in her arms in instead of himself, and there was Maelor to pat her arms and lay upon her breast and enjoy the uncomplicated devotion of a mother that Aemond had never known.

Perhaps if his father the King had even once played the role of father, Aemond would not have spent his childhood clasped to that soft bosom while pretending he were the one being comforted by it and not her. He was older now and he had read of such dynamics, he had read of myths and scandals, Maester’s studies of the codependent phenomenon that blurs the line between each familial role. Childlike herself, his mother deserved not another man to have designs on her but a child, a true child she could dote upon and cuddle at night and a good son to tell her,

“You are weary, come, I’ll walk you to bed. Nevermind his blanket, I have it.”

and so it was Maelor who lay with her, Maelor who delighted her, Maelor who took up the space that had last been Aemond’s under her left arm. Only Aemond now allowed himself the task of tucking the furs about them both and stroking the tear tracks off her cheek, leaning down to kiss her forehead as she had dreamed of her own father doing. And then, Aemond betook himself to his own chambers laden with her burdens and his own and fell into the bedding with pleasure in his heart at having been entrusted with the wearisome load.

It continued thus in a pleasurable routine until the Riverlands called for his attention. Aegon was propped up, scarred and dim, on his neglected throne and Alicent was made Protector of the Realm and immediately thereafter Aemond found himself in the courtyard, Vhaegar waiting for him to mount and lead the reinforcements.

As Aemond pressed his thin lips to mother’s forehead in farewell for the duration of a long campaign, little Maelor who was in her arms laid hold of Aemond’s silver locks and seized them tightly during the moment between mother and son, holding the prince hostage a bit longer, for a moment nearer,

“dada.” -the infant nephew babbled to his uncle Aemond for a kiss of his own and to judge by Alicent’s alarmed expression, Aemond’s enforced separation from this little family they had made of a year’s evenings could not have come a moment too soon.

It haunted him, that flash of horror on his mother’s face at an infant’s small confusion. It brought back a seething reproach against her for all the times she’d never understood him, all the times she had raged against his very nature as a Dragon, holding him up with disgust and pride all at once until his head spun with it and he had learned to dance to her every whim, now the devout follower of Old Town and now the noble Dragon whose rights were being denied.

But woe to him should he be one or the other when it did not suit her. She thought his innate longing for a dragon to be imbecilic when he was young and yet she glowed with pride when he called out those Strong bastards for being anything but pure blooded dragons themselves.

As always with her duty, she hated herself for its outcome yet chose to cloak herself in pride for her sacrifices. His very existence, those of his siblings too, was sacrifice, his very bloodline and nature was an abomination against her faith, his impulses were beastly however much he took her principles to heart, and his tastes remained strange no matter how stifled her own had long remained.

But she had made him. How dare she be repulsed by her own creation.

Prince Aemond’s ire burned through him and suited the needs of war far better than kinder feelings of pining for hearth and home, so he stayed angry with his mother at each hack and hewing of his blade, each swath of farmland he burnt and every ill organized column of traitor levys he annihilated.

Capable, he is the capable son and his mother writes to him thanking him for it and he crushes the missive in his hand before regret surges after and he strokes the parchment flat again on his desk with all the revernace of a lover for his beloved’s skin.

He is kinder the parchment than he is to Alys Rivers.

Alys who is older and smart and wicked, who never once flinches at his nature, who accepts the ruthless pace of his hips and the mauling of his mouth with her own vigor, Alys who he swears to himself is a wartime necessity, the humors most flow somewhere and if he is to bleed he must also spill and she is there and trustworthy and her aura reminds in the moments after pain, warm arms holding him tight on his right side lest he roll on his wounded eye in sleep. The eye does not throb in that raw way any longer, it is a dull and perpetual ache he can expect to remain with him for all time, but the longing for such comfort remains and he lays atop Alys’ matronly breast often for longer than his daylight-sobered self can countenance.

He writes of her to his mother, to grieve her with his sin as much as not to withhold anything from her, he has not before and why should he now? Her reply is stifled and terse in regards to his admission, barely even a line and he must squint to decipher wether it pertains to the subject he is most anxious to hear from her about. But as he thumbs the well familiar scrawl of her pen he can imagine the set of her mouth and the pleading of her eyes, so different from true distress, no, instead it is the girlish patheticness she plays at, despite its lack of success all these years and how the same years have robbed her of the youthful vulnerability that once made men take notice of it.

Only Aemond remains affected by it, and he finds it so deliciously false that he teases it out of her as a treat for himself on occasion. Aegon may have it whenever he sees fit, though being a fool he thinks every crease to her forehead is that of genuine concern. Aemond’s knows her better than that, and sees her pouting eyes come through the written admonition to “keep himself in good company”.

He smirks at Alys when she enters his tent and finds him rolling up the motherly advice. He ploughs her atop the volumes of communication his dear mother has sent him during this campaign and the parchment he sends back to her with his report next morning is stained.

Aemond doesn’t need to hope that she smells his letters for sweat and smoke the same way he smells hers for rosewater and thyme. He knows she does, he has caught them under her pillow and in her pockets when returning to the Keep, time and again, without warning. He knows she prays for him to outlive them all and he knows she will kiss the stains she mistakes for tears. A holy horror fills him at the satisfaction that thought brings, and after it has taken root he cannot find it in himself to enjoy Alys’ cheerful vigor any longer or the dark appetites they once shared. She is too eager, she is too unabashed, there is too little shame for his taste.

Alys is a whore and Aemond longs for the droopy eyed piety of his mother’s face when he tucks her abed, the melancholy contentment of his dutiful care for her and the mislaid trust that she has domesticated her little dragonling to the faith of the seven, her plaint limbed trust that the Warrior and Mother would never meet in the throes of burning want that consume him.

When his task is done, or near to done in these rebellious lands, and a call comes of his brother’s failing health, Aegon mounts Vheagar a disillusioned man, flying high and away above the wreckage he has committed and leaving behind the last Strong bastard dead as promised.

Alicent’s son is a man fully grown when he alights in the courtyard, long limbed and toned from his wartime deprivations, the set of his jaw remains firm but his gait is looser, there is a confidence in bloom now that was only budding before he left. Alicent cannot hide her joy at seeing him again, her pace is faster than is strictly proper as she breaks ranks of the welcoming party to greet him -it is her right as reigning regent.

As his mother.

She clasps his hands and feels his strong fingers engulf her forearms, tugging her nearer in an almost playful fashion -the action suits his new demeanor of confidence but it hardly suits the action of a son greeting his mother.

“Muña,” his rich voice murmurs to her as he stares down at her with not a bit of the usual softening in his sharp features, his lips quirk and his eyes sharply plumb through the depths of her own, “I am come home, as you asked.”

Unnerved by his intensity, Alicent gives him a trembling smile, watery eyes darting from one dear feature in that ethereal face to the next -it is the war terrors, perhaps, that have him so ardent in his tone and grip, men often come back from battle strung taut.

“Then we are safe.” she sighs, meaning it for their family even as her own heart quickens in vague misgiving.

“Maelor?” he questions, not even bothering to ask after the current king, his blood brother, it is the infant he has already fashioned into a surrogate son that interests him now.

“Is well.” his mother glows at the mention of the babe, “Growing and talking more each week.”

“And his mother?” Aemond asks with a soft light in his face as he ducks to meet her eye to eye, and Alicent knows he does not mean the poor Helaena gone mad in the tower, he means Alicent.

“Well enough.” She insists with all the age-old weariness that suggests, and is meant to inform him, otherwise.

Aemond’s jaw ticks in recognition of the old habit, his mother lies often for so pious a woman and she manipulates even more frequently for so devout a defender of the truth. It is a child’s tactic and he knows it, and that fury over it that had filled him in his days in the Riverlands surges back in another form, he feels a superiority in that moment even as he is being played by her weary pout and soft hands.

It is a woman’s way of asking a man to carry her load, to disarm her of her duties, to take from her the pretense of capability and taste for ruling.

Aemond’s conflict for such a role died somewhere with Alys in the Riverlands, by his own hand, in his own bed, his mother’s last letter dancing before his sightless eye. It is with confidence and entitlement that he glides his hands down her shapely arms and takes her hands in his, weighing them between them as she watches in surprise. He thumbs over the knuckles before splaying them out in his much larger palms and running a forefinger over the mangled cuticles.

“Mmm, not well enough for my liking, judging by this.” he remarks and when she goes to snatch the evidence of her worry away he clasps them stronger until it is an undeniable struggle for her to take them back -one he denies with an iron grip and a patronizing smile that she has only ever seen Aegon receive from him. “Those days are over, munta, we will have peace and plenty now.” he drags her stiff arm through his own and turns them towards the entrance of the Keep, patting the sore fingers laying on his arm, “And I’ll have no more of…this.”

Dazed, Alicent allows him to lead her through the great doors and into the colossal tomb that has been her children's home, she stares up at the familiar face of her third born in the light of the grand hall’s torches and marvels at the comfort one existence can bring another. Just as she fears the firm hold on her hand and heeds the temptation she feels to obey a man child she should be governing. These thoughts are put to flight when Aemond halts and turns to her warmly, no sneer remaining and no cold authority left when he whispers excitedly,

“Will you take me to our boy?”

The instant awareness of his meaning, that he means his nephew, that he means her grandson, that he means the future king, that he means Maelor -it sickens her how natural her impulse is to smile back at Aemond’s oddly paternal expression, to lead him back to her antechambers and reunite the little family they made before the war called him and that witch possessed the son Alicent had so lovingly made pure and noble in her belly. It is balm to hear him grown and saying that they are one again, that she is paramount in his life once more, that together they have made something gentler and better than any bastard lovechild conceived in wartime.

“Come.” Alicent urges her son, taking his scarred hand in her soft one as she had a million times before to lead him to the Sept. Yet this time, Alicent leads Aemond to her rooms and the cradle of their future King.

[mr-culper]

A bit about milk. My first reaction was negative to the moment with a cup of hot milk, because to my mind it was somehow distorted, as if Aemond looks for a mother figure in this madam, and in some measure that is true. This scene really gives off a mother-son relationship. Only everything in a rather perverse form. Milk here can be a symbol of motherhood... but that’s not all of it. I read one interesting comment on Tumblr, with which I completely agree, there was written something on the lines of: why didn’t you all like the scene with the cup of hot milk, it shows vulnerable side of Aemond, in my opinion, it’s great. And I was just like: my dear, that is absolutely true!

That is, maybe milk is not a nod in the direction of motherhood. There is an element of something from childhood, something from a child. That is not to say Aemond is a child, but that is to say he is as vulnerable and fragile as a small child is. On the other hand, there were never enough peace, domestic happiness and love for him. Sometimes Alicent can be hard to deal with. His brother is a jerk. Helaena married to Aegon, not to him. Maybe Aemond’s need of domestic, family love, not necessarily maternal, would have meet by Helaena, if they had married, but they had not. Aemond had been very much alone as a child. He spent a lot of time totally alone. Unless one counts Ser Criston. Cole is literally the only person in the whole world whom Aemond trusts. That is really funny and very sweet. (Or maybe I just ship them too much for my mental health.)

The second point I thought about the milk scene is related to abstraction from family. Aemond may have bad associations with wine. Maybe I don’t know, but it’s possible, as it seemed to me, he despises not only Aegon himself, but also some attributes associated with him. Maybe Aemond doesn’t want to drink wine, or hot spiced wine, because it reminds him of his brother, who drinks above measure. As the common folk in my country says about such a person like Aegon: he throws alcohol down his collar with or without reasons. As an option. So, getting drunk in under present circumstances is meaningless anyway. As Joe Abercrombie wrote: “Wine can keep a happy man happy, on occasion. A sad one it always makes worse”. Obviously, Aemond understands this.

They can’t drink water because they live in kind of the Middle Ages, it has to be boiled or diluted with rum. What else is left? Well, tea or milk. Perhaps, in Aemond’s mind tea can be associated with Alicent, with her two-facedness, or with their broken relationship. Or tea is simply not usually made in Westeros. That leaves milk. It is much easier to get than tea, based on medieval realities.

Or maybe Aemond chose milk because milk is something that gives comfort, peace, a feeling of safety. Maybe it’s not so much a lack of domestic love, or a child’s vulnerability, as Aemond looks for some security in the situation they all found themselves in. He abstracts his mind from what is happening. And this cup of hot milk is a symbol of security and serenity. Or a symbol of the search for all that.

That’s my take about the milk scene, and it’s quite close to the truth. Although I still like the idea Aemond is so dangerous that even the death of the child disturbed him not at all, but you know, that’s not even Daemon’s case, that would be Larys Strong or Petyr Baelish’s case, because they care about no one, but themselves and their own selfish interests. They could have a child’s corpse on their consciences and sleep well at night. But Aemond is not at all that sort of men.

He is so in pieces with all this he disassociates himself from it as much as possible. Maximally. He wants some comfort, beauty, peace.

Aemond chose the wisest course – he went to the local therapist. That’s what he did.

Although there are several interpretations here, they blend with each other and are not mutually exclusive. He could lie his head on Sylvi’s lap to think carefully and gain strength for a retaliatory strike. He could make plans. He could plot revenge. He could withdraw from the whole world to feel like dandelion seeds on a good wind. He could regret his mistakes and grieve for the murdered child.

I like the take he also grieves, just like every others in his family. It’s all so much bigger than his feelings: the war, the unpleasant family, the odd disconnect between them, the impossibility of realizing his ambitions in a non-confrontational, peaceful, good way, old grudges, new grudges, loneliness. All this can eat away at Aemond’s nerves so much that he cut himself off from his emotions so as not to fly off the handle.

That's an excerpt from the new episode of the Tea & Rum podcast about Aemond's first brothel scene.

To find more episodes go to Boosty.

[summeringminor]

𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑

alimond, past!rhaenicent | E

Alicent asks Aemond to stay in her chambers over night.

read on AO3

or below the cut:

It is the hour of the wolf when Alicent finally slips into bed, her servants dismissed, her candle snuffed out. The dark holds her. Yet even in her exhaustion her heartbeat does not slow and instead thrashes against her ribs like a dying bird.

Heat gathers at her throat, her armpits, the backs of her knees. A rising panic spreads in her chest to her stomach. Her nails find her cuticles, she scratches and the pain brings her back to the moment, back to a body she understands.

Viserys is getting worse.

A shuddering breath. By the Seven, he is getting worse. But he has lived for so long, survived for so long. Surely another few years—

You are lying to yourself, daughter, she hears her father’s dignified voice and his ever present scrutiny does not evade her. She knows it’s true. And when he dies…will Rhaenyra return from Dragonstone? Will she claim the throne she so firmly believes to be her right? No matter that Rhaenyra has spat in the face of propriety, that she has so openly disgraced and sullied herself with her bastard children. And yet Viserys does not spurn her, where he would have done what to Alicent had she born him a dark haired babe?

Bile rises in her stomach. She rips the skin from her cuticle, but she does not feel the sting, not when her children’s lives will be at the mercy of Rhaenyra, her brood and Daemon. She lied to you, her father’s voice echoes in her skull again. She told you Daemon never touched her, and fool that you are: you believed her.

Tears well at her lids at the thought of it, she clasps the sheets in her fists, wants to—wishes—that violence would find Rhaenyra, that she’d even for a brief moment know sacrifice, and Daemon and his queer and vile self be cast into the sea to drown—

She grits her teeth before she stills completely. She is above this. Must be above this. She inhales a slow breath. Goosebumps ripple her skin as her cheeks heat with blood. She must not allow such ponderings. She is queen.

But has she acted as such? Is she not as depraved as them? Perhaps worse. She cannot bring herself to remember the night in which Aemond had knelt before her and pushed up her skirts. Her own son. A cold shiver runs her through like a knife’s edge. Unnatural. Though perhaps not to him, who has grown up Targaryen, not Hightower.

Many hours she has spent in the sept begging for repentance, but can such a sin be forgiven? But how could the seven-faced god condone Aegon’s and Helaena’s marriage, their children? She knows there has always been dispute among the Faithful, going back to the Conqueror’s time, but she cannot bring herself to doubt the virtuousness of their betrothal, a match that allowed her to keep her girl close—

Alicent buries her face into her pillow, breathes in the soft scent of perfumed silk. It does not soothe. She has done all she can to protect her children. Soon, she must do more.

Slowly, she sits. On bare feet she walks to the pitcher of wine and fills a goblet. She drinks it in long swallows. Refills it twice before she lays down once more. The ceiling tilts above her, the wine warms her from inside and the slow sands of dream open beneath her. She sinks.

A rapt knock on the door jolts her awake.

For a moment, she does not know where she is, thinks she must be in her childhood chambers and it is Rhaenyra slipping into her bedroom with a grin and stolen sweets.

The chamber doors open.

She sits, heart pounding.

“What is happening?” She calls, ignites a candle.

Who would the guards let inside so easily? Who would—

She knows who. But what does it mean?

Her lungs constrict and she feels the blood drain from her face.

By the Seven, is Viserys dead?

The tall silhouette of Aemond cuts from the antechamber into her bedroom. He should be asleep, instead he wears his high-collared black leathers, as though ready to depart for war at any moment, given the order.

“What is it?” she asks. She cannot keep the fear from her voice. She rises to her feet and for the first time in the month since Aemond knelt for her, she dares look at him, reaches for his arm—

“Is he dead?” Her heart stutters in her chest. She must reign herself in.

“He’s alive,” Aemond says, “for now.” His one-eyed gaze finds her in the candle-lit twilight. He towers above her, grown so tall and slender, muscles lean beneath his garments.

“Speak plainly, Aemond,” she snaps, feels tears well up in her eyes and blinks them away.

“He’s fallen down as he tried to use the washroom, the maesters say.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

Suddenly she feels like she cannot breathe.

“Gods, I have to go see him.” She makes to rush past Aemond, but he holds her back by the arm.

“The maesters are with him. He needs rest.”

“He cannot die, Aemond. He cannot—”

Aemond squeezes her arm gently. Her other hand finds his elbow, his other hand her arm, too. They stand as they have a hundred times, intertwined. She looks up at him and he gazes down, his sharp cheekbones, his aquiline nose, the scar.

The eye-patch.

“He won’t,” Aemond says and his voice is soft and quiet. “I am merely here to inform you, mother. The maesters thought it best not to spread news of his frailty.”

Alicent inhales slowly.

“They were right to.” Alicent lets go of him and turns. Already their subjects have not seen the king in months, and though his ailment is no secret with Alicent on the throne, it would be dangerous to allude to Viserys’ worsened state. Many an uprising has followed such an invitation. And with Rhaenyra so near across Blackwater Bay…

The world swirls around Alicent and for a moment she sways.

Aemond is by her side in an instant, guiding her back to the bed. She sits. The wine races through her veins and she feels faint knowing that Viserys is wounded. How much of it is the drink and how much these ill tidings? She bites her lip. It is one more thing that Alicent has to carry while Rhaenyra dallies on Dragonstone. Alicent and Aemond have to carry.

She reaches for his hands and holds them in her own. Words choke her of air.

“Forgive me,” she says at last.

He is unmoving where he stands. She hears his stuttered breath. His eye is wide and for a moment he seems her little boy again. A wave of love rushes over her so momentous it almost drowns her. She clasps his hands.

“None of this should fall on you,” she says.

He kneels, gazing up at her.

She strokes his cheek and he leans into the touch, slow and with something so frightful in his marred face. She will never forgive herself for his eye. Nor will she forgive Rhaenyra.

“Sleep, mother.”

Fatigue weighs down her bones like lead, but the thought to be alone now is unbearable. She swallows.

“Will you stay a while?” She strokes a strand of hair from his temple.

“However long you need me,” he murmurs, gazing at her, his mouth an aching line. Why does her son look like he is falling into an abyss? What darkness swallows him? Has it flown from her veins into his when she held him in her belly?

Aemond pulls over one of the armchairs, settles into it, his boot brushes the edge of the bed. She herself sits at the headboard, not quite ready to sleep, heart too quick in her chest. He is close enough for her hand to find his knee. He sits so quietly, but something changes at her touch, he leans forward, if only a little. When has her boy grown so tall? How has he left childhood behind so quickly? Her lungs constrict. He’s a man now. Trained to be a warrior, to serve the kingdom, lay down his life, he who will inherit nothing even if Rhaenyra were not between Aegon and the throne. Will Aemond be put to use? Sent into battle on Vhagar? Will she have to use him thus? And yet his might is indisputable with the dragon he paid for so dearly. Is her wish to keep him near foolish? Perhaps. But Daeron is far off in Oldtown, Helaena endures her, and Aegon…she cannot even think of how he squanders his life, and takes pleasure in bringing shame to this family despite Alicent’s efforts to correct his ways. Of her children she only has Aemond. Aemond who is dutiful if not kind, Aemond who stands by her side in a way no other ever has. Except one, when she was a lady in waiting… But even so, that is long in the past and charred by betrayal. Criston perhaps, but such devotion might easily tip into shame. No, she only has Aemond.

“It is late.”

“Yes.” Aemond’s voice is soft, quiet, as though he were afraid to leave her side.

“I’m keeping you...” Guilt makes her waver.

“Keep me.”

A cold gust of wind wakes Alicent. She cannot remember falling asleep. A horned moon curves in the night sky, fever-yellow and sharp like a sickle. Its scant light limnes Aemond’s silhouette where he sleeps in the chair, straight in posture, only his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. He will be sore tomorrow. She does not wish it. On her bedside table the candle has burned out. She moves closer to him, sits and gently grasps his shoulders. He wakes with a start, eye flying open, muscles tensing all at once. She hushes him, feels herself soften as only her children soften her.

“Come,” she whispers and pulls.

His eye widens, mouth parting. A small noise escapes him, not quite a gasp. She is tired but she smiles.

“It’s alright,” she soothes. He follows her pull. He lies down beside her and she nudges him onto his side so his back lies against her front, and she wraps her arms around him. She hesitates. Gently she presses her lips to his head, his soft hair smells of soap and of him. He is stiff in her arms as he ever was after Lucerys had taken his eye. Any tenderness might deface him, derange him. It is different for men, she thinks. She herself is already defaced.

“Mother…” he breathes.

“Sleep,” she murmurs.

Warm breath on her neck. She cards a hand through soft hair, pulls the warm body closer, warm skin beneath her hand where she slips it into a leather collar as she used to in her youth. How often had they slept in each other’s beds? Rhaenyra had stolen into her chamber countless times and they had slumbered, two bodies moulded perfectly together. She kisses a temple, presses her breasts against the warm body, feels a tingle go through her that she has not felt in years. Her mind swims in the remnants of wine. She frames a sharp-lined face with her hand and kisses it like a secret. The lips beneath hers part with a broken sound, like an animal’s last breath as it bleeds out. How strange. Something hard stirs against her thigh. She opens her eyes.

Freezes.

She moves her leg away from it.

Her breath heavies. But her body is alight.

“Mother…” Aemond’s voice is desperate, small and so open.

“Don’t speak,” she pleads. The wine still sways her gently in the dark. Sways her a moment longer in which heat fills her from the inside out.

She feels for his wrist and clasps it. What does it matter? It’s happened before. And who else might guard a secret for her? Sharp inhale.

She pushes his hand between her thighs.

A gasp against her neck. Would that it were…She bites her lip. All thoughts leave her as the hand rubs between her legs. Only the thin cloth of her nightgown separates them. Two fingers press over her, slowly rubbing, making her moan. Yes. That’s what they used to…

“Oh god,” she breathes as a thumb pushes down on that part of her that makes heat shoot all through her body, that slickens her so vulgarly. She moves against the touch. She holds the hand and guides it in the rhythm she likes until it finds it without her. Another moan flees her throat. She wraps her arms around the neck, pushes her hands into hair, so familiar, long and soft and silvered in the moonlight.

“Pull up my dress,” she whispers, barely recognising her own voice.

The hand trembles and obeys. Thin cloth slips from her skin. The hand returns, slow, slightly shaking. The feeling of blunt fingertips on her bare flesh makes her keen. She shifts, pulling one leg up, spreading the other, and the hand glides into her wetness.

A choked noise falls into the dark. Is it really Aemond’s voice? It might be another’s. Would she be thus affected? They had never touched without cloth between them. Tears bead at her lashes. Want is an ugly heart she cannot allay. Want is her greatest shame.

Fingers move through her slickness, breath so shallow at her neck it might be terror or worship. She pulls the hair. She wants to feel.

“Put them inside me,” she whispers.

A word stutters into her skin. Mother. It’s almost enough to end it. Then two fingers push inside her, reprehensibly easy. She groans, tightens around the fingers, thicker than her own. If only they were more slender and graceful, not so much like Viserys’... She banishes the thought. The fingers halt in their motion so she grabs his wrist again, pulls the fingers out and forces them back inside. Stretching around them feels so good. Sweat collects at her throat where he breathes, at her chest, and there a rousing sharpness beneath her ribs when she thinks of the imperious glance, strong lean shoulders, the muscle in her arms, how even in their youth she had easily pushed Alicent down, the scent of her not sweet but sharp like dragonpit, like smoke. Like fire. Aemond smells like that, too, but colder. She kisses his neck, imagines hers, bites his earlobe as she had never dared bite hers. She cannot think—

“Another,” she whispers, and, “Faster.”

A third finger pushes into her. She could take four. Want deafens her to the world, she aches to be so full she can only be. A low moan tumbles from her mouth into soft silver hair. Her brows crease, she bites her lip, and the fingers start moving in and out, rubbing at her insides. The stretch makes her slicker. Wet lewd squelching echoes in the dark and shame is hot on her skin and hotter yet the friction. Her hips begin to meet the thrusts so the fingers push deep inside. A thumb presses over that upper part of her, shooting sparks through her body. She moans too loudly, she pulls his hair, and with her other hand takes his free hand and places it on her breast. She can feel him swallow against her. Carefully, he squeezes, palm against her nipple. She bucks against him. His face presses at her neck, cheeks wet, his mouth open. They are only bodies. She arches her back, and before she can stop herself, she unlaces the front of her gown. The cool night air does not reach between their skin. Slowly she nudges his head down. A wrecked noise muffles against her. Lips drag over her skin, hot, eager, his mouth closes around her nipple. A heartbeat later a wet tongue presses there. And then he sucks. Pleasure sparks through her, from her chest to her stomach, between her legs. She moans, clenching hard around the fingers, grinding on them. Heat builds inside her, all about her, god she wants her, she hates her. The thumb presses down, desperate, and he sucks her nipple again and again and she gasps, tensing, roughly pulls the fingers deeper, faster. Would that she could hear her low aristocratic voice, smell her fire-scent skin, feel her inside— Does she moan her name? She cannot say. Bliss rips through her white hot and blinding. She sees her face and smile and how she had gleamed in the dark above her so many a night, how life had been open and sweet and precious once.

The fingers keep moving inside her. It’s too much.

She twists away. They slip out of her. She is empty, slick to the thighs from her son’s fingers. His breath is like poison when he leaves off her breast, warm and wrong to have him in such a way.

“Aemond,” she says, grabbing his shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut.

He does not answer, but she can feel him tremble. The air is thick with the scent of her arousal, and within it twines his own. By the Seven, she can smell him. The salt and musk and sweet sweat. To know he must be—

Suddenly the night seems colder. She draws the covers up and laces her nightgown with shaking fingers. The cloth sticks to her spit-wet skin. The urge to bathe makes her feel sick. She cannot stay like this.

“Please go,” she says without thinking. The rush of blood in her ears is too loud to catch his mumble. “I should have never,” she gasps as the deed becomes more real in her flesh’s cooling. Face in her hands, she cannot believe what she’s done. What he has. How has she failed him so miserably that such desire could have seeded within him? Is it the Targaryen blood? Has its malformation made him into this? Or did she?

She recoils from his hand on her arm.

“Mother,” Aemond says, like a prayer broken in half.

“Forgive me.”

The mattress dips. Weights shift. Aemond stands, his back to her, ramrod-straight, hands clasped by his side.

“Do not worry, mother,” he says, cold and quiet, her own cadence echoing in his. “I will not trouble you again.”

Something heavy pulls on her ribs. A space that should be empty. His black silhouette fills it now. The urge to get up and hold him shudders through her, as she should hold him, like a mother. To tell him all will be alright. To know him as her son again.

“Good night,” she says.

He does not turn. He walks.

Somewhere a bell tolls. The hour of the wolf ends, the hour of the nightingale begins.

The horizon silvers and blues. A bird calls in the distance. The world will waken soon and night will no longer shroud them. Alicent moves before she can think. She’s at his side in a second, hand at his elbow, and he draws towards her, hair falling into his face. For a heartbeat she feels the distance between them, his height keeps him from her, his strength too. Perhaps she can no longer protect him. But she must try. It’s her duty.

“My love,” she says and he bends his head. “It can not happen again.”

Hair obscures his eye.

“I know there is custom…and history. Look at me.”

He does. She cradles his cheek, thumb at his jaw, stroking over the light stubble that’s grown overnight though it feels wrong to touch him With a shock of coldness she realises it repels her. He leans into her as he always has. Words fail her, and even though it feels like she should scrub both of their skins clean, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. A vulnerable sound escapes him as though her kiss is a knife in his side.

“Do you understand?”

He hums.

“Aemond, do you understand?”

He looks at her, a sheen over his eye and a tremble to his lip.

“Yes, mother.”

She strokes a strand of hair from his forehead. She wants to tell him he’s a good boy and a good son and that she is proud of him and that she loves him. That she can never use him like this again. And her face flares in the brightening twilight and bile rises in Alicent’s throat. Her nails press into the skin above her cuticles. Sharp pain. Blood. Just a drop.

How can they come back from this?

“It’ll be dawn soon,” she says.

He bows his head. She grabs his hand and for a moment she holds it. Then he slaps it away.

“Good night, mother,” he says. And leaves.

[alicole-sideblog]

devout mom and history nerd son going to latin mass together

[toukacifer]

En Twitter postee esto y me dieron bastantes ships, así que hice dos de estos para no discriminar (?)

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

‘sadness is a condition of motherhood.’

TARGTOWERS. ALICENT HIGHTOWER WITH HER CHILDREN, 1.07, 2.01, 2.02, 2.05.

[fearthhereaper]

something about aemond wearing green now that he's prince regent and is rulling with alicent by his side

[alicenthightowerrp]

Words over food: with Aemond

Out of all her children, somehow it was Aemond who she was more than nervous to re-connect with after the long stay in Dragonstone. It only filled her with confusion about how their relationship had come to this point. The letters she had sent at the beginning of her family's stay in their apparent new home had been unanswered - it was not long before Alicent gave up. Not that she would ever admit to such a thing. No, she became too busy for her children would be her answer and one that would easily be believed, the Queen knew that. Still, the care she held so deeply for them never wavered, especially for Aemond. It seemed she had to make the first move as her son had made no effort to see her.

The Queen had paused her duties to allow herself some spare time; the letters of correspondence still sat on her desk for the evening but for now, she fought to calm her nerves. Those doe eyes of hers moved towards the door to her chambers for a moment. Her hands moved her hair as she began to move the dishes of food around; as if this could calm her thoughts. "Your Grace..." The familiar voice of the maid that had been in her service for many years called from the side; as the door slowly began to open.

"Prince Aemond is here." The announcement of her son had Alicent stepping away from the table gracefully. "Thank you - let him in." The Queen ordered as she moved closer to the door. The maid bowed her head as Alicent placed her hands behind her back; nervously playing with them as her boy came into view. Well, he was a man now, she had to remind herself. The years have passed and it only brought thoughts she'd rather not have to the front of her mind. Those doe eyes of hers moved over Aemond when he came into view. His hair is still the same, glossy length; any curls that had once adorned him completely grown out. As if a reflection of himself and growing further away from her.

"Aemond..." Alicent whispered; fighting the urge to welcome him home. She was intelligent enough to realise this was not his home, nor had it ever been...just as it had never been hers. Alas, at least her children had seemingly found a place in the world no matter how much she disagreed. "I am glad you are home." The formality still stuck to her as she ignored the notice of taking his arm in hers as they had once done. Still, a soft, gently smile tugged on her lips in greeting.

[de4dking]

[ivy-lea]

Hello my sweet #alimond shippers out there...

I made a discord server for us to reunite.

LINK UPDATED!!!

Mommy's little war criminal... that is what they are... and I need people to talk about it!!!

The focus might be #alimond, but I also welcome any #gwaynicent, #rhaegon, #helaemond, #rhaenicent, #jacelaena and #helaegon shippers out there.

[therealslimshakespeare]

Being fully aware that I am awful for this and being fully aware that I am also valid because this show is already bonkers and has gone fully Hapsburg/Borgia/Romanesque ages and ages agone, its entire plot revolving around interrelations, and despite how this pitch of mine deviates from the current Riverlands trajectory still I wonder…

… is there not a single soul out there massively curious about Alicent x Aemond?

I just think there is stuff there to be explored and maybe my own massively disturbing observations regarding folks I once knew are informing this but boy howdy is there some stuff beneath that one protective son who thinks his father isn’t shit for the way he treated his mother and then if you put that guy -who is already plausibly destined to marry as sister or a close cousin- near his endangered and recently unattached mother and oh, also make him quite psycho…I’m just sayin…exploration