#dance of dragons imagine

[hiatuswhore]

♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ǝpıɹԀ

♕ A/N: Ahhhh here is The Prince and The Street Rat—A Game of Pride. So this was originally always where the story was going but for a minute I did consider taking it an alternative direction. If I did change it though every hint of this ending throughout the chapters would be some meaningless. There is one more part to this story. Let me know what you think, comments are a great motivator! Thank you for enjoying this story with me😁.

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 5.9K

♕ WARNING: Nothing out of the ordinary 🕺🏽

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Swallowing thickly, you exit the room with Aemonds cloak covering your shoulders. Your dismissal lacks directives, the guards trailing behind you aimlessly. The corridors are still more maze than familiar, finding your way through without thought.

“(Y/n)!” Taliya exclaims, rising to her feet taking two steps forward. You step back, staring as though a puzzle sits before you. Biting the inside of your cheek, Daltis blinks, studying you without pause.

"I want the truth. Did Cayde die for some foolish cause of having me rise in station?" Narrowing your eyes, Taliya turns to Daltis, who wears a face of stone. Bawling your fists, your head tilts as you meet Daltis's gaze. You grimace, barely above a whisper, "Do not lie to me."

"No. He died because he loved you. He knew not of these dealings—of the hope a Flea Bottom girl has inspired in thousands," A breathless cry leaves your lips, clutching the Targaryen cloak without care of the shooting ache through your muscles. Thousands.

"I will not be the face of an injudicious movement. The weaponization of my familiarity with the Prince is an act of treason. This cause will come with senseless deaths in my name. I will not bear this. I won't," Somethings never change. Not your stubbornness or Daltis's patience. All these years and still, your defiance shines, exhausting your elders.

"Do tell what Flea Bottom girl speaks as you do. Stands as you do, flouts about amongst high Lords and Princes. You have cemented your place in the histories. Done things no other has and lived to tell the tale. No matter how fast you run, how cunning you are—(Y/n) you cannot escape this," Daltis's gruff tone commands the room as a Lord Commander demands his men. A reminder of the strength that allows his underground dealings to flourish. Your grimace softens, lips trembling into a strangled cry. A long sigh leaves Daltis as you wipe away your tears before they build, "You are the very best of your father. Do better than he. Put trust in this. It is you who will better the realm. The world will never forget (Y/n) Rivers, I am certain of it."

Exiting the chamber doors, you reach your own. Clothes damp against your skin. A servant runs a hot bath, silently lingering by as you consistently dunk yourself beneath the surface. Returning with only your face sticking from the water. Your mind absent from your body, a calm holding every crevice of your body. Sleep comes easy, dawn arriving with Alicent directing every aspect of the new day.

Alicent structures your day-to-day with heavy vigilance. Roslyn aids you in the mornings and nights. Breakfast consists of terse silences leaving Taliya failing to garner conversation beyond the briefest of words. After you sit for lessons in etiquette and houses.

Alicent structures your day-to-day with heavy vigilance. Roslyn aids you in the mornings and nights. Breakfast consists of terse silences leaving Taliya failing to garner conversation beyond the briefest of words. After you sit for lessons in etiquette and houses.

The days seemingly never end. You are Helaena's companion in your free hours. Joining her for walks, reading to or with her in the Godswood, and her favorite part of the day—braiding her hair.

"I hear you jumped from Vermax into the Bay. Far above the water and land," Helaena says, smiling gently in the mirror. You make careful work of lacing her hair with flowers. Not looking up to meet her gaze. Your second dance with death floods your memory.

"Rather pushed. I fear the story muddles in my memory. I cannot recall great detail," Helaena's smile widens as you finish her braid, using a flower to lock the ends. You offer a tight-lipped smile.

"I hear songs sung of your fearlessness. The people are quite fond of you. As am I," The young Queen's eyes shine with a level of obliviousness never known to you. A childlike glow. Forcing a broader smile to your lips, your stomach turns. No one speaks of your time with the Velaryon Prince, not to you, at least. The whispers and rumors fall deaf on your ears. You place your hand on her shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze.

"I am nothing but a humble servant. While your praises honor me, I am just a girl," Helaena shakes her head, placing her hand on your own. She looks up at you over her shoulder. The light squeeze of her hand earns a strained smile, and the moment ends as swiftly as it begins. A distant stupor seizing the eccentric Queen.

"Ablaze be the city as the bells ring, surrender leaving only the river," Helaena blinks with a shake of her head, rising to her feet with a giddy smile. She spins in the mirror, gushing at how the white flowers compliment her lilac gown.

"I beg your pardon?" You say, but she only reiterates her love of the flowers in her braid. Shaking your head, you take her hands. Meeting her gaze with urgency, "Before that, your grace. Your mumblings. You have shared them before."

Helaena frowns, your grip on her hands firm. She tilts her head, letting her shoulders fall, her eyebrows pulling knit, "The bells?"

Helaena turns to her mirror and grabs her earrings from her table, fastening them as a servant announces Aemond's arrival.

"My apologies for the intrusion. Lady (Y/n), can I have a moment of your time?" You glance at Helaena, who only smiles. He rubs his thumb along his fingers, carefully tucked at his sides. Aemond gestures to Helaena's empty library, allowing you to go first. You cross the room with your hands clasped before you, saying nothing as he closes the door behind you. Meeting your gaze, the room stills, neither of you eager to speak first. At the break of silence, you almost fail to hear the low him of his voice, "How are you?"

"You disappeared before my departure to Rivverrun. Then avoid me for weeks, and rather than presenting an explanation or anything for this new life thrust upon me, you inquire of how I am? We both know very well your grace, the answer expected of me as a proper lady," Your jaw clenches, eyebrows creasing in disbelief. He mutters an apology that drowns beneath your scoff. Shaking your head, a mirthless laugh leaves you. Squaring your shoulders, you supplant exasperation with a courteous smile, "I thank you, my lord, for your care of my well-being."

"Don't do that. Do not close me out," He's across the room, standing before you in seconds. You stare up at him, narrowing your eyes with an incredulous glint.

"The Dowager Queen made her expectations clear. What is it you want me to say, Prince Aemond? My fear is of no import. My lack of protection in the Keep walls concerns no one. So why bother shouting when no one will hear me?" You shove him back, one push becoming three, three becoming five before he stands pressed to a wall. He makes no effort to stop you, the dejection in his demeanor fueling your fire. He mutters you are right, halting the assault you inflict upon him. Your hands trembling as his words cut through your anger with ease. You release a strangled cry of frustration, stepping away as you run your hands over your face.

"I am sorry, (Y/n). The mess I have made of your life is a wrong I cannot undo. My selfishness has brought us here, but I swear to you. Ask of me anything in the realm of possibility, and it is yours," You drop down onto a chair, your leg bouncing incessantly beneath you. Realm of possibility. A gentle reminder of the reins that hold you steady. Little to no leverage to support your wish to leave. You stare off, focusing on nothing, in particular, the bounce of your leg coming to an abrupt stop. Aemond saying nothing as your face turns to stone.

"Break your oath to the Baratheon girl. Wed yourself to me," The words leave your lips without a second of reconsideration. Before your very eyes, the gentle Prince vanishes. Aemond's gaze darkens, a sneer taking his features.

"Do not toy with me," Aemond seethes, pacing the room like a caged animal. You rise to your feet, his theatrics doing little to curb your composure.

"I do not jest. I do not love you as you wish me to, but I do love you, my childhood companion. This marriage is not to appease you but of self-interest. Your mother is right; you have endangered me so. The assassination of a Prince's whore is of no consequence, but a Targaryen Princess? That comes with a hefty debt to be paid, a costly one. Your brother will gain the favor of the common people in light of our union, further solidifying his claim to the throne. You trapped me in this storm, now aid me in weathering it," Your perfect posture and level head conceal all evidence of your parentage—your history. A known girl through the streets of Kings Landing.

You speak plainly, watching Aemond blink vehemently. His eyes scan the room aimlessly. The offer of his dreams, and he stands like a bumbling halfwit. You bite your bottom lip, your chuckle filling the silence. Aemonds incertitude written across his face, "Quite the love story you and I, huh? They'll sing songs of our love. The poets will write ceaselessly of faux tales of the long journey that brought us to our union. One of passion and wild romance."

Helaena skips through the doors hooking her arm through your own, announcing it's time for supper. You half nod in Aemond's direction, leaving the room without another word. Like breakfast with Cayde's parents, dinner with the Royal family carries on in agonizing silence. If Aegon's drunk enough, he entertains you all with his nonsense that reminds you all of the imbeciles who sits the Iron Throne. Tonight he sits fiddling with his potatoes with the focus of a maester performing a procedure. The clanging of cutlery against plates fills the air.

"Your hair looks lovely this evening, my girl," Otto beams at Helaena, an earnest you would not believe was there without witnessing firsthand.

"Thank you, Grandsire. (Y/n) did it for me. She is very good at braiding," Helaena leans her head on your shoulder, smiling up at you before retreating to her food. Otto nods his head, his gaze cutting to you.

"Very impressive lady (Y/n)," You bring your cup to your lips to cover the scoff that edges to the surface. Taking a long gulp, you lower the cup displaying a dazzling smile. The Lord Hand only chuckles, turning to his food as his daughter wears a pointed stare. You stare back with a blank exterior, giving no inkling of submission.

"I have an announcement to make," All eyes move to Aemond. Grabbing your chalice once more, you raise an eyebrow as his eyes meet your own. On his feet, even Aegon refocuses his gaze from his plate to his brother. "I am to wed the Lady (Y/n)."

You continue eating even as Otto turns to you. The clang of Alicent's fork against her plate echoes through the hall. Helaena's claps in approval fall into her lap as her mother pinches the bridge of her nose. Aegon's eyes bounce between yourself and his mother, chuckling while reaching for Helaena's glass. He takes several gulps of it as Alicent reminds her second-born of his betrothal to Floris Baratheon.

"Why in the seven hells would we break our needed alliance with the Baratheons?" Alicent focuses her glare on you as she speaks to Aemond, her father's gaze never leaving your calm composure. You bring a fork of potatoes to your lips, chewing slowly as your skin crawls the room granting you audience.

"The favor of the people. People of Kings Landing know her. Tales of her exploits have swept the realm. The people love her. Wed her to our Aemond. A common girl to a Targaryen creates an illusion. They say Targaryens are closer to the Gods than men, and with their union comes a fantasy. That of the low-borns being closer to Targaryens. Closer to the Gods. Bringing much-needed favor to Aegon's claim to the throne," The twinkle in Otto's eyes brings you pause. He turns to Alicent with a pleased expression as she openly gapes. She questions the solution to appeasing Boris Baratheon, a simple fix. The promise of Aegon's heir to a Baratheon child, the promise of a Baratheon with a Royal title. A pipe dream.

"Well, then, I believe congratulations are in order. To my brother and his lovely bride-to-be. A wonderful addition to the family indeed," Aegon grins like a madman raising Helaena's cup as he stares at you. You raise your own cup, the falsity of your gratitude covering nausea plaguing your gut. The ache of shackles that forever bind you. A Targaryen Princess.

The Green Council are the first to learn the news. You sit relishing in Lord Lannisters sneer. No one dares to question your presence or the need for an emergency meeting. Your smile grows as Otto makes the announcement. Lord Lannisters eyes widen as silence takes the room. Otto regales their rationale briefly, shifting to the true purpose of the meeting, the expectations of your own and Aemond's union.

Word spreads like wildfire with the summons of all Lords in the realm expected to be in attendance. House Baratheon coined an honored guest. An array of events carefully crafted by the Green Council.

Escorts by the King's Guard through the city, a stroll through the markets. Many familiar faces do not miss the opportunity to congratulate you, feigning more familiarity than necessary. Both you and Aemond are present at food banquets, personally handing food to the needy of the city. Low rides on Vhagar showcasing your unheard-of betrothal, a Prince, and a nameless girl.

You go from a pawn to a show pony in a blink of an eye. How delightful. Overnight your wardrobe changes drastically. Hightower green at the forefront, if not green, then an emblem skillfully sewn to the bodice. You say nothing about the constant changes in your environment. Each day brings a new public outing, carefully orchestrated by the King's privy council down to the styling of your hair. Feeding off the fondness the common people share for you. Outside these outings, Aemond often disappears, and every inquiry of where earns long silences.

"Very lovely choice, your Grace," Roslyn laces the back of your gown. The fabric traps your body's heat.

"Must I wear this all night?" You squirm, rolling your neck, relishing in the light pops of your muscles. Roslyn chuckles as you grumble about the gown choice not being your own.

"Smile, my lady. Today you make history. (Y/n) Rivers. A Targaryen Princess. Your betrothed wished to start your day with a surprise," You shiver against the cold against your skin. The blue sapphire sitting between your collar bones. Bringing your hand to the shimmering gem, your back stiffens.

"He gifted me this?" You turn as she finishes tying the gown. Her smile widens as she nods. Chewing your bottom lip, you turn back to the mirror. Closing your eyes, the faint hum of water plays at your skin's edges. You take a deep breath basking in faux weightlessness.

"What do you think?" Aemond's lips pursed as you stood before him. Your lips gapped as no words left you. The silence in the room was without a hint of its beginning or end. He released a heavy sigh, muttering a slew of regrets as he adjusted his eye patch.

"Prince Aemond One-Eye. The most fearsome warrior in all of Westeros. I think when read in the histories, you shall sound quite legendary," Your hands grab his wrists, the eye patch resting on his eyebrow. A tight-lipped smile on your lips as you looked into his eye. You moved slowly, not taking your eyes off his lone one. The removal of his eyepatch came with a deep shudder from the young Targaryen.

"I—do you ever yearn for something you cannot have?" Aemond shifted on the balls of his feet as he dropped his gaze.

You chuckled while deeming him a fool, "There's plenty Flea Bottom girls yearn for that they can never have. If I had to say, then I would say family. But whilst looking at yours, I fear maybe not."

"We're family. You and I."

"Are you alright?" You wet your lips, opening your eyes with a deep exhale. The chamber doors open with a quick knock, Taliya offering Roslyn a half nod.

"It's time," She says warmly, holding out her hand with a wide smile. Neither of you says a word whilst journeying to your carriage. A sea of guards surround you at every turn. The open top leaves you privy to watching eyes. Gripping Taliya's hand, the whites of your knuckles contrast the rest of your palm. "All will be well."

Her touch gentle as the guards lift you both up from the ground. The march out of the Keep reveals cries of excitement through the streets. Smiles greet you with urgent calls of hello. Your mind awaits the second you open your eyes to greet the sun beaming down on your hammock. It never comes. The many faces blend into an indiscernible crowd chanting in unison.

(Y/n)!

(Y/n)!

(Y/n)!

"Smile. They love you," Your gaze cuts to Taliya. She smiles happily at the city's people as though it's a common occurrence. No longer a nameless face in the crowd but the cause of the gathering. A weak smile takes your lips, the Sept drawing near in the distance.

Soldiers struggle against the masses who fill the road to see you, just a girl, on her wedding day. Swallowing thickly, you raise your hand, earning a thunderous roar of cheer. The soldiers stop at the Sept stairs. Daltis stands at the bottom behind a row of soldiers. He dons fine blue silks, with ripple stitching decorating his lapel—matching his wife.

"It's quite strange. Despite all he has brought to my life, I question if I can do this," Squeezing Daltis's hand, you pull him close, shielding your trembling form from onlookers. Holding back a shudder from wracking your body, you release a mirthless laugh, "I scheme for the Black Queen."

Daltis meets your misty eyes with a sharp gaze. The wordless interaction lasts mere seconds before he nudges his head toward the Sept. You grip your skirts, stabilizing your feet as Daltis continues with a smile ghosting on his lips.

"Did you not hear me?" Tugging at his arm at the top of the steps, the blinding shine of the sun matters little. Dalits turns to the crowd with a wave, fueling their cheers that fill the air.

"Your machinations are for the good of the realm, are they not? Why bother looking back? You're not going that way," The squeeze of his hand on your own comes with a quiet that clashes against the many yelling patrons behind you.

At the top of the stairs, you look up where the structure's edge meets the sky. The ground beneath you exists in mind only. You know you stand before the people of King's Landing, an indisputable truth.

Yet still, your body lays, the soft ripples of the Bay swaying your limbs above the surface. Just because you don't get it right away doesn't mean you will not.

The moments blur into a peculiarity unknown to you. You take note of every second from the moment you step into the Sept. The eyes of strangers watching your every move, all trained in the art of neutrality. Deceit beneath boards.

The eye of Aemond stays on you as though no other exists in the world. His boards now dismantled, adoration painting his features. Dalits drums his fingers against your palm the entire way without faltering, and you spare each other mere glances. His eyes find Aemond, the wordless transaction leaving to a path you have long traveled. To the House of Dragons.

Even now, as the world erases history, your mind screams reminders of the past. Before you stands a blubbering young Prince eager for his own dragon. In front of him? Not a woman grown, not a Targaryen Princess, but a sharp-tongued Flea Bottom girl—a bastard, oh the irony. Two children, spouting vows lost on the schemes of larger powers.

"The love of the Seven is holy and eternal. The source of all life and love. We stand here tonight in thanks and praise to join two souls as one. Father. Mother. Warrior. Smith. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. Hear now their vows," Inhaling sharply, your gaze stays on Aemond. Your eyes cut to your hand bound to Aemond's by ribbon, the tremble of your hand clear.

"I am his, and he is mine."

"I am hers, and she is mine."

His lips on your own reveal the tether tied all those years prior while two fools scaling an alleyway wall. Oblivious of all to come. A fate only the Gods could foresee.

On the Sept stairs, you both wave, masks of joy painting your expressions. In your carriage, away from the prying eyes, you both find yourselves watching the other.

"Are you alright?" You break the silence, fiddling your fingers in your lap. Aemond's eye travels from your own to the sapphire between your collarbones. The silence deafening.

"I had hoped you'd want this as much as I. Have I doomed us?" He speaks barely above a whisper, watching as your eyes focus on your fingers. You lift your shoulders, dropping them with a childlike huff. The calls of your name make your head snap up, and your eyebrows pull knit.

"Princess (Y/n)!"

"Princess (Y/n)!" Aemond chuckles softly to himself, the voices of many filling the carriage. Your eyes lock with his own, a faint smile on your lips. We'll figure it out, you mouth, a weak smile taking your lips.

Stepping into the grand hall hand in hand, a line of congratulations awaits you. Aegon toasts to Aemond and yourself, announcing Boris Baratheon as an honored guest. You narrow your eyes as Aemond grins to himself, the servants setting out an array of dishes.

"By the gods!" Reaching forward, the familiar Dornish candy garners stick between your fingers. The sweet mixing with the sour on your tongue pulls a hum of approval from your lips. Aemond chuckles, sipping his wine, "Well, you're the clear culprit behind this. This is my favorite of all sweets."

"I'm aware I specifically requested it. Aemond the generous remember," He says. A soft chuckle leaves your lips, turning forward, your cheeks burning as you scan the room with wary eyes. Nothing. Not a single element of the festivities sit out of place, your stomach somersaulting as your heart hammers. The high merriment and endless wine do little to pull your avid overview of the feast.

"Are you alright?" Aemond's hand finds your knee. His eyebrows pull knit as you offer a contrived smile. "We can retire early if you like."

"No, I guess I'm just not used to so much attention," You murmur, looking around the room once more. It all remains the same. If the Rogue Prince plans to strike, he offers no clear warning to you.

In the corner of your eye, you watch Aemond follow your careful scan of the room. His eye narrows, swallowing thickly as your corset becomes a slow choking death. He knows. Your frantic state hides beneath a blank stare. Rising to his feet, an eerie smile takes his lips, "I have a surprise for you."

"Uxoricide is frowned upon, I've heard," You joke, failing to break the pressure that holds your chest. Aemond only rolls his eyes. His smile faint as he guides you toward the dance floor. The crowd parts like the sea in a wise old tale. Nobles make haste at the sight of your presence, offering bows and curtsies in reverence except for one.

The coils of her hair strike you first, a clear connection as only one other in the room shares such a rare look in Westeros. Your strides slow as you take her in from a distance, almost trailing behind Aemond as a result. Her skin glows beneath the candlelight like your own, her parentage and connection to yourself without a shadow of a doubt.

You come to an abrupt stop. Aemond's body jerks back to find you akin to a statue. Staring forward like a woman possessed, your eyes glaze over as your mind scrambles to make sense of who stands before you. Aemond returns to your side, his touch cautious as his breath tickles the shell of your ear.

"My absence in recent weeks has been little to do with the pending war. Your father's Pentosi background proved to be a challenge, even I could not conquer it, but Dorne was not. This is Syva, your mother's mother," Syva stands with a gentle smile, and her eyes crinkle in the corners. You turn to your husband, swallowing the fire that bubbles in your throat, willing the tears to remain in your ducts.

None of you move, Aemond pursing his lips, likely scrutinizing his actions to deem them good or bad. It's Syva who breaks the standoff. She stands before you taking your hands with a gasp.

"By the gods. You look just like her, my Mala," She cries, a misty haze in her eyes. Mala, her name was Mala. Aemond greets her with a familiarity that rings truth to his recent absences. You watch as your grandmother places her hands on both of his cheeks, thanking him profusely. Words evade you, your throat drying as Aemond excuses himself. His smile beaming as he passes you, joining some nameless Lord not too far from your shrinking form. Opening your mouth to speak, nothing leaves you. "I imagine you have many questions for me, dear girl. Not for a second do I ever want you to think I didn't want you. Pranar…your father, He and I never truly saw eye to eye. When I got word of his—I looked for you, but I just couldn't seem to find you. For a time, I thought maybe you had been taken too."

Lacing your fingers in her own, your lips tremble into a crumbling smile. The music and dancing around you now distant fixtures in a grand hall far beyond anything you know. Syva smiles, wiping the salty tears from your cheek, disregarding the few who whisper of you both. "Oh, but look at you now. A Targaryen Princess. From the day you were born, a force like no other."

"Please, grandmother, join us. I wish to know you. To know my mother," Your request leaves you in a raspy plea. Syva chuckles, urging you to remember yourself.

"You are no Lady or nameless Princess of some quaint Realm. You are a Princess from the House of Dragon Riders, dear. I have no place at that table with you, but if you'll have me here at court, I would be honored to know you," Swallowing the ache of your cheeks, your smile does not falter. Nodding your head like a giddy child, you swear to her she's more than welcome, confessing familiarity to be what you most desire. "I have heard the tales of your husband. The cruel Prince, the kinslayer. And that may all be true, but the fervor that boy carries for you, dear. You don't see that every day."

Following Syva's gaze, your eyebrows raise at the outlandish sight. Aemond stands with his brother, a boisterous laugh consuming the two—a new cup in his hand. You excuse yourself from your grandmother, promising to find her before the night's end. At Aemonds side, you ask the dragons to share what humors them so fervently. A pause sits between the three of you as Aegon retells his tasteless joke leaving Aemond to shift on the balls of his feet. The frivolity of your laugh breaks the ice leaving the three of you in a band of grins.

You find Aemond already looking at you as the laughter dies down. No longer at your wedding feast but on your rooftop without a care in the world. Smirking up at him, he narrows his eyes, raising his eyebrows.

"My apologies, my Lord, I almost mistook you for my husband, Prince Aemond. About this tall, a brooding Maester with love for awfully boring things. Such as philosophy and history," Aemond chuckles, intercepting his next cup of wine you down it lacing your fingers into his own. A gag leaves your lips silently, cursing the Lannisters and their coveted Lannisport wine, "While this arrangement may not have been my hearts to desire. I give you my word, I will try."

"Are you certain of this? If today marks the day I become dragon food, the history will write of the Kings Landing Bastard who haunts the Targaryen dynasty," You whined as Aemond rolled his eyes. He walked several paces ahead of you, practically dragging you to the Dragon Pit.

"We are bonded. Even now, Vhagar knows of my care for you. She will not harm you," Aemond insisted. You halted in place as she came into view, your eyes wide as Aemond tugged at your arm to go with him.

"You ride that?" You visibly gulped as Aemond grinned with pride. Aemond's pleasure did not falter at the hesitancy that seized your body. You squeezed your eyes shut, allowing him to guide you, the low rumbles of Vhagar making every muscle in your body tense.

"Lykirī! Dohaerās!" Aemond rested his hand on top of your own as he pressed your palm flat upon the beast's scaly skin. Your eyes remained shut as you pushed back into Aemond's chest. “Vhagar, rhaenagon issa jorrāelagon.”

"What's that mean?" You asked, eyes still clamped shut. The low rumble of the world's largest dragon eased beneath your fingers. Aemond only chuckled, the warmth of his hand atop your own gone without warning. Your eyes whipped open, "Aemond!"

"Avy jorrāelan," Aemond rests his head against your own, Aegon grumbling as he abandons the two of you in the center of the dance floors.

"What's that mean?" Meeting his gaze, your chest knots, weaponizing incompetence easily. If he knows, he reveals nothing studying your face with a smile akin to a giddy child. Cayde sits in your mind, the lines of your morality blurring. Have I betrayed him? Does he hate me?

"At the latest hour, leave with me on Vhagar. There's a home for us in Dorne, isolated enough to hide Vhagar close enough to Sunspear for you to find work, which I know you enjoy. I can dedicate my days to my studies and to a new life. Syva lives in Sunspear. You can know her—our children can know her. She helped me with all this. It's your family home," You stumble from his hold, an incredulous look in your eyes. Onlookers eager to be privy to the dealings of the odd marital pairing.

"What of your family? Your sense of duty and pride would never allow such fantasies, so what is this?" You narrow your eyes, practically hissing as you visibly seethe. No care for the crowd that forms around you.

"You and me, this friendship is my greatest accomplishment. My pride and joy. You're my family. My duty is to you. This marriage is an oath I will not break. I love you," You cannot evade this, his words clear. Aemond pulls you back in, his smile unfazed by your venom. The fury that bubbles in your chest renders you silent, the weight of his words crushing you, "Feel no obligation to say it back, for my words are nothing. I have broken every oath to you, but I love you, and I wish to show you rather than tell you. A home away from all this awaits us. Let's start our lives together. No Iron Throne. No Hightowers or Targaryens. No Royal drama. We can be happy. I can make you happy."

"I—" Your eyes flutter shut, opening and closing as your vision splinters. Stumbling forward, Aemond takes your hands as the room turns, a fog consuming you whole as your body melts into your husband.

“(Y/n)?” A faint ding reaches your ears, drowned by a chorus of gasps. You whip your head toward the doors, following the gaze of the masses. A Kings Guard stumbles to his knees, clutching his throat. Crimson red paints the floor, Aemond muttering of it being one of his niece and nephew's guard. The clanging of his armor to the ground echoes through the room, a barrage of screams following, the room descending into utter chaos. The Rogue Prince.

"Aemond?" You cry. Violent gags jerk your neck forward, your vision blurring and refocusing as it pleases. The buckle of your knees comes with the chill of the hard floor beneath you. Aemond cradles you close as legs race around you in an endless flurry.

"I need Maesters now!" The ferocity of his screams small against the thunderous screams of scattering nobles. You clutch his shoulders, a strangled cry leaving your lips, a raging pressure setting your windpipe ablaze, holding you captive.

"The b—" Your eyes wide as he screams for a maester a final time turning his attention to you. A loud cry leaves his lips as his eye lock with your wide ones, terror dancing in them as you frantically grasp at his shoulders. Your nails claw his skin as though holding him keeps you tethered to the earth.

Head tilting back as reality collapses on itself, the sky blue sky greeting you with the beaming of the blindingly hot sun. Taking a deep breath, your chest swells at the ease that comes with the taken-for-granted task. Water creeps further up on the sides of your head, a cramp shoots through your chest. You jerk forward, a hand flat on your back, keeping you above the surface.

"Dad?" A frown takes your lips, and in a blink of an eye, the dark ceiling returns and strands of white take your vision. Your lips crumble as a cry leaves your lips once more, finite doses of air invading your windpipe.

"It's going to be okay. Issa jorrealagon. I'm right here," Aemond coos. Wiping your tears from your cheek, he pulls you to his lap. His voice wavers and cracks as he rocks you both back and forth. "We'll name our little girl Mala, like your mother. I pray to the gods she looks like you, but she'll be a brooder, and you'll hate it—I just know it. And a son, we'll name Cadis to honor your friend. He'll be every bit of you. He'll have your laugh and your distaste for anything scholarly. I'll steal eggs for them from Dragonstone. No child of ours will go without a dragon. We'll be happy, our little family. Can't you see it?"

Violent tremors cut through your body, specs of black dancing across your vision. Each of your senses collapses into each other except one. The clear ringing sits in your ears, the tintinnabulation becoming your focus. The bells. Aemond takes your hand in his own, your hands trembling as your mouth opens. He leans down, your breathing low and choppy.

The line between consciousness and unconsciousness blurring. All collapsing into a dull nothingness with no beginning or end. No husband and wife.

In Kings Landing of all places. Home to the vile, cruel, and everything in between.

[ophelieverse]

please please please i need you to write something for my man Aegon I love how you write for him😭

➳♡before fire takes it all

Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader

-summary:normally Aegon would ignore Helaena and her strange behavior but,since his wife Y/n got pregnant,he can’t help but think about the words his sister said the moment he announced the news.

-warnings:set in season 1,pre blood and cheese and luke death,teen pregnancy(both Aegon and reader are sixteen),talk about child death,Aegon being paranoid and keeping secrets,Helaena predictions,classic asoiaf warnings,reader can be of whatever house you want.

-thank you so much for the request and let me know what you guys think,send you all my love🩷

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It hurts.

Love,Aegon thinks.

Love hurts.

His heart bursts,his heart explodes,his heart climbs down his throat and assaults his temples, squeezing and compressing them until his eyes darken,until it scars the tormented irises and pupils.

Loving too much is fatal.Or not?

Isn't that so?

Live well,live badly.Does he lives at all?

“I don't know”,his conscience responds.

Aegon would like to know,but he doesn’t know.He doesn’t even think he knows what the right way to live is anymore,he’s terrified that he doesn’t know what it means to live anymore.

How can he live?How?

How can he pretend that everything is alright?That everything,in the future,is going to be alright?

Normally Aegon wouldn’t think about these sort of things,he used to live day by day dictated by his own selfish desires.But since he had got married two years ago,something in him changed completely.He started to understand what it meant to love and live for someone else,to wake up every morning early to just watch her sleep so soundly next to him,to stay sober at every hour so that he could remember her kind words,her sweet face and calm voice.Wanting to be a different version,a better one,of himself only because she showed him that he deserved happiness and love like everyone else and in return he only wanted to give her the best he could.

But golden necklaces,earrings,beautiful flowers and the most expensive dresses could not fill the hole that was slowly opening under their feet,a hidden tragedy ready to swallow them whole and to break their hearts and souls forever.

Aegon wasn’t one to listen to his family,he longed for his mother love and his father attention,he despised his older half sister,made fun of his younger brothers and mostly ignored his other sister.Only this time,something happened,something made him look in Helaena direction for the first time and his ears had caught every single word that she had whispered to herself.

His wife,Lady Y/n,the most beautiful and kind woman,a innocent young girl with a heart too big for her body,was pregnant.It was true,what they said about expecting women,she was glowing like the most precious diamond and her happiness about becoming a mother,the mother of the lover of her life child,couldn’t be contained by her shiny eyes and big smile.

«The Maester said that signs suggest is going to be a boy.»Aegon had announced one day at the breakfast table.

His mother had smiled kindly and Aemond had nodded giving his shoulder a warm squeeze.It was still too early in the pregnancy to understand whether is was going to be boy or a girl,but still Aegon had hoped that the Maester was right.Having a son was a dream that he never dared to imagine or to say out loud until then,the living proof that he was going to be better than his father ever was for him.

Helaena was sitting next to him,quietly playing with a wooden butterfly,all lost in the secret gardens of her mind when she muttered something: «A son for a son.»without even understanding her own words.

As their mother and brother were talking,Aegon turned slightly toward her.Usually he wouldn’t pay attention to his sister and her strange behavior,he was disgusted by all of those insects that she so lovingly brought everywhere like some pet on a leash and he was so relieved when his father had betrothed him to Y/n instead that her.He wouldn’t even lister or look over her if in the past,her silent words of warning weren’t revealed to be the sour truth.Aemond had lost an eye just like she had said.Maybe if back then he had listened to her,he would have helped his brother and nothing would have happened.

«What does it mean?»Aegon had whispered to her confused.

Helaena wasn’t looking at him,her fingers gracefully tracing the toy«They only want the boy,not the girl.»she said as if she didn’t heard him,nodding to herself.

Aegon left the spoon that he was holding,a sensation of nausea was crawling up his stomach,his heart beating faster«The boy?My boy?Who wants him?»he asked.

His sister stayed quiet,every second felt like an agony for him.His mind became of stone and a part of his was laughing for the fact that he was actually really listening to her,to her crazy words and empty head.But still,something,maybe his father instinct that was already part of him,told him that what she was saying was another dark truth.

A boy and a girl,she had said.He was going to have both,twins.He couldn’t even imagine it,praying that they would take after their mother soft and gentle spirit but also his fierce nature.Y/n would have been delighted to know that they were about to have twice of the love,but what would she said if she knew that someone wanted their son?

«The rats.»Helaena answered then,her eyes bore holes in his as she turned to look at her older brother,shiny lilac flowers watered in fear and condolences.

It had been months since that conversation and Aegon couldn’t stop to think about it.Every night,as he watched Y/n sleep next to him while he so gently caressed her belly where two new lives were growing,he could still feel his sister horrified stare on him and her heavy words in his ears.

Y/n is talking to Aegon,while they were lying under the covers of their bed.Her head is on his chest,her hair smelled of flowers and peaches,her voice sleepy and always so tender as his hand was staying on her swollen stomach.She's talking to him about her day and he can't listen to her,he can't even see her behind his pale eyelashes that lower,behind his tired eyelids that are threatening to close tightly.

With the fingers of his free hand he massage them,the nail of his index finger finds a tear that was hidden there,at the corner of the right eye,and uprooting it,let it be dried out by air.

Aegon was exhausted.He had difficulty to sleep when every sound made him jump,every shadow in the corner gave him a heart attack.

He would like to stop thinking,he would like to find a way to turn off his mind,to blow up the candle that kept his brain from sleeping and this crazy thought makes him understand that he had become even more incredibly pathetic than he already was.

Aegon was terrorized.If he already ignored Helaena,now he was avoiding her like the plague in fear that she could say something else,or worse,talk about her thoughts to Y/n.

Y/n,his beautiful and sweet wife,already had so much to think about.Being eight months pregnant was taking a toll on her,even though she never stopped smiling,he could see that she was tired and that her body couldn’t bare it anymore.He couldn’t let her worry about something that his weird sister said to him,not when the Maester said that she needed peace,calmness and affection.And even if he hadn’t said that,how could Aegon tell her what was keeping him awake at night?

He set more and more knights to follow his wife around to make sure that nothing happened to her and his children,the Maester came to check on her at least once a day and when he wasn’t with her,his mother would keep her company in the solarium.He had personally hired people to hunt the rats of the Red Keep.Aegon so often dreamed of being just like the armors that Ser Arryk wears,cold, motionless,empty,that he has come to believe that it would be beautiful,it would be fulfilling,to be something without emotions and rest in a corner without light.

Aegon had still to meet his son,both of his children,after he had dreamed of him,of them,for so long.And yet already someone wanted to take his baby away from him.

The flashes of the veins on his forehead tingle and he clash,he crush himself,against an imaginary expanse of water that slaps his brain,crushes his lungs with long ivory tusks,disfigures his face.

Aegon was blocked.

He was stuck in some claustrophobic scribbled box,in a rusty bubble of his faulty soul,and he was afraid see beyond.But he could see the future,the one that Helaena had tried to warn him about.

He could see beyond and,the certainty is disconcerting,he clearly see that the worst nightmare of any human being,what wakes up men in the middle of the night and scares children with simple shadows,is the awareness of being chased:no one can ever escape from themselves,no one has ever escaped from destiny.

Not even him,especially him.

Because Aegon knew already,tasting it on the tip of his tongue,that what will happen is was going to be his fault.Certainly not because of Y/n.

«Am I boring you?»Y/n voice was tired but still sweet«Forgive me,my days are monotonous,predictable and highly boring.»she huffed,caressing his hand above her stomach.

Ever since she had started showing,her husband treated her like the finest and most delicate porcelain.All she could do during the day was read in their chambers,walk through the gardens and pray with the Queen.Not exactly a vivacious life,especially since Ser Arryk followed her every move.

She yawns,she apologizes,and Aegon finally slam the lumpy eyelashes and look at her.

Y/n is smiling,innocent,carrying his children and then his body moves by itself,he act instinctively, and get her closer to him.

A hand behind her nape,a strong and fast grip, almost stuttered,and Aegon feel her words on the palate,he eat them between his lips moving on her open mouth.He kiss her badly,and he hurt himself,he will hurt both of them,he kiss her following the dull rhythm of his ears,he kiss her and he pass the noise of his thoughts to her.

Aegon feels a hole in the center of his throat,a knot of cries,and this makes him sway and covers his eyes with torn red lightning here and there,it breaks his mind.Yet he keep kissing her.He have to kiss her.

Kissing Y/n scratches his soul,kissing her stirs up his fears and reminds him,in the pause of one of her breath,the so natural way in which pleasure and pain mix,get tangled,whenever pieces of skin graze and play with the tongues and crests of a fire.Fingertips caressing purple flames,white sheets reduced to blackened shreds,a plate of ice lying on the jigular.

Kissing Y/n now is like taking a sip of salt.Filling her mouth,having her under his palms,feeling the boiling heat of her cheeks against his nose and against his upper lip.

Y/n forces Aegon to give her every good part of himself,even those he thought were lost by now,and she does it with twisting tongues or with an annoying clash of teeth.All it takes is a simple touch and he’s willing to give her the world.She makes him wanting to be a better person and he so scared to fail her,that he wouldn’t be able to protect her and the most precious things that they created together.

«Aegon.»she whispered on his lips,eyes fluttered closed.

«I love you.»he said without thinking«I love you and our children.And I didn't think I could ever love,not this way.»he confessed,his voice trembling as his mouth was on hers again.

«I love you too.Are you alright sweetheart?»Y/n asked placing a hand on his warm cheek,she could read him like a open book but sometimes even her couldn’t understand him completely.

Aegon wished he could tell her all about what was going on in his mind.To share with her his deepest fears,to let her hold him and tell him that everything is going to be alright and that they will be safe and together for all of their lives.

But when she starts kissing him in a different way,like a helpless girl who would let herself do anything from him,when she starts kissing him with a teenage heat,a heat so in love and so lost, then he would like to do something else.

He would like to yell all the terrible words that Helaena told him,he would like to tug on her and burst her stupid and crazy soap bubbles in front of her eyes and he would like to do it just to remind her who he really was.To remind his sweet Y/n that so willingly loved,accepted and cherished him,that believed that with him nothing could touch her,that he was still a dragon and dragons are known to burn people.

Aegon doesn’t answer her,he just lets his forehead on hers with his eyes closed.

«You don’t have to worry.»Y/n murmured against his skin«You are not like your father and our children already know that,they love you just like I do.»she promised him,their hands interlaced on her belly.

He had voiced his concerns about fatherhood the moment she told him that she was with child,his child.Children now.And she had spent countless nights reassuring him that he was going to be a good father,a better one,unlike his.That he was going to be there for them,but now he knows that he can’t escape his own fate.His father shadow will forever be there to remind him that they are just the same:bound to fail their families.

“Stop it,please.Stop holding my heart so tight in your hands,that's enough.”Aegon thought.

It was in moments like these that Aegon remembered that Y/n was just a girl,a frightened sixteen years old who lives every second with her chest open,her heart too visible to anyone,too exposed.The feelings,the emotions,painted between her bright eyes and lips,make her an easy target,a sacrificial lamb,a too good person who can easily be stabbed in the back.

Her goodness and naivety makes her vulnerable and Aegon knows it,Gods,he knows it.

Because Y/n is not,in the slightest,capable of defending herself,she is not even able to understand the reality of the universe,she does not come to terms with the subtle and treacherous truths.She does not accept the existence of evil in the world,she does not accept the possibility that often what is considered good and right,is not really good,is not really right.

So how could Aegon get her away from the black that drips from his nails,scars,thoughts?Y/n thinks she knows how dark his soul is,she thinks she's got it,but he know she doesn’t.

It will never be like this.

«Aegon.»she calls for him again as soon as she realizes that his mind is wandering too far.

Y/n throws his name on his skin and he swallow the panic that warms his esophagus,which runs through his every rib,as he block her head in his hands,almost in a trap.

Aegon push her to lie on the mattress,make her collapse between the pillows almost as if he had beaten her in a duel,and he hovers on top of her relaxed body,carefully holding her stomach.

Y/n doesn't tremble.

He’s are literally assaulting her and she lets him do it,she agrees,she welcomes him between her legs,in her heart,in her mouth that moves a little away from his and then falls on his eyelids that are still closed.

Aegon wish he could tear his eyes out,blind himself with huge metal spikes.He doesn’t let anyone get so close to him,he’d never done it and now more than before he wished didn’t do it.Because now they would see it,they already saw it.It was evident,under the lights and everyone eyes that his legacy was about to be born and die all in once.

Even the rats will see it.If someone dared to direct their steps towards Aegon,if someone dared even raise their head towards him,they would see his pupils and find Y/n and their children in there.

At the center of all his thoughts,of all his hopes:the end of an entire life that has bent over itself in the hope of scraping together some more time and living it with them.

So what's wrong?What binds his eyelashes in a white spider web?Could Helaena be right or he was being paranoid again?She was right about the fact that Y/n was carrying twins,the Maester had confirmed it months ago,but could she be right about the rest?

Then he felt it,against his warm palm and his heart skip a beat.A little kick,yet strong and determined to be felt.

«Looks like someone woke up.»Y/n giggled,looking down at her body.

«I didn’t mean to wake them.I’m sorry.»is all that Aegon can whisper and he doesn’t even know what he’s really apologizing for.

Y/n listens to him and suddenly recognizes something in the tone of his voice.She relaxes her limbs under him even more,completely wipes away any trace of tension as if someone had just cut the thin threads that moved her body,and she sulks as she touches his lilac eyes that he still deny her,stubbornly.

«Why are you so sad?What happened?»she said,concern covering all her beautiful face.

It’s not what happened,but what could happen.

Aegon forced a smile on his lips«A bad dream.That's all.»he lies,shaking his head.

Thats what he prayed every night,that it was all a nightmare and that he would wake up soon.

Y/n rubs her fingertips on his eyelashes and he feel her lips lying against his cheekbone.She’s smiling.

«Don't worry.I just found the last sleep crumbs that were hiding from you and threw them away. They were the ones who held back the bad dream and now they are gone.»she explained to him,peppering sweet kisses on his face.

Aegon eyelids rise on their own and he clash with the flickering image of his wife looking at him and bringing to his face her index finger on which one of his eyelashes is placed,almost a crescent moon caught in the air and hovering towards the earth.

«Do you want to make a wish?My mother always told me to do it,but I have to admit that almost none of my wishes ever came true in this way. Maybe I was asking for impossible things,out of my reach.Same thing with the shooting stars.Do you want to try anyway?»Y/n was rumbling,now he remembered why she was friends with his sister.

Aegon leverage his elbows,without getting too far away from her and look at her strangely«What?»he asked confused.

His cheeks mottled red and it seems to him that the way she bites her lips is yet another punch against his anesthetized emotions.

«Forgive me,it's such a stupid thing.Please forget it.»and while she is saying it she moves her nail in the act of throwing away his wish that has taken on the common form of a pale eyelash.

Y/n gesture makes the eyelash roll down and it swirls over itself and chases the earth,chases its tail,forms several open circles into which he stick his dream,his nightmare,his hidden thought.

The eyelash is lost on the red carpet and Aegon don't see it anymore.

He look for Y/n gaze again as she pushes him back into kissing her.She asks him,clumsily,to let go of those silly words of hers.The words of a girl that was still too young and forced by her father to grow up too fast,a girl hat was still a child herself with all of her fantasies and fairytales.A child that will raise children soon.

Because Y/n was better than Aegon,she is,even if she doesn't know it,and she showed it to him so many times that he has now lost count of the occasions when he felt at fault.Occasions when he realized he don't deserve her.

Aegon prefer to ignore this reality of the facts,he prefer to put his lips on her collarbone and bite slowly,resume and rummaging through her fertile body,one hand in her hair and the other under her nightgown,and grab as much as much as she offers him.

And Y/n offers Aegon everything,always.

«No wish was ever fulfilled?No one?»the question comes out of his teeth before he can control it,it pours out as his mouth moves over her belly that he suddenly feel quiver.

She is laughing.All three of them are,he realizes as he start tracing with his fingers his children imaginary features on the skin of her stomach.

«Maybe two of them.»Y/n says,referring to the lives she created inside of her«But I found out that my wishes only come true when I look at myself in a puddle.»she laughs again with her mouth open and then moves her head into a pillow.

His fingertips tingle on contact with her skin and his stomach closes into a knot the moment he notice how the intimacy that his movements has turned into familiarity.Because that is what they were going to be soon,a family.

«When did you looked at yourself into a puddle?»Aegon suddenly asked,giggling a bit when another kick met his hand.

Y/n hand found its way into his messy silver locks«The day that my father had accompanied me here for our betrothal.»she tells him,a warm feeling in her chest at the memory.

«It was raining.»he said,he remembered perfectly the first time he saw her.

He remembered her father fussing all over her wet hair,trying to adjust her dress and to make her look presentable.But she was still the most beautiful and vulnerable creature that Aegon had aver seen.A little wet bird in a golden cage.

She nodded«Before entering the Keep i took a deep breath and,as I stared at my reflection into a puddle at my feet,I secretly wished that the husband i was going to have would love him as much as I love looking at the star.»she smiled lovingly down at him.

It came true.Aegon felt his heart exploding in his chest,he loved his wife more than anything in the world.It was so easy for him to love her,how could he not?The thought that she had to wish for something like that,for something that for him was like breathing made his eyes flutter with little tears.

Aegon moved an arm and he already knew that he will hold her hand,remaining palm to palm,as he already know that her fingers will chase his,that they will squeeze,gasps.Wrists banging against wrists,veins in contact.

The time of a whole life that slips away.

«I have never made a wish.»he confessed then.

He just took,he just wanted.

Oh Aegon,what a stupid mistake.

He stole the dreams of his future child,he had plundered entire experiences of the past,and yet he could have simply asked.With courtesy,with kindness.With a little humility.

What a stupid mistake.

«You must have had a really bad dream.»Y/n whispers in her voice broken by his caresses,and then leans and puts her forehead against his as he rise to look at her«But it’s never too late,you can still have your wish.»she reassured him.

No he couldn’t and maybe they should stop talking,stop wasting time.They both should just exchange their saliva and shut up.Pant,moan obscenely and stop everything else.Eliminate among them the layers of soul,the remnants of some childish hopes,and join like empty bags.

It would be better this way,Aegon recognize this too,just below the surface,just below the peel of his chest,at least admit with himself that it would be better that way.He should stop discovering her hips with words,with confessions,with Helaena confusing words,with half-truths:it's too risky.

He should just close himself and unite with her only the bodies,discover the consistency of the painless choices and stay there stationary,inside an empty and deep gap in which the arms and legs move frantically without ever finding anything to hold on to.

This was his life once,before her.

Aegon had endless possibilities of oblivion,between the broken lines of the light palms,he had everything a young,spoiled prince could ask for.

The simplicity of superficial human relationships flowed through the buttonholes of his fingers and he continued to be unhappy,stubbornly perpetuated his pursuit of unhappiness,but he didn't know it,and therefore he really wasn't.

Or maybe yes?Maybe a part of him knew that?Is that why his chest is burning now?Because now he was finally happy for the first time and he didn’t wanted it to end?

Because now Aegon has Y/n and he managed to create something pure and innocent and beautiful with her,giving them all of the good qualities he didn’t knew he possessed.

Y/n seems to listen to his every secret and fear,to feel his breathing change and become noisier,deeper.She place a hand on his abdomen, slowly,she traces with her fingertips first his palm and then also his wrist,then also the blue vein,and repeat his name,repeat his name,repeat his name again.

Aegon enchant himself in front of the movement of her mouth and listen to the ticking of her heart that stretches until it pulls a painful fist on his gums.

He’s an adult now,a husband and a father.He should behave as such and leave the butterflies to the kids and remember that him,in his stomach and belly,only have the worms of rotten apples.

This happens to those who never make a wish. Didn't he know that?

«I would kill for our family,even innocent people if this means keep the three of you safe.»Aegon suddenly said,voicing his thoughts out loud«Would you still love me after that?»the question is sour in his mouth.

Y/n opens her eyelids to the sound of his question,frantically slams her eyelashes,those eyelashes,and swallows with difficulty.The cheeks are even redder and the ears are also red,the eyes are shiny.Atoms of soul and innocence:they agglomerated together and formed her,a little girl composed of glass and cobwebs,bubbles and feathers.

The bravest Lady he had ever met.

«Of course I will love you.My heart is your for eternity.»she replies and doesn't hesitate for a moment«And I would do the same for us.»she added with a whisper.

Her love for him is equivalent to a black hole in which he could immerse himself and observe a boundless horizon of stars broken and stuck in an icy ground.

She loves him.

And she knows that Aegon loves her too.But right now he can't even answer her,to tell her that he’s sorry,that he’s scared,that he reciprocate her feelings with the same intensity or that maybe he reciprocate them in an even more desperate way than her,crazier.He wish he could tell her that he wished they had more time,that he wasn’t who he is,that he wished that they were born in a different place and had different lives to share forever.

Y/n face is beautiful,her forehead is smooth,no flickering lines to scar her tranquility,and the skin near her eyes is crumpled from the day they got married and started to live a life together.It's the restrained cries,the sleepless nights,the quarrels,the misunderstandings,the voracious kisses left on them like square pieces.

Y/n looks at him,her eyes are still shiny,and with her fingertips and palms she clings to his camisole.

Sh clings to him and Aegon doesn’t feel any weight,he doesn’t feel any pain,no discomfort.Then at least one thing shines certain and bright in his mind:she has become the very consistency of his body.She has entered his limbs,without him noticing,and she is so close to him,beyond the blood and the breaths,that her hand is now an extension of his,her chest is his,her back is his,her lips are his.

And they would be able to see it,all perfectly together in the faces of their children.

And it is not a mere matter of possession,just an arranged marriage to unite two houses,this is not the truth and it will never be.It is something ancestral,like being destined to meet her,being destined to belong to it,being destined to live there,despite time and space.

Aegon and Y/n were sitting on the opposite ends of a timeline,at two distant points in human life, so far away that they saw each other like blurred halos,and they wanted so much to find the other,they have desired it so much,so much,that they have decided to tilt the axes of existence,to hang on to them,and to reunite with an interweaving of hands.

They had bent their faces,touched their souls by ticking of nails,and nothing was the same again.What a stupid mistake they made,something that their innocent son will pay one day.

Aegon felt like he was on fire,his whole body was trembling and his heart ached in his chest«Y/n…I…I-»but what could he tell her?

He could push her away from him,go ahead and just do it,but on his bones he will still find her shape and her footprints.If he looked for her,looked for her in him,he would find that she was everywhere.

«Y/n,I’m…I’m really sorr-»he tried to choke out what he could.

«Do you know what I wanted when I first looked inside a puddle?»Y/n didn’t let him finish,instead she kept stroking his face lovingly to help him calm down.

Aegon doesn’t move and she puts her index finger against his right temple,light.He knew that,from where she was from,it usually rained during the end of the summer and that she loved playing outside with her siblings and mother.She was the one that taught Y/n to look inside poodles and to dance in the rain,something that she would teach her future children too.

«I wished I could see myself.I wanted it intensely,I really wanted it with all my strength,as I never wanted anything in life.»Y/n started to explain him.

All of her life was planned for her,from the moment she came to the world,by her father that only saw his daughter as piece of chess to move on the board in order to gain power.She didn’t even knew who she was if not Lady Y/n,a proper and polite young girl ready to marry in the royal house.But now she knew who she was,what she liked to eat,to read,what to do in her free time and it was all thanks to Aegon that had shown her how to be selfish for the first time and to live for herself.

«And I see myself now,I can see myself,but I'm not happy.Because I have a new wish,much more important:that you can see yourself in the same way I see you,the way our children already see you.Then yes,i would be happy.We would both be happy.»she told him,sincerely with a little smile on her beautiful face.

Y/n had plundered his last feelings,which were nothing more than bread crumbs left attached to the eaten crusts.If the world fell,the sun fell,all the snow,the hail,the rain and the lightning fell,even the rainbow.He will make fire pour from the sky,he will spill blood just to keep his family alive and safe besides him.

Aegon doesn’t say anything,he moves forward on top of her and kisses her one again.He has a wish now:time.The only thing he wanted was time,more time to see his children grow up and become beautiful people,time to spend with them and to teach them how the world works,to help them and hold their hands,to protect them when they were scared and to remains them that he will love them forever.More time with Y/n,to love and cherish her,to grow old with her,to make her smile and laugh at the most inappropriate times,to caress her sweet face at night as he watches her sleep.He just wanted more time,he deserved it.

«How about,the next time that rains,we go outside,just us.»Aegon murmurs on her lips«I have a wish to make.»he continued with a small smile.

And he prayed the gods,whoever could listen to him,that it would become true the moment Y/n giggled and nodded her head.He hoped but hope can do nothing against an already written destiny and then he will be ready to go to war.

[girlsworldillusion]

I'd let the world burn for you

•

Summary: Amid the severe consequences of war, Aemond finds himself alone, without the presence and support of his young and sweet wife, who insists on staying away from him, afraid of who he has become. He has been a respectful and patient husband. But tonight he feels like he has finally reached his limit.

Author's note: Please, pay attention to the tags. This story contains sensitive topics, such as: +18, SEX, SEVERE INTERNAL CONFLICT, DUB-CON/NON-CON, POSSESSIVE/OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, EMOTIONAL DEPENDENCY, TOXIC RELATIONSHIP AND MORE.

word count: 6k

There is no specific description of which house the reader belongs to, so feel free to fill this in as you wish.

English is not my native language, forgive me for any spelling mistakes.

Good reading!

He can taste vomit in his esophagus.

Aemond knows it wouldn't be too difficult to get out what little he ate. He coughs as discreetly as he can into the back of his hand before taking off his eye patch, wanting to splash some cold water on his face and throat. He pretends not to notice how his hands are a little shaky as he pulls the gloves off of them, cupping his fingers inside the basin left by the servants on the table. The cool water feels refreshing on his hot skin, and with a satisfied hiss, he looks up, staring directly at the reflection of his own face in the mirror.

The flickering flames of the fire near the wall provide no comprehensive illumination, and he is honestly relieved by that. What little he can see is disturbing enough. His single lilac eye is bloodshot, his silver hair is disheveled, so different from normal. Paleness in the face, sunken cheeks. The subtle glow of the blue stone in his other eye and the deep scars around it only add a dying touch to his ghostly visage.

Another deep tug wracks his stomach and he leans forward, gripping the sides of the table with abandon, preparing to actually throw up this time. But nothing comes, nothing but the painful, nauseating feeling in his body.

He can't forget.

It's all his doing, after all. It's all his fault.

The death of all those people, the desolation of the entire Riverlands. It's all his fault.

Any feeling of greatness and power that previously inhabited his body no longer existed. His superiority and confidence swept away by the tide until he was spat out on the shore with nothing but pain and trauma.

He is a hypocrite and he knows it.

Aemond is not a good person. He doesn't want to fool anyone with his anxiety attack, he definitely doesn't need to take on the role of the poor regretful guy. He doesn't regret what he did, he doesn't regret doing what was absolutely necessary for the good of his family. He could never regret this. And he knows that tomorrow, a week from now, or a month from now, he will do exactly the same thing again if necessary. There are no limits to what he is willing to do to and for those to whom he is loyal.

He can't even dare deny liking it all.

When he's on Vhagar's saddle, with the world in flames just beneath them and the addictive power to decide for good or ill for those poor, hopeless souls, he can swear he's never felt anything better. There's something disturbingly liberating about embracing the monster that resides in his chest. It's surprising to him how good it feels to be ruthless, to take on the role of the uncontrollable beast everyone says he is (rightfully so).

It wasn't always like this. But a series of violent and tragic actions that may or may not have been intentional earned Aemond more than just an ominous codename. They gave him respect; fear. Aemond One-Eye, the son without expectations, the child without any prominence. No more.

He feels ruthless when he is in the skies, dictating the fate of humanity. It gives him power. He is powerful now, he is no longer the boy forgotten by everyone. The feeling of being superior pumps hard through his veins until he goes wild, makes him feel like he's crushing people under the soles of his boots. He is more powerful. Their lives depend solely on the way his hand moves and it turns out that, to their misfortune and terror, his hands are wrapped around the saddle of the largest dragon in the world. It is difficult to be sensible and godly when there is so much power at his command. He is more powerful. There is nothing that can stop him. He feels invincible, unstoppable. He doesn't just enjoy it - he worships this feeling.

At least until it's all over.

When the dust settles and all that is left is the consequence of his actions, it is then that he quietly withers away.

He killed them. All of them. His hands are stained with blood and ash and it's all his fault. He has separated families forever, traumatized so many souls with insurmountable depression and pain and it is all his fault. Adults, elderly, children, babies. All dead. Because of him. Hoarse screams of terror and fear, all begging for a mercy that would never come - could never come. Not by his hands. Not when he had a family and a purpose he was so loyal to.

Aemond worships the sense of power that comes with a reputation for being ruthless and regrets nothing he has done and will do for his duty. Unfortunately, this does not mean that he does not suffer the consequences in equal proportion.

Another sigh. He drops his head and presses his fingers against the edge of the table. He closes his eye so tightly that patches of white light explode into his vision, each labored breath makes him lean forward and clench his teeth. The pain is impossible to ignore – it shakes his insides, leaves his limbs trembling.

"Is this hurting you?" a soft voice asks, a small, fragile thing, almost impossible to hear - if it weren't for the fact that he lives to hear the sound of that voice. He knows this, and so does the owner of the voice, both fully aware of this dangerous dependence. “Pretending to be a God, I mean.”

Aemond feels his heart beat faster, the angelic sound of your voice rescuing him from the merciless depths of his own mind, making him slowly raise his head as he stares at the place where the voice came from. He almost can't believe what he heard. But there you are, sitting on your bed, surrounded by comfortable sheets and pillows, your wide doe eyes catching the moonlight and fire flames in the dark of night, shining like stars.

His sweet wife.

He simply looks at you, not offering any kind of response right away. Not because he doesn't want to. But because he's too surprised to hear your voice and see your face to form words at the moment. Aemond doesn't know how he ended up here, in your private chambers - the place he hasn't been welcome in for some time. He was supposed to go to his chambers. Was he that distraught and distracted? Could the confusion clouding his senses have unconsciously led him directly to the person he needs most at the moment?

He looks around quickly just to confirm that, yes, there is no doubt that he is in your chambers. He didn't intend to do that. He shouldn't be here, invading your privacy and ignoring your request that he keep distance. Of course, his longing and need for you made him consider such a thing countless times. Regardless of your wishes, he was your husband; he had a right to be here. But he never did that. You don't want him in your bed anymore and you've made that clear. And Aemond was not ignorant or even insensitive enough to pretend not to understand your reasons. You had a lot of them and he knows.

You were not made for cruelty. Your innocence and purity made you unable to be aware of the horrible things he did and still treat him the same way as before. You were afraid of him now, just like everyone else. The blood of many was on his hands and you knew it, just as you knew he regretted nothing, and that he would not stop this - not until victory was achieved.

You didn't agree with that, you never did, not even before the marriage. But what could a young woman do in the world they lived in? You were just a piece on a board game, an ace up his sleeve used by your father specifically to provide armies and loyalty to the crown in exchange for a marriage and a more than convenient name for your family.

Aemond knew from the beginning that you didn't want to marry him; how could you after all? You barely knew him beyond the questionable reputation that surrounded him, and a dangerous family clash was about to break out in the kingdom - this was definitely not the right environment for romance to blossom. But you did your duty. You had been an exemplary wife in the short two months of peace that followed your marriage. You treated him with respect and patience, slowly opening your heart to him with each passing day. He wasn't the most talkative or the most sensitive husband and yet you showed empathy for his limitations, accepting what he gave you with gentle smiles and rosy cheeks, without demanding anything more. So sweet. So inocent.

It was no surprise the feeling that welled up in his chest.

Aemond was obsessed before he even realized it. Needing your gentle attentions like a flower needs the sun. He clung to you as his only comfort in an almost bleak existence, he became more and more obsessed with you and you didn't notice. You read with him, walked through the gardens with him and talked to him as you always did, kind and polite. And every day he felt hungrier, pushing the limits of restraint. You welcomed him into your bed every night, welcoming him between your legs as if he belonged there - and he did, indeed. Aemond's appetite for you and you alone knew no bounds.

But he wasn't the man you married anymore, was he?

You fear him now, any and all advances he's made with you over the past few months have vanished into thin air like the ashes he's so used to seeing now. The feelings he was carefully cultivating in your chest now seem to have sunk so deep into your being that he thinks they no longer even exist. You no longer craved his attention; the touch of softness and affection, whenever “husband” dripped from your mouth, was absent. And now all he could do was want.

Aemond doesn't look away from you, not wanting to miss this moment for anything, not after being deprived of it for so long. And you look back at him from where you sit on the bed, chin lifted in false courage. You looks at him with your bright eyes and high cheekbones, which seem even more highlighted in the warm lighting around your bodies.

He may have entered your chambers out of pure unconscious instinct, out of nothing but silent desperation. His body guiding him when his mind no longer could. But now that he's here, he doesn't know how he didn't realize it from the beginning. It's impossible to think about anything other than you. You, you, you.

At this point, deaths at his hands no longer existed. Not his pains or the weights he carries, not revenge, not duty. Anything. Absolutely nothing. There is only this moment, between him, a boy who so wanted to be enough for those he loves and the young girl who is illuminated by the light of the flames.

He feels it. It's not new. That strange impulse that draws all the attention of the environment around him to you and you alone; an almost painful need between his teeth to take a bite and not let go, to have it with all your heart and nothing less.

"Nothing to say?" You press and he's not even embarrassed by the fact that he doesn't remember what you said before. He should leave. It's all he thinks, even as he takes an uncertain step closer to your bed. And that's enough for you to immediately tense up, wrapping your small hands in the sheets to subtly pull them towards you. You are hiding yourself. Hiding yourself from him.

Aemond should leave, continue respecting your limits.

If this had been another night, maybe he would have done it. If the smell of smoke and dragon scales hadn't been trapped in the leather of his war clothes, as well as the dust of ash, then perhaps he could have left. If he couldn't smell the insistent scent of charred bodies and decimated land in his nostrils, taking permanent root in his lungs, perhaps he could respect your innocence.

Not even Aemond knew how on edge he already was. Your refusal of his proximity was just the final push to his downfall.

He adores you. He worships the ground you walk on. He respected your decisions and stayed away much longer than any other husband would have done. And this is how you repay him?

Aemond narrows the only functional eye he has left. You don't react, nothing more than another protective grip on the sheets and a slow swallow of saliva. He wants you so much and the thought enrages him. Why? Why does he feel this way? He desperately wants to punish you for making him feel this way. He wants to punish himself for even thinking about doing this to you.

You left him like this; nothing but a mess. When would you finally accept him for who he is? When would you understand that some cruelties were necessary for the final goal to be achieved? When would you see that everything he did and would do was solely for his family? For you. To keep you safe. When would he be enough?

He grits his teeth and feels his entire body tense with thoughts. He hates it; he hates the way you confuse him and make him feel all these terrible emotions. It makes he feels weak. The temptation of the slightest chance of your affection suffocates his common sense. He feels his hands shaking. He'd been so blinded by the hopeful, innocent vision he constantly saw you through that he fooled himself into thinking he was on your mind as much as you were on his all this time.

"Aemond?" You whisper, sounding more uncertain than before, disturbed by his extended silence as he slowly approaches the bed. He keeps looking at you the whole time, letting you glimpse the flames of fire reflected in the icy sapphire in his eye. He adores you, with every fiber of his being. But the flash of fear that shines in your eyes in response makes him stretch the corner of his lip in a malicious smile. He couldn't help it, there's something sweet and pure about you that makes him constantly waver between wanting to protect you and wanting to destroy you.

You try not to weaken before him, but Aemond immediately notices the way your body is a little trembling when his hand, that same hand that drags the musk of leather and death, passes through the fabric of the sheets, spreading lightning over your legs. You don't stop him, but your eyes flash with a frightened warning, a warning he ignores tonight. His palm flattens against your ribs, daring to caress, to feel the linen of the sheets beneath his fingers, the softness of your flesh beneath it, and you squeak an off-key sound, pulling the cocoon of blankets and furs up to hide you.

A small annoyed growl leaves his lips and his other hand quickly covers yours, stopping you from continuing.

"No. Enough of that." He says in a low but firm tone, looking sternly into your eyes. You part your lips, surprised by his behavior, and try to pull the hand still trapped by his, but he doesn't let you go. "That's enough, wife."

He thinks you might try to deny it, but you fall silent, slowly relaxing against his grip on your hand. Aemond wants to purr at this, wants to praise you and spoil you, because you are so good, so good. His good girl. Even when you're crushing his heart between your delicate hands.

It's not your fault, he tells himself. It's not your fault that he's obsessed with you, driven crazy by the idea of you. Aemond can't even focus properly, even when you're in front of him, defenseless and at the mercy of his whims. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest from pure ecstasy and excitement at the same time. And he can feel, on top of it all, the blood flowing to his hard cock, making it swell beneath his black riding pants. He feels embarrassed by his actions, but at the same time excited, just by the little things you do, by everything you are to him.

“Something is wrong with me...” He says, more to himself than to you, gently pushing a strand of your soft hair behind your ear, sliding his thumb in a gentle caress across your delicate earlobe. “You're in my house. You're in my house and I don't want you to leave. Never." He approaches your face, sliding his fingers from your ear to the side of your face, until he holds your small chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I need you." He continues, ignoring how honest and frank he looks - weak. “I keep thinking of ways to make this happen,” the more he talks, the faster you breathe, sweet little sighs near his lips, calling to him like a siren’s song… “I want to ruin you. Because I think that's the only way you won't leave me."

The intensity of his words scares you, he realizes, he sees how your eyes fill with tears and your eyebrows twitch. But even in the dim lighting of the flames, he can see how the tops of your cheeks turn red, how your chest trembles with the breath that catches there...you want him.

It's a shame you're so willing to keep him away.

But he can't stop.

Aemond closes the distance in an instant, pushing you down until he traps your body beneath his, feeling the contours of your soft, supple curves against him; he shudders. He caresses your face one last time before moving down, ignoring your hesitation and your useless efforts to push him away. Quick as a viper, he grabs the hand that moves to push against his chest, wrapping it with the other still attached to his, holding your wrists tightly above your head.

You cry out at the pressure on his wrists, the long lashes over your eyes fluttering, pleading. "A-Aemond, what are you doing?" you stutter. "Please, please... I said I needed it - please give me some more-"

"Time? Oh yes, you said it." He hums thoughtfully, placing a thigh between your legs, dipping his face into the crook of your neck to breathe in the fresh fragrance of your shower, snoring contentedly with your naturally sweet scent. Intoxicated by your scent, he trails his lips along the slender column of your neck before stopping at the shell of your ear. “I’m so sorry, dear, I’ve waited too long. We’ve both waited too long.” He intones, intoxicated by your presence. You sob once but don't say anything else, choosing to turn your face away from him. Aemond snorts a laugh at that, but doesn't stop you, preferring to leave a tender, wet kiss on your cheek.

Squeezing your wrists with one hand, he allows the other to slide slowly down your body, almost reverentially. He paused at the delicate laces holding the front of your nightdress before untying them with deft fingers. The front opens, exposing your silky, flushed skin to his hungry gaze. He doesn't have the patience to remove the fabric completely from your body, so he just lowers it enough so that your breasts are exposed. He bites his lip, holding a curse between his clenched teeth. When he presses his bare palm to your perky breasts, he tastes your trembling innocence, your soft flesh.

So beautiful.

So pure.

From the beginning you were his opposite, your delicate hands, as irritatingly clean as his are stained with blood and ash.

As much as he truly suffers from the consequences of his actions, he never regrets them, because he knows they are right - necessary. There was only the future to shape, the past should stay where it belongs; behind him. Something he had learned through much pain, but unfortunately, his sweet wife had not yet. But as he runs his greedy fingers down your body, feeling the goosebumps on your soft skin with each touch, Aemond knows he scares you as much as he excites you. You can't hide it from him. Your obviously involuntary response to him only makes him fiercer, hungrier. He wants to ruin you from the inside, until you can't bear to live a single day without his touch.

He allows you to continue your theatrics, still stubbornly staring at the wall while pretending his actions don't affect you. There's something almost too tempting about it, in fact; It's a matter of honor for him. He will break your masks and he will take pleasure in doing so.

Letting his fingers slide down your sides, Aemond's lips wander. He kisses the hole in your throat, moving down with wet, licked breaths to your breasts, tasting you. You gasp softly and grip tight fists on the bed sheets when he captures a soft nipple with a slow suck of lips and a teasing scrape of teeth, your body curling beneath him tightly. He smiles with your nipple still between his lips, leaving wide, warm trails of his tongue on the little perky bud. His hips slide against the inside of your parted thighs, pushing the hardened bulge in his pants against your pussy once.

You bite your lip and close your eyes, but he doesn't stop. With another thrust he uses his strength to push you back onto the bed, the bed you shared many nights with him, to fuck you into the warm sheets. It's almost too much for him to finally feel your little pussy once again, even through the leather of his pants and your delicate nightwear. But he continues with slow, strong thrusts, rubbing his cock against you in a way that teases your clit, the smell and heat of his effort wafting throughout his body; sweat, dragon, fire, ash, blood, death - all mixed together, merging with your own sweet, intoxicating scent and, of course, the unmistakable scent of sex.

Before the chaos broke out, Aemond was quite skilled at this, at driving you crazy. A part of him is extraordinarily pleased to find that he still remembers correctly, especially when a press of his fingers and a twirl of his thumb on your slobbery nipple makes you gasp. He wants to see you, to see you blush and sweat, looking ruined for him. Gods, oh yes, Aemond wants this so much. He can't stop, he can never stop, especially with you singing so sweetly to him. When you arch into his touch and whisper his name softly, like a secret no one can discover, his breath hitching. Aemond can't stop.

A specific thrust makes you let out a high-pitched meow, your hands pulling at the linen on the sheets and he moans along, releasing your breast with a wet pop to look at your face. You have your lips parted, your long eyelashes touching the top of your cheeks, your eyebrows furrowed in sweet agony. He thrusts a little faster, rubbing your clit with more pressure, taking in your presence and the feeling of your tiny, supple body, preening at every sound that leaves your lips.

Sounds so sweet, so beautiful; he considers himself a sinner with the way something so innocent and angelic makes his blood boil and his cock throb with need inside his pants, surely soaking the fabric with the way he feels himself leaking.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me, baby...”

And yet, he doesn't think he cares about dying by your hands when things turn out like this. He is admitting defeat without any embarrassment now; he can bear the dull weight of war, he can bear his own mind trying to destroy him at every turn, he can bear the betrayal of his own family and the demands of his duties. He can bear with anything.

Anything except being without you.

With an impatient grunt, his fingers tug at the soft skirt of your nightdress, bunching the thing at your waist as he rips your underwear down your legs. You don't try to stop him, but you don't try to help him either, remaining almost motionless against the bed, and he feels like he can growling at you like an animal for that - stubborn girl. He hates and loves this about you in equal intensity. He's almost rough and punishing as he hooks the back of your knee into the inside of his elbow, pushing your leg up to your breasts. And then you're giving up your fight, sighing - all anxious expression, furrowing your eyebrows and biting your lip as he hurriedly unzips his pants and pulls them down just enough to pull his cock out, slamming the wet, throbbing head over your clit before sliding his entire length along your folds.

You moan, he moans. The slide is wet and he can't tell if it's all you, if it's all him, if it's all both. He doesn't care, honestly. All that matters is how his cock is thrusting into your heat, hitting your clit with luscious pokes, coaxing more of those sweet sounds from your pretty lips.

He hooks your other leg in the crook of his elbow and does exactly what he did with the other, trapping you between him and the bed in a position where your entire pussy is presented to him. With his hands flat beside your head, he brings his face closer to yours, the leather covering his chest pushing your knees further into your breasts. You moan through your teeth, unable to do anything but tighten your hands around his shoulders. He smiles slowly, drunk on the sensations, still gently sliding the length of his cock into your folds.

Aemond doesn't look away from you, enchanted by the way you dance between looking at the sapphire stone and the deep lilac of his functional eye. You've always done this, he thinks - saying one was as beautiful as the other, impossible to choose.

“I’m giving myself to you, love…I’m yours.” He whispers softly, husky, needy to you. "Will you do the same from now on?"

He’s so close he feel how your heart races violently at his words, slamming against your ribcage as you take a deep breath. Every expression on your flushed face makes him sure you're going to have an intense crying fit, but even when the liquid in your eyes pours down the side of your eyes, you keep yourself almost in one piece. You look deeply into his eye as your shoulders shake. "Y-yes." You exhale, fragile. “Yes, yes, yes,” your voice sings repeatedly, with quick, confused nods, tears streaming from your eyes.

He can't hold back the husky sound that leaves his lips, his cock pulsing in reaction to your obvious fragility exposed to him.

"Yeah?" He asks breathlessly and it's very slow - as he thrusts inside you, thrusting his hips back and forth once, twice, three times until your pussy swallows as much of his cock as it can, until the tip of his hip bones rub it against your thighs. And it's so intense, so obscene – the position he puts you in, the full weight of his body pinning you to the bed, broad shoulders hiding you from view, silver hair like a curtain around the two of you, your mouth falling open in a silent scream and his releasing small curses between clenched teeth... debauchery.

You give his shoulders a few desperate slaps as he fills you, your tight ring of muscle stretched to accommodate his girth, and no matter how long it takes him to prepare you, no matter how wet you are, he knows there's always that initial pain that rips through your groin as he pushes into you. It makes you sway beneath him, little tearful sobs that are like the sweetest song to him.

Another curse muttered in deep Valyrian was his only warning as his palms sink into the softness of the bed. Your own hands looking desperate too, one tangled in the silver base of his hair at the back of his neck and the other gripping the material of his leather shirt, a strangled moan catching in your throat as he begins to fuck you slowly. You can only hold on as he pulls and pushes his body above you with each deep thrust, his impatience shown only in the forceful and violent way in which his hands grip the bed sheets.

He leans into you a little more, moving his hips in different ways, testing the angles until he makes more of those tears well up in your eyes as your pleasure increases almost painfully. Your moans quickly turn into babbling when a particularly strong movement of his hips makes you shake all over. The way your tight pussy tries to contain him and suck him in at the same time drives him crazy, feral.

He won't last long. He already knew this before it even started, but now, feeling your walls squeezing the life out of him after so long deprived of it, with your cute little noises getting louder and louder, with your expression drunk with lust and sadness, the buzz of battle still vibrating through his veins... Aemond feels release approaching shamefully fast for him.

He'll make it up to you later, Aemond promises himself. When the hot need subsides at least a little in his system, he'll take off his dirty war clothes, maybe ask you to take a shower with him. He'll soap your body and tease you until you're riding his cock in the tub at your own pace, his fingers rolling your little clit with each bounce of your hips. He will lay you on the bed and love every inch of your soft body, worship your skin with kisses and hickeys. He will part your thighs and bury his fingers and tongue in your wet softness. He will rip orgasm after orgasm out of you until you are hoarse from screaming, until your body is physically unable to continue.

He will do it all.

He has done it in the past, many times.

Now, however, all he needs is to find his release, to unload those months of forced distance inside his trembling body. But Aemond will be damned if he doesn't bring you along with him.

He leans down to press his forehead against yours, pushing your legs against your body further, lips parting with hoarse, breathless moans that escaped him with each thrust and the sweet pleas you murmured incoherently. The movement of his hips quickens, one hand leaving its blunt grip on the sheets to squeeze between your thighs, poking your clit in tight circles, his cock hitting a spot inside your walls that makes you shiver and tremble in anticipation.

“Aemond…” you cry, digging your nails into the back of his neck, pulling his body towards yours, as if you weren’t already physically as close as possible.

He growls at your plea.

“My little, innocent wife,” Aemond giggles wildly as your pussy clamps down on his length again, your climax approaching, his thumb rotating a steady rhythm on your clit. If only your mind was clear enough to form a coherent thought, maybe you'd complain that the rhythm of his cock in your pussy would be painful, that the continuous and harsh scratching of his clothes hurts the soft and delicate flesh of your body, but you don't say anything, not now. You just accept what he gives you. And he knows you missed him as much as he missed you. “Always so good to me baby.”

Aemond watches you intently, unable to look away from the pleasure that shows on your face. You're shaking, lost in your wet breaths and high-pitched, broken cries, your legs trapped between his body, welcoming him. You're tight and small, his sweet wife, and Aemond can feel your cracks stretching, a spider's web of fractured thought and temptation too much for anyone to bear, and as much as he knows it's impossible, he wants this moment to last forever. Aemond is undone. A fool in love. And it's sad. And it's beautiful. It's being at home.

"Mine." His murmur echoes next to your lips, both of you breathing each other's breath, his rhythm starting to falter, the searing heat rushing through his body beneath those layers of heavy clothing makes him dizzy, but he doesn't stop, he doesn't stop. “So pure, so beautiful, so delicate…” he caresses your clit without faltering with a rumbling purr as his cock swells inside you. “Ngh...oh fuck, so tight. You're going to get everything, aren't you, darling? All of me.” His own teeth graze your neck as you arch and scream in pleasure. “Be a good girl and don't let anything leak, hmmm…”

He fucks you roughly, your name dancing on his lips like a prayer in the dark. Aemond savors this moment with the veneration it deserves, the final chase. The two of you so broken, so vulnerable, shaking with pleasure for each other. He rubs your pussy, hips slamming into you at lightning speed.

And finally, gods yes, it finally happens.

"Aemond! A-Aemond, please! Please-" You throw your head back, your lewd pleas turning into a broken scream as you explode around him. Your face is flushed and glistening with a subtle sheen of sweat, tears streaming down. It's all he can take. You convulse and break and the sensation of his cock swelling with the resulting explosions of hot cum filling you follows shortly after. As your body and pussy tremble and clench, he finally releases his own pleasure, biting down hard on your shoulder to muffle his husky moans, spilling himself deep inside you, the continuous spasms of your orgasm milking every drop from him. You and he cum together, and even in the hazy haze of climax, he thinks he's never experienced something so sublime, so perfect.

You're both shaking as you come down from the waves of mutual pleasure, and Aemond is especially careful now, gently unfolding your legs from that tight position to allow you to stretch them, which earns him a long, grateful, relieved moan. He slowly pulls away until he's kneeling between your thighs, watching raptly as you bite your lip as his cock leaves your heat. A tight grip circles around your parted thighs, lifting them up a little to expose your dripping pussy. He looks almost in awe as he watches his seed flow steadily from your abused pussy.

But Aemond is selfish and his cum doesn't belong on the crumpled, sweaty sheets. No, he told you to keep it safe inside you and that's what would happen. His fingers slip into the wet mess of cum in your folds, pushing as gently as he can all the thick liquid inside you again.

You're too tired to react, but you still sob softly at the sensation, subtly squirming on the bed, legs shaking from being held in the same position for so long. He looks at you, icy lilac gaze half-lidded with lust, blue stone glowing in the flames of the fire. He looks at the soft, creamy flesh of your sweaty body. He longs to see dark spots and bite marks, a way of proving that you belong to him. He lifts his head, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, just above your left breast. His teeth leave crescent moons on your skin and you scream loudly at the stinging sensation, but you don't stop him. He walks away, admiring the constellations he had traced on your skin. Painting you for him, marking you as something unique to him.

You sniffle and blink wet eyelashes at him. He kisses his bite, murmuring gentle words to you, his lips trailing up with soft sucks and wet kisses in your throat until he brushes against your lips. And it's then, and only then, that he realizes he hasn't kissed you yet. He doesn't know why he didn't do it, given that it's probably the thing he misses most about you. Feeling the softness of your lips on his, the gradual way a small, innocent kiss quickly evolves into something more urgent, the way you immediately struggle to keep up with his pace, his hunger as he swallows your cute sighs and your ragged breaths as he suck your tongue.

Yes. This is what Aemond longs for. How easily he could make you fall apart in his hands.

Taking into account the way that you blush and look down at his lips, you're thinking the same thing. He smiles mischievously, slowly leaning in for a deep kiss, fingers damp with your juices and his cum resting on your jawline. Your little hands sink into his hair until you lightly scrapes your nails across his scalp, making Aemond shudder. The fingers of his other hand cup your hip, tracing the line of the bone in gentle patterns. His nose bumps yours as his tongue dances in your hot mouth, spreading in you the taste of smoke and revenge that seems to follow him at absolutely every moment now. And like his perfect antithesis, you gasp, let him savor your sweet, fruity flavor - so fuckin sweet.

Your legs circle his waist, making him press against your heat, quickly reigniting the flame of need within him. You lick it off his tongue, moan when he sucks your bottom lip and bites it, you beg between quick breaths and Aemond continues to rub himself against you, the kiss becoming sloppier, driving him crazy with how irresistible you are in this state. You give yourself completely to Aemond, without asking questions or making new complaints, and it drives him crazy.

"You are mine. Only mine. And you will never leave me again, do you understand?" He murmurs as he pulls away, both of you panting, looking seriously into your water-bright eyes, noting how they're a little wide and your mouth is swollen and wet from his kisses.

A few tears slide down your face, but you smile shakily at him, the hand in his hair stroking the silver strands lovingly.

"I am yours, Aem. Now and forever." Honesty bleeds into your shallow voice, your little fingers on your other hand tentatively tangling with the buckles of his shirt to open it.

Aemond rests his forehead against yours and truly smiles for the first time in a long, long time. Not a malicious, mocking or condescending smile... No, this time his lips are stretched into a small, but genuine, honest smile.

And it's because of you.

Because he knows he got what he wanted so much. He has you again. He was resilient, he was patient and he was fair. He fought and, with his efforts, created a space just for himself within your heart. He knows you're still unhappy with everything that's going on, and no matter how much he wants to, he can't change that. He can only strengthen you to bear it. It can only burrow deeper into your body and your heart until you are able to forget the atrocities that are happening around you - the horrible things that he is doing. It's a gaping hole in your chest that leaves you continually bleeding, he knows, but the exposed cut is so sweet, and here he is, licking the wound like an animal, with all the violent, relentless gentleness he has to offer as the vengeful prince that he is.

He wraps his arms around you, pushing his cock back into your abused pussy in a deep movement that draws a broken sound from both of you, pulling you against his chest. He rubs his sweaty face against your throat, your face, your hair. His voice syrupy and thick as he whispers, "I love you."

Fuck. Aemond would never let you go.

[heartfullofleeches]

Creep Reader would have a field day with the Blacksmith. Some weird god who's entire point of living is to create fucked up torture devices and brings them the head of some random person everytime he beats off to them? Where do they sign up?

The Blacksmith's seconds from beheading himself, begging for forgiveness for skipping out on its payment one time because overstimulation got the best of him and Creep tells him not to because they don't really have the space in their bedroom for his skull too.

"My Lord.... Pardon by words is not enough. I spoiled your holy name without future sight on the matter. I was unable to find a criminal within a just time frame. Shall I remove one of my body parts associated with my crimes? The tongue which spilled your name like a prayer. The hand I used with your vision in mind. The source of my fault as as whole?"

"You don't have to cut off your dick. If you did - I wouldn't get anymore bodies to decorate my place with and I'm almost done with the bathroom."

"You are too generous... My lord."

[camlovesjace]

GOOD BOY ! Jacaerys Velaryon

summary: Aenna, the firstborn bastard of Daemon, was the heir´s weakness. And she knew damn well how to keep him wrapped on her fingers, in more than one way. warning: targcest (half-siblings), oral sex (male receiving), dom!fem x sub!male, praising, swearing, torture (? note: believe me mad but i got the feeling that jace is such a submissive baby sometimes, i just wanted to try and see how it goes.

Jace kept her eyes on her, on her demanding aura as she commanded the lords and the knights as Rhaenyra was gone. No one doubted Aenna -even if she was a recognized bastard of the king consort- and they obeyed her petitions.

Jace smirked, knowing what kinda effects she can have on male. He'd felt it on his own body, on his own moans. The seduction was a trick, he knew it, but he didn't mind to jump into her tentation.

As soon as they were alone again, in the empty room of the painted table, she sent the knights outside to lay her eyes on him. He had been quiet the whole meeting, letting her talk and command as she pleased. She moved her head and he stepped closer, then he leaned against the table, smiing.

"You know, you're a great leader" he says, and she smiles back. She looked so damn beautiful that he had to fight with the urge of take her in is arms and just kiss her, to devour her with his tongue.

"That doesn´t matter, you´ll be the king, not me" she say, but even when her voice was soft something inside him told him that she was challenging him. And he adores it.

"You could be queen" he whisper, looking at her. His heart was beating faster than ever before. Aenna smiled, her expression turned more feminine, more seductive.

"You're asking me to stole you throne?" she joked, Jacaerys laughed and smiled. She made him feel tiny, exposed, every single detail of her made him more self conscious.

"You knows what i mean" he says, she smirked and moved her hand on his chest, caressing the soft fabric of it.

"you've been a good boy today" she whispers, and her words made his lower stomach to burn, he couldn't ignore how a simple gesture of hers could make him feel like this. All needy for her.

Jacaerys smirked and moved his hand down her arm, her pale hand against his tanner one, his rough fingertips on the soft and squeezable flesh

"you let me talk, you let me do as i pleased on this meeting" she ended, he had respect her position on the council and heard her, showing her the respect she needed to be taken serious for the lords and knights.

"Is the least i can do, my princess" he whispers, but the words my queen almost rolled out of his tongue. Then she kneeled in front of him and he smiled widely, her hand on his belt as she undid it. His cock instantly get hard at the sight of her, her angelic face looking down at him, her lips wrapped around the tip of his cock so deliciously than he groaned loudly.

The feeling was familiar and warm, as her tongue moved around his length, he leaned against the painted table and caressed her hair, her amethyst eyes looking up at him as he gasped.

"Take all of it, babe, take it all" he moans, his lips parted and his breath coming out in soft gasps. the view of her, mouth filled with his cock, was even more tantalizing that the iron throne itself.

his peak came few moments after, then her hand gripped his balls as she moved her head, massaging his length with lips, making the tip of it to hit against her inner cheeks and throat. His thighs were trembling but when he was about to spill his seed into her mouth she put on herself on her feet.

few seconds after she was straddling him, jace sat on the painted table, hoping it could support their weight. Then he felt her hips moving down, sinking over his curved and beating cock. The feeling of her sweet and warm embrace made him moan loudly, his voice eclipsing her own sighs of pleasure, his hand moved to her hips.

"such a good boy for me, arent you? with your hard cock ready for my cunt" she whispers and he smiles, her vulgar words only made him gasp in pleasure, he nodded quickly.

"yeah...i´m your good boy" he gasped and she quicken her pace, making his cry out on her shoulder, his hand gripping her hips, helping her to go deeper, to take his whole cock into her pretty cunt, his peak was on the base of his length, his mouth looking for her nipples, used to being sucking on them while he comes undone..but they were covered by the dress and in the heat of the moment it frustrated him.

she gasped, her walls squeezing his hard trick cock, milking him. Jace clinged to her, his face buried on the crook of her neck, his cries almost ashamed him but the pleasure he was feeling was more than enough to make him forget about it quickly.

"can...gods, let me cum" he whispered, his voice shaky. she giggle and moved her hips slowly, prolonging their orgasms to make it least, jace sighs and bites her shoulder gently, his hand undoing some ties on her back to pull down her neckline and squeeze her breast, making the nipple to roll under his thumb "please, please...just let me cum, i´ll be a good boy"

she smiled

"a bit more" she whispers but the way his mouth sucked on her breast made clear he was losing his self control, she arched her back, causing her chest to be pressed against his face. she could feel the heat of his cock on her soaked walls, she rolled her hips, taking him deeper. His manhood touched that sweet spot inside her belly that made her squirm and she sighs

"please, Aenna...please, can i cum?" he begged against her tits, he pulled away enough to look at her in the eyes, pleading and she smiled "please, let me cum inside"

she giggle and nodded, smirking.

"do it, honey...fill my cunt with your cum, make me swollen with your heir" she whispers and he let go, those words ignating something primal on him, making him groan rusky and hold her tightly, his hands almost with a bruising grip on her hips. she felt his warm cum filling her up, and his hand moved gently to her lower belly, feeling the bulge of himself inside as she moved gently, riding his cock as the waves of heat washed over them.

he looked up at her, smiling.

"you want that?" he asked, he loved her deeply, there was no need to hide it anymore. he wanted her to be his own, his wife, his queen, the mother of his heirs; and he was sure that -if she became his in the god´s eyes- those heirs will be many as they could make "be swollen with my seed? let everyone know that you fucked your king so good that he impregnated you"

she smiled, her cunt squeezing his cock, milking all his seed, she quickly nodded.

"yes, make me your queen, and i´ll make sure everyone to know how good i fuck my king" she whispers, making his smile to get wider.

tag list; @nebulamorada @knight-of-flowerss @dearluuna <333

[draconic-desire]

your yan!neuvi series got me on a chokehold !! I feel so bad for darling but it got me thinking, would neuvillette ever allow them to i dont know, go visit mondt to look at their parents’ grave (?).

Neuvillette meets his (dead) in-laws edition 😂

Ok this idea is simultaneously kinda funny but also makes me cry a bit because I totally think Neuvillette would have ensured your family’s wellbeing in your absence. Despite his flaws, he still maintains his overwhelming sense of duty and justice.

Yandere Neuvillette x Reader

(A Dance with the Dragon Interlude)

Talking about your life four centuries ago has become a bit of a taboo in the household you share with Neuvillette.

Mostly, it only serves to incite an argument, one you are always predestined to lose. The other times, it only reminds you of painful memories. So, you’ve learned to bite your tongue, to keep your past held tightly to your heart. Neuvillette doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, you believe he might prefer if your history were to be wiped from your mind completely, leaving a blank slate for him to carve his essence into.

Which is why you’re so shocked when, on a particularly storming evening, the Chief Justice himself requests, “Tell me about what your parents were like.”

Jolting, you nearly drop the book in your hands. He’s not looking at you—usually, having his gaze on you translates to irritation, concern, or lust. When he’s looking away from you, as he is now, irises trained on the waves battering the cliffs below your home, you know that means he is instead thinking, pondering.

But thinking about what? Your eyes narrow, and your heart accelerates. What is he getting at?

A hand clenches around your heart when you try to picture your mother and father in your head—and fail. Four hundred years without a visit or simple image…of course their features have faded over time. But you’ll never forget the warmth, the knowledge that they loved you until the end and supported your lifelong wish of pursuing marine biology, even when it took you away from them.

You only shake your head. “I don’t want to talk about that, Neuvillette.”

He turns to you, now, eyes filled with calculation. A judge presiding over his court. “I had no parents. I simply…came to exist. Born of the water, the waves, the sea foam, and bestowed with this primordial power.” He glances down at his gloved hand, palm squeezing into a fist. “So the idea of parents is…foreign to me. Though I have a sense of the kind of ceaseless, unconditional love that defines a family.” You know he’s talking about his feelings for you, and your tattoo burns. “Experiencing a loss of that magnitude would be incomprehensible.”

For the life of you, you cannot figure out his endgame here. Why acknowledge your loss? Why equate his adoration and obsession with you for parental love? Your eyes burn, your breath quickens, you feel the tattoo pulse with energy as you—

“Do you ever wonder about how they lived the rest of their lives?”

Yes. No. Everyday. Somehow, you find your voice, a quiet thing filled with warning. Your skin feels so hot, like your veins are laced with lightning. “And how would you know anything about that?”

Neuvillette’s sharp eyes cut to your frame. “I…made sure that they were fully provided for. They lived happy lives, believing you to be living out your dreams in Fontaine. They are now buried together, in the cathedral cemetery overlooking the Brightcrown Mountains.”

Your breath hitches, and that power in your blood begins to settle. Their favorite place. The Brightcrown Mountains, where your father proposed to your mother. The Favonius Cathedral, where they were married. And the cemetery behind the church, where your grandparents had been entombed, too.

Something falls onto your lap. It’s only when you touch your hands to your face that you realize you’re crying. Neuvillette watches you with concern, one hand raised and poised to reach out to you, but he keeps his distance as he lets you process.

You release a shaky sigh. Was it true? Did they pass with no fear for your safety, in ignorant bliss of your extended life? The thought, although morbid in some ways, actually brings you a sense of peace. Your parents never had to endure the loss of you in the same way you had for them.

You swallow thickly, your voice hoarse with emotion. “Can we…visit them?”

That sets Neuvillette’s back ramrod straight as he blinks. You’ve only been out of the house a handful of times, and he was the one to bring this topic to light, but to venture out of Fontaine entirely? His protective and possessive instincts flare immediately, screaming at him to shut this idea down, to grab you and sink his teeth into your neck, dominant, claiming. But as his silver eyes flick across your face, taking in your tears, the tremble in your hands, the pit of mixed despair and relief in your eyes, he relents.

Slowly, he blinks, taking in a deep breath. You’re expecting an excuse, a verbal slap on this wrist disguised as concern for your safety. Which is why, for the second time tonight, you’re stunned when Neuvillette, rising to his feet, extends his hand. “I’ll take you there.”

~*~

The trip is easy, thanks to the Hydro Dragon’s teleportation abilities. The two of you arrive at the large square in front of the cathedral, the statue of Barbados towering above you. Briefly, you wonder what the Archon of Freedom thinks about your situation, or if he even deigns to care.

Not much has changed about Mondstadt in four hundred years. The streets still possess an older feel, cobblestone streets and stone walls surrounding the city. After seeing the drastic change in Fontaine, the fact envelopes you in a sense of comfort, knowing that at least one aspect of the world has aged alongside you, long-lived but unchanged.

It’s long grown dark, and the heavy downpour persists. Neither of you brought an umbrella as you ascend the stairs and wrap around to the cemetery behind the church. The rain, however, seems to dissolve into your skin rather than chilling you or soaking your clothes, no doubt another consequence of Neuvillette’s magic coursing through your veins.

The Hydro Dragon leads you to a small plot towards the back. Two tombstones are erected side by side, and you fall to your knees as you read: (Mother’s name) and (Father’s name) (L/n). Lives entwined to their last breath, they soar high above the clouds.

You hear a rustle of fabric, and soon Neuvillette has joined you, kneeling by your side. He raises his arm, and tendrils of blue light pool from his palm, forming the shape of beautiful flowers. They surround the graves, a sea of blues to celebrate your loved ones.

The two of you sit there for what could have been minutes or hours. All you know is that this is the most at peace you’ve felt in four hundred years.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

X

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

X

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

X

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

X

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[alicentsaegon]

The Marriage of Aegon III and Jaehaera Targaryen.

They are so Henry VII Elizabeth of York coded

[forgetcakes]

my face whenever I remember that Rhaenyra and Aegon don't have even one scene together

[alicesivory]

Old Habits Die Hard [4/?]

Previous Chapter // Main Masterlist // Next Chapter

Pairing: Nightwatch! Aemond Targaryen x wildling female! Reader

Genre: Historically accurate Aemond

WC: 3370

Summary: Aemond ventures beyond the Wall.

“Your hair looks nicer when it’s braided now.”

It seemed that the she-wildling could not keep her mouth shut. Rolling his eyes, Aemond changed the subject quickly, “How long ‘til we reach your people’s camp?” Aemond asked. “Just keep the horse in a steady pace up ahead and we’ll reach them in no time,” she answered him whilst comfortably sitting in front of him, between his arms that held the reins of the stallion. The reins were relaxed, and the stallion responded effortlessly to his light guidance through the cold and dark forest. The forest stands in eerie silence, its dense canopy casting a perpetual twilight over the twisted, gnarled trees. Shadows dance menacingly across the forest floor, where fallen leaves and branches lie in disarray, as if disturbed by some unseen force. The trees themselves seem alive, their bark scarred and contorted into grotesque shapes, carrying with it the faintest whisper of forgotten secrets, and the occasional creak or groan of the wood echoes through the stillness, adding to the sense of foreboding. 

No wonder they call this the haunted forest. 

“What lies in these woods?” Aemond asked once again. “Wild animals, mostly. But we don’t really hunt at night. It's a bad omen,” she replied. “Sometimes we see them at night, that’s where they emerge.” Her words made Aemond wonder, “Who do you speak of?”

“What do you think the walls were made for?”

Aemond thought for a moment. 

“To keep your kind away from entering the realm,” he said, hesitantly. Not quite confident with his answer. For he knew that the wall’s purpose was more than just keeping a few wildlings out of Westeros but, he does not know what. “It wasn’t even built because of us. My people were separated from yours because we were unlucky enough to live beyond the wall when it was built,” she explained. “It was the others that they were afraid of.”

“Others? Other tribes?”

“No. The undead.”

Chills ran down from Aemond’s spine.

The White Walkers. 

He has read countless books about the white walkers and the long night. How the battle for the dawn unfolded, yet all he knew was that it was all a myth. A fairytale. Stories to scare your child so they would sleep for the night. He recalled how the White Walkers were first written and mentioned during the Age of Heroes. Born of powerful and untested magic, they were created to protect the Children of the Forest during their war with the First Men. What once used to be puppets and soldiers for the Children of the Forest, the magic within the white walkers took a turn and rebelled against their creators and brought nothing but destruction to the realm. 

“But they were nothing but old stories. Fiction, even,” Aemond protested. 

“They are far from fiction, snow-hair.” 

The wildling looked back to him, surprisingly close since they were cramped at horseback. 

“What did they call you back there? I couldn’t recall. Was it Almond?”

“Aemond,” he grunts. 

She chuckled, “I like snow-hair better.”

“And what of you?” Slowly speaking her name which seemed foreign to his tongue. 

“Close enough,” she shrugged with a smirk, looking back into the road. Aemond wondered once again of the undead she mentioned. Were they lurking behind the old trees of this very forest? Were their lives at stake when they stepped their foot to this forest. “They took my brother,” she said, capturing Aemond’s attention. “The undead?” She nodded at his question. “He seemed to forget about time that day. But what kind of child remembers time, really? They wanted to play all day. So he did, running inside the woods without me or my mother’s attention, wanting to become a great hunter who enters the forest with no fear like my father. And he never came back.” 

He felt sorry for the girl, for he himself had felt the same kind of grief when he heard of Aegon’s death. Especially when they could’ve done something to prevent their deaths. “Sometimes I wonder if they buried him at all. If they did, I wonder where they buried him,” she said, spacing off into the distance. “There is no sympathy from the dead. Nor do they care for the living,” he said to her. “I know. But I’d like to think they did. He was just a child.” 

The whole ride quickly became gloomy and sour as the pair battled their grief as bad memories and remorse overcome their thoughts. “Does that stop you from hunting in the forest?” Aemond asked, trying to bring peace to her. “No, not really. I think I became eager to hunt here. Maybe one day I can find him well and just…cleverly hiding between trees,” she said with a bitter chuckle, sensing her denial of her brother’s disappearance. A sense of protectiveness washed over Aemond, knowing what it felt like to see light in the midst of darkness. Denying the truth to comfort yourself. He knew of that feeling. 

“Maybe one day you would. One day.”

Crack. Swish. 

“What was that?” 

Crack. Crack. Crack. 

“A wild beast?” Aemond asked. 

A figure emerging slowly behind the tree as they pass. “That is no beast,” the wildling alarmingly said, taking over the reins and snapped it making their horse gallop through the dark forest. “I would’ve preferred it to be a wild beast so we can take it home, yet you and I know that is no beast, snow hair,” she spoke as the harsh winds of the north hits their faces. Aemond looked back, seeing two..three...four figures catching up onto them. 

“How do we escape them?” He asked. 

“Hold on tight.” 

She took a turn in a swift motion, galloping off the road going between trees. In hopes for them to stop gaining on them. The wildling kept snapping the reins ordering the horse to go faster with only the moon being their source of light. “C’mon…c’mon…,” he heard her grunting as she took a glance behind and saw some still following their tracks. Galloping between trees, their horse finally took them to safety at the edge of the forest, to a clear opening. 

Making Aemond have a clear vision of the undead. 

Their skins were pale, almost blue. 

They look like humans yet they were not at the same time. 

The creatures frightened him more than anything else, but as they neared the edge of the forest, the White Walkers ceased their pursuit and vanished behind the trees. Aemond exhaled deeply, relieved that they had escaped the forest unharmed. Suddenly the horse neighed, abruptly stopping. Making both of them grunt in pain when they nearly fell. “What’s wrong?” The wildling asked the horse before an arrow striked a tree behind them. They looked around, trying to find any signs of life. 

“What are you doing?” Aemond hissed when she stepped down from the horse. “Where’s my dagger?” She whispered, ignoring his previous question. Aemond sighed, tossing her the dagger beneath his black cloak. Catching it with ease, she spoke into the air,

“It’s only me! Gruff? Yuri?” Aemond was curious about those people she called out. Were they one of her people? Who were they?

“Blimey kid, you scared the shit out of us!” 

A loud booming voice suddenly said, emerging from the snowy ecosystem. Their thick fur coats also seemed to be efficient for camouflage. Aemond saw how his peculiar she wildling smiled brightly when she spotted her friend, running towards the tall red haired man giving him a tight hug making them both laugh as he picked her up in his arms. 

Aemond rolled his eye.

“Thought you were gone for! We saw those creepy dead people- thank the gods!” The red haired wildling said, ruffling her hair. “Oww! No! Do you think that low of me, old man?!” She asked with a laugh, shoving the man away from her. “Oi, I'm not that old, young lady.” Locking her head once again with his arm. “Yuri! Look who just came back from the dead!” The red haired shouted, now another wildling emerged from the opening. His hair was blonde, almost as light as the hair of the Lannisters. “We really thought you were dead, kid,” Yuri said, patting her shoulder. 

Who were they? Why were they awfully close with her? 

From what he witnessed, a young woman could only interact like this with the opposite gender if they were siblings or wedded. Even he never saw any of his wedded acquaintances interacting this way. Were they her siblings? They don’t seem to resemble one another, were they bastards? Did they came from different mothers?

Aemond cleared his throat, stepping down from his horse, interrupting their reunion. 

“Ah yes- Gruff, Yuri, this is ehm..Aemond Targaryen. The man that I spoke of to the both of you,” she said. The red haired, who was named Gruff looked Aemond from head to toe. “Gruff and Yuri are my hunting friends. We’ve been hunting together since we were children and fun fact, we have the same grandsire.”

Gruff slowly approached the one eyed prine, keeping an eye on him. Aemond straightened his back to appear taller, gripping the handle of his sword, preparing himself. Once Gruff stopped in front of him, their noses bumping into each other, he spoke, 

“Did your mum fucked a snowman?”

“I beg your pardon–,” Aemond stepped closer, ready to draw his sword out.

“–Alright that’s enough!” She quickly stepped between the two men. “What Gruff was trying to say was, how is your hair silver?” She asked. "My father, my grandsire, my great-grandsire—all of them had silver hair," Aemond hissed, his gaze fixed on the red-haired wildling. "How did they end up with silver hair?" the red-haired wildling asked, crossing his arms. Aemond couldn't believe how absurd this conversation had become. Frustrated, he let his hands drop. "We're from old Valyria," Aemond explained with resignation. "It's simply a trait we have—silver hair is just part of who we are."

“Valyria? What’s that?” The blonde wildling asked curiously. “It's a place far from the north, Yuri– Now come on! We must bring him to the Chief.” Walking past them, she held the horse’s reins and started walking ahead. Gruff purposely bumped Aemond’s shoulder as he passed through the one eyed prince. Aemond rolled his eyes again, resigned to the childish behavior of these people, before catching up and walking alongside her. Compared to the two wildlings, he found her more tolerable. At least she didn’t ask pointless questions.s. “I have told our Chief about you,” she said. “I am sure he will take it easy on you,” she said.

 “Does he takes it easy with anyone else?”

“No, not really. He’s quite rude if you ask me.”

“As rude as your friend there?” Aemond chuckled bitterly.

“You’re in for a ride,” she chuckled, patting Aemond’s shoulder. 

As much as Aemond would like to worry, he could not as he knew that she was the one who brought him to her people. For her people needed him, not the other way around. He hoped that this agreement would be the means for her to fulfill her promise and return him to Westeros once and for all. Additionally, he couldn’t help but notice her diminutive stature compared to his own—she barely reached his shoulder, smaller than any lady from Westeros yet possessing a fierceness and demeanor that defied conventional femininity. A smirk tugged at his lips.. 

And there he saw it. In the vast expanse of snow-covered terrain, a tribe lives a nomadic life, their existence marked by resilience and adaptability. Their tents, typically made of sturdy animal hides or woven materials, scattered across the field. The tents are insulated with layers of fur and cloth, designed to withstand the biting cold. The camp itself is a lively hub of activity despite the harsh environment. Smoke curls up from several central hearths, where fires are kept burning to provide warmth and to cook meals. The scent of roasting meat and simmering stews mingled with the crisp, cold air when he stepped closer to them.

Like when he first entered Winterfell, all eyes fell upon him, following him as he walked side by side with her. “It seems you have captured the people’s attention,” she teased with a cocky smile. “Why is it because of my hair or my eye?” He asked. “Neither. It’s your attire.” Aemond looked down to his clothing. Of course, he’s still dressed like a member of the night’s watch.

“We hate the crows in here, so it’s better for you to strip those clothes after you meet our Chief,” she said, giving him a wink. Before he could protest, a snow hit his cloak, making him flinch. Turning around, he saw a couple of children running around, even snickering at his presence. “Careful now boys!” She chuckled, greeting some of those children. “Never seen a crow, huh?” She crouched down, talking to the children surrounding her. 

“He only has one eye!” One of the children tried to whisper to her. “Scary, isn’t he? Tell you what, I’ll let you pick on him when I’m not around,” she said to the kids, making them snicker and giggle in excitement. 

She was really good with children. 

Throughout his life, he rarely sees his mother or even his sister being this natural with children. It makes him wonder if she has one. 

“For the meantime, can all of you keep an eye on our horse?” Offering the rein to the children, in which they eagerly accepted before taking the horse away. Aemond curiously kept his eye on the horse as the children led it away. “Don’t worry, they are very gentle with horses. They know their purpose,” she reassured him before she started to walk once more. 

Approaching one of the biggest tents in the area, the spearwife stops beside him, “If the Chief likes you, you’ll live another day.” Before smiling mischievously stepping inside the tent. Slightly on edge, he hesitated to follow them inside. But he would not cower in fear and enter anyways. Reminding himself to keep himself in check if he wants to go home. He stepped inside, his eye falling onto a man sitting in his chair as his companions surrounded him, whispering to each other. 

“Chief, I would like you to meet the crow I spoke of. This is Aemond Targaryen,” she introduced him. Aemond nodded with respect to their chief, an older wildling who carefully inspected Aemond, standing up from his seat. “Targaryen,” he said. “A peculiar tribe. Was it true that your family had power over dragons?” The Chief asked in which Aemond instantly nodded, “Yes, my Lord.”

All of them chuckled humorously. 

“Lord? I’m flattered to be called a Lord,” the chief said in humour. 

“So, where is your dragon now?”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Aemond spoke. 

“She was killed at war.” A sense of bitterness, trying to mask his grief and sadness for Vhagar’s death. 

“A shame,” the Chief said. 

A pregnant pause.

“I want everybody out of this tent.” Aemond’s eyes widened. Was he going to be murdered? Did he not fulfil the Chief’s expectations? 

“But Chief–,” 

“–Especially you, girl. I shall talk to you when I’m done with this crow.”

Aemond instantly locked his eye with hers. Even her expression was unreadable as she hesitantly turned around to exit the tent. She gave him a nod, giving him support before leaving him alone with the Chief. Aemond turned his gaze back to the Chief who was crossing his arms inspecting Aemond from head to toe. 

“The girl likes you,” the Chief chuckles. “If it wasn’t for her you’d probably be dead by now. Killed by those crows.” Aemond kept his expression stoic as he brushed off the Chief’s words. “Speaking of crows, she told me you were forced to be one. Was that true?”

Aemond nodded.

“Yes, Chief.”

“What was your crime?”

“I was called a traitor to the Starks. Yet I beg to differ, for it was them who were traitors,” Aemond bravely said. 

“Traitors to whom?”

“The Throne. My brother.”

“Your brother? Your brother sat on a throne?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“That makes you a prince, then.”

A title he deeply missed. Aemond stood proudly, straightened his back as he kept his chin up high. 

“I am–,”

“You were.” 

“For you are currently not in Westeros, my boy. You are beyond the wall. Everyone beyond the wall fights for survival. For nature does not care if you’re a king or a criminal. And so far as I know, you stand before me,” the Chief said, telling Aemond to abandon his title as prince. “Where does your loyalty lie, boy?” The Chief asked, stepping closer to the one eyed prince. “To the crows?–”

“–No,” Aemond spoke with no hesitation. 

“The Starks?”

“Never.”

The Chief hummed in agreement. “The girl told me you wished to be rewarded. To go back to your family.” Aemond nodded, wishing nothing more than that. “So you’re loyal to your family,” he pointed out.

Aemond nodded. 

“Good. A man should always stay loyal to his family.”

He poured his drink onto his cup, “But will you stay loyal to us as you serve my tribe? And lead us to victory?” Aemond looked down, seeing the cup lent to him. Offering a friendship– an alliance– trust. Trusting a wildling. It seemed impossible for him, but he recalled simple questions by those wildlings about his hair. They were a simple tribe, living out of the complicated politics of Westeros. He could outsmart them easily and they’re offering him friendship. 

She paced back and forth in front of the Chief’s tent, waiting for the Targaryen to exit the tent unharmed. “You seemed stressed, kid,” Gruffed snickered, crossing his arms as he took notice on worried expression. “Of course, I am,” she said, stopping her steps abruptly. “May I know why?” He chuckled.

 “Is it because of the crow?–”

“–He is not a crow. He loathes the crows as much as we do.”

Gruff chuckled amusingly. 

“And? I bet Chief will tolerate him–,”

“–What if he doesn't? What if he beheaded that man and puts him on a spike?!–”

“–So what? What if he were beheaded? You should not care for that outsider—,”

“–I don’t care about him! I-I-I just want what’s best for our people–,”

“–You like him,” Gruff points at her with a mocking laugh. “I don’t! You pig!” She shouted defensively, quickly slapping Gruff’s arm repeatedly. “You do! You like that snow haired boy!” Gruff kept pointing at her as he teased her. The young she wildling grunts in frustration as he denies her feelings for the Targaryen. “If you speak of this one more time, I will kill you in your sleep, Gruff.” 

“Oooh you’ll kill me in my sleep, eh? Right, sure you don’t like that boy, surely if he one day betrays us will you kill him in his sleep?”

“I will. And I’ll cut off his cock and hang it in front of your tent,” she speaks bluntly. 

“Right, you sure you won’t use that for anything else?”

Her face turned red before she threw a hard punch across the red haired’s face. Groaning in pain, Gruff still laughed at her being so flustered with his words. “Why do you like him anyways? Is it because of his hair? His eye? Ooh his other eye, the sapphire?” Gruff asked, sitting up curiously looking at his friend. “For the last time, I do not like our new comer,” she repeated herself. “Keep telling that to yourself, kid. If I see silver haired babies one day–.”

The tent opened, Aemond stepping out of the tent.

Unharmed. 

“Ah, so he gave you a chance to live another day,” she said quickly, changing her once worried demeanour into the confident young wildling she is. Aemond could only nod, towering over her. “I shall, and I will.” 

His purple eye fixed on hers, “Where can I find new clothes?”

a/n: stay tuned for the next chapter and I apologize if this is not my best work but😊✨

[goddessofvalyria]

BODYGUARD | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!oc

Summary: Aemond Targaryen is the bodyguard of Miranda, the daughter of an important politician.

TW: 18+, MINORS DNI, She/Her pronouns, the fem!oc is named Miranda with long dark brown hair and eyes, kissing, sexual themes, dirty talking, oral (f receiving), fingering, masturbation (m and f) tits sucking/play, SMUT, sexual tension, sex, violence, guns, alcohol. Age gap (Aemond is in his early 30s, she in her early 20s) This is a modern Aemond in modern AU. Yes, Aemond's role is inspired by Rhys Larsen from "Twisted Games" book.

English is not my first language, be kind and enjoy it <3

Words: 8348

This is my Masterlist and you can read more about Aemond and all the Ewan's characters.

Read the one-shot under the cut!

Aemond Targaryen is a formidable presence, a man shaped by the trials of his past. Standing tall with a defined, muscular build, his long silver straight hair flows down his back, contrasting sharply with the dark patch covering his left eye—a constant reminder of the battle that took it. Once a member of the King's Land Army and a Navy Seal, Aemond’s bravery and strength are legendary. His remaining purple eye, intense and vigilant, surveys his surroundings with unwavering focus, always on guard.

Aemond now serves as the bodyguard to Miranda, the daughter of a prominent politician. She is a striking young woman in her early 20s, with curly dark brown hair that frames her face and dark, intelligent eyes that miss nothing. Studying law with aspirations of becoming an advocate, Miranda combines beauty with brains, knowing how to navigate the complexities of her world with both charm and cunning. She carries herself with a provocative confidence, aware of the power she holds and not afraid to use it to her advantage.

The grand hall is buzz with anticipation as the evening's political convention is underway. It is one of the most significant events of the year, a gathering of influential figures, powerful politicians, and their families. Miranda, dressed in an elegant black Versace gown, stand at the front of the room, listening intently as her father give an impassioned speech about the future of their nation. Her dark brown curls cascaded over her shoulders and her jewelry sparkles in the light.

Behind her, Aemond Targaryen stand like a shadow, his tall, imposing figure alert and unwavering. He is never far from her side, always vigilant, always ready. Despite his often grumpy demeanor, Aemond is a man of duty, and he take his role as her protector very seriously. But as he watch her, there is something more in his gaze—a quiet admiration that he kept locked away, hidden beneath the stern exterior of a bodyguard. His eye follow the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulders, the way she hold herself with grace and confidence. It is a dangerous line he walks, for he know he could never act on the feelings that simmer beneath his stern facade. 

Miranda, on the other hand, is aware of Aemond's presence but often found him overbearing. She don't appreciate the way he loom over her, always close, always watching. His gruff personality and harsh tone often grate on her nerves, and she make no secret of her irritation. But she can't deny that he is exceptionally good at his job.

As her father continue to speak, Miranda shift her weight slightly, feeling the tension in the room. It os then that Aemond's keen instincts kick in. Something is off. His eye dart around the room, scanning faces, movements—anything out of the ordinary. And then he see it: a group of men, too focus, too deliberate in their movements, pushing through the crowd, their eyes locks on her father.

"Miranda," Aemond's voice is a low growl as he step closer to her. "We need to move. Now."

She turn to look at him, irritation flashing in her eyes. "What are you talking about? I'm listening to my dad—"

"Now" he repeat, more forcefully this time, his hand already reaching for her arm. There is no time to explain. No time to argue.

Before she can protest further, chaos erupt. Shouts fills the air, follow by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. The men drown weapons, aiming directly at her father on the stage. Aemond react instantly, pulling Miranda close and shielding her with his body as he begin to move them through the panicking crowd.

"Stay down!" he barks, his voice cutting through the screams as he push her toward the exit. Miranda's heart race, her breath coming in short gasps as the realization of what is happening hit her. Her father's life is in danger, and so is hers.

Aemond's grip on her is firm but not painful as he guide her through the chaos, his eye constantly scanning for threats. They reach the car outside, and with a forceful shove, he push her into the back seat, slamming the door behind her. 

He jumps into the driver’s seat and start the engine in one smooth motion, the car roaring to life as he sped away from the convention center. Miranda glance back through the window, fear and worry etched on her face. She want to go back, to see if her father is safe, but Aemond's stern voice broke through her thoughts.

"He's got security. They’ll take care of him," Aemond says, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly as he maneuver through the streets, driving fast but controlled. His focus is entirely on getting her to safety.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Miranda blurts out, her fear quickly turning to anger as adrenaline surges through her. “If you knew something was wrong, why didn’t you—”

"Because I don't have time to explain every damn thing to you," Aemond says, his voice harsh. "My job is to keep you alive, not to chat about it."

Miranda glares him, but the reality of what had just happened began to sink in. She looks down at her trembling hands, the gravity of the situation crashing over her. 

After a few tense moments, she speaks again, softer this time. "Thank you... for saving me."

Aemond’s gaze softens slightly as he watches her in the rearview mirror. He gives a small nod, his voice hoarse but less harsh. “It’s my job.”

But as he returns his focus to the road, his thoughts betrayed him. It isn’t just duty that had drive him to act so fiercely. It is something deeper, something he can't allow himself to acknowledge.

Not now. Not ever.

Miranda leans back in the seat, closing her eyes and trying to steady her breathing. She don’t like him—didn’t like his attitude, his arrogance. But in that moment, she realize just how much she dependes on him, whether she want to or not. And that realization is almost as unsettling as the attack itself.

The car pull up to the large country house that Miranda and her family call home, the grand estate nestle away from the bustling city, surround by tall trees and high walls. As soon as they arrive, Aemond is out of the car, his sharp gaze scanning the perimeter before he opens the door for Miranda. She steps out, her heels clicking on the stone driveway as she walks briskly toward the entrance. Aemond is close behind, his presence like a shadow that refused to leave her side.

Inside, the country house is quiet, the usual staff absent at this late hour. Aemond quickly moves to activate the security systems, locking down the property. The tension in the air is palpable, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. As soon as the last panel is secured, Miranda spans around to face him, her eyes blazing.

"Do you always have to be so damn controlling?" she snaps, her voice echoing through the spacious foyer. "I get that you have a job to do, but you treat me like I'm some kind of prisoner!"

Aemond’s jaw tightens, his frustration boiling over. "I'm doing what I have to do to keep you safe, Miranda. If you can't see that, then you're more naive than I thought."

"Naive?" she hisses, stepping closer, her finger jabbing at his chest. "You're the one who thinks he can just bark orders and expect everyone to fall in line! You don't get to control every aspect of my life!"

"I'm not trying to control your life, I'm trying to save it!" Aemond's voice is sharp, his patience wearing thin. "You think this is easy for me? Watching you waltz into dangerous situations, acting like nothing can touch you? You could’ve been killed tonight, Miranda! Do you even understand that?"

Miranda’s eyes flares with defiance, but beneath it, there is a flicker of fear. She hate feeling vulnerable, hate that Aemond had see that side of her. "You don’t get to talk to me like that. You work for my father, not for me. And I don’t need you treating me like a child who doesn’t know any better!"

Aemond steps closer, his tall frame towering over her, but he keep his voice on control, though the intensity in his eye is undeniable. "Maybe you do need someone to remind you what’s at stake. I’m not here to be your friend, Miranda. I’m here to keep you alive. If that means being harsh, then so be it."

Miranda clenches her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she glared up at him. "You’re impossible," she mutt, her voice lace with frustration. "You think you know everything, but you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to live under this constant pressure, to always have someone watching your every move."

Aemond’s expression softens for a brief moment, a flash of something almost vulnerable passing through his eye. "You’re right," he says quietly, his voice losing some of its edge. "I don’t know what that’s like. But I do know what it’s like to care about someone and not be able to protect them. I’m not going to let that happen again."

Miranda opens her mouth to retort, but the words caught in her throat. She see the pain flicker in his eye, and for a moment, she is caught off guard. But the anger and frustration are still too raw, too overwhelming.

"Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to control everything, you’d realize that I don’t need saving," she says back, her voice cold. "I can take care of myself."

Aemond’s face hardens again, the vulnerability gone as quickly as it appears. "Fine" he said, his tone clips. "But until your father tells me otherwise, I’m not going anywhere."

Miranda turns on her heel, her heart pounding with a mix of anger and confusion. She doesn’t know why this discussion bothers her so much, but she needs space. Without another word, she storms up the grand staircase, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

Aemond watches her go, his fists clenched at his sides. The discussion is having an impact on him, too, stirring up emotions he’s tried so hard to keep buried. But as much as he wants to follow her, to say something, anything, to make things right, he knows he can’t. Not now. Maybe never.

Miranda reach her room and slam the door behind her, leaning against it as she try to steady her breathing. Her mind is racing, the events of the evening replaying over and over. The attack, the fear, the way Aemond had protected her so fiercely. And then the argument, which had somehow seemed even more intense than the chaos of the convention.

She pushes off the door and walks into her bathroom, needing to do something—anything—to calm herself down. Turning on the shower, she strips off her dress and steps under the hot water, letting it wash away the tension that built up in her body. But even as the water cascade over her, she can’t stop thinking about Aemond.

Why did he have to be so infuriating? And why did she feels so…conflicted? She hate the way he treat her, hate his controlling nature. But there is something else there too—something she can’t quite put into words. The way he looks at her, the way he thrown himself into danger without hesitation, all to keep her safe.

Miranda closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cool tile. She can’t afford to think about Aemond like that. Not when everything is so complicated, not when her father’s world is so dangerous. And certainly not when Aemond is just doing his job, no matter how much she wishes it was more than that.

Aemond sits on the edge of the couch downstairs, restless. His mind races despite the quiet of the country house, the events of the evening still fresh. He can’t shake the nagging feeling that something could go wrong, that danger might still be lurking. He exhales sharply and stands, deciding to check on the situation outside through the security system.

His eye scans the camera feeds, revealing the guard dogs patrolling the perimeter and a police patrol car stationed outside the gates. Everything appears secure. But his concern for Miranda persists. The argument had left him unsettled, the tension between them simmering beneath the surface. He knows she’s safe in her room, but something compels him to stay closer, just in case.

Aemond ascends the stairs, moving quietly toward Miranda's room. The light from the bathroom spills into the hallway, and he hears the steady flow of water from the shower. For a moment, he hesitates, listening, confirming to himself that she's okay. The anxiety that had been gnawing at him begins to ease, and he decides to head to the room that’s been set aside for him.

Inside, Aemond strips off his work clothes, feeling the weight of the evening settle into his bones. He pulls on a black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, his movements automatic, the routine familiar. But his mind is still on Miranda, replaying the look in her eyes during their argument, the fire and frustration that had blazed between them. He places his gun on the nightstand within easy reach, a habit born of years of training, before lying down on the bed. The country house is quiet, secure, and he convinces himself that she’ll go to sleep soon, and he should try to do the same.

Aemond is on the verge of sleep when he hears something. A faint noise, coming from downstairs. His body tenses instantly, and he’s out of bed in a heartbeat, grabbing his gun. The country house is supposed to be secure, but his instincts are honed from years in the field, and he knows better than to dismiss even the smallest sound.

“Miranda?” he calls out, his voice low but urgent as he steps into the hallway. There’s no answer. He repeats her name, louder this time, but the silence that follows only heightens his concern. His grip on the gun tightens as he moves down the stairs, the noise growing clearer as he approaches the kitchen.

When he rounds the corner, Aemond spots her. Miranda is standing by the fridge, her back to him, completely unaware of his presence. His relief is fleeting as his adrenaline-fueled mind still races with the possibilities. 

“Miranda!” he barks, his voice sharp, laced with the tension he’s feeling.

She jumps, spinning around, and her eyes go wide when she sees the gun in his hands. “What the fuck, Aemond?” she yells, anger and shock mixing in her voice. “Are you seriously pointing a gun at me in my own house?”

Aemond lowers the gun immediately, the intensity in his eye still burning as he tries to rein in his panic. “I heard something. You didn’t answer when I called,” he snaps back, frustration and relief colliding. “I thought—”

“You thought what? That I can’t even get a glass of water without you storming in here like it’s a war zone?” she interrupts, her voice rising with each word. “This is my house, Aemond! I shouldn’t have to explain every little thing I do to you!”

“You don’t understand the risks!” Aemond retorts, his voice as sharp as hers. “I’m here to protect you, and that means I take everything seriously. If you’re moving around, I need to know!”

Miranda glares at him, her hands clenched at her sides. “You think you’re protecting me, but all you’re doing is suffocating me! I can’t even breathe without you looming over me, telling me what to do!”

“I’m trying to keep you alive!” Aemond fires back, stepping closer, the space between them charged with the intensity of their argument. “You think I like having to be this way? You think I don’t know how it looks? But I’d rather you hate me than see you get hurt because I wasn’t careful enough!”

Miranda’s eyes flash with a mixture of anger and something else, something that makes Aemond’s heart pound in his chest. “You don’t get to make that choice for me, Aemond. I’m not a child, and I’m not your possession. You might be my bodyguard, but you don’t own me.”

The words hang between them, heavy and charged. Aemond’s breath comes faster, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He knows she’s right, knows he’s crossed a line, but the fear of losing her, of failing in his duty—of failing her—makes it impossible to back down.

And then, in the heat of the moment, something snaps. Aemond steps forward, closing the distance between them, and before he can think better of it, he grabs her by the arm and pulls her toward him, pressing his lips to hers in a fierce, desperate kiss.

Miranda stiffens, shocked, her hands pushing against his chest. But then, for just a heartbeat, she hesitates, caught off guard by the intensity of the kiss, by the raw emotion behind it. 

But reality crashes back in, and she shoves him away, her breath coming in sharp, angry bursts.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Aemond pulls back as if burned, the realization of what he’s done slamming into him like a freight train. He stares at her, his expression torn between regret and something deeper, something he’s fought to keep buried for so long. “I—” He starts to speak, but the words die in his throat. He knows there’s nothing he can say to justify what just happened.

Without another word, Aemond turns and walks away, the gun still in his hand as he heads back up the stairs, leaving Miranda standing alone in the kitchen, her lips tingling from the kiss, her mind reeling.

Back in his room, Aemond closes the door behind him and leans against it, his heart pounding in his chest. He’s crossed a line, a line he never should have even approached. But the taste of her still lingers, and he knows that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t forget it.

He places the gun back on the nightstand and collapses onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He’s made a mistake—a mistake that could cost him everything. And as much as he wants to convince himself it was just a moment of weakness, deep down, he knows it was more than that.

Miranda stands in the middle of her room, her mind racing as she tries to process what just happened. The kitchen is quiet again, but her thoughts are anything but. She can still feel the pressure of Aemond’s lips against hers, the raw intensity of the kiss that had taken her completely by surprise. Her hand unconsciously drifts to her lips, tracing the spot where his mouth had been, still tingling from the contact.

She paces back and forth, trying to shake off the confusion and the strange mix of anger and longing swirling inside her. Aemond had no right to kiss her like that, she tells herself. But the truth is, she can’t deny the way her heart had raced, the way she had almost—almost—given in. She stops by the window, looking out at the darkened estate, her reflection faintly visible in the glass. Miranda bites her lip, trying to push the memory of his kiss out of her mind, but it lingers, stubborn and insistent.

Miranda slips under the covers, she still thinks about that kiss, those lips, those hands. She closes her eyes and takes off her shirt, remaining with her breasts bare, she slowly begins to touch herself with the thought of Aemond's lips on hers in her mind, pretending that it is he who is touching her.

She lowers her hands, teases her already hard nipples, leans against the pillows and arches her back, raises her hips and slips off her soaking thong. She slides two fingers inside her, she is hot, soaking wet, she begins to move her fingers, she moans, licking her lip. With the other hand she squeezes one of her breasts, she moans Aemond's name while she rides her own fingers, with her thumb she gives herself pleasure on her clit. It is not the first time she has done it, she is terribly ashamed of wanting it.

"Aemond" moans as she feels her pussy tighten around his wet fingers, she fingers herself and repeats his name over and over until she comes. God, how she wants to have him between her legs, how she wants to see his body on top of hers, see him subduing her and fucking her, opening her up on his hard cock. She is so excited that she finds herself fingering herself again, this time moaning louder, almost as if in defiance. She fingers fuck herself, her thumb ravages her clit and she comes a second time.

Exhausted, she falls asleep naked and frustrated, god she wants to fuck her bodyguard so much.

Aemond lies on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled mess. He’s furious with himself, ashamed of the way he lost control. The kiss was a mistake, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from reliving the moment over and over again. The softness of her lips, the brief but undeniable connection, the heat of the moment that had obliterated all rational thought.

Aemond finds himself in the same situation as Miranda.

He slides a hand into his boxers, then pulls them down, takes hold of his long erection and begins to slide the hand he spat on up and down. He wishes she were kneeling in front of him, he wishes he had her hands around his cock, he wishes he had her mouth. He closes his eyes, imagines her face, her lips, imagines her naked body: her full breasts, her narrow waist, her tight, hot, wet pussy. He wants to fuck her so bad, God.

"Miranda" Aemond moans her name, he feels close and comes into her hand, Miranda's name dying on his lips.

He runs a hand through his silver hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. He should have kept his distance, should have maintained his professionalism. But something about Miranda—the fire in her eyes, the way she challenged him—had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t expected. And now, all he can think about is how badly he wants to taste her again, how he’d give anything to feel her pressed against him, to lose himself in another kiss. But he knows it’s wrong, that he can’t let it happen again.

The following morning, Miranda and Aemond move around the country house as if on autopilot, careful to avoid each other. Breakfast is a tense, silent affair.

"My dad is safe, he texted me today in early morning. His bodyguard kept him safe, he is still at police central to talks about his aggression" are the only words she say before remain in silence again.

During the day they both focus on their own thoughts, neither willing to acknowledge what had happened the night before. Aemond busies himself with his duties, checking the security systems, communicating with the guards, all while keeping a deliberate distance from Miranda. She, in turn, throws herself into her work, studying for her law exams, trying to ignore the lingering tension between them.

But despite their best efforts, the memory of the kiss hangs between them like a shadow, coloring every interaction with an unspoken tension that neither of them can shake.

By the time night falls, the tension between them reaches again a boiling point. It starts with something small—Aemond insisting that Miranda stay in for the night, and Miranda pushing back, refusing to be told what to do in her own home.

“You’re not my warden, Aemond” she snaps, her voice laced with irritation as they stand in the hallway outside her room. “Stop trying to control everything I do.”

“I’m not trying to control you,” Aemond growls, his frustration spilling over. “I’m trying to keep you safe, but you’re too stubborn to see that!”

“Maybe if you weren’t so damn overbearing, I wouldn’t feel like a prisoner in my own home!” she retorts, stepping closer, her eyes blazing with anger.

Aemond clenches his fists, struggling to keep his temper in check. But her defiance, her refusal to listen—it’s driving him crazy. “You think I like this? You think I want to be here, arguing with you every night? You make everything harder than it has to be!”

"Your father is too loose with you!" she screams. "A girl like you should be treated a certain way and certainly not like a spoiled princess, damn it!"

Miranda scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, so now it’s my fault? Now I am a fucking spoiled princess?! You’re unbelievable, Aemond. You are—”

But before she can finish, Aemond closes the distance between them in two quick strides, his hands grabbing her by the shoulders as he pulls her into a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s rough, intense, a clash of tongues and teeth, all their pent-up frustration and desire spilling over in one explosive moment. Miranda resists for a heartbeat, her hands pushing against his chest, but then something inside her snaps, and she’s kissing him back just as fiercely, her fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

The kiss is messy, desperate, filled with all the things they’ve been trying to deny. Aemond’s hands roam her back, pulling her flush against him as his mouth devours hers, the taste of her like a drug he can’t get enough of. Miranda gasps into the kiss, her body arching against his, her own desire igniting in a way she hadn’t expected. It’s a battle for dominance, neither willing to give an inch, both needing to prove something to the other, to themselves.

Miranda moans into the kiss, gripping his shirt and feeling his hard erection press against her hips. When they finally break apart, they are both breathing hard, their foreheads pressed together, their bodies still tangled. Miranda’s lips are puffed out, her chest heaving as she stares at him, her dark eyes filled with a mix of anger, confusion, and something dangerously close to desire.

Aemond’s grip on her tightens, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He wants her—God, he wants her more than he’s ever wanted anything. But he knows he’s crossing a line, a line that could cost him everything. “Miranda, I—” he starts, but the words fail him, the reality of what they’ve just done crashing down on him.

Miranda’s expression hardens, and she pushes him away, taking a step back. “Don’t” she says, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and something else, something she’s not ready to confront. “Just… don’t.”

Without another word, she turns and storms into her room, slamming the door behind her. Aemond stands there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, his mind a jumble of regret, frustration, and an undeniable need that he can’t seem to shake. He knows this can’t continue, that he needs to find a way to regain control—of himself, of the situation.

With a heavy sigh, he finally retreats to his own room, the taste of her still lingering on his lips, his thoughts consumed by the memory of her kiss. He lies down on the bed, but sleep is elusive, his mind replaying the night’s events over and over. He knows things have changed between them, and he has no idea how to fix it—or if he even wants to.

Miranda lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind too restless to let her sleep. The memory of Aemond’s kiss is like a wildfire in her thoughts, impossible to extinguish no matter how hard she tries. The anger, the frustration, and the undeniable heat between them replay in her mind, over and over again. Her body still hums with the energy of their earlier encounter, and the unresolved tension makes it impossible to settle down.

She throws off the covers, her body too warm, too wired to stay still. Wearing only a tight tank top and a black thong, she gets out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Without thinking, she finds herself walking down the hallway, the country house quiet around her, the only sound the soft rustle of her clothes as she moves. Her heart pounds in her chest, her thoughts drawn to Aemond, to the way he had kissed her—rough, desperate, like he couldn’t help himself.

Before she can second-guess herself, she’s standing in front of his door. The house is still, her breath loud in her ears as she raises her hand to knock. The sound echoes in the quiet hallway, and she holds her breath, waiting. It takes a moment, but then she hears movement on the other side, and the door swings open.

Aemond stands there, his expression a mix of surprise and something darker, more intense, as he takes in the sight of her. His eye roams over her body, lingering on the way the tight top clings to her curves, the strip of fabric at her hips leaving little to the imagination. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and the tension between them crackles in the air like electricity.

Miranda’s eyes meet his, her breath catching in her throat. She’s not sure what she’s doing, what she’s expecting, but the words tumble out before she can stop them, her voice low and almost challenging.

“Tell me how a girl like me should be treated.”

For a moment, Aemond just stares at her, his eye darkening with a mix of desire and restraint. His jaw clenches as he wrestles with his emotions, the question she’s asked pulling at something deep inside him. He’s silent, his breath coming in controlled, steady breaths, trying to maintain a grip on his resolve. But her presence, the challenge in her eyes, the way she’s looking at him—it’s unraveling him.

He steps back, his hand on the door, as if he’s about to close it, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he motions for her to come in, his voice low and rough.

“Miranda… you don’t know what you’re asking.”

She steps inside, the door closing softly behind her as she faces him, her eyes locked on his. “I know exactly what I’m asking,” she says, her voice firmer now, a mix of defiance and need. “Show me.”

Aemond’s control snaps. In one fluid motion, he steps forward, his hand sliding around the back of her neck as he pulls her close, his lips crashing into hers. The kiss is intense, fierce, even more so than before. It’s as if all the emotions they’ve been holding back—anger, desire, frustration—pour into this moment. His other hand finds her waist, fingers pressing into her skin, pulling her against him as if he can’t get her close enough.

Miranda responds with equal fervor, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him down to her level as she meets his kiss with a hunger that surprises even her. His lips move against hers, demanding, tasting, devouring, and she gives in to the fire that’s been burning between them for far too long.

Aemond’s hand slides from her waist to her hip, fingers brushing against the bare skin just above the waistband of her thong. He pulls back just enough to look into her eyes, his breathing ragged, his voice a rough whisper. “A girl like you deserves more than this… but damn it, I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t” Miranda breathes out, her lips brushing against his as she speaks. She knows she’s pushing him, pushing them both to the edge of something they might not come back from, but she doesn’t care. All she knows is that she needs this, needs him.

He groans low in his throat, a sound of surrender, before he captures her lips again in another bruising kiss. His hands roam over her body, feeling the softness of her curves, the warmth of her skin. He’s rough, his touches possessive, but she responds to it, her own need mirroring his.

The kiss deepens, becomes messier, more desperate, tongues tangling, breaths mingling. Aemond lifts her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he presses her back against the door. The cold wood contrasts with the heat of their bodies, a reminder of how out of control this is, but neither of them care.

Their movements become frantic, hands exploring, pulling, teasing. Aemond’s lips move to her neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses down to her collarbone as Miranda gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders. The tension between them is like a live wire, snapping and sparking with every touch, every kiss, until it feels like they might both combust.

But then, as quickly as it started, Aemond pulls back, his breathing heavy, his eye dark with desire but also conflicted. “Miranda…” he murmurs, his forehead resting against hers as he struggles to regain control. “This isn’t… we shouldn’t…”

She looks up at him, her eyes wide, her lips swollen from the kiss, her body still thrumming with need. “I don’t care” she whispers, her hands still clutching at him, afraid that if she lets go, he’ll slip away. “I want this… I want you.”

The tension that had been simmering between them for so long finally erupts, consuming them both in a whirlwind of passion and need. There’s no hesitation now, no holding back—just the raw, unfiltered desire that has been building up for far too long.

Aemond takes her in his arms, holds her to the door, grazing her lips with two fingers. Miranda opens her lips and shamelessly sucks his fingers. He looks at her, slowly lowers his hand, moves her panties to the side and enters her with his fingers. She is so hot, tight, soaking wet. "You are so wet, princess" he whispers, kissing her while with his fingers he makes one of those little fingerings that make her melt on his own fingers. "You're so needy."

Miranda moans, clings to him with her strength and clings to his body. "I don't want to come, I don't want to yet" she whispers soaked in pleasure. "This is just the beginning, princess" he whispers.

Aemond grabs her in his arms and carries her to the bed. He makes her lie down on top, Miranda takes off her top and Aemond takes off her thong. Naked, trembling and aroused in front of him. She is reduced to a mess. She grabs him by the waistband of her pants, Aemond is on top of her.

"I heard you last night" he whispers kissing her under the ear. "You were touching yourself thinking about me, huh?" Aemond opens her legs, swelling between them. "Yes" she moans feeling his fingers teasing her clit again. "I was touching myself and thinking about you" she whispers feeling Aemond's thumb encircling her pearl.

"I imagined you were between my legs" her hand slides over Aemond's. "I wanted you to be there licking me, touching me" she slowly runs her fingers over her wet opening and enters herself. "Aemond" she whispers arching her back. "So, I kept going like this until I came on my fingers" she moans, Aemond feels hard and sore, in one move he takes off his tracksuit pants and boxers.

His erection is long, veiny, calm, its pink tip is beaded with pre-cum. "Let me show you how to treat a girl like you."

Aemond takes hold of himself, his cock slides over her opening, Miranda moans, he teases her clit and then turns her on more and more. His cock slides over and over between her wet folds. "Aemond..." she moans, shaking, until he brutally thrusts inside her. It's heavenly. Forbidden. Her pussy is tight, hot and wet, made for him.

"You're so tight" Aemond whispers, grabbing her in his arms. "You're so... wet, so... fuck" he begins to thrust into her, his thrusts are strong, hard, they take her breath away. Miranda moans, pushing her hips towards him. She's dreamed of this for so long, she just wants it to never end.

"My good girl" Aemond whispers fucking her. "What would your father say if he saw you like this" a devilish smile forms on his face. "His little princess getting opened by his bodyguard's cock" he gives her a hard push, she moans holding on to his shoulders. She buries her face in his neck, inhales his scent. Her bodyguard's cock inside her is so hard, long, she can feel it almost all the way to her stomach.

"I touched myself to thinking of you" he whispers twisting her nipples. "Aemond, fuck, Aemond, Aemond, Aemond" she whispers, her scent invades his senses. He feels her tighten, her legs tremble. Aemond brings his fingers to her pussy, surrounds her clit with his fingers and moves them in circular movements. "Cum for me all over my cock" he whispers.

"Cum for your bodyguard, princess" he touches her, she is excited, his cock pushes into her and she is held tight to him, panting. Aemond continues to fuck her while she comes, he feels her orgasm approaching and while she comes he pulls out coming between her thighs. Their skin is sweaty, Aemond kisses her breasts, collapses in her arms.

Later, as they lie together in the aftermath, the room is quiet, the only sound the soft, steady rhythm of their breathing. Miranda rests her head on Aemond’s chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns across his skin. The warmth of his body against hers is comforting, and for a moment, everything feels perfect—like nothing else in the world matters except for this moment.

As her fingers glide over his chest, she feels the raised, uneven texture of a scar. Her touch stills, and she lifts her head slightly to look at him, her gaze questioning but gentle. “What happened here?” she asks softly, her fingers tracing the line of the scar.

Aemond’s body tenses beneath her, his eye darkening with the weight of the memories that come flooding back. For a moment, he’s silent, the only sound his breathing as he grapples with whether or not to open up to her. But something about the way she’s looking at him—concerned, caring, vulnerable—makes him want to share the truth.

“When I was in the King’s Land Navy Seals,” he begins, his voice low, almost a whisper, “We were on a mission… deep in enemy territory. It was supposed to be a routine operation, but everything went wrong. We were ambushed. The enemy… they knew we were coming. My best friend—he was right there beside me. We’d been through everything together, always had each other’s backs. But that day…” His voice falters, and he takes a deep breath, the pain of the memory evident in his tone. “I failed him, Miranda. I couldn’t protect him. I tried, but… he didn’t make it.”

Miranda feels her heart ache at the pain in his voice, at the weight he’s been carrying alone for so long. She shifts slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest, right over the scar, as if her touch could somehow soothe the hurt he’s been holding onto. “Aemond…” she murmurs, her voice soft and full of understanding. “I’m so sorry.”

He closes his eye, trying to push down the guilt that has haunted him for years. “That’s why I’m so… overprotective with you” he admits. “I can’t let anything happen to you. I can’t fail again.”

Miranda lifts her head to look at him, her eyes searching his. She can see the torment in his expression, the way he’s been carrying this burden alone, and it breaks her heart. “You won’t” she assures him, her voice firm but tender. “You haven’t failed me, Aemond. You’ve done everything you can to keep me safe. But you don’t have to do it alone. We’re in this together.”

Aemond opens his eye to meet hers, the vulnerability in her gaze cutting through the walls he’s built around himself. For a moment, they just look at each other, the silence between them filled with unspoken understanding. Then, Miranda leans up and presses her lips to his, a soft, lingering kiss that’s more about comfort than passion. It’s her way of telling him that she’s here, that she sees him, scars and all, and that she’s not going anywhere.

When she pulls back, there’s a moment of quiet between them, the weight of their shared confessions settling into the space. Then Miranda speaks again, her voice a soft whisper. “No one must know about this—especially not my father.”

Aemond hesitates, his sense of duty warring with the desire to protect her secret, to keep this moment between them. He knows the risks, knows that if anyone found out, it could mean the end of everything—for both of them. But when he looks into her eyes, sees the trust she’s placing in him, he can’t bring himself to say no.

“Alright” he finally agrees, his voice steady but laced with a hint of reluctance. “I won’t tell anyone. This stays between us.”

Miranda nods, relief flooding her expression. She leans in to kiss him again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if sealing their pact with the touch of her lips. When they part, she settles back against his chest, her body molding to his as they find comfort in each other’s presence.

For a long time, they lie there in silence, wrapped up in the warmth of their shared connection. There’s still so much left unsaid, so many things they’ll need to face, but for now, in the quiet of the night, they find solace in each other’s arms, knowing that, no matter what happens next, they’ll face it together.

Miranda lies against Aemond’s chest, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw as she looks up at him. The intimacy of the moment has dissolved some of the barriers between them, and her gaze softens as she meets his eye.

“Take off your eyepatch” she whispers, her voice gentle but insistent.

Aemond tenses for a moment, the request catching him off guard. His instinct is to refuse, to keep that part of himself hidden. But when he looks into her eyes, sees the genuine curiosity and care there, something in him shifts. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reaches up and pulls the patch away, revealing the scarred, empty socket beneath. Inside there is a blue sapphire.

Miranda doesn’t flinch or look away. Instead, she reaches up to touch the scar, her fingers light and tender against his skin. “You don’t have to hide from me” she says softly, her voice filled with understanding. "The scar on your handsome face is... kinda hot, sexy to me."

Aemond swallows hard, the vulnerability of the moment washing over him. For so long, he’s kept this part of himself hidden, afraid of what it represents, afraid of how others would react. But with Miranda, there’s no fear, no judgment—only acceptance.

The tenderness in her gaze pulls him in, and before he knows it, their lips meet again. This time, the kiss is slow, deep, filled with a sense of connection that goes beyond physical desire. It’s as if, in that moment, they’re baring their souls to each other, revealing the parts of themselves they’ve kept hidden from the world.

As their kisses grow more heated, the desire between them reignites, but now it’s mixed with something deeper—a need to be close, to hold on to each other in this shared vulnerability. They move together with a newfound sense of trust and passion, their bodies entwining as they lose themselves in each other once more.

"I need you inside me again, please" Miranda whispers, Aemond begins to kiss her with soft, tender, wet kisses. Slowly he traces the profile of her body, reaches her pussy and opens her legs, positioning himself between them.

"I want you, princess. You're so breathtaking"

His naked body is pure art: a toned and lean body, veiny arms as well as her hands and her v-line closes to his long, thick and erect dick for her. Her long silver hair is loose and he, as well as she, smells of sex.

Aemond touches her, she is still so sensitive, but slowly he pushes his fingers inside her, so tight and wet. Miranda moans and soon he buries his head between her thighs and devours her as if it were his last meal of her moans, her hands in Aemond's long silver hair. "Aemond...Aemond, Oh my fucking god!" she moans, arching her back, Aemond licks her clit, fills her with two fingers and then when he is about to come he gets up, lifts himself on the bed, kneeling in front of her, takes his manhood stroking himself a couple of times, bends over her, who feels his erection pressing between her thighs.

Aemond rubs himself against her, shortly after he opens her again on his cock and she, invaded again, moans, bringing a leg to his side. "I need..." she whispers. "Of you, of all this... God Aemond, don't stop" Aemond holds her in his arms, buries himself inside her again. "It's dangerous" he whispers on her lips. "But fuck, how much I want you" he caresses her lower lip, bites it, kisses it.

He brings his hands to her waist, continues to push into her until he feels her break in his hands. Aemond kisses her breast, takes a sensitive nipple between his lips, licks it and Miranda, feels close to orgasm again. "Cum for me princess" Aemond orders her. "Cum inside me, I want to feel you" she replies.

Aemond looks at her, Miranda is lost in the most dissolute pleasure. He continues to fuck her until he feels her come around his shaft and he lets himself go inside her, filling her. "Princess, my little princess treated like she deserve" he moans, he lets himself fall on her body again, Miranda hugs him breathing in his scent.

"God, what a man you are Aemond Targaryen."

Miranda clings to Aemond, hugs him and places small, sweet kisses on the scar on his face. "When…" she whispers, moving her hand to his silver hair. "When did you start looking at me differently?" she asks.

Aemond sighs, looks at their reflection in the mirror in front of the bed. They are a tangle, skin against skin, the sheets at their feet. Their naked bodies touching, God, she is so beautiful.

"A year ago" Aemond admits. Miranda bites her lower lip. "When I carried you away from that event, where the crowd had started to become oppressive and they broke through the security barriers when they saw you. I took you in my arms, you were so scared. I carried you away and in the car, when you were crying and you held me… something in me snapped" her voice is calm, gentle and different from his usual arrogance.

"It started a year ago for me too" she whispers. "Soon after that, I… I don't know, but the way you made me feel protected… it made me want more" she rises a little, brushes their lips and settles on his chest, on top of him, their legs entwined.

Miranda rests her face on Aemond's chest, listens to the beat of his heart. "I tried to provoke you, Aemond Targaryen" she admits with a hint of amusement in her voice. "Splashing in the pool, teasing you, wearing shorts and circling you, little jokes… but nothing has managed to dent you until… today" she smiles, gives him a kiss on the chest.

"I don't want to give you up" Aemond admits. "But I know my place" her sense of duty is infinite. "We'll keep it a secret and… when the time comes I'll tell my father. I'm his only daughter and since my mother passed away he just wants to see me happy. How could he not accept our relationship? You're the person who protects me and loves me the most in the world after him, Aemond."

Miranda's words are sincere, she knows her father well and knows how to trick him in her favor. "Please, trust me" Miranda takes his face in her hands and kisses him with a burning intensity.

"Aemond" she whisper. "I'm horny again" she kisses his skin, he shivers at the touch of her lips

"And now let's make love" she sits on him, her naked body is simply wonderful. Aemond moves her on his hips, Miranda closes her eyes and lets himself be penetrated by his cock, hard again. She moans, Aemond sits on the bed with her in his arms, riding him. "You're mine" Miranda whispers. "You're mine Aemond Targaryen" he holds her, Miranda kisses his neck.

The world outside fades away as they make love again, this time with an intimacy that’s as much about their hearts as it is about their bodies. Every touch, every kiss, is charged with emotion, a silent promise that they’re in this together, scars and all. 

When they finally come back to themselves, they’re both breathless, spent, but there’s a new sense of peace between them.

Miranda rests her head on Aemond’s chest again, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her. He holds her close, his hand gently stroking her hair, and for the first time in a long while, they both feel a sense of completeness, as if they’ve finally found what they’ve been searching for in each other.

She was his and he was hers, her bodyguard.

[ophelieverse]

This is the first time that i send in a request,but I’ve been your fan for quite a while now🥰🥰I love your blog and your content,especially your writing,so can I please ask you to write something about Daemon x niece!reader where she is the daughter of Aemma and Viserys and he’s obsessed with her?It can be whatever you want!Thank you so much!🫶🏻

⋆ ˚｡⋆little bird

Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

-Summary:Daemon is in Harrenhal and he’s tormented by the memories of the only woman that he had ever loved:his niece,the long gone princess Y/n.

-Warnings:death of character,incest,age gap,Daemon never married Laena,reader has valyrian features,reader died of childbirth,reader is mother of twin girls(you can decide if Baela and Rhaena),mental torture(?)sexual thoughts,Daemon being himself,Alys tormenting Daemon and him losing his mind.

•-aww thank you so much for your words and support,also thank you for requesting and let me know what you guys think,sending love🩷🫶🏻

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The palate is a treacherous bastard,a vile traitor.The palate,the tongue,the teeth,the throat:damned monsters,damned stabs in the shoulders.

They rebelled and tortured Daemon intimately,as well as the strawled murmurs of soaking whispers in the dark and lonely castle,as well as the murmurs of that nameless woman.Everything bothered him,in that world built by the blood-stained hands of false and courteous murderers,and the raw truths of the tormented men were no exception.

After all,he should have known - and he knew it, he knew it and he had not stopped,he had become crazy! -that once he tasted the most precious wine of the Seven Kingdoms his mouth would detest any other drink.His primordial instinct and his spirit of survival had tried to warn him,to make him understand,to make him glimpse the inexorable fate in which there would be a before and there would of course be an after.

Because any other flavor would never have been as sweet as the taste of her.

And nothing more would have been the same, nothing would make sense anymore.Daemon had only really understood it after kissing her:it had become impossible to even look at another woman.

He could still remember the first time that he had kissed her,before going to win the war in the Narrow Sea in her father’s name.He had only kissed her once and it had been like savoring the mouth of a fucking divine gift that fell down from heaven,kissing a promise of grace and eternal damnation.An inexperienced,sweet,innocent mouth.

His,Y/n was all his.

She was still a girl at the time,two years younger than her older sister Rhaenyra,just a naive girl that stug with two skinny legs and without even a woman's shape,the silver-haired doll,the trained King's Landing little bird that squeakes and chirps in the shade of her father's words and actions:Y/n, stupid and spoiled princess,daughter of the Long Summer,had let herself be kissed by him and had not stopped him,she had not pushed him away.

Crazy him and crazy her.Or maybe just him, or maybe just her.Who went crazy first,who did? Who had it been?Daemom didn't remember the fucking way those damn events that had folded him in two,disintegrated his entire soul.Killed him not once but a hundred,a thousand,a thousand and again a thousand times.

Who went crazy first?Who?Daemon has started to believe it was him.

It’s been years since the last time he had kissed Y/n,years since he last touched her warm skin,looked into her bright lilac eyes,that he had saw her with their daughters in her arms.

Yet,that night,in the dark and anguish halls of Harrenhal,his little bird had shown up to him.The ghost of Y/n imagine had suddenly appeared in a corridor in the west wing yard like an evanescent appearance,like his worst nightmare and had resumed chirping the same nauseating and tormenting phrases she cunningly gave to all her lords,to all her knights.

She had chirped her thanks,the beautiful words she used to tear from the verses of her beloved romantic ballads,which she used to steal from the fairy tales narrated with placid fervor from the endless rows of her old and decrepit Septas.

She had chirped and chirped and chirped.

Daemon hadn't listened to any of her melancholic sentences and hadn't even paid the slightest attention to her,nothing at all.So the deities and that witch then must have decided to punish him and mock him.They had taken their revenge on all his blasphemies and on all the lives he had snatched with joy.

The pale light of the moon had begun to inflame Y/n long silver braids,braids knotted in a bushy tangle,shaped into circles of blood rays that made her hairstyle look like the one of a small child.The young and innocent girl she once was before Daemon had touched her.A stupid hairstyle that she persided - with a pout - to make her maidens intertwine just like her mother did when she was just a small child.

The red dress that wrapped perfectly around her body,the one that she had wore at the tourney for her last Name Day as a maiden,seemed made of pure liquid blood.Daemon was lost.The red had become fire,it had turned into copper,it had melted into wine.A crown of thorns and autumn leaves in the cold wind of the godswood.

Y/n rosy mouth had stretched out in a brief,false smile,yet what was really false about her?And her elusive purple eyes had reminded him of reality.

The reality where she no longer existed,the one where now he was married to his older sister.He just wants to use her.Everyone uses everyone.He remind himself,he could never love her,not in the way he still loves Y/n.

Suddenly Daemon had realized the existence of his foolish thoughts,he had awakened by the torpor in which her sweet and familiar scent had induced him,and he had understood that he was behaving like a little child that had just woken up from a bed dream,an inexperienced young boy,he looked at her hair,looked at her ephelids,and didn't focus on those small stall tits and her flat,tight belly,and then he thought he had to fix it,that he had to prove to himself that he was a man.

Not the silly man who secretly watched the tears entangled in the eyelashes of a little girl who still slept with the dolls,squeezed in his little embrace,but the real man who fucked women in brothels and got rid of all his most itchy desires. Not the man who trembled in front of a little girl's gaze,but the man who fucked the women quickly and impatiently,without even looking them in the face,fulfilling his needs and his morbid needs.

The man that Daemon was before devoting his life,heart and soul to Y/n.

These thoughts had clouded his soaky mind with vulgar images,they had made his body drunk and frenny.Then he had stretched out towards Y/n, almost staggering,and had devoured her face. Mouth to mouth,he had eaten her lies and her breath.Was it really her,the spectral and little figure that had hunted him since he had step in Harrenhal?Was it really her,the cold and young body he was holding in his arms?He didn’t cared,he needed to feel what he once called love.

His little girl still tasted good,just like he remembered,something sweet,extremely pure. Snow and honey together,what an absurd madness of the senses.Y/n had closed her mouth,her lips soft and eyelids tight,but she had done nothing else.She hadn't disappeared from his touch just like the night before,his rough hands that had begun to mess up her hair and squeeze her thin throat like they used to.

They had kept both eyes closed and he had thought that she was beautiful even in the dark of the dull and worn lights,even in the black of the lowered eyelashes,under the Sun or under the Moon.

Y/n was still as beautiful as the day he had lost her.

And now that she was there,real or not,Daemon had kissed her with a disturbing need and Y/n mouth had moved on his without opening,without granting him anything more.Nothing more of what he already had when she was flourishing with life.

In that moment a cold wind had crept all over his back,until it even caressed his neck and wet cheeks.When did he started crying?Too late he had realized that it had not been a cold wind that had appeased his burns.

«Y/n,my Y/n.»Daemon had murmured«My little bird of the summer,my frightened little bird.»he kept talking on her lips.

«Uncle.»even her voice sounded like she was still that young girl he used to watch run to him,blushing when he would bring her a gift from one of the cities he had visited.

She had caressed his pained face and kissed him like a little girl who can't even imagine that there is anything else after a kiss on the lips.Like a sweet child that still dreamed and hoped for a bright and long future ahead of her.

Maybe at that moment Daemon must have said her name again,because the figure in his arms smiled«Y/n,my little girl,Y/n.»like a prayer.

«Do you still desire me,uncle?Do you still think about me?»her voice,a soft whisper,that cut into his heart.

How naive and stupid,stupid little woman.

He could have turned her like a worn sock,lifted her skirt and possessed it in any dark corner of the castle,stretched her on the floor and forced her to open her legs for him.For him,only for him. First the knees,then the thighs,until he devour her with his hands and tongue,until he fuck her all.

That little creature who didn't even know the thoughts that animated the minds of the men around her,the minds of all animal men just like him.He could have done anything to her,anything unimaginable and unpronounceable,and continued to devour her for whole hours,years and centurie, millennia and other millennia,to the point of satisfying her every repressed need and even more.

And Daemon did it,fulfilling his duties as a husband that resulted in the living love that took form in their twin daughters and son.

He enjoyed her,eat her,mark her at every possible point.He could have done anything for her even now.But Y/n had placed a hand on his heart and more snow had fallen into his chest,appeasing his every pain,every craving.

«Or is my sister crown that you lust over now?»Y/n sharp tongue managed to open another cut in his chest.

Yes,he wanted Rhaenyra crown but it was her he wanted to make his Queen.It’s always been like that,in his deepest dreams,to rule by her side,to pass the throne to their son and be with her forever to the end of his days.

«It’s always ever been you and i’m sorry that this has costed your life.»Daemon words were half stuck in his throat.

Stupid little girl,stupid.She was too good for him.She was pathetically pure.She will never be able to survive in this world,she would become food donated to dogs and worms.Another dead flesh left danging on the spades of this rotten and corrupt castle from the slimy foundation.Another head detached from one's body and turned into a trophy to show to enemies.

Another life that he had ruined.

The images of these elucubrations of his had scared him so much was he afraid?Was the burning in the pupils and ribs fear of seeing her dead or desire to kill or even a fever to possess her?To push her away from his arms,from his belly outstretched towards her.

Daemon had already lost Y/n once,in their old shared chambers of the Red Keep,drenched in sweat and blood.Screaming in fear and pain,just like her mother,as she gave birth to their son.A life for a life,the child survived and the mother died without being able to meet each other.

And now she was there,after so many years,Daemon had only glimpsed at her wet lips and red cheeks,then started yelling at her to leave.It wasn’t real,nothing of this was,his wife,his Y/n was dead,ashes in the wind.

«Go away.Get away right away or you'll regret it.I'll make you regret it,I swear to you.I'll make you regret anything you've ever done or thought if you don't leave now.Go away!»Daemon was screaming like a mad man,but his words were not directed towards Y/n.

His crude and harsh words were echoed only for the silent witch that lived in that old and empty castle.

He must have insulted her,or he had cursed the bastard witch back.He didn’t cared because now Y/n had escaped from his head and eyes with every new sip of wine that he took once he walked back into the dark halls.

Her ethereal figure disappeared at each red bottom of a cup he had swallowed in an attempt to forget the circles of her damn braids.A new cup of wine at every turn of the silver locks and then a hysterical laugh every moment he saw the lilac eyes of that damn girl in the accusatory ones of the witch who sat next to him.

«You are rather unrequited tonight,your grace.What’s bothering you?»Alys Rivers was her name and her voice was as enchanting as her looks.

A punch against the table at every drop of watered down flavor,at every cup of all those lousy drinks that she had given him to help him sleep.A mediocre taste that made him miss better flavors - the taste of him.

Almost as she could read his mind«In love?You?»Alys sound surprised.

And a thud in the heart as every second passes,at the stroke of the hours,at the slow formation of a nebulous wall of chaos inside him.Honey,snow,sweet salt of tears never shed. What was happening to him?What was going on in his head,in his sternum,between his legs?Had Alys poisoned him?

«Y/n.»she spoke again«The little girl that you used to bounce on your knees,the woman that died to give you an heir.»she taunted him,the ghost of a smile on her lips.

Daemon felt his heart shatter in his chest,pain at every breath.His hands burning like the rest of his body,the wine down his throat ready to choke him with all his guilt.

«Where is she?»he asked then,turning to look at the woman next to him.

Where is Y/n?

He had screamed at her out in the gardens and she was gone,she had flown away.

«Where is she?Tell me.Tell me where she is!»the cups on the wooden table crushed on the floor,the cold stones now painted of red wine.

«Where is Y/n?»Alys asked calmly,not even getting up from her chair as his grace thrown everything around«The little girl is far away.But she’s not unreachable,you will see her again soon.»she answered him.

Daemon had was spinning,he felt the nausea coming up from his stomach.He tried to walk and a gag forced him to kneel on the ground,to throw his head against the floor.

«Y/n,my little bird,Y/n.Y/n where are you?»he choked out.

She was there,he had seen her just a few moments before and the other previous nights that he had spent in Harrenhal.He held her,kissed her and it felt so real.She didn't run away,she didn't cry,she didn't even lower her head.Nothing,nothing of nothing.She just looked at him for a second and then she left.

Now she was gone,again.She was gone,Y/n,was gone and Daemon wanted her back,like he had always wanted her,he couldn’t breathe,Y/n come back to him.

Come back,stupid little girl,come back here right away.One moment,he needed to touch her,to kiss her,to have her,just another moment to share with her.His little girl,his little bird.His,his,his,she had always been his.Come back,he needed to hold her and protect her.He would protect her from anyone,even himself if she was so afraid.He was scared too.

«Your grace?»Alys voice was distant,loosing itself in the air.

Daemon crawled on the wet floor,getting up«The little bird.I have to find,I have to find...»the world became dark and dyed of red.There was laughter around his body and someone sneering his name.

«I have to find...»he repeated.

He had to look for her.He hadn't been able to resist her,he hadn't slept even a minute.He had walked around the castle like a mad man,reaching his chambers only to find her inside.

The room looked like the one they lived in the Red Keep,warm and familiar.A small figure appeared,wearing a old white nightgown drenched in blood,pale hair wild on her head in the same that she had died in.

Y/n was there,holding to her chest a child wrapped into a blue blanket like a present.Their son,the joyful and smart boy that looked exactly like his mother and that she had never even seen before closing her eyes forever.She was sitting and crying .He had felt like he was dying and had taken a few uncertain steps.His eyes had moved frantically and they had glimpsed the blood-stained sheets,the stained dress on her thighs, the hands holding the child.

As soon as Y/n had seen him,with shiny eyes, huge tears on that small face she had brought her red fingers on her lips,as if to ask him to be silent as she rocked her baby.The smell of iron had never disgusted him,never shaken him,not until that moment.The little girl's legs had continued to drip and form spots on slippery spots on the floor.

«You always wanted a son.»Y/n voice was paralyzing«I should have know that this would have been my end.You can never surrender to your desires.»she didn’t looked at him,calmly holding the cloth in her arms but he knew she was accusing him of the same sin his brother had committed.

He had never hated blood with such despair,never hesitated before his duties,never thought of spitting acid on his oldest loyalty«I should have…i should have saved you.»he breathed.

Y/n smiled softly«No,this is the price you have to pay for taking what isn’t yours.The throne,the crown…me.»her empty eyes burned his flesh«You will die here,uncle,and you will loose everything.»she warned him.

Daemon vomited until he almost fainted,almost suffocated in his own vomit.Tears mixed with the pain and guilt on his face and his arms suddenly gave in.He felt hands on his neck and lips near his ear.He hit his head against the floor again and rocky voices pronounced his name more times.

He tried to crawl but threw up again,and then again and again.He couldn't stop anymore.He tried to grab a the chair next to door,but the world began swirling to turn and he lost himself in meaningless images.Before closing his eyes Daemon only saw pale silver birds with broken necks and torn wings.

[dragon-ascent]

I wonder how Rex lapis would react to the information of another of his kind[a female] still being around and right under his nose the entire time tho in disguise aswell,the only reason he didn't detect them for so long is because she's really good and smart at hiding her identity so good her own kind could be fooled

Zhongli is inclined to believe it, no matter how unlikely it may seem, because hey - he's been in Teyvat for thousands of years and the world still doesn't cease to surprise him.

He sees her for real one lonely night, tail in view as she grooms it, and it looks much like his own dragon tail. How curious! Her scent is very mild, so inconspicuous that he can't pick it up unless he closes his eyes and really concentrates. No wonder...

He'd leave her be, but can't help but imagine her in her adeptal form perched upon a fluffy cloud, and him dancing in the skies for her attention and favour. Call it uncharacteristic of him to be thinking of such a thing, but it was just a fleeting thought.

That night, though, he dreams of fluffy clouds and an audience of one.

[havenlyd]

AU where Aegon III Targaryen married Barba Bolton instead

[weaveandwood]

Is this the part where the music starts and we begin dancing? Because I'm game. Alistair x Ellaria

[kjwaikiki]

Hotd Jace centric idea:

Jace did not react to Ulf and Hugh Hammer well and I can understand why. Also I know what they do in the books so while it looks like the tv show is making them more nuanced and palatable to the audience Jace is still my #1.

That being said I have an idea. Jace is a big brother, in my mind that is a very big part of who he is, and now one of his brothers is dead and the rest have been or will be sent away. He is effectively alone being kept away from the war with only Baela for company, but even Baela can’t be there very often as she has to patrol.

This brings me to my idea. Ulf and Hugh need someone to teach them how to be dragon riders and with no one else available it falls to Jace. Jace is not very happy about this but he is dutiful so he will do it. However, Jace is not the most patient teacher and often snaps at Hugh and Ulf when they don’t pick things up very quickly. Eventually Ulf and Hugh get sick of this and impatient to actually mount their dragons (Jace has mostly been teaching them Valyrian, how to direct their dragon, and the history of House Targaryen). Somehow they are able to mount Silverwing and Vermithor but things start to go wrong. Hugh can’t control Vermithor and Ulf is hanging onto Silverwing by a thread and bloodying his hands in the process.

Jace comes to their rescue and is able to corral Silverwing and Vermithor to land. He goes off on Hugh and Ulf berating them for being so stupid and lecturing them on how they could have been killed or killed someone else and how dragons are not pets or tools. He ends the lecture by telling them to show him their hands. Jace is not pleased to see Ulf’s bloody palms and while Hugh’s hands are better off (he has more callouses than Ulf) they are still scratched up. Jace goes to his saddle bags, pulls out some ointment and bandages and treats their wounds.

This shifts something in their dynamic as Ulf and Hugh are surprised that Jace is taking the time and effort to take care of their wounds. Jace is mostly just annoyed at the two men’s foolishness but doesn’t see anything odd about looking after them as they are his responsibility. Before he is done Jace states that he will not tell anyone what they tried to do and he’ll make the necessary excuses to the Queen but he expects them both to never do something so foolish again and for them to actually pay attention to their lessons now.

Ulf and Hugh do go to lessons now and are a bit bolder with Jace now. This means that they are both more likely to ask questions now than they were before. Ulf because he now believes Jace will help him and Hugh because he is no longer afraid Jace will report him to his Queen mother for every grievance. Jace answers all their questions even if some of his answers are curt.

I imagine their relationship shifts even more when one of them asks Jace why they need to learn this. If it’s Ulf he is asking out of genuine curiosity and if it is Hugh it is because he is annoyed and slightly confrontational. Jace gives them two answers the first is that the Queen has accepted them as dragon riders and this has accepted them into House Targaryen, they will have an education worthy of House Targaryen (Rhaenyra did not mean to do this but I think Jace would have a little better perspective on this matter, he would know that after the war they can’t just send them back to what they were before). The second reason is that they will be going to war and as Crown Prince he will see them prepared, he will not allow another dragon rider to perish to Vhagar’s jaws.

This makes both Hugh and Ulf look at Jace differently. Suddenly they don’t see an arrogant and perpetually annoyed princeling, instead they see a young man who has lost his brother and is desperately fighting to keep what remains of his family alive. For a moment they see how afraid Jace actually is but they also see how determined he is, at that moment they swear their is fire in the prince’s eyes.

Ulf is much more willing to listen and follow Jace after that and sings his praises to anyone who will listen. This causes Jace to soften a bit towards Ulf. However, Hugh is still wary of Jace. The big revelation their relationship is when, for some reason, Ulf, Hugh, and Jace get drunk together. Ulf is passed out so it is just Hugh and Jace still drinking. Hugh has some liquid courage in him so he asks if the reason Jace doesn’t like them is because of their silver hair.

Jace is a bit taken aback but the drink has actually mellowed his temper and looking at Hugh’s face he can’t seem to muster up any anger. Instead, Jace tells Hugh that he grew up with Aegon and Aemond and that when they were young he used to follow after Aegon everywhere, that he idolized his uncle. Of course later after Driftmark any goodwill vanished but they were still family. Now, his brother and Princess Rhaenys are dead because of Aemond and Jace has no doubt that the rest of his family will follow if the Greens have their way. Jace goes on to say that he doesn’t hate them but that they have dragons and the Targaryen looks, if the uncles he grew up with could betray them that badly what is to say that two strangers won’t do the same. In a way Hugh and Ulf are even more dangerous because they have no reason to be loyal and their dragons could kill them all much easier than Vhagar who is all the way in King’s Landing and who everyone is watching out for.

Hugh is a bit taken aback. He asks Jace if he believes they will betray him because they aren’t true born. Jace actually snorts and says that he isn’t that much of a hypocrite. He goes on to say that he doesn’t know them and that regardless of his own personal feelings he has to protect his family (the unspoken bit is that he has to protect them if no one else will, Daemon is not here and Rhaenyra is not making the best decisions in who to trust at this point in time).

There is a shift between Hugh and Jace, a new found understanding. If nothing else Hugh respects Jace more now than he did before. Jace continues to train them and as the time when they set out to war get closer he becomes more exacting. Ulf and Hugh don’t complain as they know now that Jace is trying to give them the best chance of coming back alive. Right before they fly out Jace presents them with expensive riding gear in shades of black and weaved through with chain mail, expensive leather gloves to protect their hands, new boots, dragon glass dagger, and small pins made of Valyrian steel in the shape of a three headed dragon with rubies for eyes.

Ulf and Hugh are touched and Ulf hugs Jace while Hugh gives him a respectful nod. Jace gives him an awkward nod back and tells them to watch out for arrows and to remember that dragons are not pets or tools. They part there and Ulf and Hugh go to war where they are actually two of Jace’s most outspoken supporters. A lot of people are doubtful about Rhaenyra’s reign and Ulf and Hugh try to reassure everyone by saying that Jace will be a great king.

I like to think that Ulf and Hugh do well and eventually the question is brought to Rhaenyra about what will be done about them. Addam is going to be Corlys’ heir but what about Ulf and Hugh? Rhaenyra is very vague and just says that they will be rewarded. Jace however speaks up and says that there will be empty keeps and lordships available after this, and that as dragon riders of House Targaryen they should be rewarded with a keep.

This sparks a fight between Jace and Rhaenyra as she thinks that giving Ulf and Hugh lordships wills upset their allies and that it is enough that Ulf and Hugh will be given gold and possibly stewardship of a keep. Jace points out that they can’t just expect Ulf and Hugh to be content with a few gold dragons and being hidden away in a keep after the war is done. By her actions Rhaenyra has ensured that Hugh and Ulf will always be linked to House Targaryen, and giving them keeps and a title mitigates them as a political threat as it keeps them content and acknowledges their service to the crown. Jace and Rhaenyra go back and forth a bit with the argument ending in a stalemate and neither person happy.

Somehow the argument reaches Ulf and Hugh on the frontline and while neither are happy with Rhaenyra but everything they hear about how Jace defended them just cements their loyalty and good opinion of him (the tale has been a little distorted by the time it reaches Ulf and Hugh. Now it sounds as if Rhaenyra wanted them to be sent back to where they came from with a few gold coins while Jace pushed for them to be elevated to Lord Paramounts). It also helps that everything Jace has taught them, all his advice, and even his gifts has saved both Ulf and Hugh’s life more than a few times from an arrow or an ambush while they have been at war.

I imagine that the story progresses with Ulf and Hugh becoming more and more loyal and devoted to Jace while Jace has to constantly defend Ulf and Hugh from other people (at some point Jace has assumed responsibility for the two men, they aren’t his brothers or even family but they are part of House Targaryen and as Crown Prince he has a duty to see them taken care of). At the same time Ulf and Hugh grow more disillusioned and discontent with Rhaenyra with only their loyalty to Jace tying them to the Queen’s cause.

Of course eventually Jace dies at the Battle of the Gullet and everything falls apart. Rhaenyra’s response to her heirs death is to hole up in Dragonstone which endears her to no one but least of all to Ulf and Hugh. The two men want blood and they blame the Triarchy and Rhaenyra for Jace’s death. In their minds Rhaenyra should have ordered someone else to go, gone herself, or provided more dragons and ships. It boggles their minds that Jace and Vermax were brought down by a few arrows and so they have constructed a narrative where it is not only the Triarchy’s fault but also Rhaenyra’s and the Blacks.

Some men, like Cregan Stark, still follow Rhaenyra to honor Jace. However Ulf and Hugh resent Rhaenyra and eventually betray the Blacks. In the end they twist everything Jace said and did for them and interpret it as them having just as much right to the throne as Rhaenyra. Jace did say that they were dragon riders of House Targaryen and Jace taught them everything they know about dragons and House Targaryen, surely one of them would be a worthier heir than Rhaenyra or one of the Greens. Inevitably they die.

I don’t really know where I was or am going with this. I just really like the idea of a Jace who comes into his own by teaching and looking after someone else after all his brothers are either dead or sent away. I like the idea of Jace being a good King and leader and that many people followed Rhaenyra because of Jace. That begs the question though of what happens when one of the big reasons people supported you is gone?