#fic recs by kalki

[witheredoffherwitch]

I will probably talk about it again once my ban's lifted, but if someone is craving for a good old Lucemond (Aemond/fem!Lucerys) fic, please check this one out:

Three chapters long and utterly splendid, don't miss out on this gem even for a second! I'm shouting it from the rooftops: highly-recommended!

[witheredoffherwitch]

This has to be one of the most captivating SMUT I've ever read! This was so delectably hot, depraved and all the more delicious to read. Absolutely brilliant! 🤌😘

I was halfway crying, cringing, and downright amused at some of the characters' pathetic showing (Aegon?), yet wildly entertained by it all! This was a wild ride; HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! It goes straight to the top of my list. 🫶

SINFUL REVENGE.

Aemond Targaryen x little sister!Reader/ Aegon II Targaryen x little sister!Reader

After catching Aegon with a servant girl between his legs, you found a way to put him back in his place.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; dub/non-con, p in v, oral (fem receiving), voyeurism, canon typical incest/targcest, humiliating, degrading, cum eating, jealous Aemond Targaryen

WORDS: 1.9 K

It was one of the many evenings where your mother had caught Aegon sitting in your marital chambers with a servant girl between his legs, repeatedly choking her with his cock. And while there was not one fiber of your body that felt something like love for him, your husband, it annoyed you he chose to fuck everything with two legs, except for you - more because it bruised your ego, not because you truly desired him. 

You were the second choice, when it came to marrying Aegon, however, your older sister Helaena was snatched away as the Wolf of the North came to the capital, finding a certain liking in her and taking her to the North with him. 

All your life, you grew up with the knowledge of marrying your older twin brother Aemond, and you and him were not unwilling to play your part in your parents scheming and your House's customs. 

After your wedding to Aegon, however, Aemond and you had taken matters into your own hands. Where Aegon did not touch you after you consummated the marriage, Aemond did - at every chance he got. 

But you couldn't say that your current position was not… exciting you. 

Your head was lying in Aegon’s lap with him being completely naked, while Aemond was pounding into you, practically assaulting your womanhood. 

Once supper had ended, Aemond retrieved back to his chambers with you following shortly after using one of the secret pathways of Maegor’s Holdfast. Aegon, surprisingly, stormed into Aemond’s chambers not long after you two had started undressing each other, and stood in the door more amused than shocked. 

You always were hot-blooded and had quite the sharp tongue, so it was an easy game for you to crush every sense of superiority your husband had felt upon the intrusion - the built up anger and frustration about your failed marriage clearly playing its part in it, too. 

The rapid thrumming of your heart ringing in your ears and the adrenaline that filled your body played a huge role in you not knowing how you got into that position - and you definitely did not know what got into your twin brother to allow it in the first place. 

Aemond was possessive and far from enjoying sharing whatever he had claimed as his, but it probably had something to do with him getting his revenge on his older brother for stealing you from him. A bruised ego and a broken heart definitely did not go well together. 

If it wasn’t for Aegon’s hard cock pressing into the back of your neck, you would’ve thought he was not comfortable with watching Aemond taking you. A slight blush covered his otherwise pale skin, and he never kept his eyes on you both for a longer period - always drifting from where you were connected to other parts of your body, or even the floor. 

He did not know where to look because Aemond made it seem easy as anything as his curved member eased into you, Aegon’s wife, causing you to arch and moan on the settle and against the elder’s body. Wanton noises of pleasure left your lips as your twin brother filled you, all while Aegon had to process that his little brother was very well endowed . 

Much to your husband’s disliking, you had forbidden him to touch himself, because he had not earned that reward - not when he always chose to stick his cock into the cunt of the next best whore and not yours. 

Aemond’s pent up anger was only palpable in the way he forced his cock into your tight core, otherwise he held a surprisingly cute look of intense concentration on his face, obviously wanting to perform well enough to rub your pleasure into your brother’s face. 

As Aegon once again decided to turn his head away from you, you had enough and roughly grabbed his face with one hand, forcing it back into your direction. “Watch, Aegon,” you commanded, your voice tinted with a hint of sharpness that usually only belonged to the baritone voices of either your father or uncle; the tone that made clear it was not a request but a demand. “Watch how good Aemond is making me feel. Watch how he takes what rightfully belongs to you.” The older Targaryen only squirmed in his seat but proceeded to keep his lilac eyes glued to where his brother’s cock repeatedly disappeared into your tight heat. 

“Tis how a man is supposed to take care of his wife,“ Aemond all but spat the words, his jealousy perfectly audible, reaching to clasp his hand around your throat and inevitably pressed your head further into Aegon‘s lap. You moaned in return, and it was difficult not to notice Aegon‘s cock throbbing at the sound. 

Aegon must’ve tried to touch either you or himself, because the tsking of Aemond was loud enough to cause him to flinch. That movement had you chuckling, because you found humor in how different your brother was acting in contrast to his usual, cocky self. Right now, he was nothing more than a pathetic man that was forced to watch his wife being taken by another - and finding his own pleasure in it. 

���Do you see how wet she is for me, brother?” Aemond bragged, pride laced within his voice. “Pray tell, was she just as wet for you during your bedding?”

The moan you released at Aemond’s shameless teasing maybe was a tad exaggerated, however, it was impressing you how well he handled the situation, his current demeanor the complete opposite to how he usually behaved. 

Aemond’s member hit you deep enough to brush the spot inside of you that had your jaw slacken, the familiar knot tightening in your belly and snapping when his fingers began rubbing the sensitive bud at the apex between your legs. 

The way your walls convulsed all over Aemond’s cock, with you releasing the sweetest and most desperate sounds both your brother’s had ever heard, seemed to trigger his own peak, and shortly after, he was spending himself inside of your quivering walls.   

The pleasure was almost too much for you to handle, and you barely registered the quiet whines that left your eldest brother’s lips at the sight - and feeling - of your pleasure rippling through your body. 

You always relished in the feeling of Aemond’s seed filling you up, more so when he continued to fuck you through his peak, the majority of his spent slowly oozing out of your assaulted womanhood and down your arse as he eventually pulled out. 

But then an idea came to your mind. 

As you tipped your head back and batted your eyelashes at the man whose lap your head rested in, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling wickedly up at him. Aegon’s silver curls were disheveled despite not doing much, and the slight pink on his cheeks had deepened to crimson, covering his cheeks and even running down his neck. 

Yet his lilac eyes were dark blown at the same time, fixed with your matching pair. 

“Get over there and clean me up, husband ,“ you spoke the name in a condescending manner, commanding him. “Clean up Aemond‘s seed.“

When Aegon obeyed without objection, gently placing your head in the pillows on the settle and walking around to kneel between your parted legs, you met the wide eye of Aemond, his cocked eyebrow perfectly showing what he was thinking, ‘Are you serious? ‘ 

But instead of taking a cloth to clean himself up, Aemond stopped in his tracks and peaked over his older brother’s shoulders in curiosity as his tongue licked a flat stripe from your entrance to your sensitive bud, the motion causing you to shudder. 

A husky groan caught your attention, and if it wasn't for Aemond’s chest rising with each labored breath he took, you would’ve mistaken the sound to come from Aegon instead, only reassured by the realization that his mouth was occupied with lapping at your mound, and all sounds that threatened to escape his lips were muffled by your warm flesh. 

As your eyes flickered back to Aemond’s to search for his reassurance, you spotted his hand being clasped around his semi erect member, working himself to full hardness at the sight of Aegon’s mouth on your womanhood and how your body keened at the stimulation.

Despite the resentment you felt towards Aegon, you were making the sweetest sounds for both of them - after all your brother had certainly learned how to put his mouth to good use during all the hours he spent in the Street of Silk.

The lewd smacking noises of his tongue plunging in and out of your entrance soon filled the thick silence within your twin‘s chambers, and somehow were enough to spur you on - a sudden surge of boldness running through your veins. 

You buried your hands in the mop of silver-blonde curls, not-so-gently tugging on the soft strands and using them as reins to guide you where you wanted him most. Aegon groaned against your cunt in return, and proceeded to lick you clean with newfound vigor.

“Do you like that, Aegon?“ You moaned over the sound of wet squelching, rutting your hips against his face as his tongue flicked against your pearl. “Do you like lapping up another man‘s seed? To clean your wife’s cunt after another man has peaked inside of her?“

Aegon said nothing, but the desperate whine and growl that rumbled in his chest definitely were enough to confirm your questions. His tongue was dragging over your mound with such a ferocity, you were almost reaching your second peak. Almost . 

That was not the plan, and Aemond seemed to think the same way, because it was him interrupting Aegon, a firm hand placed on his older brother’s shoulder to pull him back. 

“Enough,“ his authoritative tone sent shivers up your spine, the urge to beg him to take you yet again becoming almost irresistible. 

A pout was draped across your features at the loss of contact, followed by a desperate whine. “Quit being a brat, Y/N,” Aemond scolded. “You have had your fair share. Tis enough for now.” Surprisingly, you weren’t the only one pouting, because Aegon seemed to find his pleasure in it all as well, even though he had not touched himself once. 

But you knew better than to protest, and allowed Aegon to get on his feet again. Aemond, on the other hand, had already put his breeches back on, standing in his chambers half-dressed. He handed a stack of clothes back to Aegon, silently dismissing him from his chambers, and when Aegon was dressed, he left as quick as he came. 

You were propped up on your elbows, looking at Aemond with the same expression he had flashed you earlier, ‘ Are you serious? ’ He raised his eyebrow at you, too, and threw your smallclothes and dress into your direction. 

It was safe to say that, once you were attired and back in your marital chambers, the hands of your husband were all over you even before the door shut behind you, claiming what rightfully was his and relieving the desire that threatened to cut the last threads of his restraint. 

The impropriety of your revenge gave you exactly what you had wanted all along. 

[tamblr]

hey! Though I'm a teen and Tamil is my first language I've just begun to read Tamil literature so I'd like if you could recommend me a few Tamil fictional books to get started-any genre is fine but historical fict/non-fic recs would be a bliss and I hope you have a great day ahead xx

I started reading Tamil literature only when the pandemic started so this list is really short. I’ll just list the books that I’ve loved so far, they are all really accessible in terms of literary style. I don’t read a lot of non fiction but here are some of the other books I’ve read.

Short / contemporary books

1. Poonachi by Perumal Murugan - he is a fabulous writer, some of his other books are a bit more heavy topic wise but this one is really good. It follows the life of a black goat and has some poignant social commentary thrown in.

2. Sivamayam - this one is a bit spiritual but it’s a really fun magical realism mystery story. It’s a murder mystery revolving around a mountain where Siddhars reside and supernatural phenomena are said to take place.

3. Chandramohan by Anna - this one follows characters around the freedom struggle movement. It’s more of a theatre play than a novel but it was one of my first books as the conversation style was really easy to get into.

Historical fiction

1. Ponniyin Selvan [incl everything by Kalki] - it took me a year to finish cos it’s a magnum opus but it’s so worth it! It genuinely gave me a hangover and I haven’t found anything else that has come close to this level of storytelling. The language, the characters, the history… everything; but don’t go in with the expectation of trying to finish it, instead enjoy the journey.

2. Rajakesari - it takes place in the Chola kingdom after Raja raja Chola’s ascendency, the first book is a fun mystery following a plot to assassinate the king

3. Kadal Pura - it’s a historical fiction romance and the audiobook is dramatic af. The language is so prose like I sometimes loose track of what is happening so wouldn’t really recommend it to start off with but the main reason for including it in the list are the naval battles!

To anyone else reading this, feel free to throw in recommendations!

[witheredoffherwitch]

kalki!! do you have any alysmond fic recs? i've found myself being drawn to that ship more and more recently (i cant resist a big titty milf witch, im sorry), and i know you fw it 🩷

Hey Bel, sorry for the wait - I've been off the grid studying for my exams. But, I have some recommendations for you! 🥰 🤗

first up, @saintaemond's entire Hotd collection is top-tier material, but my personal fave is tenderly open, revealed, as if cut in two

and then there's @patrocles's amazing work here. My top pick is definitely we, half dust, half deity

then, I highly suggest checking out AliaTurin collection, and my personal favorite is The Witch and The Dragon Prince

I'm no good nor evil. Simply I am. by Daisy_Dawson

burning through the bloodline (born from dark water) by congratsyouvegrownasoul

At Dusk by Adadzio

Strong Dragons by Fever_Dream

Sapphires and Emeralds by theycalled

Now the final one isn’t an Alysmond story but by the author’s own admission, their OC is very Alys-coded - and I agree! Personally, I think it is one of the best Aemond/OC fics out there on ao3:

sins of the son by @winterstellars

That's all 🫶

[witheredoffherwitch]

Ooohh, this was GENIUS! 😍✨

I've had a revelation just now - I don't mind this combo of angst/slow-burn stories if they are done in smart, concise chapters rather than long, meandering ones that read like a 13 year old's diary entry. I LOVE THIS! Maybe my favorite Aemond story that tackles the underlying themes of religious guilt and female sexuality (and believe me, I've read plenty!) And you deserve a WHOPPING applause for crafting an OC who is independent and strong-willed, yet fits perfectly into this world you've created. 💖

I'm surely going to read this all over again and want to give you double kudos for delivering an arc not many predicted! I was expecting a slasher SMUT/ Gore combo from my own limited experience on Tumblr - but what I got was intense, meaningful, and something I'd want to re-read perpetually. ABSOLUTELY LOVED THIS! 🫶

Rev. 22:20 - Chapter Five: Eat You Alive

Warnings: Mentions of death, male masturbation, canon typical violence, smut. Word count: ~3.9k

Summary: Aemond runs away from his problems, only to find they're right where he left them when he returns.

Main series masterlist.

Author's note: I do not have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications to be updated when I post a fic. Community labels are for cops.

Aemond strides through the winding streets of King’s Landing, hood pulled firmly over his head, back towards the Red Keep. Despite the chill that lingers in the night air, his blood runs hotly through his veins, making his skin feel flushed.

He can still feel the press of her lips against his, his skin tingles with the memory of it. He is certain he can see the rumpling of the material of his cloak where she’d clutched desperately at the front of it, but it is likely no more than his imagination, clinging to the feeling in the same way he convinces himself the softness of her face is still beneath his fingers. He rubs his fingertips together, his pulse racing at the fact he’d caressed her jaw with those same digits just moments ago.

Shaking his head in an attempt to erase the thought, he shuts himself in his chambers. It is no use fantasising any more. She is no better than a common harlot, given over to the Faith because she is no longer worth anything to her family. Worse still, she wishes to use her vantage point as Septa of his sister’s children to torment him for his lustful indiscretions.

Silently, he curses his treacherous heart and mind. Despite all of this, he still yearns for her. He has been painfully hard from the moment he saw her undressing for bed. He hopes relieving the tension will bring him peace.

The maidservant he summons to his bedchamber is a slight, pretty little thing. He has made use of her before. She is always discrete, and diligent in ensuring she drinks moon tea afterwards. However, this time as he thrusts inside of her, her tight wetness provides little comfort. Where he seeks the novice’s scent of camphor and cloves, he is met with the faint scent of ash - likely from her having swept his fireplace earlier. Her breathy moans do not match the cadence of the way the novice had sighed softly into his mouth as her tongue had moved against his own.

It’s unsatisfying. Even when he reaches his peak, spilling himself across the maidservant’s thighs, the relief he feels is miniscule, as though he has half heartedly scratched an itch. Nothing will compare now.

He groans in frustration, climbing off of the bed and throwing her dress back towards her.

“Get out,” he hisses, not bothering to turn and look as she hurriedly dresses and rushes from the room.

He ought to have strangled that pretty little novice when he had the chance. Instead, she will reside beneath the same roof as him, making a mockery of him, forcing him to remember the humiliating swiftness with which he had allowed himself to be enamoured by her - to still be enamoured by her.

Aemond cannot bear it. He decides he won’t ask his grandfather for permission to go to Oldtown to be with his younger brother, he will simply tell him. If putting distance between himself and the object of his obsession is what he needs to do in order to snuff out the flames she ignites within him then nothing will stand in his way.

He sends a raven to Daeron, informing him of his imminent arrival, before turning in for the night.

His sleep is restless, plagued by dreams of his lips against hers, but when he pulls away he is greeted by a mirror and it is only himself he sees, the marred flesh of his scarred left eye socket reflected back at him, ruined and empty.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

Awakening early, Aemond dresses swiftly, instructing his chambermaids to pack his belongings and have them sent on to Oldtown. He packs lightly himself for what he will need in the meantime and what he can manage to carry on Vhagar’s back, before donning his riding coat. He has no intention of coming back once he has sought out his grandfather.

Also an early riser, he finds Otto already in his study, quill in hand as he scribbles across a length of parchment.

The older man looks up as Aemond enters, raising his eyebrows slightly in question at his grandson’s appearance.

Before he has a chance to query it, Aemond speaks. “I am going to Oldtown to be with Daeron. I do not know when I will return.”

Otto draws in a breath, placing his quill down upon the parchment before leaning back in his chair. “Do you think that is wise?”

“I am not needed here,” Aemond says cooly. “I wish to see my younger brother.”

“Your father’s health worsens by the day. Your mother needs you.”

Aemond quirks his lips, huffing through his nose. “I am well aware of who you and Mother intend to crown once Viserys is dead,” he snaps, “I do not need to be here for that.”

He notices his grandfather bristle. Without giving him time to say anything further, he walks quickly towards the door, but a sudden pang of guilt squeezes tightly at his heart, causing him to look back once more. “Look after them both, please,” he says softly, referring to Alicent and Helaena.

Otto simply nods, lifting his quill and dipping it into the ink pot, beginning to write again.

On dragonback is the only place where Aemond’s mind ever feels truly clear. It is a full day’s flight on Vhagar from King’s Landing to Oldtown, and the meditative peace is blissful for Aemond, focusing only on the whip of the wind around him, and directing his dragon’s movements with slight tugs of her reins.

It is nightfall by the time Aemond finds somewhere suitable to leave Vhagar and makes his way to where Daeron currently resides.

He receives a warm welcome, despite the short notice of his arrival and the brothers settle down to share roasted venison and fine red wine from Arbor.

The conversation is kept light, the two exchanging pleasantries, as Daeron enquires about the wellbeing of their mother and siblings, and Aemond tells him about how quickly Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are growing up, as well as the rapidity with which their father is deteriorating.

“So, how are your studies going?” Aemond asks, fingers plucking absentmindedly at the stem of his wine goblet.

“I think we have exhausted the farcical pleasantries, brother,” Daeron says with a wry smile, placing his fork upon his plate. “Tell me why you are really here.”

Aemond scoffs derisively. “To see you, of course. Why would I have an ulterior motive?”

“Because you are running away from something,” he replies with a raise of his eyebrow, “tell me I am wrong.”

“I do not run away from anything,” Aemond mutters darkly, his grip tightening around his goblet as he feels himself growing hot with anger. “I claimed the largest dragon in the world when I was a child. I am not a coward.”

“And yet here you are,” Daeron quips with a light shrug.

“You came here to study, did you not?” Aemond asks defensively. “Why can I not do the same? I have exhausted the Red Keep’s library.”

“I could send you books,” his younger brother muses, narrowing his eyes. “You are not here because you have run out of things to read. So tell me. Is it a woman?”

“Stop it,” Aemond glowers.

Daeron simply sits back, sipping his wine, lips turned upwards in a smug smile.

His brother is right and he hates him for it. He is running away from her, but he sees no other option.

They retire for the evening, and Aemond is grateful that Daeron does not pry further into the matter.

Life in Oldtown is peaceful. Daeron makes for a more interesting conversationalist than either Aegon or Helaena, and he feels spoiled for choice with the selection of reading material that the Citadel boasts.

The days he does not spend poring over books and scrolls, he flies on dragonback. The great, elderly bulk of Vhagar moves at a glacial pace through the skies, while Daeron speeds ahead, propelled by the sprightly wings of Tessarion.

It would be idyllic were it not for the fact that he cannot seem to stop thinking of his novice. A month slips by and he can still remember the slope of her delicate neck, the way the sunlight shone upon her hair, the curve of her hips and legs as she’d undressed, how warm her breath had been against his skin, the softness of her lips against his own.

He is frustrated that even hundreds of miles away he cannot seem to escape her. Hard as he resists it, he still finds himself fucking his fist to the thought of her each night, thinking about what could have happened if he had not have fled from her.

Would she moan wantonly as his flesh slaps hotly against hers, or whimper quietly into the crook of his as she tightens around him, his fingertips pressing bruises into the soft flesh of her thighs?

Repeatedly he has to remind himself that she is just toying with him, bored with her own forced servitude she is preying upon his lust for her, using it for her own advantage. To return home would be his ruin. He is certain she must reside within the Keep now, caring for Aegon and Helaena’s twins. If he goes back she will only seek to make his life miserable, and when he eventually crumbles and gives into her, she will humiliate him. He will not allow it.

Each week two ravens arrive, carrying letters for Daeron and Aemond from their mother, sending news of Helaena and the twins, and asking after their own wellbeing. Each week they diligently reply. As much as Aemond loathes to admit it, he misses King’s Landing, he misses his mother and sister. It is a sentiment that is apparently unshared by his younger brother. He is suited to life in Oldtown, he seems settled and happy here, far more relaxed than he ever was in the capital.

It is three days before they are due to receive their weekly letters when a singular raven arrives, carrying a small roll of parchment addressed to Aemond.

He sits at the dining hall table, breaking his fast with Daeron when the maester deposits the message on the table next to him, before bowing his head and taking his leave.

Aemond picks it up and unfurls it between his thumbs, his breath catching in his throat and his eye widening slightly as a cold wave of dread washes over him.

Where his mother’s handwriting is usually careful, neat, precise, it appears rushed, the two words scrawled in a state of anxiety.

Come home.

“What is it?” Daeron asks, pushing his plate away and eyeing Aemond with concern.

“Our father is dead,” Aemond says in a hushed tone, sliding the parchment across the table for his brother to look at it.

Daeron swallows thickly, nodding as he reads the message before hastily screwing it up and hiding it within his sleeve. “You need to leave today.”

“Will you come with me?” Aemond asks, anxiously rubbing his index fingers against his thumbs.

He shakes his head. “It would look too suspicious if I were to disappear suddenly. You know why mother wrote only to you. You know what she means to do.”

“Yes,” Aemond sighs, “and it is not me she means to crown.”

“I know, Aemond,” Daeron says sympathetically, leaning forward across the table. “Believe me, there is no one that understands your frustration better than I. But mother needs you. You know he will not make it easy for her.”

He has the right of it. He always has the right of it. It would anger Aemond if he did not admire Daeron’s wisdom so much.

“Then I suppose this is farewell.”

“Until we meet again, brother.”

It is nightfall when Aemond returns reluctantly to the Red Keep. The entirety of the castle has been locked down, with no one allowed in or out, and the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast are eerily quiet as he passes through them, his boots echoing loudly upon the flagstones with every step.

He can see light shining through the crack in the doors to Helaena’s apartments, and hushed voices inside. He pushes the doors open, met by the sight of Alicent and Helaena sat upon a settee, both of them turn to look at him with wide, grief stricken eyes.

Yet it is not them that hold his attention, it is her.

Every bit as beautiful as he’d remembered, only now she wears the seven colour corded belt around her waist, and a crystal pendant. She has become a septa, no longer his little novice, but still every bit the temptress he’d left behind months ago. Looking at her makes his pulse race. In the rush to get back in the wake of the news of Viserys’ passing, he had quite forgotten she would be here.

She kneels upon the floor, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera sit either side of her, babbling and playing with toys. They had gotten so big; they look like real, tiny, little people now.

His throat runs dry when he sees the familiar look in her eye as she gazes at him, it holds the same heat and intensity he recognises from the night they had kissed. He has to force himself to look away.

He is met by the soft, sad eyes of his mother, surging forward to tenderly cradle his forearms. “I am so glad to see you,” she says gently.

“And I you,” he responds tenderly, eye narrowing affectionately as his own fingers return the gesture, squeezing softly. “But I am tired from the journey, can plans wait until the morning?”

“Of course,” Alicent nods, stepping away. “Rest. We have locked Aegon in his chambers to prevent him from drowning any further in his cups, so there is nothing that can be done until tomorrow.”

Aemond bows his head solemnly in understanding, before backing away. “Goodnight, mother.”

He gives a nod towards Helaena, purposely avoiding looking in the direction of the twins, not wanting to see her, before walking back towards his own quarters.

From the moment he saw her he has been painfully hard, and he loathes himself for it. Tossing and turning in the sheets, he will not allow her the satisfaction of him pleasuring himself to the thought of her. Not that she would know, but he refuses to do it with her beneath the same roof as him.

He wishes he had ignored his mother’s letter and stayed in Oldtown with Daeron. Not only does he have to navigate the coronation of his wastrel of an older brother, he now has to cope with living alongside the septa he has spent the last half a year lusting after.

Realising sleep will not find him, he throws the covers back, getting out of bed and putting his eyepatch, undershirt and trousers back on before leaving his chambers, intending to go to the library. It has always been a source of comfort to him when his mind is troubled.

Immediately he spots her, padding barefoot along the corridor, dressed in only a cotton shift, her hair loose. Even in darkness she takes his breath away and he hesitates a moment, gathering himself, before allowing his anger to guide his actions.

He lurches after her, gripping her arm and pulling her to him. “What are you doing skulking about the Keep at this hour?” He whispers furiously.

She regards him impassively, surprising him when she does not try to wrench free of his grasp. “I was attending to my duties, checking on the children.”

Her voice causes his stones to tighten. It has been so long since he has heard her speak. Aemond releases her, as though her skin has scalded him and turns to walk away. He cannot be this close to her.

“Why do you shun me?” She asks, causing him to pause. “We both have had things taken from us.”

“We share nothing in common,” Aemond says irritably. “I lost my eye because I dared to claim the largest dragon in the world. You lost your freedom because of your own depravity.”

“I dared to pursue what made me happy, just as you did,” she replies defiantly.

“You are a whore,” he spits, rounding on her.

“And you are a craven,” she juts out her chin with a smirk. “Running away because you–”

She gasps, her words cut off, as Aemond lunges towards her, gripping her throat forcefully, using the leverage to back her into his chambers, before kicking the door closed. Fury guides his movements, he wants to hurt her, make her realise she must never disrespect a Targaryen Prince so brazenly.

“How dare you speak to me like that, you insolent little bitch,” he snarls, shaking her slightly, “I have half a mind to strangle the life from you.”

Her gaze is unflinching as she stares up at him, there is no fear in her eyes. He sees desire dancing within their depths.

His eye softens, his grip on her throat loosening as he feels his resolve crumble, and then his mouth is upon hers, lips moving with greedy haste.

He groans appreciatively as he feels her hands tighten on the front of his shirt, much like they had on his cloak all those months ago. The hand not around her neck moves into her hair, gripping it tightly, directing her movements as their tongues writhe together.

Her hair is every bit as soft as he had imagined it would be, though she smells different. Long gone is the scent of the incense burned in the Sept. Now her aroma is laced faintly with lavender oil, though it clings to her flesh in a way that is unmistakably her. Aemond feels as though he is finally slaking his thirst after months without water.

Pushing her backwards, she falls softly onto the mattress, and he climbs over her, caging her in with his body. Her heavy breaths against his neck cause him to shudder, and he wastes no time in pushing her shift above her hips and freeing his cock.

This isn’t how he imagined their first time would be. He wanted to take his time with her, to drink in the sight of her naked flesh, savour each feeling. Yet when he imagined his first time with her, his father was not dead, it was not the eve of his brother’s coronation and he had not just throttled her.

In this moment he is driven purely by animalistic need, and to his delight she does not seem to mind.

Aemond spits into his palm, smearing the moisture through her folds, his cock aching as it twitches when he feels how wet with arousal she already is. He strokes the combined fluids over the length of himself, before driving forwards forcefully into her.

He is met with resistance, and the squeeze of her around him causes him to screw his eye shut, his jaw going slack at the feel of her tight, wet heat. She moans with unrestrained lewdness as he bottoms out inside of her, and he takes a moment to look at her, spread out beneath him, hair in disarray around her head, lips glossy and slightly parted, eyes darkened by lust.

Snarling, losing all semblance of control, he snaps his hips against hers, setting an unforgiving pace.

“Is this what you wanted? Is this what you fucking wanted?” He grits out, one hand grabbing her hip, the other gripping her chin to keep her focus on him. “Answer me!”

“Y-yes!” She cries out, legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him in deeper, making him feel light headed.

In all of his wildest fantasies she has never felt this good. It is not possible to imagine a sensation that is such exquisite torture. He would have willingly crawled back from Oldtown if only to experience this.

His skin is damp with perspiration, his brow furrowed with exertion as the bed creaks with the intensity of his movements. A lick of white hot heat tickles at his lower spine as he feels her hips bucking in time with his, chasing her own pleasure.

“Whore,” he murmurs hatefully, his hand from her chin back to her throat, squeezing the sides.

Her inner walls flutter around him, her moans and whimpers increasing in both pitch and frequency until he feels her tense up suddenly before tightening around him with a cry, her back arching with the force of it.

His own thrusts become sloppy, the ache inside him intensifying until the world goes black and he pushes hard inside of her one final time, spilling himself with a strangled grunt.

Collapsing beside her, he lays there for a moment in silence, the only sounds in the room are their combined heavy breathing.

A heaviness settles in Aemond’s chest, sullen regret weighing upon him. “So, who will you tell about this?”

“What do you mean?” She asks, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him.

“You have had this planned all along, to settle yourself as my sister’s children’s septa and make a mockery of me for your own amusement, and I have given in to you,” he says quietly, fingers rubbing together anxiously.

“Aemond, I did not know I was to be placed here,” she tells him with sincerity.

His expression softens, eye widening slightly as he turns to look at her. “You did not?”

“No. Novices are not told of their placement until their training is finished. It is to prevent us from being distracted away from our studies by thoughts of where we will end up. By the time I found out you had already left King’s Landing.”

Aemond furrows his brow in confusion. “Then why? Why did you do this?”

She huffs a soft laugh. “Because I wanted to. Do you not think it is exciting? Perhaps one day I will be the septa for your own children when you are married for political gain, and you can seek me out away from prying eyes and continue to have your way with me.”

His heart begins to race again, despite the fact it had only just begun to slow from having rutted mercilessly into her. The thought does excite him, depraved as it is. He has spent months lusting after her, to finally be able to have her whenever he wants her is enormously gratifying.

“You will be my ruin,” he says, voice filled with a playful, affectionate warmth.

“And your salvation,” she purrs with a mischievous smile. “I mean it, Aemond, you and I are alike. The only difference is I do not have the opportunity for revenge, but you do.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, rolling to face her.

Her fingers trace lightly over the scar on his left cheek and the leather of his eyepatch. “You are a Targaryen Prince,” she tells him, “you have the means to seek atonement for what you have lost, and I shall ensure that you do.”

It is then that he sees her fully for the first time. A reflection of his own darkest thoughts and desires. It both excites and terrifies him. His salvation and his damnation.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

[witheredoffherwitch]

OMG I am like sooo hyped for what's coming next 😱😂. I seriously hope Viserys is alive for grant him permission 🙏 - or else screw that old geezer and whisk her away to Dragonstone and do it in a pagan style lmao. I am totally strapped in for this ride.. this is too good! Let the drama begin 🍿

Also, I lowkey want them to say 'fuck it' and elope 😂 It'd be hilarious to see these two goody-two-shoes escape and succeed where Daemon and Rhaenyra failed in episode 5! Quite the ironic twist, don't u think?

We gave our time to something undefined

Summary: Aemond receives a late night visitor. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Rhaena Targaryen Word Count: 2.7k+ Warnings: Kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, loss of virginity, and Aemond is still the consent king 👑. Author's Note: This is part 2 of Quietly, it slips through your fingers though I may do a third, as they have me hostage Gif edit by the wonderful @myfandomprompts. A big thank you to my beloved @aemondsbabe for being my beta reader and helping me hone my craft. Also ñuhon is Valyrian for mine, and sȳz riña is good girl, but I trust you all already know that one. 😈

Aemond was poised in front of the fireplace, dressed in cotton sleeping trousers and a tunic that was unbuttoned to his navel; his silver hair was slung over his shoulder in a low braid. A golden hue spilled from the hearth and washed over his practiced stoicism, his one eye trained to the flames that were crackling and curling around the blackened logs.   

His arm was stretched on the rest, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm to battle how his heart was still rattling against his ribs; his other was bent, fingers pressed into his prominent chin. He swore he could still smell the remnants of the heaven he had touched earlier, something that was both sweet and intoxicating, something that now consumed him wholly. 

He thought back to earlier that night, to after he had torn away from the small hall, his heated steps leading him throughout the corridors in a desperate search for an exit that would bring him outside of King’s Landing. He knew that Vhagar would be awaiting him, the she-dragon keenly aware of her rider’s agitation. Aemond longed to climb aback of her, to tear over the night sky, as if his ire could only be sated by dragonback. 

Or so he initially thought. 

He could not say what had stopped him—perhaps the low rumble of his nuncle. It pulled him to watch from the shadows as Daemon and his daughter, Baela, took their turns to growl at one another about the night’s events.

Rhaena was also present, also watching. 

She was a woman now, with the same quiet confidence Aemond recalled as he watched her observe her father and her sister. He noted that she did not meet with their bravado on display, but instead remained watchful; her head tilted slightly with a flicker of amusement across her lovely features. 

It reminded Aemond of Driftmark, all those years ago when everyone gathered to grieve, to pay their respects for Lady Laena. He was only a boy but still aware of the  heavy sadness in her eyes that absorbed everything around her. He recalled when her gaze fell to him, how it rooted him to the stone. Rhaena watched at his failed attempt to try and speak from his heart; she did not scowl, but merely held a clear curiosity for whatever he had to say. 

Instead, his tongue thickened and he  walked away, the grief unsaid. 

How quickly her expression changed later that night, how her lovely eyes burned with betrayal when he sauntered back, covered in ash, dragonless no more—

“—I know Dark Sister sings for blood,” and the taunting words brought Aemond back to see Baela  squaring off towards Daemon. At that same moment, Rhaena noticed him, as if she was drawn to how his blood now burned in his veins. 

Aemond stalked away, quickly and quietly, his ire rekindled. He thought of the patronizing expression that had shown in the lines of Daemon’s face. Arrogance will weigh the dragon down, his sister often sang; Aemond only scoffed at the thought.  

You have lived too long, nuncle.

He heard the footfalls echoing behind, though he did not think they would follow him out to the terrace. Aemond planted his palms to the cool stone of the balustrade, greeted by the sea breeze and the distant rumble of Vhagar. He then felt her presence, that same curiosity from long ago. 

You are lost, princess.

Aemond wished to frighten her, but she did not balk, but remained stance, facing him just as Baela had Daemon. Her gaze was unwavering, analyzing, almost desperate to see what was underneath. His fingers itched to show her, removing the eyepatch but even then she responded in a way that he never thought possible. 

There was no pity to be found, just a genuine remorse that left him shattered—the softness and the warmth of her lips against his marred side, his skin prickling from her touch. 

Back in his room, Aemond could feel the warmth emitting from the embers in front of him, or perhaps it was from the memory of what had followed that kiss, of how she fit against his chest, of how she looked up at him unabashed, unafraid, unwilling to leave him. 

His fingers flexed, balling back into a fist, still feeling the ghost pulse of her erratic heartbeat from the pleasure he had pulled from her… 

His blood simmered, but a soft tap on his door brought his mind back into his room. Aemond moved, a flash of silver to welcome the distraction. When he opened the door, Rhaena slipped in; she was quick to pull it closed behind her, her back pressing against the oak, breathless. 

His every nerve was alight as he drank in the sight of her–her deep breaths, the rise and fall of her chest, her lithe curves pressing the pastel silk of her nightdress and her skin peering through the matching silk robe hastily pulled over. Her silver locs had been knotted back into a long braid, accompanied with a pleasant scent of rose water. 

Her eyes held the same look from earlier, wide and glassy, uncertain but also unwilling to leave. 

Aemond swallowed. 

You came, he wished to say, but his arrogance won his tongue. “So soon, princess?” 

I had to see you, she did not reply, but instead her face shifted into a coy facade. “You told me to come find you if I wished to find satisfaction…” 

Her words ignited something within him and Aemond closed the space between them. His one palm grabbed her hip and the other moved to touch her jaw, gently tilting her head to claim her lips just as he had out on the terrace. Her trepidation from before was gone, now replaced with a warm familiarity as her tongue curled in rhythm with his own. 

Aemond hummed his pleasure and Rhaena pulled him closer until he melded against her, the surge of fire meeting fire with a burning desperation. She gasped softly and he deepened the kiss, drawing the air from her aching lungs. His leg shifted between her thighs with a pressure that made her mewl, softly, sweetly. It trilled the length of his spine, his cock throbbing against the seams of his slacks. 

He pulled back and reached for her hand, her fingers lacing as though they belonged in his grasp. She followed quietly as he pulled her towards the bed, a giggle spilling, gleeful. Then Aemond paused and turned to face her again; his large hands moved to cradle her jaw, holding her gaze, and her skin rippled with gooseflesh from the contrast of his gentle touch and the roughness of his palms. 

“This will only go as far as you wish it too,” his voice was low, his words tinged with a fear that she would simply change her mind and leave. 

But instead hope bloomed with the flutter of her lashes, her lips curling into a smile as she stepped closer to capture his lips. Her hands knotted into the loose fabric of his tunic and she pulled him closer still, smiling. Aemond thrummed from the taste of passion, tilting her head to savor the kiss. 

The silk she had been wearing was now a puddle at her feet, and Aemond discarded his tunic, his hands pausing at the waistband of his pants. He looked at Rhaena, watching her carefully, the black now swallowing the blues and the purples of his one intensive eye, an amber gleam flickering in the sapphire of his other. 

Her smile remained as she took a step back, resting on the edge of the bed. She did not look away from him as his eye trailed over her soft curves, admiring the golden glow of the fire on her brown skin, how it rose with the night air, her nipples pebbling in response. 

Beautiful, he does not say but instead swallowed to wet his throat. “That bastard does not deserve you,” his rasped confession wrenched from his lungs. 

Only then did she look at her hands resting on her plush thighs, and offered a soft hum in return. The boldness that had brought her to his room continued her motion, her hands reaching to grab the waistband of his slacks, her fingers precariously placed above the heady bulge that pressed against the crotch. 

He felt his blood roaring to stain his cheeks as her eyes washed over his bare body, trailing the silver scars now displayed, the lines that cut into his trim waist before she met with his gaze again. Aemond allowed himself a step closer, a heavy sway, moving between her parted thighs until he was close enough for her to softly touch his unmarred side, until he could feel her breathless whisper hot against his skin– 

“Then claim me.”  

And he burned with how each syllable dripped with the honey that spilled from her kiss-swollen lips. “Aōhon ynot sahās,” she said, her eyes locking onto him. 

Make me yours.

His hand covered her own, turning his head until his lips feathered the pulse of her wrist. “Ñuhon,” he growled against her skin, mine, and then he pushed forward until she melted into the mattress, lifting her legs and welcoming him into the cradle of her hips. 

His mouth was hot, ravenous, only allowing her a moment to breathe when he moved his attention to the curve of her jaw and to her neck. His teeth nipped at her skin, leaving dark plumes of color in his wake. 

He could feel her trembling beneath him, her head falling back with a gasp. “Aemond!” 

It was his siren song, those sweet sounds from the terrace. They remained with his steps that brought him back to his room, echoing in his mind until it curdled the marrow of his bones, a dull ache that knotted his lower organs. He wished to draw those same sounds but with his tongue; his hands pressed to open her thighs further, and he sank between them to place an intimate kiss that made her shudder in response. 

She was slick, a taste divine, and his tongue trailed between her folds until he felt her hands knotting in his hair. He feasted between her thighs with a hold that dimpled the softness of her skin, anchoring himself to her core. Aemond pulled her towards a new plateau of pleasure with his mouth, his tongue laving until she tried to writhe away. 

Her back arched with the expanse of her chest begging for air, her hands moving for fistfuls of bed linen to ground herself. Her lips parted with a wordless cry as his dexterous fingers curled within her. “Aemond,” she panted, panicked, but he touched her with familiarity, feeling how her every fiber sang for him: heart thrumming, muscles tensing, desperate for more. 

Aemond hummed against her cunt and the low vibration caused a soft cry, a pulse of her velvet walls around his fingers. “Sȳz riña,” he murmured, adding another finger that met with the tandem of his first. His tongue returned to carve through her sweet lips with an unrelenting pace that pulled her towards her peak. 

It shuddered throughout her, a sob spilling that Aemond moved to muffle with a kiss, his praises soothing against her lips: “Sȳz riña, sȳz riña.” He melted into her warmth, her body pliant and molded against him. His arms caged her to the bed and his cock twitched, the heat from her bare cunt calling and pulling him closer.

Rhaena squirmed beneath him, and he tried to lift his weight but her nails bit into his waist, stopping him. “Aemond,” she was breathless, almost begging. “Please, I–” but she faltered to find her words. He could feel her pulse still fluttering against his chest, and she swallowed thickly. 

“Aōhon ynot sahās,” she repeated, a desperation now touching her tone.

Aemond felt his heart seize in his chest, and he tilted his head for a gentle kiss. “We will begin slowly,” his voice rasped with his reserve, “I promise.” 

She nodded and he was careful to slot his slender hips between her thighs, his swollen cock heavy and pressing against one side. She sighed, and he looked to see her drunken smile splayed on her lips as he nestled against her. His arm weaved between to guide himself, and she tensed from the unfamiliar pressure, his swollen head sliding through her folds and lining with her entrance. 

A muscle ticked in his jaw with his concentration, his slow thrusts sinking into her warmth with a shuddering halt when his hips met with hers. Aemond then stilled, watchful, worried, seeing how her face was clouded. He moved to kiss her, his body shifting against hers, and she let out a small noise that he swallowed. 

“Rhaena…”

Her eyes fixated on him, and he felt the fire in her veins pressing towards the surface. Her head nodded yes, a whispered, “Kostilus,” please, and only then did his hips begin to move. Her tension began to fall away with his slow rut, his rhythm continuing. She mewled softly, canting her hips to meet the snap of his own, sparking something different, something deeper, and he felt her tighten around him.

Aemond hummed, and his pace quickened with the lewd sound of skin-to-skin. The heat curling in his core began to spread under his skin, a bowstring taut to nearly snap at the sound of her breathless cries, the pulsing of her velvet walls that pulled him after. 

He groaned, his hip stuttering, and his brow pressed to her own. He felt her legs wrapping around his waist and  looked at her. Rhaena combed her fingers through the silver hair that spilled from his braid, pulling him close for a kiss. 

“Stay with me,” his voice was low, blooms of red staining his cheeks. “Kostilus,” he added.

Please.

Rhaena kissed him with the promise to stay and only then did he pull away. He pulled on his slacks again, unbuttoned, and moved towards the wash basin to grab a clean cloth. Aemond turned on his heel and saw her, bashfulness now replacing her boldness from before, wrapped in the sheets. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with something he now understood.

Desire, thrumming with the ichor of Old Valyria that ran rampant in their veins. 

He moved towards her and a smile curled on her lips, her eyes falling to the sway of his hips and the silver patch that peered lewdly above the waist of his trousers. His hand reached to pull the sheet away while his other began to carefully wipe away his pearly spend. 

She sighed, different than before, now with contentment and a consideration as her thighs fell open to welcome him again. He burned under her sense of awe as she watched his hands move over her skin; Aemond murmured his questions and she promised she felt fine, catching his wrist and bringing it to meet her lips for a kiss. 

He pulled away a second time–the last time he swore–discarding the soiled cloth and pulling through his drawers to retrieve a silk scarf that had been gifted from across the narrow sea. He watched her hands move to wrap her hair and he shyly offered to knot it at the nape of her neck, pressing a chaste kiss there when he finished. 

With their earlier tension spent and staining the sheets, their exchange was now natural, a tethered bond that seemed to be planted on that fateful night of Driftmark. Aemond climbed beneath the covers and his hands could not leave her, pulling her until her back was flushed to his chest, fitting like a missing piece. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close enough to feel the thrum of his heart. 

Her voice was soft, breaking the quiet that had settled over them. “What will happen now?” 

His hum reverberated through them and he pulled her closer until his lips could touch her shoulder once, twice, following the curve and pressing against the soft spot under her ear, pressing contemplative kisses before he said: “Tomorrow I will petition the king for your hand in marriage.” 

Rhaena shifted in his arms. “What if he says no?” 

He nuzzled into her neck, smiling against her skin. “Vhagar remembers you,” he began, his breath tickling; she bloomed with his words. “If they say no, I will take you to Driftmark and we will have a ceremony anyway, just as our ancestors did.”

“But what–”

“But nothing,” his tone cut through, a gentle resolve, and he pressed another kiss to the nape of her neck. Rhaena relaxed against him. “Iksā ñuhon.”

You are mine.

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[witheredoffherwitch]

Had to highlight this line once again:

There is no greater joy in watching the old crone claim her late husband's chambers where she rode him to death while she lounges on her very own bed waiting to be taken in the arms of pleasure at night.

LMAO 🤣

Darkly, delicately

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Character

Warnings: Minor character death, mentions of period typical crimes and their punishments, prostitution, implied smut.

Word count: 4.7k

Summary: All her life Meynara has struggled to belong. Captured and taken to a land far away she's made her place in the world of Westeros with allies she can count on one hand. With the siege of Duskendale by the army of King Aegon II, she finds herself facing odds that change the course of her life once again, weaving her fate to the tune of the dragon in a dance hidden through time, as the war between the blacks and the greens rages on.

Link to read on ao3: here

She hears the bell ring twice as the castle erupts in chaos. “Noom, Narrah, Nyel” she chants to herself as the third dong reverberates through the wind drowning the screams around her before she's shoved hastily to the safety of the dingy cellars below. The scent of sweat fills her nostrils as she navigates the musty cramped quarters, filled to the brim with anxious ladies clasping their hands in prayer as they kneel together trying to stifle their whimpers. Lady Meredyth wrings her hands nervously as she stares into the distance, somber in demeanor. A moment of recognition seems to pass through her eyes as she spots her near the hastily barred door, before she turns abruptly to question her ladies maids’ who bow their heads in response. She finds her place near one of the walls, turning away from the woman reprimanding those around her to assess the scene in silence. Ever since the war began she knew the siege was inevitable. The family of the dragon had torn themselves in two embroiling most of the realm in their chaos and it was about time they too were hit with the consequences of their support. One of the dragons would soon grace their skies, she only hoped it wasn't their queen. Rumors of the kinslayer had wafted through Duskendale these past few moons. Round the winding harbor and the cobbled streets, onto the market square threatened over a bargain gone wrong, passed around taverns along with a drink in hand all up to the Dun Fort and it's gates in hushed whispers carrying over inwards to the pale walls enclosing winding threads weaved together for their lady, his name had evoked fear, disgust and surprising wonder alike. As the clashes of metal drew nearer to them she wondered how long it would take for him to finally reach his mark.

Seven blows was all it took to bring down the giant gate of the Dun Fort. The irony of the number isn't lost on her as they are rounded up in the central courtyard by noon. Captives surround her in haphazard lines along the posts and below the outer gate manned by armed men in green, their banner of the three headed dragon glinting maliciously in the sun. Some of the women struggle to stifle their sobs as they watch their husbands and sons being rounded up for slaughter before being hushed with a shove and a sharp word. She cranes her neck to see an older man at the head flanked by two heads of silver around a familiar face kneeling in chains.

“People of Duskendale, you face the price of your betrayal! Lord Darklyn has condemned you all but the King is just and merciful. Whoever wishes to make good on their vows again and pledge allegiance to the true heir to the Iron throne need only speak it now and his grace shall consider their folly pardoned” booms the older man, his tanned skin streaked with the blood of the burning ports. She hears a few whispers of indignation and fear before a handful of knights step forward to pledge their allegiance. It is a meager number which she realizes dissatisfies them deeply.

“Very well then” murmurs the King before they hear a shrill roar near the top of the castle. There in all his glory, perched atop the highest parapet, she sees a beast so beautiful, unworthy of the carnage it has wreaked, yet as it growls and makes its way towards them with its scales of shimmering gold she feels the true power that the men before her yielded. More of the folk around her now rush to bend the knee, hastily murmuring their pleas and apologies as the men in green smile haughtily. A lone eye, stern in its gaze, catches her unmoving. She suppresses the shiver that runs through her as she curtsies in response. The urge to live has long outlasted whatever moral code runs through the heart of the realm and it does not fail her today. Somewhere to the side she hears a familiar scoff of distaste. “It won't be my head on a spike when they're done with us” she thinks as she stares at her rival in defiance. Lady Meredyth scorns her in response as she's dragged off to witness the event of the day. Lord Gunthor kneels a few paces before her, locking eyes with their captors before turning to face her with hurt and disdain. She sees him gaze at her for a moment before offering a few words of comfort to his wife along with affirming his allegiance to the Queen with pride. She feels a quiver of fear pass through him, a cry of anguish a few feet away and an unrelenting stare on her as he's beheaded. A hush falls over the courtyard as the deed is done and the guffaws resume their way to the main hall shoving all in their path. Somewhere in the distance her heart leaps, far away across the fishing villages dotting the skyline towards the ruins of Hollard castle near the fork of the Crownlands. Duskendale would face a similar fate tonight.

She wastes no time in making herself scarce. She trains her ear on the whispers clinging to the walls as she makes her way downwards. They have been sacked by a little under three thousand men amassed during their journey through Rosby and Stokeworth that are to stay on till further word from the King. The lower kitchens and the halls are filled to the brim and are easy to blend into as she hurries towards her destination. She finds herself taking the familiar flight of stairs past the makeshift bakery to wind down to a hidden door below. Exactly three knocks later it opens to reveal a harsh face staring right at her.

“You are late”

“Forgive me for trying to stay alive” she huffs in return.

“Did they hear you?”

“Not yet”

“Let us keep it that way then.”

She knows he means to assess the threat before them both before feeding her to it. That is how it has always been, her body for the price of their safety. For all her bravado she hasn't been able to escape the clutches of home and the thread that ties her to it remains the one that cuts her the most.

“I know what I have to do”

“You move on my command Meynara, not before, nor after. We've made a decent life for ourselves here, do not go ruining it now.”

“I suppose the head of the lord staring at us as we walk through the hallways is enough of a hurdle in our path” she retorts shakily.

“As if you were ever fond of him”

“No, perhaps I wasn't. Doesn't mean I wanted him dead either”

“Life and Death are right around your corner”

“Faith shines the ability to prevail in both” she finishes turning away from him. Those were his father's words, ones that he'd told her on the boat to Westeros as they lay together shackled and starved. She remembers his eyes shining with a promise in the dark, willing her to forgo her fear. It seems a lifetime ago yet the man before her stares at her just the same. It is her gaze now which is filled with apprehension rather than the faith she's long left behind and no feelings of ardor can bring back the naive trust she has lost.

There is a feast to be held in honor of the King as Duskendale had yielded with ease, unprepared and caught off guard. Perhaps if Gunthor had insisted on better fortifications and riders rather than her religiously mounting him each night, his head wouldn't be hollow and unattached at the moment. She finds herself slinking into the shadows, with that thought, trying to keep an eye on the party at hand. The ale flows freely in the lower halls with the men getting handsy with the serving girls despite their indignation. Her only option is to reach the upper halls unnoticed hoping the stronger wine would dull them long enough to be done with her faster. She spots him in the distance as she makes her way up. He stands still near a burly man, eyes as empty as the dead hanging outside. A brief flicker of warning passes through to her before he's consumed to his farcity. Faith shall have to suffice for both of them tonight.

The main hall is decorated with banners of gold yet much sparse compared to the mess below. Anyone with a title should occupy the benches ahead of her, some newly appointed lords and generals, who all sit jesting and drinking below the dias as the men of the hour watch on. She watches the King engrossed with the head cook’s daughter fully partaking in the merriment. She sees her blush and smile coquettishly turning a lock of her hair as she entertains him and wonders how much persuasion it took for her to be offered up on a platter. Freshly plucked and naive, innocence was always coveted first at the altar, of worship and sacrifice alike.

Next to him sat two men with equally stern faces. She recognised the first with the booming voice, still in his armor refusing woman and drink alike, surveying the crowd for an imminent threat yet the man flanking the King's left drew her attention the most. To see him in person after their loss at noon made her skin tingle and the rumors had not done him justice. He sat poised, with his hair still braided for battle, eye lazily surveying the crowd like the elder man next to him, sipping from his chalice at ease. His gaze seemed unfocussed, unwilling to seek out anything in particular yet she saw through the haze. A predator responds only when it spots a worthy threat.

“What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone” she hears someone say before being grabbed by pudgy hands. The man near her reeks of nauseating sweetness. Arbor red she discerns as he leers close to her.

“Apologies my lord, I was on my way to serve the King” she lies promptly.

“Perhaps you might serve me first then. His grace would not refuse his loyal subjects tonight” he spoke earning a few jeers.

“Wait” she hears a crisp voice break through the crowd. “That one is mine”

There is no room for argument as she's pulled by two armed knights towards the dias, under the eye of the dragon.

“My my brother, you've caught a pretty one. A shame she's too old to be plucked” smirks the King playfully biting the girl on his lap.

She sees the prince ahead of her regard her with interest before beckoning her forwards with his finger. It isn't long after his appraisal that he takes her by the arm retreating to the sounds of muffled cheers. She feels him make his way around the castle assuredly, neither in haste nor at leisure, before he pulls her into the nearest chambers he can find.

“What can you do for me?” he asks abruptly, leaning against the door as he surveys her again.

“Whatever you desire my prince” she responds, as demurely as she can muster.

“I do not wish for pleasantries”

She balks at his refusal as she stands before him, tilting her head to observe him closely.

“I meant what I said”

“Are you a whore?”

“I am what you want me to be”

“If I wanted a whore I'd find one more willing, you may quit your farce”

“And what if this isn't one” she finds herself saying.

“Then I have wasted my time and I do not wish to be proven wrong”

She stares at him in bewilderment and defiance meeting his gaze as he turns to pour himself another cup of wine.

“I can entertain you to your heart's content”

“I am not a man who revels in the pleasures you seek to offer”

“You are hard to please, as any prince should be, yet I am not one to yield. Allow me to show you instead” she says confidently walking towards him. He looks at her skeptically, before his eye widens slightly upon hearing the clinks that follow her. He lets her lead him to the chaise nearby, raising an eyebrow at the sound that clings to her while she smiles at his astonishment, ready to finally play her part.

She keeps her gaze on him as she begins her routine, serpentine and sinuous, twisting her arms above her head with precision entrenched in her bones. She feels his eye take in her form, the flow of her wrists twisting like waves to the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each turn, moving in tandem with her hips all while the room jingles with the ring of threes; Noom, Narrah, Nyel. He continues his trail along her frame trying to match her pace and she sees him relax through her lids, taking in his enraptured face.

“Is this to your liking, my prince” she smirks as the ringing comes to a halt, the chanting of her soul, awake at the appraisal in his gaze. She finds her answer soon in the nights to come.

“You move to the sound of the gods” he says as they lie together, sweat clinging to them as the wind wafts through the open windows. It is the second night under the new command of Duskendale and all seems to be at rest, lying in wait for the bells to strike.

“Do you believe in them?” she whispers back, turning to regard him with mirth “I thought the Targaryens fashioned themselves as gods”

“The blood of Old Valyria leaves little to imagination.”

“But Valyria is gone and all you have left in this strange land is the power you wield through the skies” she continues stroking his bare arm.

“Which strange land should I thank for gracing me with such beauty tonight” he whispers, turning a lock of her hair between his fingers as he gazes into her eyes.

“Norvos, across the narrow sea”

“Norvos” he repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue regarding her with awe. “Are all Norvoshi so,”

“So?”

“Quiet”

“I thought you found my chatter incessant”

“I never heard you” he stops her, “Not once as you crept around the castle all the way into my bed”

“You wish to know my secret?” she asks him playfully “Perhaps my blood is as special as yours”

He scoffs in turn earning a crease to her eyebrows which does not go unnoticed. “We are not so different, you and I. We both seek to soar far beyond what fate plans for us”

“Your riddles can exhaust a man far more than your movements” he huffs petulantly.

“You are only displeased because you cannot decipher this one” she hums thoughtfully earning her a pinch to her hip which she swats away promptly.

“Careful, I am not fond of that wayword tongue of yours” he warns her with a smirk.

“Why when it has given you such pleasure? What is the use of depriving yourself of such an investment” she finds herself giggling in return to the bashful pout of his lips.

It has been long since she's been so enamored with a man. There have been a few, young and beautiful, not immune to the charm she summons at will but none so rigid yet tender that makes her heart want more.

“Dance for me” she hears him say as he lies back, hair splayed around the pillows like a halo.

“As you wish your grace” she responds devilishly, slinking away from his embrace to twinkle under his eye.

Their nights continue with well practiced rhythm as their days stretch on. She finds herself at the precipice of good fortune, confined mostly to his chambers as his prize, content to stay hidden till she's displayed with pride. The King she learns takes offense to her growing presence in his brother’s life yet is dissuaded to take action by his elder hand, his disapproval making itself known in its own way.

“My lady, the prince is betrothed to Lady Baratheon of Storm's End and is to be married in a few moons”

“With the tide of the war changing ever so often I feel it best to practice restraint Lord Hand. I'm playing my part just as everyone, as a loyal servant to the crown won't you agree?”

“As I am certain you are” he responds with distaste.

“The prince seems quite sated does he not? What then I wonder, merits such growing concern. As long as your plans come to fruition I am sure a woman such as me should hardly pose a worthy obstacle” she bites back eager to send him away from her new chambers. Victory in the face of adversity tastes almost as sweet as the dreaded wine she brings to her lips, sipping at it with mock delight as she watches the commotion enfold out her door. As he walks to give way to someone, she hears a familiar scream of anger grace the threshold. Lady Meredyth barges in, red faced and fuming. She finds her predicament almost hilarious were it not for the state she's in. Dressed in mourning for a neglectful husband who managed to give her a daughter too young to give away for the dwindling power she now tries to hoard, she tries to muster whatever pity she can find for the woman, before she opens her rotten mouth.

“You seem mighty pleased with your situation, finally living up to your true potential as the whore you are”

“Widowhood suits you my lady. The black brings out your eyes” she responds back sarcastically.

She sees her spit at her feet before she's escorted away, spewing curses through the halls. There is no greater joy in watching the old crone claim her late husband's chambers where she rode him to death while she lounges on her very own bed waiting to be taken in the arms of pleasure at night.

“What did I tell you about that tongue of yours” he retorts as he pulls her into an alcove at midday.

“To use it more often” she whispers, running her lips along his jaw. The walk she'd managed to take away from her confines had proved to be a welcome change after that harrowing ordeal in the morn.

“You wanton thing. Do not vex me outside of these walls”

“You have my word” she says flightily resuming her course along his neck.

“And much more” he breathes, palms burning through the blue she's clad in. She finds herself smiling as she pulls him closer, enjoying his proximity during the quiet of the day. Perhaps nights are not the only thing to look forward to anymore.

She feels his presence in the hallways later, long before she turns the corner, trying to rid herself of the evidence of her dalliance.

“You've lost your faith” he remarks somewhere behind her.

“I've simply found it around another corner” she replies, turning to face the judgment in his dark eyes. There are bags underneath them, weary with doubt and the wisdom he seems to wield like a weapon.

“He is a dangerous man to be around. Someone who kills his own is not one to be trifled with”

“And yet we've faced far worse”

“Worse than treason?”

“Tell me you don't mean to support yet another foreign queen”

“You've grown slow” he states glaring at her. She finds herself at a loss of words. Her old self would have caught on to what was spoken almost instantly with an equally sharp retort in tow. Shame creeps up on her at being caught off guard, vulnerable and at his mercy.

“I will not fail you” she says, turning to avoid his eyes, tears glistening amongst her own. “I am only doing what I think best”

“And therein lies the problem”

“Lady Meynara” a voice cuts through the silence suffocating her as she turns to face the source of her shame. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back regarding her companion with distrust only for her to turn around to find him gone.

“Do all of you possess such talents of evasiveness” he questions her as she sighs and makes her way towards him.

“It has served us well”

“On the contrary, it makes you noticeable. The very thing you are ever so keen to avoid”

“I think you happen to have a keener eye than most, my prince. Do not fault the entire realm with the same flaw you possess.”

“I would hardly call it that”

“A flaw?”

“More of skill honed and fortune bestowed” he smirks leaning towards her.

“Something that earned you your birthright” she questions back impudently. “I've heard the rumors”

“I didn't think you'd put much stock in them”

“One tends to learn a lot through tales, true and false alike. Besides aren't rumors as such keeping your plan afoot”

“You know far too much to be jesting as such. Do you not fear for your life?” he asks her, eye glinting in the light.

“You'd have me hanging near the gate by now if I was such a threat”

“By your feet” he replies, watching her face darken. “You needn't worry as long as you serve me.”

“That is a threat my prince, far worse than what I'm accustomed to”

“Good, my intentions must be made clear then.”

“And what exactly might they entail”

“Your faith for a price” he says regarding her in earnest. The promise of more lingers on her lips as he leaves her wondering what it is she plans to do about it all.

“You mean to leave” she asks him on the third night they're together, with the moon at its height bathing them both in its embrace. He's reclined on the bed, one arm resting behind his head as he listens to her, eye closed in sequestered bliss.

“Rumors can only serve their purpose with cause to back them”

“You are to leave at dawn then?”

He hums in response as she fidgets with the sheets around her.

“Do not fret, I shall ensure your safety for your word”

“That is a hefty promise”

“And one I intend to keep”

“You will tire of me soon enough.”

“Perhaps,” he says, opening his eye to look at her. “Yet I'm certain it won't be so soon”

She feels the sheets pool at her feet as she rises to sate him for the night, eyes trained on him as she watches him cock his head in piqued interest. There is an unspoken understanding between them as she glides by the bed, running her fingers over the wood to stand in the center of the room, the light from the candles illuminating everything she wishes for him to see.

“Not tonight” she murmurs, running her hands over her hips.

“You'd deny the man who holds your fortune” he asks incredulously.

“I'd offer him something far sweeter”

“And what is sweeter than your company my lady”

“Joining me in ways a man would take his woman”

She sees the bed dip with his weight as he rises, moving with agility to stand before her. She cranes her neck to see him peer down at her, eyebrow raised at the game she wishes for him to play.

“In Norvos, we move like this to show our feelings. For emotion sometimes is best expressed through something tangible” she says reaching forward to steady his arms.

She feels him follow her movements with ease, twisting and turning with surprising accuracy never letting her out of his sight.

“You are a trained warrior”

“So are you, it seems. This is much like swordsmanship”

“All art is said to be inspired”

“What inspires you tonight little soldier” he rasps as he spins her around, arms enclosing her as she stares ahead. She feels his breath against her neck, her back pressed against the ridges of his body leading her to exhale before she writhes in his embrace.

“I do not wish to be a piece in the war you play at”

“We are all pieces to be moved about, each for a different purpose”

“It seems you've mastered my tongue in these past few days”

“I've only claimed what's mine” he says running his hands along her waist.

“Your plan will only work on trust, something the people here lack in abundance. Faith, which you scorn me for holding on to, is only meaningful if adhered to in earnest”

“I don't begrudge your faith” he whispers, turning her around to face him. “Just who it's tied to”

She finds herself mesmerized by the blue of his eye, so still yet violent, unrelenting yet open to the words that spill from her lips. “He is what connects me to who I am”

“To cherish something so deeply is a suffering in itself that I've come to accept. I think you understand that very well, Aemond.”

She feels him stiffen at the mention of his name, fingers clasping her arms tighter before he turns her around in a pirrouette, bowing before her as he ends their performance.

“Always your way, yes” she responds breathlessly.

“I do not wish to mold you Meynara, only to make you realize how well you belong. I can offer you something far more than the life you wish to subject yourself to”

“Wealth and power?”

“Purpose” he says with finality.

“Then I ask one thing of you. Bare yourself to me, in good faith” she whispers, watching him carefully “and I shall do the same.”

“Haven't I seen all of you?” he questions, removing the barrier across his face.

“Not without adornment” she says, reaching down to remove her restraints. “They are as much a part of me as this is of you” she finishes reaching up to cup his face. The sapphire glistens brilliantly as she stares at the angry scar accompanying it, intensifying his beauty.

“Is this what you've heard of” he remarks, gritting his teeth at her request.

“Indeed” she replies, reaching up to stroke his face. “We wear our shame and pride on our sleeve. It is time to embrace it together for the purpose you so wish to achieve”

“It will require much more than I've since asked from you”

“I think it is time I left the chains that bind me my prince, yours will have to suffice for now”

They wake again at the crack of dawn to the domestic bliss of togetherness. There in his chambers she experiences what it means to be a wife at last. The euphoria of nurture, she'd long dreamed of since she was a girl, envelops her in a sense of longing and nostalgia. As she bathes and readies him for battle, she finds herself gazing at him wistfully.

“I shall return soon”

“I am aware. I did not forgo my bindings for a lie”

“You wished to soar did you not.”

“You know, the Norvoshi do not trust a man without a beard. They say one as such lacks the honor to defend and the foresight to lead” she responds by running his blade across his face as he turns away from her.“You have your own honor though”

“Many would disagree. I am said to be cursed ”

“One man's curse is another's blessing. You shall return a King”

“Because I've given you the freedom you desire?” he jests “Your faith is truly boundless”

“As is your routine. Hold still while I finish or they'll have to wait the whole morn for you to ride out with glory”

It is an hour later after she meticulously braids his hair and secures his armor, over his eye and body that she finds herself truly bogged down with the weight of his departure. He kisses her temple as he leaves, the act too chaste for her to protest before he's gone. As she sits ruminating on her time spent with him, she hears the flap of the great wings of Vhagar, leathery and forceful as she rushes to spot her out of her window. A shadow falls over the Dun fort as she flies past, giving way to three rings of the great bell of Duskendale, thrice for the sound of freedom that soars through her heart.

Taglist: @arcielee @succnfuccubus @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @paprikaquinn @witheredoffherwitch

[witheredoffherwitch]

Ohh this was precious.. I absolutely LOVED it! I must have read it at least twice - and kept it open on my other tab during the flight to reread it again.. It's truly one of the best Green family fics 💖

Also, this story is CRIMINALLY UNDERRATED! I don't know what I loved best... Aemond's little memory of desperately yearning for that paternal love, or Helaena and Aegon's bond that was so strong despite their differences as a married couple or Baby Jaehaera's flight with her uncle where she gradually became more and more infatuated with dragon-riding. I cannot express enough how much I enjoyed this piece; I HIGHLY RECOMMEND it! I look forward to rereading it until I'm tired of it 🥰🫶

A History Not Repeated

[Masterlist]

Request: Could I please request Aegon taking Jaehaerys on his dragon, and Aemond taking Jaehaera, perhaps? Maybe from Aemond’s perspective of being cautiously optimistic that these children will be happier and safer than he was? Fun uncle bonding time with quiet niece perhaps? <;3 @ellrond

Content Tags: Drabble, Fluff, A Teeny Bit of Angst

It was hard not to out-fly the others. Vhagar just did is so effortlessly. Her great bulk overtook everyone when they flew as a clutch. Dreamfyre and Sunfyre became mere specks beside her.

Not today. High above where Aemond flew, Aegon and Sunfyre skirted the clouds. The perfect image of golden glory, they danced amongst the wisping cirrus. Occasionally the elder prince tore sideways, Sunfyre lilting gracefully as his bat-like wings sliced the sky. Aegon’s white hair caught in the early evening light, and so too did his son’s, and Aemond smiled. Loathe as he was to admit it, it made Aegon look handsome, and he knew that he too looked the same. Better, most certainly.

“Ilagon, Sunfyre!” In high spirits, Aegon was almost tolerable. Indeed, it had been his idea for all five of them to ride together. Exhaust the children before sleep, he had said.

“Ilagon, Sunfyre!” The copycat little voice was barely audible over the rush of wind and the beating of Vhagar’s wings.

Sweet Jaehaerys, not long since his fourth nameday, giggled as Sunfyre passed Vhagar on their descent towards Blackwater Bay. Aemond watched as the wee prince held his arms aloft, his father’s wrapped tightly around his waist.

A born dragon rider, that boy. Aemond looked at the blonde bundle in his lap. Wrapped in blankets, little Jaehaerya’s eyes watched wide as Vhagar flew in a straight line. Two fat fingers were coiled around Aemond’s leather gloves, and even through the fabric he felt how tightly his niece clung to him.

As bored as he was, Aemond was mindful to keep a steady course. Every now and again, Vhagar grumbled. She didn’t mind these simple flights. At her age, a gentle trip along the coast was all she needed to stretch her wings, content to spend the rest of the day sleeping. It was the company she loathed. If she could just take Aemond up above the clouds…

She grumbled again and Jaehaera squeaked in terror.

“It’s ok,” Aemond patted Vhagar’s scaled side and brought his hand to brush over his niece’s hair. “I’ve got you, byka mēre.” She whimpered a little and shuffled closer to her uncle. The chuckle that rumbled through Aemond’s chest seemed to soothe her and she tipped her head back to look at him.

A few unshed tears whipped sideways across her cheeks as the wind changed direction. His heart tightened. In that moment, looking up at him, a little frightened, a little excited, a little awed by everything around her, she looked just like her mother.

About half a mile ahead of everyone, Helaena and Dreamfyre were weaving with the wind, drifting dreamily across the sky. Unlike Aegon, Aemond could not see her clearly from here. He didn’t need to. The way Dreamfyre lilted across the horizon told him everything he needed to know. The flight had eased her.

Aegon had been right that a flight would do them all good. It had been a hard day. Especially for Helaena. Their mother had tried too hard. It hurt Aemond to see it. To watch the two women, the two people, he loved most in the world fail to understand each other. Watch Helaena become despondent to the world that their mother and father had constructed for her. Watch his mother struggle in vain to be the parent she never had.

Now, here Helaena was, drifting on the back of Dreamfyre with a lightness that Sunfyre and certainly not Vhagar could ever achieve.

Aemond watched as, below Vhagar, Sunfyre and Aegon made their way towards Helaena and Dreamfyre. Jaehaerya would not even glance, her eyes tightly screwed shut as they were. Aegon kept his distance from his sister-wife. For a while, they flew side by side, one hundred metres or so between them. After a few minutes, Dreamfyre veered gently towards Sunfyre, their snouts bumping together before moving back to their own course.

It struck Aemond then that Aegon may not feel like Helaena’s husband, but he still felt like her brother. How tenderly he was letting her know he was there, he was close, he cared.

It was a miracle, truly, that the three of them were still this close. Of course, he and Aegon had their moments. More than a few. The greys on his mother’s otherwise auburn head were proof of that. But years of infighting, war and familial heartbreak had somehow left the bond the three of them shared intact.

Aemond absentmindedly patted Vhagar’s side, not noticing how Jaehaerya held is harm tighter around her. How had they remained together so entwined? It was a question he had thought on often, and one to which he knew the answer.

All three, outcasts. Four, if he included their mother. Destined for a life of second best. Or third, or fourth. The root cause? Their low-life, festering excuse of a father. A man not fit for kinghood, let alone fatherhood. Thank the Seven he was gone.

Aemond could count on one hand the times his father had been attentive towards him. On one, damned, finger.

“You have the histories I asked for?”

“Yes, father.”

“Well then, bring them here.”

Round that ridiculous model city. He was already rotting by the time Aemond reached ten years old. The smell was disgusting. Spirals of incense smoke swirled and in the dark, his father sat like a gargoyle.

“You know the stories of our ancestors, Aemond?”

“Yes, father.”

“Of Aegon and Visenya?”

“Yes father, mother and Septa Sybyl taught us.”

“Good. Good-” His father held his hand out for the book, eyes still focused on the miniature city.

“Father?” Aemond had been hesitant then. Viserys spent so little time with his children that Aemond still saw him as king first, father second.  

“Yes, Aemond?”

“Which is your favourite? Your favourite story of our ancestors?”

“Well, that would be of Aegon the Conqueror, your brother’s forebear. Come here, my boy.” Viserys had indicated the chair beside him. Aemond almost felt that had he been younger, more whole, Viserys would have invited him to sit on his knee. For an hour or two, they sat together, Viserys telling Aemond enchanting stories of Visenya and Vhagar.

Once. Just once had Aemond felt like his child. His adored son.

“You tell me boy, where did you hear this lie?”

“Uncle?”

“I asked you a question!”

“Uncle?”

“Your King demands an answer!”

“Uncle, please.”

Aemond looked down. Jaehaerya was shaking, eyes clapped on her parents’ distant figures. The wind had picked up and his little niece’s round cheeks were red with cold. Her eyelashes fluttered in the gale and up ahead, the clouds hard darkened from rosiest pink to oppressive purple. Rain.

“Up we go,” Aemond tried to say it as reassuringly as possible, but at the prospect of flying still higher, Jaehaerya wailed.

Up and up they flew, Vhagar’s great body beating in time with her wings as she approached the clouds. The first whisps pf damp air kissed Aemond’s cheeks and he breathed in great lungfuls of cloud. After days in the stuffy halls and chambers of the keep, no fresher air could be found than up hear on the back of Vhagar.

Freely, whole-heartedly and not without pleasant surprise, Aemond laughed. The loud and giddy kind when you hear an unexpected joke, feel pride, catch sight of a lover. Tucked against his chest, gripping tightly onto his arm, Jaehaerya did the same. A nervous, hesitant little tinkle of noise, but a laugh nonetheless.

Aemond looked down. “It’s nice isn’t it? The clouds.”

“Mhmm,” Jaehaerya was blinking rapidly against the damp air, trying desperately to see through the fog.

“Almost there, little one.” And true to his word, as he always was, Aemond, Vhagar and little Jaehaerya broke through the cloud. Jaehaerya gasped.

The air was utterly still, the whistling of the wind gone. Beneath them, the purple clouds glowed garishly as the sun set below. A few bright stars freckled the sky, and Vhagar roared happily. The great noise vibrated through her belly and Jaehaerya laughed. Truly. Aemond did too at the sweet sound. When Jaehaerya tipped her head back again to look at her beloved uncle, he saw her tears were gone. A bright smile spread across her face.

“I like it here,” she said gently.

“Me too,”

With nothing but the quiet hush of air and the drum of Vhagar’s wings to hear, Aemond and Jaehaerya flew. Dreamfyre appeared through the cloud up ahead.

“Mama!” Jaehaerya called across sky, one pudgy hand daring to let go of her uncle and wave. In the distance, her mother waved back and dipped back blow the blanket of white.

Again, Aemond thought of his childhood. Of his parents. He wondered too, had his uncle dared with familial life rather than seeking his own warped glory, would he have taken Aemond flying on Caraxes?  Of course not, he didn’t do it with his own children.

Beside them, Aegon broke through the cloud and glided silently in tandem with his brother. Jaehaerys was sleeping in his arms, a little blond bundle. The brothers glanced at each other, and Aegon smiled awkwardly before turning his head forward. And Aemond, in that moment, with his siblings beside him, thought that these littles ones might just have a better childhood than he. In fact, he knew it. Afterall, Aemond Targaryen was true to his word, as he always was.  

Note: Wasn’t sure what plural noun to give dragons so I settled on “clutch” as it emphasises the familial nature of the three Targaryen siblings in flight.

Writing requests while I have a break from publishing my series.

The usual suspects: @arcielee @targaryenrealnessdarling @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @babyblue711 @myfandomprompts @barbieaemond @cyeco13

[witheredoffherwitch]

I really APPRECIATE the incredible amount of self-awareness that Aegon has here - it's the core tenet of his personality trait. He doesn't think he deserves the title, yet he's compelled to fight for it! His sentiment is best expressed in this line:

"By the Seven, even speaking a part of his future title sounds like a formality he could good and well do without."

I'm quite taken with the emphasis on his relationship with Helaena, for even though he is a father to her children, he's not able to view her as anything more than a sister. Alanna here serves as a release for him - she is a distraction from his titles and responsibilities in life, an outsider who allows him to dream and want. She provides him with something that he desperately craves.

Finally, a huge KUDOS for the brilliant title of this piece: Purchase! It's so fitting. Truly captivating and BRILLIANTLY written! 🫶

I am very blessed to have good friends who'll let me deal with my writer's block by offering me take-it-or-leave-it prompts. 😊 As such, this little fic was born a little while after @mercurygray prompted me "precious treasure - dreams - illusion". (And I have used all three in this one, if you count one of the meanings of my OC's name..)

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen/OFC Rating: Explicit Warnings: sexual content, prostitution, Aegon cheating on Helaena Word count: around 1k

He has left Helaena to her ravings again.

It was the fifth dawn like this in too short a time. Waking and hearing his wife is unwell. Rising to find his children ensconced in his mother’s bedchamber. Walking through the halls of the Keep and feeling the sting of everyone's glances – unwell, they say, or mad perhaps – as if he can help what has been happening to her since they were both children. Seeing his wife in her sitting room, pacing the length of it in that funny way she has where she refuses to step on the cracks between one stone and the next.

Feeling like he’s going to go mad with it, too, except he always listens to his stone-faced mother and his half-dreaming wife until his feelings hardly seem to matter much at all.

There is a craving, Aegon, his wife had said, violet eyes both seeing and not seeing him all at once, one with claws that go shhrrrkk and eyes of amber amber amber there goes the cup again. Her hands had almost clawed at his tunic before he could good and well scramble backward. It sings with many faces and offers many names. Oh yes, oh yes, when the cup spins, you must listen, rim bim bim goes the bell that tolls farewell.

He’s done listening now.

The only cup that spins is the one he is currently holding carelessly in one hand. There’s an amber swirl in the depths of it, if he looks closely enough. Aegon snorts to himself just a little. Tips the remainder of the liquid into his mouth – the sharp sting on his tongue, the burn already washing down his throat, and a warm belly’s worth of lightheadedness – and sets the cup down beside him. Pours himself another amber-filled cup moments after. Raises it in a firm toast before knocking half of it back in one fell swoop.

“A celebration, my Prince?”

Aegon blinks at the question posited by a soft, slightly accented voice. “A toast,” he says, savouring the aftertaste. “To my darling wife”– he is not lying, not truly, because darling is what Aemond still calls their sister whenever she’s raving about her dreams –“and to you, my latest cockwarmer.”

The woman’s mouth curls up almost mirthlessly. “Quite the toast,” she says, brazen as dragonfire, eyes hooded and dark in this candlelight. She’s a new one, or so he has been told. All dark hair and soft curve, skin like molten gold, costing a rather royal sum. Fresh off some boat from, what was it, Qarth? Whatever it is, she’s clearly not new at this altogether if the look in her eyes is anything to go by. “Would my Prince wish me to start as a cockwarmer, or does he have something else in mind?”

“It is Aegon,” he says, beckoning her closer. “Just Aegon. Not Prince, not future King, and least of all the Second of my Name.” By the Seven, even speaking a part of his future title sounds like a formality he could good and well do without. “What do they call you, hm?”

“Alanna,” she says, so smoothly that he almost believes she was born with the name.

“Alanna.” He repeats her name. Savors it on his tongue a moment as his gaze lands on her single exposed breast, which rests heavy and honey-toned against her almost sheer gown. He beckons her closer still, drinking in the clear strain of her still-covered nipple against the fabric, feeling himself go half hard at the sight of a curly patch of hair between her thighs that her gown can’t hide. “Is this the Quartheen fashion, then? Dressing like the whore you are?”

“You like it, do not lie,” she laughs, throaty and warm, not offended in the way the women of court so often are, as she sinks down on the seat beside him. “I see you looking”– and, oh, it is not fair how her fingers pinch at her nipples until he wants to do naught more than take them into his mouth and suckle on them –“and you’re so hungry for my cunt, aren’t you?”

He catches himself nodding along with her words. Catches himself leaning into her touch, warm against his brow, as though he is starved for the heat she radiates. And perhaps he is just that, starved and ravenous, latching on to the soft skin of her neck with his mouth and a hint of teeth, hands squeezing the curve of her hip and exposed breast until he can hear the hitch of her breath against his ear. Mouth journeying down until his teeth close around that already-bared nipple and her hand is loosening his breeches. Tongue lapping at her skin while she spits into her palm and slips a rather practiced fist around his cock that leaves him twitching against her fingers all too soon.

Alanna, Alanna, he offers to the dirtied ceiling that has seen far better days than this one. There are tears in his eyes that he can’t blink away. He spies a flash of dark amber in her eyes when his fingers wander beneath her gown until they go damp with her heat and her breath becomes a keening sound that shoots straight to his cock. He would almost think her a mirage, some illusion from his sister’s visions that left her raving this morning, except that her wet heat clamps down around his fingers when he can’t help but want more of her. Except that she keens his name in his ear in what almost sounds like a plea – and oh, she really is worth every scrap of coin when he slips his fingers from her heat only to have her sink down on his cock instantly.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she sighs against his mouth, his wet cheek, his ear. She doesn’t comment on his tears. Merely lets her cunt clench around his cock, her own fingers guiding his to the little nub between her thighs that makes her drip around him even more, until he is almost shaking beneath her. Her smile could almost be called satisfied. “It’s okay to want, Aegon.”

For a moment, he almost dares believe that maybe this hunger is all he is.

[witheredoffherwitch]

I have to admit - I totally zoned out of this fandom for a hot minute 💀 -but this oneshot was worth the comeback 🥰😇 It totally turned me around on my thoughts about shipping Baela with Jace and Cregan. In fact, I'm planning to read more Cregan fics to ride the hype train before season 2 airs 😂

I loved Cregan’s characterisation in this story. His reserved self contemplating his past relationship with Arra as he notices Jace and Baela’s open intimate exchanges 🥺😭 Forgive me for returning to your Nettles AU - but I'm dying to see if Cregan will ever soften his demeanour. It will be interesting to watch how Nettles can crack his cold exterior, as opposed to Baela who is confident and assertive due to her class and privilege. And Jace is just a classic mediator 😂, especially in this AU where he's secure in his status as heir yet still overshadowed by the ever-serious Cregan and snarky Baela. Absolutely loved it, and I'm eagerly awaiting more Cregan-centric fics 🫶🥰

The Favoured

Pre-Cregan/Baela/Jace

Rating: T

Warning: non-graphic violence

Cregan liked to think he had the measure of the Crown Prince but his betrothed was more of a mystery to him. One he found himself keen to solve now he had her in his sights.

The young heir to the Iron Throne was racing like the wind, following the winding river of the Wendwater through the kingswood. Jacaerys Velaryon reminded Cregan none so much of a dog chasing after a thrown bone. The Lord of Winterfell had been two weeks in King’s Landing thus far, accompanied by sundry lords of the north, all come to swear oaths of fealty to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, this boy’s mother. The Crown Prince had invited Lord Stark to hunt with him and now that was done he bade them accompany him onwards. Onwards to what Cregan knew not for the wind had snatched at his last words. It would not be ambush nor some other trickery for the party was small, Targaryen red and black far overwhelmed by northern colours. He was a dragon on his lonesome. Nor did the prince have a treacherous bone in his body, besides; his face as plain to read as the stars in a night sky. He did seem to be leading them somewhere, or at least had a destination in mind, spurring his horse faster that very moment. It was usual for such zest and focus to be seen in men during the hunt, not just after it. For a moment his brother lived again; Willam used to ride like that and walk like that and live like that — like there was nothing he wanted to miss, nothing he would not know the secret of.

Riding beside him, Osric Cerwyn echoed his thoughts with a laugh. “And there was I thinking the hunt was done. Think you he seeks something? His lost lady love, mayhaps?”

“I had not known she was lost.” Except to the ways of propriety. A harsh thought he knew but a true one nonetheless for the breeches-wearing noblewoman who regularly flouted her duty to take to the streets of Flea Bottom. Arra would have liked her; she was ever one to know the story of another, travellers most of all. And from what he knew of Prince Daemon’s eldest daughter, Lady Baela Targaryen was a perpetual traveller. “I have no home,” she told Cerwyn, who had warmed to her almost at once, he with his own outward looking nature and weakness for a comely face. No home. Not Driftmark, not the Red Keep nor Dragonstone? A year into her reign, would she mount her dragon and ride away to Pentos, the city of her birth where she spent the first ten years of her life? Would the lives of her people ever take root in her heart, or would she flit from pillar to post like her father, beholden to nothing and no one? Cregan had not spent much time in the Prince Consort’s presence either but he had heard tales enough to last him a lifetime.

He saw the man’s daughter now up ahead, lolling in a glade by the river playing a card game with a few men-at-arms dressed in aquamarine blue and silver. Velaryon household knights. She had some loyalty to her mother’s house then. Raised amongst them as ward, how not? She spoke with them easily, as if they were themselves lords. Nay, she spoke with them more merrily than she did with most lords. She and Jacaerys shared an aversion for the southron court and its rigmarole and strictures, its pomp and pageantry. But where the latter came by it through an unpretentious nature ill-suited to the snake’s pit of King’s Landing, was it so with his lady?

She wore a riding tunic and breeches, her silver curls cropped to her chin — scandalously short for a noblewoman but she did so love to ride and fly, he heard. As the three men drew nearer upon their horses, she said something that made the household knights smirk and snicker. Too familiar, he thought. Is it not good for a lord to know his knights so? She is no lord. No ordinary lady either. Daughter of a king who gave up his crown, raised by one who could have been queen, betrothed to one who would be king in time. No, no ordinary lady was this girl. No ordinary family did she hail from. Targaryens took to the skies upon winged beasts of destruction, and in their arrogance some had named them for gods of the land they hailed from — Balerion, Vhagar, Syrax. What was Lady Baela’s called? He couldn’t recall in that instant. Could she be more Alysanne than Visenya? Many were the tales of the Good Queen who had charmed Cregan’s dour grandsire Alaric and sundry other northern lords, held women’s courts for high and lowborn and rode a draconic mount simply named Silverwing. But Daemon was no Aenys.

Baela’s own great uncle Vaemond had spoken treason, accusing the then-crown princess’ eldest sons of being bastards, no true Velaryons, an offence punishable only by taking the speaker’s tongue. Twas all the king demanded of the Velaryon lord but after cutting him down from behind — not even looking him in the eyes, letting him know his death was upon him — the prince they called Lord Fleabottom said, he can keep his tongue. It was said Lady Baela had a similar penchant for such jests; an earthy, almost indecent sense of humour. Was that what she whispered to make them laugh in such ways? Cregan looked to Prince Jacaerys. If any would know, surely it would be he. He was a dutiful young man, unlikely to approve of such things. Cregan was struck by the way he gazed upon her. A gentle happiness, as fragile as if he cupped a newborn bird between his hands.

He knew Lady Baela better than Cregan, better than rumour. Would a girl who had danced upon the tabletops of a brothel possibly make him look so?

“Prince Jacaerys. Lord Stark. Lord Cerwyn. And dinner for the next week. Well met, all of you.”

Gazing upon his fond mirth felt too intimate, like Cregan was intruding upon a private moment. He had been seeking her then. Cerwyn slanted him a look of smug amusement, as if to say: did I not tell you? As they dismounted, Jacaerys said, “You look more happy to see the boar, my lady.”

“Not as happy as Moondancer would be.”

Moondancer, odd name for a god, Cregan thought dryly. The name had nothing reminiscent of Old Valyria at all.

“You should have seen him while he lived.” Jacaerys smiled at Cregan, who nodded back, an echo of a smile on his face in turn. “It was a glorious effort to bring him down but we managed.”

Her gaze dipped down momentarily to her hand. “Yes, I suppose there would be a sort of glory.”

Cregan spoke then, smoothing a hand down his horse’s nose. “You do not sound wholly convinced, Lady Baela.”

She appraised him intently. He had not had occasion to be so close to her before, not in so intimate and casual a setting. He felt a pang within him, like a bell had been rung too close, soundless but reverberating through him all the same. “You have the right of it, I confess — I am not. I hardly credit hunting to be some great pastime.” She spoke easily as if she had not just slighted what was indeed the greatest sport known to man.

“I would have thought otherwise.”

The corner of her mouth tipped up slightly. “From my attire and lack of side-saddle? Appearances deceive, my lord.” She hadn’t yet looked away, neither had he. The strange feeling deepened. Small wonder when he hadn’t had anything to eat over the past three hours save dried strips of beef, two boiled eggs and a handful of berries. “Do try to ride an ordinary saddle in skirts and tell me how you fare. Certes I do not fare well in a hunt; the chase is a thrill, yes, but the interminable wait afore then, less so. Hawking, now, is much more of a delight. Or a tourney.” Jacaerys groaned under his breath drawing her half-smile out into a broader curve as her gaze dipped down again to her cards. Ah, yes, another rumoured transgression: performing in the coronation tourney under the guise of a mystery knight. No rumour by the prince’s reaction. She is not as those who came before her. He liked to think he had the measure of the Crown Prince but his betrothed was more of a mystery to him. One he found himself keen to solve now he had her in his sights. Baela fiddled with the corner of one of her playing cards with a musing frown he was half sure was in jest. Absently, absurdly, he found himself missing her smile.

“Has Princess Rhaenys forgiven you for that yet?” Jacaerys asked.

“I’d say so.” She looked up at the young prince and winked. “She never stays angry with me for long.”

Read more on ao3

[witheredoffherwitch]

As soon as I saw the moodboard, I was HOOKED 😍 This drabble was brilliant and it never occurred to me to compare Rhaenyra with Aphrodite before now – but it makes perfect sense! Both of them are admired for their youth and beauty and yet fail to find any happiness or fulfilment in their marriage or loves lives... and then to be constantly undermined by the same men who should have been protecting them.

GREAT WRITING! Liked the parallel and that mood-board is gorgeous 🫶

Aphrodite

Goddess of love, lust, passion, beauty, pleasure, sexuality 

Love is a confusing phenomenon. It's a thread, a string only achieved through a commoner’s needle. Seemed as though only they were allowed to experience the love she sought. For royalty, it had to be pulled out of the fabrics of duty, pulled and pulled till the thread snaps and the fabric is left in ruins. “Duty is the death of love”

Oh but why? Why must she be subjected to such a fate..such a force..such a burden of the throne of death. 

“It’s greater than our wants and desires.” Her father had said. 

But how does one thrive without desire? How does one thrive without thrill and passion? Isn’t it mere human nature to want, to crave, to love? Yes. Yes it is. Of course it is. In fact it should be. If she were a son. 

Daemon was fun. He was charming, dashing and ..forbidden. Smiles and gifts were exchanged, he took her places where no one would ever imagine the realm’s delight to be. And then he abandoned her. 

Was this love? Or was it just fun? Is love supposed to be fun? Is love supposed to be only fun?

Against her better judgement, her younger self became enamoured with the Rogue Prince. But she was to be married to Laenor and it would not have worked. The thoughts of him went bitter in her head. To want, to crave, to love.

A loveless marriage. Tradition. Bound to each other till death claims them. Bound to the wrong person till death claims her. 

To have children with Laenor would have ripped the fabric into tiny million pieces. She needed someone to revel in her desire with, someone that could reciprocate.

Harwin was sweeter than she expected, kind and..devoted. She probably broke several laws in her house alone by even feeling lust for him, let alone consummating and having children.

“The realm’s delight” to the “whore of dragonstone”.

Laughable. This was the heir to the throne? To say she struggled through the confines of her narrow reputation, was far too simple. All the great rulers before her were fucking whores. But alas, they were men. 

Daemon came back eventually. Far too late. Her hero was here after she was married and had 3 children to and with a different person. 

It was disappointing. Or maybe this is how it's supposed to be. He wouldn’t leave her again, would he? He can’t. 

If love requires desperation then so be it. There isn’t much left to her distinction. 

Ah all is gone to her name but that damned throne. 

There were times where she wanted to run away, never look back and flee Westeros entirely. What had duty ever done but restrict her? What had duty ever done but trap her in its confines, suffocate her with its burden, poison her with its expectations?

But the power it would bring. She could relish in it. Revel in it and no one would be allowed to bat an eye. If her name was in ruin, so be it. If her crown shattered, so be it. Duty brought about power. And isn’t it merely human nature to want power, to crave power, to love power? 

Tolī mirre, issa se ānogar hen zaldrīzes.

After all, she is the blood of the dragon.

[madame-fear]

LMAOOOOO READING THIS RN 😭😭😭 True though, he’s self aware — this is both disturbing and funny at the same time HAJDKDKD Poor all of us thinking it was a cute love song, this now has 100% yandere vibes and I still love it ☠🙏

does anyone have any song that could give dark/obsessed yandere vibes? I listened to the song “i love you hoe” by odetari & 9lives and I really liked it, it motivates me to write for any yan! related topic, so I would like to hear more similar songs

[witheredoffherwitch]

The tables have certainly turned. For once, he was squirming in her presence. I'm still wondering how this story will end within the next chapter. I had expected her to become a caretaker for Helaena's kids, but I hadn't anticipated such a backstory. The title "Eat You Alive" suggests either of two things: cunnilingus or homicide -- and I cannot decide which I am more eager to discover 🙃🤷‍♀️

BTW, you really capture inner conflict well👌 Even though each chapter is just under 4k, they still have a Dostoevsky-ian bite to it. His religious guilt was particularly well-executed in the writing ❤️

Rev. 22:20 - Chapter Four: Saviours and Saints

Warnings: Talk of religion, angst, sexually suggestive language. Word count: ~3.1k

Summary: Aemond deals with the shame of his confession, leading him to get closer to the novice..

Main series masterlist.

Author's note: I do not have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications to be updated when I post a fic. Community labels are for cops.

The moment Aemond spills over his knuckles with a choked grunt, shame weighs heavily upon his chest. Disgusted with himself, he cleans himself off, the very act of wiping away his spend feels as though he is scrubbing away his irrational thoughts, though he cannot evade them for long. 

Of course a novice would not be touching herself to his words, especially not while inside the confessional booth in the Sept. He is a fool to entertain such a notion, has allowed his lust and recklessness to direct his actions; but no more. He will simply stay away from the Sept, until he can keep his thoughts and urges under control, and put this woman out of his mind. Perhaps he ought to apologise to her.

I imagine taking her virtue.

He feels his cheeks blaze at the memory. How could he ever begin to say he is sorry for such crassness? Worse still, it would be a disingenuous apology because, despite their utter depravity, he meant every word. In spite of the risk it poses, he still wants her, is still enamoured by the way her eyes catch the light, the softness of her voice.

I think about how she’d feel writhing beneath me.

His chest tightens, his heart beating rapidly as the thought occurs to him that she may tell someone. What if she was so appalled by what he’d said to her that she had divulged it to one of the septas? What if they tell his mother? He feels bile rise in his throat at the image of her looking at him with the same disappointment that she so often stares at Aegon with. He really is no better than his wastrel of a brother.

Aemond drums his fingers anxiously on the arms of his chair, keeping his gaze fixed upon the flames within the fireplace. His stoic demeanour does nothing to betray the maelstrom that rages inside of his mind, as he sits and waits for the inevitable moment that his mother will fling open the doors to his chambers and scold him, just as she has done to Aegon each time he has forced himself upon one of the maidservants.

He has no idea of how much time has passed, but eventually, the door creaks open - to his surprise, not in an angry burst, but with quiet trepidation. He turns and meets the soft, hopeful gaze of Helaena, a tight smile upon her lips.

“Did you see Dreamfyre?” She asks, keeping her hands clutched in front of her as she moves slowly towards him.

As she draws nearer, he sees a golden beetle brooch clasped within her fingers, her thumbs running over its ridges as she anxiously awaits his reply. Aemond loathes the nervous habits passed down to them all by their mother - where she picks her nail beds bloody, Aegon flexes his fingers against every surface, taps incessantly against his wine goblet. He drums on the arms of his chairs, rubs his forefingers against his thumbs, while Helaena is always clutching something, fiddling with some small trinket to soothe her inner turmoil.

He keeps his eye fixed upon the beetle for a few moments more before looking at his sister.

“Yes,” he replies simply, thinking about the sorry state the she-dragon had been in when he’d seen her earlier that day.

Helaena kneels beside his chair, not a care for how the position rumples her skirts, gazing up at him imploringly. “How is she?”

Aemond is struck at this moment by how childlike his sister appears. Despite her being the elder sibling, he has always felt seniority over her, an intrinsic need to protect her. She is so innocent, so filled with wonder, and his brooding darkness has forever served as the shield that ensures her light is never snuffed out.

He swallows thickly, going against all of his natural protective instincts and his earlier thought to water down the truth and not cause Helaena upset. Right now he needs to look out for himself, to ensure it is his sister that accompanies their mother on her next visit to the Sept instead of him. So he wields the words he knows will hurt her, against his better judgement.

“She…she is in a bad way,” he says quietly, his heart aching at the pain that fills Helaena’s eyes as her brow furrows, her bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly.

He has never hated himself more than in this moment, deliberately tormenting his sister to get his own way.

“I think you should accompany mother on her next visit to the Sept, go and see Dreamfyre, she needs you,” he tells her gently.

The movement of Helaena’s fingers against the brooch becomes more insistent as she blinks slowly, her lashline becoming watery. “But…the children–”

“Will be fine with the nursemaid for a few hours while you tend to your dragon,” Aemond tells her. “She needs you more than they do at the moment.”

Helaena nods slowly and Aemond wants nothing more than for her to just leave. He cannot bear to see her so sad, to know that he is the cause of it.

“I-I suppose you’re right,” she says, uncertainty colouring her tone as she rises to her feet. “Thank you.”

She places a gentle hand upon his forearm, where it rests upon the arm of the chair, and for a brief moment her face becomes vacant of all expression. “Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike,” she says, her voice hollow.

Helaena releases his arm, sniffing quietly before moving quickly from the room.

Aemond huffs a sigh of relief as the door clicks closed behind her. He is used to his sister saying all manner of strange things, however, there is something in her words this time that unsettles him, adding to the swirling dread that plays havoc in the pit of his stomach - another piece of tinder for the burning misery that rages white hot within his heart.

He is irritated over the following week, he had assumed ensuring that Helaena takes his place on Alicent’s next visit to the Sept would give him respite from his constant thoughts of the novice, knowing he wouldn’t have to see her.

Instead she is prominent in his mind as ever, but this time when he pictures the graceful slope of her neck and the silkiness of her hair, it is accompanied by the words he’d disgraced himself with in the confessional booth.

He is driven to distraction by a combination of crushing shame and unbridled lust. Nothing is able to fully occupy his mind, he replays their exchange over and over again, noticing that he has taken in none of the words on the page of the book he is attempting to read. He has gripped the cover with such force that his short nails have left crescent shaped indentations in its leather cover.

As Helaena and Alicent ready themselves to leave the Keep for the Grand Sept, it takes all of his restraint not to rush out to join them. He longs to see her, even speak to her again, and yet he knows he must not.

He is fortunate that it appears she has told no one of his indiscretion the previous week, however, there is nothing to say she won’t tell Alicent if she sees her today. It is a humiliation he cannot face.

It is better that he stays behind and continues in his efforts to simply forget about her, cast her from his mind, and attempt to return to his life as it was before he met her.

He is filled with restless energy and attempts to burn it off in the training yard, physically exhausting himself with the exertion of every slash of his sword and defensive block of his shield. Yet, while his body aches and fatigues, his mind refuses to cease its racing.

By the time Helaena and Alicent return, he is setting down his blade for the day. He rights himself to his full height, anxiously anticipating a withering look of disapproval from his mother as she walks through the yard. Perhaps it is today that she’ll have learned the words he sullied the ears of the young novice with.

Instead, to his relief, she gives him a small nod and smile as she moves past, eager to get back inside. She has never enjoyed watching the sparring sessions that occur in the training yard.

He ponders why the novice has not told anyone of what he said to her, but has little time to indulge his curiosity as Helaena makes her way towards him, looking much happier than when they’d last spoken.

“I saw her,” she tells him brightly, “I saw Dreamfyre. She ate the rest of her goat when she saw me. The keepers said she has been leaving most of it. I am happy to have lifted her spirits. Thank you for telling me.”

Aemond nods. “I am glad to hear it.”

“And perhaps we could fly together soon, like we did as children?” Helaena continues, looking hopefully up at him. “I will have more time to, once we have the new septa.”

Aemond blinks, swallowing thickly, feeling his heart freeze. “The new what?”

“The new septa”, Helaena repeats, oblivious to Aemond’s shock, “she is still a novice at the moment, but once she finishes her training she will be able to care for the children once they’re old enough to no longer need the nurse maid.”

If Helaena says anything else, Aemond does not hear it over the roar of blood in his ears, as silent panic settles over him. He quietly excuses himself and walks back inside, shutting himself away in his chambers.

This will be disastrous for him. If she hasn’t revealed his indiscretions yet, then she certainly will once she resides within the same four walls as him. He cannot allow this, he must ensure he silences her once and for all. The risk is simply too great to leave to chance.

Aemond bathes, changing into plain looking attire and dons a hooded cloak, ensuring his dagger is securely fastened to his belt, before leaving the Keep via the passages he has seen Aegon use to sneak away hundreds of times before.

His steps are sure and quick, keeping his gaze fixed ahead as he strides through the streets of King’s Landing towards the Grand Sept. It occurs to him as he draws closer that he hasn’t fully considered what he intends to do. He has been so tightly wound over the last week, that he has sprung forth at the first opportunity for release, and now stands at the doors to the Sept, unsure of his next move.

Slipping through the slightly open door, his fingers flex around the pommel of his dagger. Has he come here to slash the novice’s throat? Spill her blood upon the chancel, for all of King’s Landing to see? 

Foolish. 

He should not have come.

But then he sees her. 

The sun is beginning to set, and if she’d looked beautiful the first time he’d seen her with the mid morning rays shining upon her face, she looks positively ethereal now, bathed in a warm orange glow.

He watches her, entranced, feeling as though he has forgotten how to breathe. His grip loosens upon his dagger, but he does not lower his hood, choosing instead to stay back in the shadows and watch her from afar.

Uncertainty regarding what he ought to do clouds his thoughts, but he is sure of one thing; he cannot turn back now he has seen her.

It is nightfall by the time she completes her duties, and Aemond is swift to follow her as she leaves the Sept, keeping back a few paces so he does not arouse her suspicion.

The walk through the narrow street seems incredibly dangerous to him, and it occurs to him that anything could happen to her as she makes her way back to her lodgings each day. He could do literally anything he wanted to her at this moment, and she’d be powerless to stop him. He draws in an unsteady breath, attempting to ground himself and clear the idea from his mind as he feels himself stir in his breeches.

He has never given much thought as to where it is that septas might go when they retire for the evening, but he is surprised at how humble the building she unwittingly leads him to is.

Waiting in the darkness, he watches her go inside, the door closing behind her.

He steps forward, trying the handle, expecting to find it locked, but is surprised when it opens with ease. She has forgotten to lock it. 

Stupid girl.

Every part of Aemond demands that he cease what he’s doing and return to the Red Keep, yet he is powerless to stop the force that propels him silently forward, carefully following the lingering herbaceous scent of camphor - it is burned regularly within the Sept, and he is certain it must cling to her hair and clothing - up the stairway and down a narrow corridor.

It feels more like a place where one might be held prisoner than find a comfortable night’s rest, a joyless existence in service of others, which each day ending in a room that may as well be a cell.

He pauses when he catches a glimmer of a candle light coming from one of the narrow doorways, illuminating a familiar head of soft hair.

Pressing back against the wall, he watches her, knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to help himself. His single eyed gaze is captivated as she removes her robes. She faces away from him, yet he is enraptured by the curve of her back, the swell of her backside and her shapely legs - legs that would look so good wrapped around his—

Screwing his eye shut, he swallows thickly, and when he opens his eye again she is wearing a nightgown. He exhales shakily, his hood slipping back from his head, watching as she slips into bed. Seeing she is about to snuff out the candle, he moves closer, telling himself he will allow himself one final look before he leaves. 

He will ask that his grandsire send him to Oldtown to be with Daeron before she is ever stationed at the Keep, and put an end to this once and for all.

Her quiet voice causes him to freeze in place, heart lurching.

“I knew you’d come.”

His fingers flex uselessly around the pommel of his dagger once more as she climbs out of bed and walks slowly towards him. He is rooted in place, eager to run from her but unable to.

She stops in front of him, impossibly close, the heady scent of camphor mixed with cloves fills his nostrils as they stare at each other in silence.

“I waited for you all day”, she finally says, “I knew I’d see you eventually. It’s why I didn’t lock the door when I returned.”

“That is dangerous”, he replies in a strained whisper.

“As are you, I am sure,” she says, cocking her head slightly.

He blinks, pursing his lips, his curiosity making it feel as though his skin sizzles with expectancy. “Why haven’t you told anyone…about what I said?”

She smirks, her eyes sparkle in the dim glow of the candlelight. “You and I are not so different.”

Aemond scoffs. “I hardly think so.”

“It is true,” she insists, “we are both angry over what we have lost.”

He narrows his eye at her. “And what is it you have lost?”

She giggles softly, though there is no real humour to it. “You assume me pure and virtuous, but it is not my faith in the Seven that has led me along this life path.”

Pausing, she pokes the inside of her cheek with her tongue, choosing her words carefully, before she continues. “Before I was forced to give up my life to the Seven, I came from a noble family. I fell in love with the son of a blacksmith. My father caught us…together, and the blacksmith’s son was sent to The Wall for sullying my virtue. No rich lord wants to marry a woman who is no longer a maiden, so my family handed me over to the faith to be trained as a septa.”

Aemond feels his pulse race as he listens to her confession, certain that this is how she must have felt when he’d revealed his darkest desires to her just a week prior. He opens his mouth, closing it again when he realises he is unsure of what to say.

She takes another step towards him, her nose almost brushing his as she looks up at him. “Do you still desire me? Does the fact that I am defiled turn your stomach, or does it make you want me more to know that I am all too willing to writhe beneath you as you rut into me, as you so eloquently put it?”

His mouth runs dry. Her words are crass, sinful, and yet his gaze drops to the fullness of her lips all the same.

It happens too quickly for him to know which of them moves first, but the kiss is hungry, possessive, his hands cup her jaw as she clutches the front of his cloak eagerly. 

Aemond has not kissed many women before - the servants he allows into his bed he does not permit such affection. Their purpose is for his pleasure only, he does not desire their lips upon his. Yet he moves his mouth against hers as though he means to suck the very air from her lungs, a groan of appreciation rumbling in his chest as he feels the wetness of her tongue caress his.

When they eventually break apart, both breathing heavily, the reality of what he has done settles over him like a viscous cloud. She is to be the septa for his niece and nephew, she is nothing like what he expected her to be. There is a familiarity to her that sets him on edge, and he is overwhelmed by the urge to get away. She is too much, too dangerous, he cannot get close to her.

Wordlessly he turns and walks quickly away, out into the night, back towards the keep, knowing in his heart he has done nothing to quell the deep seated ache of longing he feels for her; on the contrary, he has worsened it.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

[witheredoffherwitch]

The good old faithful SMUT from the missing interlude in the main narrative.🤤 Marvelously written! So sweet, so tender and so domestic - my utmost favorite trifecta ❤️

ABSOLUTELY ADORED THIS STORY.. once again, highly recommend! 👍

There's not one thing that I would change.

Summary:Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader Word Count: 1109 Warnings: First POV, AFAB, lost of virginity, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v. Author’s Note: This is what was implied, the smutty interlude that granddam could not read out loud to Lyanna. Part of the story Ours never knew peace. but technically could be read as a stand alone if you are wanting smut without the angst. The title for this comes from Hozier's song Francesca. This was not beta read, please feel free to DM me my mistakes 💜 MDNI banner by @cafekitsune

My nerves were frayed already from the expected duty of a wife and I was grateful when Aemond flatly refused the bedding ceremony. But behind our closed doors, despite how I craved his touch, trepidation replaced the blood in my veins and I felt almost shy under his steady gaze, how the black swallowed the color of his eye. 

His hand reached for me, and I allowed him to pull me into his warm embrace. His kiss was gentle and his hands moved to cup my jaw, his mouth trailing my features softly; I could feel his lips press against the soft divot beneath my ear and the warmth of his low voice, “I do not wish to hurt you,” his solemn vow.

It was something I learned of and heard of, about the discomfort maidens could feel on their wedding night, but his words removed my hesitation with the ripple of gooseflesh on my skin as he swore, “I promise to be careful with you.” 

And I looked up at him for a moment; my heart swelled with the love felt, spilling as I pulled him close, my mouth desperate to taste him, to touch him again. My hands still trembled, moving to touch the hardness of his chest beneath his doublet while his roamed my curves, his hands steady still with the intricate lacings of my gown; each layer was peeled away with care until we were both bare.  

Only then did he break away, a pause to allow his eye to look from my face, to my toes, and meet with my gaze again. “Gevie,” he breathed.

Beautiful.

Aemond took me to the bed and I laid back against the fresh linen; his flurry of kisses trailed my skin now shown, the touch of his lips leaving plumes of red in its wake, with a spark that thrummed beneath and began to coil in my core. He moved lower, pressing an intimate kiss between my thighs, and I almost swallowed my tongue in response. 

I could feel his grin against my cunt. “Trust me,” he murmured with his velvet tone, his breath warm against the wetness that now pooled between, “I promised you I would be careful, I must do this to prepare you… just let me know…” 

As his mouth laved against the bundle of nerves above, the euphoria reminiscent of flying on dragonback returned, the same feeling that I was truly alive and vibrating with the building pressure that was flushing my skin. 

“Let go for me,” he breathed, coaxing against my folds.

And I shattered into a thousand pieces that spilled across and came together again, rebuilding the woman I now became with this intimate act, but without the bones of my frame. My mouth was dry, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes, and there was another jolt of electricity with another soft, intimate kiss from him. 

“Good girl,” he praised. “Now again, but I will add my fingers…”  

I felt stretched, but it was not uncomfortable. “Another one, sweet wife,” and Aemond continued while I mewled pitifully to his touch, to the tandem set as his digits curled within, its lewd noises sparking something anew. He pulled the pleasure from me with an intensity that rippled over, touching to the ends of my very being and fluttering towards the center once again. 

I was breathless, my heart bruising against my ribs, and I reached for Aemond, bringing him to the cradle of my hips; I felt the warmth of his skin against my own and his length was heavy, heady against the inside of my thigh. I kissed to taste myself, seeing how it glistened so enticingly on his lips and chin, and he responded with a rhythm, his mouth against my own, his length careful to press and rub against my silken folds, the slow rut of his hips to press against my swollen bundle of nerves. 

“Please, Aemond,” I panted against his mouth. “I am ready, I must have you.” 

And his demeanor changed, a dark lust that swallowed him whole though his actions were intentional, still heedful as he lined himself with my entrance; his thrusts were gentle to fill me, aware of my every reaction and sigh. 

It was a stretch beyond his digits, but not at all uncomfortable, just unfamiliar; it was a fullness as he sheathed entirely that had me moaning in response. Aemond paused for a moment so that I may adjust to his length and his girth; I felt him trembling and I reached to pull him until he was resting on his elbows, caging me to the bed with a silver curtain of his silk hair as his head dipped to capture my mouth for another sweet kiss.

I gasped against his lips from the slow rolls of his hips against my own, my legs lifting to knot around his slender waist and pull him closer; his head moved to the curve of my neck, his lips pressed to muffle his moan, kisses and teeth  with his each thrust. I could feel my muscles tightening in response from this different kind of pleasure, something deeper that pulled at me, beckoning towards an edge… 

Another low groan from Aemond reverberated throughout and my body responded, the flutter of my walls around his member; stars danced before my eyes, my nails bit into his ivory skin, with bold crescent moons left behind. 

“Once more for me, sweet wife,” he panted against my skin, shifting his weight to reach between us, his touch now familiar, and I fell apart beneath him while his cock pulsated within. 

It was the intimate tangle of bare limbs, our breaths an exchange before Aemond moved and took his warmth with him. It was a soft whine at the emptiness and he leaned back, a quick kiss to my hairline. “Allow me,” and he was quick to grab a clean cloth from the basin, his touch gentle to wipe away the pearly spend between my thighs. 

I hummed in response, the blood rushing to where his hand was touching. 

“Are you all right?”

He asked with such genuineness that I could have laughed, but instead, I pushed myself to my elbows to kiss him again. “I am more than all right,” I promised, “I am only insatiable for my husband.” 

Aemond was beautiful, a silver dream embodied, but I saw how he darkened with my words, with his own insatiable lust returned. He moved between my thighs once again, a low hum, “my beautiful wife,” and I knew that I would never grow tired of his devotion to me.

Ours never knew peace.

[witheredoffherwitch]

Brilliant, once again 💚💚💚

Dude, I would love to read your take on their relationship solely from Vhagar's POV once! It would be fascinating to contrast the bond they built with that of her previous riders. I only trust your writing to do justice to their bond 😭😭

Sōvēs

A/N: Canon divergence. I've tried to combine events from book and show Aemond's pov with a twist of my own. Set a few years after Driftmark.

Word count : 713

He hears her long before he sees her. It has always been that way. He can sense her and she, him. 

It is a short trek to reach where she nests as of late, guarding her newest clutch of eggs. He's here this time for his nephew, Maelor. Helaena wishes for him to bring one of Vhagar's clutches, for the new babe to choose. 

She stirs as he approaches her, blowing out a puff of smoke through her nostrils irritated at being disturbed, yet greeting him nevertheless with a low growl. He touches her scales in acknowledgement, an unknowing smile making its way onto his face. 

She's laid a single egg this time. Solitary. Rare. It shines an iridescent green amidst the muck, with a golden hue underneath. Green and gold. His sister would be pleased. He holds the egg in his hands, weighing it slightly, before pocketing it in the satchel he's brought. He's cruelly reminded of the countless eggs he'd seen over the years. His own, or rather the multitude that had been bestowed upon him, never hatched, each a vibrant color accentuated by a fresh wave of pity.

"This is the perfect one for the young prince, your grace. It has brilliant scales and is still warm to touch, brought all the way from the dragonmount. A fearsome hatchling is sure to come from it." 

The head keeper's assurances proved as hollow as the eggs he brought. Each egg shared the same fate, with neither a crack, nor a fissure gracing its surface. Their warmth and gradually his hope, fading away with each moon's turn, to stone. 

Vhagar growls again, as he looks back at her. She can sense his discomfort. Her eyes shine with an expression akin to mirth as she gazes at him meaningfully. This one he knows, is bound to hatch.

He sees the sun rise in the distance when a flock of cawing gulls, fly very close to his mount, who snaps at them in annoyance.

"Rȳbās Vhagar", he huffs as he climbs up her back. (Listen Vhagar)

"Dokimarvose. Iksi jāre naejot sōvegon sir."

(Focus. We are going to fly now.)

She grunts in approval as she shakes off her hide and stands, waiting to be up in the skies. 

The thrill of lifting off the ground, the lurching of his gut, his hands tightening slightly on her reigns as he commands her, feels almost intimate as they break through the clouds. He feels sacred as they soar through the morning sky, its colors akin to all the glittering eggs he'd been thinking about. A certain contentment washes over him as they make their way over the Bay. 

There is a certain pride they carry in their blood, being bonded to their dragons. 

Only a Targaryen can truly understand what that means. The power that comes with being on top, as he looks down at the realm stretching infinitely below, feels unreal.

Here, up in the skies, alone with her, is where he belongs.  He's more than a prince, more than a son and a brother, more than the duty that runs through his blood. He's bound by no rules, no tradition that constrains him other than the one he's always wished to live up to. 

It is they who preside over the heavens here, where none of the Seven can reach them. His mother's gods are a mere speck in their abode below. Though, as he bares himself to the wind, whipping through his hair, his scar tinges in remembrance. He remembers her roar of agony that night in Driftmark. His pride tinged with her own, as they flew above the tide together, reveling in their new bond, tainted again that very night, by his loss. She felt him then, accepted him again as he climbed up her back, wounded and bleeding, refusing to let go. 

Only a dragon can truly understand a Targaryen. 

She'd bent for him, flown low near their ship as they made their way home, roaring every now and then as he winced and held on. 

He tugs at her reins again to steer her forwards. The memories burn, as does his socket. A dragon for an eye is not a fair exchange but a worthy price for feeling whole.

Taglist: @witheredoffherwitch @arcielee

[witheredoffherwitch]

As always, your writing is excellent! 💚💚

I once again urge you to go further in-depth with this because I think many misunderstand Aemond's character -- and yours is the closest interpretation of what was shown in the show.

Gaomilaksir

(Duty)

A/N: A small drabble set before episode 10. Show!Aemond's pov.

The fire in the hearth crackled as he stared ahead, the reds and oranges of the flames glittering in his good eye.

“Let me go brother and I will find a ship and set sail never to be seen again.”

Let me go.

It was easy enough for him to utter those words, forever shirking his responsibilities, running away from everything bestowed upon him. He was to be King of the seven kingdoms at dawn, written down in history as Aegon the second, forever immortalizing his name, yet the wastrel was ever ungrateful. He thought back to the moment Cole ushered them both away with a firm hand. It would have been easy to let him slip away then. Their mother would mourn him, perhaps, her firstborn son. Helaena too would be inconvenienced but there was no denying he'd be better. He was the better choice. The better brother in every duty that Aegon had failed to live upto, cursed to live in the shadow of his incompetence. 

"Aegon must be found and brought to me. The very fate of the seven kingdoms depends upon it."

Duty was a flicker as he trawled the streets of the city to drag him back. Duty was an ember as he nodded his head begrudgingly, watching as the crown of their ancestors was placed upon his brother's head. Duty was a flame surging through him as he faced the roars of the Red Queen, shielding his sister. 

Duty was the mantle he wore with pride, Vhagar its very embodiment. Duty was the inheritance to his name, his legacy to leave behind.

Duty was his burden as well as his salvation and he would not fail.

Taglist: @witheredoffherwitch