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perfinn · 1 month ago

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the heat that drives the light

aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc - part vi

wc: 4.4k

summary: aemond begins to scratch the surface of understanding his wife's family, and takes her to meet vhagar

cw: NSFW, semi-public sex, oral (f!receiving), sex in front of a dragon (she's sleeping)

masterlist, read on ao3, divider by saradika

Aemond can scarcely believe now that he spent so long agonising over whether he should lay with Cecily. There is little better, to him, than enjoying his wife every night and most mornings. He has found, though, there is but one detriment to sharing a bed with Cecily. A small thing, really, for most every other aspect of it is utter delight. That detriment comes in the irritating, furry form of Bud. Though he spends the night obediently in his own bed, the little creature is fond of joining his mistress in her bed in the mornings and licking incessantly at her face before curling up by her pillow.

It is the predicament he finds himself in now. The useless little beast having shoved himself between them in the early hours of morning, demanding Cecily’s attention when Aemond is the one that wants it. It's childish, he recognises, but he’s jealous of the thing that Cecily coos at.

“You should not let him do this,” Aemond mumbles as Cecily rubs at his furry belly.

Cecily lifts her head, pouting ever so slightly. Her hair, tousled from sleep, falls in dark cascades around her face and Aemond finds himself wishing she would wear it this way more often. “It does no harm,” she says. “It is twenty minutes of the day that he gets to misbehave.”

Aemond grumbles a wordless dissent, reaching out to let Bud lick at his fingers. Perhaps she’s right. But he could be spending those twenty minutes between her thighs. “You are more generous than I.”

Cecily smiles, laying back against the soft pillows. “I’m certain that if Vhagar fit in the bed, you’d let her in too.”

He scoffs. “That’s preposterous. She’s a dragon, not a hound.” She may not be wrong, though. As a child, he had always kept the dragon eggs he was given on the pillow beside him with the hope he might wake up to a dragon hatchling in his chambers. “Vhagar is no more a pet than Bud is a dragon.”

Aemond watches as Cecily listens to him, a contented smile on her face. “Aegon thinks Bud and Sunfyre are similar in temperament.”

He stiffens, searching her face for any sort of discomfort at recalling the memory. If Aegon has been at all improper with her, he’ll… Gods, he can hardly begin to think. “When did he say this?”

“Last week,” she says, giggling when Bud places a demanding paw on her hand, dragging it toward his belly. “He came by whilst I was with Helaena and the children. Bud was playing with them.”

Aemond feels the tension release from between his shoulders, but only a modicum. Love his brother as he might, he is not the most delicate of men. Cecily is delicate. A lady, one of virtue and fair of heart. He wants not for her to be corrupted by Aegon. But idle conversation in front of the children… he supposes he ought not worry for that. “We should rise,” he murmurs after a moment. “Lest we become lazy like your dog.”

Cecily laughs, reaching out to gently poke his shirtless chest. “He is a very fit and active boy,” she says, sitting up and gently clicking her tongue. Obediently, Bud scrambles onto his front and stands up, jumping down from the bed as Aemond grabs Cecily’s robe for her, quietly warning her before slipping it onto her shoulders.

“Would you like to join me for prayer this morning?” Cecily asks softly. Aemond has yet to say yes to that question– but she asks each morning nonetheless. Aemond supposes it's sweet that she wants to share in faith with him, but he still desires his solitude with the Gods.

“Not today,” he murmurs, and she nods her head, accepting his answer with grace as she always does. Aemond takes her hand, lifting her knuckles to his lips. “I will meet you when we both have dressed for the day. There’s somewhere I wish to take you.”

Cecily smiles, nodding again. “Okay,” she whispers. “Until then.”

He presses another gentle kiss to her knuckles before he releases her hand, stepping away from her and leaving her chambers. They switch each night between one another’s chambers, though Aemond wonders if it might be worth it to move her into his entirely. It would save them both the trouble, and it would help Cecily to not have to remember two different layouts.

Later, Aemond emerges from his own chambers to meet Cecily. She walks with Ser Rickard, holding onto his elbow as he guides her with gentle footsteps. She wears today a gown of sapphire blue silk, with long flowing sleeves that brush close to the stone floor. Aemond’s heart thumps in his chest at the sight, reminded of something she’d asked him last night whilst he was buried inside her.

“The gemstone,” she had murmured between sweet moans.

“What?” asked Aemond, pulling his lips away from her neck to look at her. “What gemstone?”

“In your eye,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his cheek as her face contorted in pleasure. “What is it?”

Aemond, never slowing in his languid thrusts, searched her gaze. “A sapphire.”

A sapphire gown. A colour she can hardly even see, for a silent show of unity with her husband. Aemond wishes he might take her right here against the wall. Instead he manages to contain himself to the smallest of smiles and holds out his own arm for Cecily to hold.

“I can guide her,” Aemond says to Ser Rickard. She finds him with ease, looping her arm into his far more intimately than she had with the knight. “You look beautiful.”

Cecily smiles up at him. “I asked Janna to find a gown of mine in this colour,” she says, gently lifting it and setting it down again as they walk. “I only have one. But I will have more made, give a few of my older ones to her.”

Aemond smiles, looking forward. “You are frugal for a Tyrell,” he says, earning himself a gentle elbow in the ribs.

“And you for a Targaryen,” she counters. “Where are you taking me today?”

“Corner,” he warns her gently as they turn, allowing her to acquiesce to the change in direction. “I’m taking you to meet Vhagar.”

Cecily is quiet for a moment, lips pursed in that way they always get when she’s considering her words. “To ride her?”

He opens his mouth to answer her question, but as they leave Maegor’s Holdfast and step out into the courtyard he’s stopped by the sight on the other side of the yard, knowing it will slow them on their progress.

“Aemond?” Cecily presses, frowning before perking a bit, clearly recognising the voice across the way. Aemond does not much recognise the smile on her face, a type of love in her eyes he’s not certain he’s ever felt.

“Come,” she encourages, now the one leading Aemond down the way toward her father’s voice. “Good morrow, father!”

Martyn Tyrell turns away from the conversation he's sharing with Lord Beesbury, his own face lighting up as though he hasn't seen her in weeks when Aemond knows for a fact they shared lunch together only yesterday. What wonder it must be for a father to love his child so. Aemond guides Cecily away from a loose paver as she makes her hurried way to Martyn.

“My girl,” Martyn says, opening his arms as Cecily approaches, gently placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing her forehead. He smiles fondly before pulling away and bowing his head to Aemond. “My prince.”

By right he probably should have addressed Aemond first. But Aemond decides not to comment. He nods his head in greeting. “Lord Martyn.”

Lord Martyn is a handsome man. He is tall, strong even into his forties, and he shares his colouring with Cecily, only his dark hair is streaked with silver. The Highgarden sun has worn shallow lines into his face, particularly around his mouth and eyes. Evidence of a lifetime of smiling, Aemond supposes.

(Aemond wonders if Cecily will age with similar lines carved into her face, if only he may keep giving her reason to smile.)

He is dressed as opulently as Aemond has come to anticipate, clapping his ringed hands together and turning to Lord Lyman, giving him a warm smile. “We’ll continue this later, my friend,” he says, clapping the older man gently on the shoulder. “Enjoy your morning, Lyman.”

The master of coin, despite slowing in his old age, seems eager to be going. Perhaps for a morning nap after being awake a gruelling two hours, Aemond thinks to himself, amusedly.

Martyn watches him go for a moment before turning back to the young couple. He sighs, smiling fondly at the both of them. “A wonder they let him sit the council,” he says lightheartedly, but Aemond hears something in his voice he cannot place. “It warms my heart to see you both together. What are you up to today?”

“Aemond is taking me to meet Vhagar,” Cecily says, adjusting her stance and her grip on Aemond. “I think with the sun out so bright, I may be able to see the shape of her.”

Aemond had not even considered that. He knows that Cecily can see masses of colour in the bright sunlight, but he hadn't considered Vhagar to be a mass of colour until now.

“With any luck,” says Aemond. “Though I fear she’ll blend into the green of the Kingswood.”

Martyn still smiles at them both, clearly quite pleased with himself. “No matter,” he says. It is odd, thinks Aemond, that he carries himself like a plumper man than he is, rocking on his feet as he speaks. “An auspicious meeting all the same.”

Just then, the distinctive clinking sound of someone jogging while wearing armour approaches them. They each turn to face the noise and Aemond feels himself clenching his jaw. Any more Tyrells, and this will become a joust.

Leo stands before them all with a tired smile and tousled hair, his helmet tucked under his arm as he bows to each of them, Aemond first, then Martyn, then he greets Cecily by name, then he nods to Ser Rickard, who raises a brow at him.

“Should you be on duty, Ser Leo?” He asks the younger.

Leo inclines his head to Rickard with deference. “No, ser. I had the night’s watch over Princess Helaena and the children, Arryk has just relieved me.”

Ser Rickard relaxes then, content to let the man speak to his family.

“I was on my way to have my breakfast when I spotted a squire carrying a letter with the Tyrell seal.” He lifts up the rolled up paper in his hand, the seal unbroken. “Roses and grapes. From my Lady Aunt Alerie. So, I thought I’d bring it myself”

Martyn perks then, surely expecting the letter from his wife to be for him. Aemond assumes much the same, but Leo looks at Cecily.

“I suspect the silence indicates it's for me,” Cecily says with a wry smile.

Leo laughs good-naturedly. “Shrewd as ever, cousin,” he says, gently placing the letter in her hand when she offers it.

Cecily takes it, rubbing her thumb across the wax seal and glancing in the vague direction of her father. “Thank you, Leo. You may go. I am sure this is only news that she has reached home, and sordid details of her dreadful trip there.”

Leo grins. “Very well. Good morrow,” he says, then bows again to Aemond and Martyn.

Only when they cannot hear the clinking of his armour does Cecily offer the letter to Aemond. She asks him, quite seriously, “Will you read it for me?”

This is not the first time she’s asked him to relay her correspondence to her. Though never has she been so grave in asking him. Aemond glances at Martyn, who looks equally as grave. What? Why are they suddenly serious? Do they expect the letter to say she is in danger? Aemond does not think he’s ever seen Martyn quite this serious, though it's not an unfamiliar experience from Cecily. It disquiets him. Nevertheless, he cracks the seal and reads aloud the contents.

“The rat plays while the cats are away. A weed is growing strong. - Alerie R.”

Aemond frowns, lifting his gaze to Cecily's face. He notices she’s playing with the embroidery on her sleeve as she often does when she worries, though she hasn't done it quite as much of late. Aemond dreads to think what has caused her to lapse into anxious habits again. He knows quite little of Alerie Tyrell, has only met her at the wedding where she said very little. She seemed an aloof and distant woman, content to let her husband speak rather than to do so herself. Cecily has described her as cryptic. Aemond can now see why. If this is not a coded message, it's simple nonsense.

“It is as I feared,” says Cecily.

Martyn huffs, looking in the direction Leo had just departed to. “Right you are,” he says. “As always. I had hoped removing Leo might have put a stop to it.”

“You know his ambition sees not beyond his own nose,” Cecily says.

“I might like to be enlightened on who this rat might be,” Aemond interjects, frustrated that he remains not privy to what they speak of. He has a fair estimate, but he’ll not assume and make a fool of himself.

Martyn looks at Cecily, whose brow is furrowed. His face cycles through a wordless debate with itself, before his gaze shifts to Aemond. He smiles tightly. “I will allow my daughter to explain, my prince. I must write to my wife.” He bows his head to Aemond and does not wait for leave before departing. He is an impertinent type of man, Aemond thinks.

Aemond looks at Cecily, face expectant. She smiles at him. “Not here. Come, take me to the Kingswood to meet your dragon.”

It is only when they’ve mounted their horses and left the walls of the Red Keep that Cecily speaks again, her hands gripping the pommel of the saddle tight. Her horse’s reins are secured to Aemond’s saddle, guided by him.

“My uncle thinks me unfit for my duties,” she says with no preamble.

Aemond looks over at her, taking in the way she sits sidesaddle with ease and comfort. He thinks she must have been riding horses since before she lost her sight, and continued even after. Reachmen do so love their horses. Hers is an older chestnut mare that had greeted her with familiar affection at the stables. He watches her as they go for a moment. “An opinion shared by many, I’m sure.”

Cecily smiles wryly, brushing her dark hair over her shoulder. “I suppose. But none of those people are in Highgarden’s line of succession,” she says, gazing up at the sky. It is cloudless, a great mass of blue haze.

Aemond lifts his eye to look at it, seeing for once exactly what his wife sees.

“It was my hope that in marrying you, and in having Leo swear to the Kingsguard, Moryn might cease in pursuing his ambitions. A fool’s hope, I now realise.”

Aemond looks at her again, contemplating. “You made sure Leo left before I read the letter,” he observes. “You do not trust him.”

“I love Leo,” she says, words careful, considered, as though this is a statement she’s mulled over a thousand times. “Like a brother. I trust him with my life and with anyone else’s. He’s a good man, and I know he has no wish to usurp me. But I cannot wholly trust his discretion on matters of his father.”

Aemond looks forward, spotting Vhagar’s hulking form nestled between the trees. “So your uncle is the rat. The growing weed.”

“Indeed,” she sighs. “The rose’s thorn, as it were.”

Aemond brings his horse to a stop, and Cecily’s chuffs as she slows. Aemond looks back at Ser Rickard on his own horse and asks him to secure the horses before he dismounts, coming up to Cecily and placing his hands on her waist. He grunts softly as he lifts her from the saddle, setting her down in the grass.

“Mm. Thorns ought to be plucked if they end up in one’s side,” Aemond says as he leads her across the grass. Sensing his approach, Vhagar grumbles, waking from her sleep and lifting her head. “Or they'll fester.”

“Or worse,” says Cecily, pausing in her footsteps as she hears and feels the low rumbling of the dragon. “The wound will close over without the thorn ever being removed. A permanent fixture.”

“Don't be afraid,” Aemond murmurs when she stops, placing a gentle hand on the small of her back. He looks up at Vhagar, whose colossal head is slowly swinging around and lowering to their height. Aemond watches her nostrils chuff as she takes in the new person before her.

Cecily, to her credit, does not tremble or back away. She does, though, pinch her face into a little scowl, clearly trying her hardest not to. Vhagar doesn't smell the nicest, and though Aemond has grown used to it, it must be worse for Cecily and her acute sense of smell.

Aemond presses a gentle, affectionate kiss to her temple, a silent apology. “Can you see her?”

Cecily’s eyes search the space in front of her, but she nods after a moment. “I… I think I can. She is green? I am not just seeing the trees?”

“Yes,” he says, reaching a hand out toward Vhagar. She meets him halfway and brings her snout to his hand. Typical of her to not even bother threatening Cecily. She has always preferred the fairer sex. He takes Cecily’s hand, guiding it up toward Vhagar. She gasps softly as her palm makes contact with the rough skin of the dragon. Aemond looks back at her, and she looks more nervous than he thinks he’s ever seen her.

“Does she dislike it?” Cecily asks.

“If she disliked it, we’d know it,” Aemond says with a smirk. “I rather think she likes you, in fact.”

Cecily’s eyes seem trained on the hulking form of her, and Aemond’s chest swells knowing he has brought her before something she can see. Her hand gently rubs at Vhagar’s leathery skin. “How can you be sure?”

Aemond rubs his free hand gently over her back. “I can feel it. She can feel that I am fond of you, and she must share the sentiment. Besides, I think she has always had a soft spot for gentle women.”

“Am I gentle?”

“More than most I know,” he says, gazing down at her. “Gentle as a woman should be. But more clever than most.”

Cecily stares silently up at Vhagar for a long second, and Aemond cannot hope to read her mind, or even her pinched expression. “I cannot only be gentle,” she murmurs. “Some part of me must be feared.”

Aemond is quiet for a moment, his nose brushing against her temple. “I will be the fearsome part of you,” he promises in an earnest murmur.

Cecily pulls her gaze away from Vhagar, turning her face to Aemond. Her hand drops from Vhagar’s snout and carefully finds the back of Aemond’s neck. With a gentle tug, she pulls his lips down to hers and kisses him with fervour.

Aemond is surprised for a only a split second. He grabs her gently by the hips and pulls her closer as he kisses her. Her body presses to his, and he can practically feel the thrum of her heart against her chest. Cecily winds her fingers into his hair at the base of his neck, making a soft noise of desperation as she urges her tongue forward into his mouth. Beside them, Vhagar grumbles and moves her head away, settling down to continue with her nap.

Aemond grants Cecily entrance to his mouth, rather liking this side of her that leads the charge. She licks into his mouth, tongue dragging over his as Aemond begins to walk her back toward a tree. She acquiesces and walks back, but never dares to part her lips from his. He backs her up against a tree, hands squeezing at her hips through her dress. As she sucks at his bottom lip he reaches back, groping at her behind before beginning to tug up the layers of her skirt.

Cecily gasps then, pulling her lips away from his. Undeterred, Aemond presses his lips to her jaw, dragging his tongue lewdly across her skin. “Aemond,” she breathes. “We cannot-”

“Yes we can,” he murmurs, nipping gently at her skin. “I’ll have my wife if I wish it.”

She whines, so beautifully it makes Aemond’s cock stir in his pants. “But Ser Rickard- and- and Vhagar–”

“Ser Rickard is with the horses,” he says against her skin. “He will be discreet. And Vhagar does not care. She’s already gone back to sleep.”

Cecily closes her eyes as Aemond brushes his hands over the soft skin of her thighs. “Okay,” she grants. “I suppose I did start this.”

Aemond hums, trailing his kisses down her neck as he lowers himself to his knees in the grass. He pulls Cecily’s dress up past her hips, holding it up with one hand so he can knead gently at her thigh with the other. He looks up at her, taking one of her hands and guiding it to her bunched up skirt so she can hold it, taking the other and placing it gently on his head. “Trust me,” he murmurs, feeling the slight, confused tremble in her legs.

With both hands now free, he tugs down her small clothes and slings the leg of it over his wrist so it doesn’t get lost. Cecily presses her thighs together shyly, but Aemond gently coaxes one leg into his large hands, lifting it up and settling her knee over his shoulder. Cecily says nothing, biting her lip and shifting nervously. She doesn't ask questions, trusting Aemond as he’s requested. He presses a gentle kiss to her thigh. “Good girl,” he praises in a murmur, then kisses her thigh again. He trails a path of kisses down the length of her thigh, cherishing the supple flesh before he reaches his prize.

Cecily’s cunt already glistens with arousal when he reaches it. Aemond cannot help but drag a thumb gently through it, making Cecily sigh and shiver when he rubs the rough pad over her pearl. He leans forward then, granting himself an act of debasement in a moment of debauchery, and inhales deeply.

(Her cunt does not smell of roses. But he will not grant Aegon the satisfaction of telling him so.)

“Aemond!” Cecily squeals, squirming above him and tangling her fingers into his hair. He can only imagine the blush dying her cheeks bright pink, for he cannot make himself pull away from her sweet cunt to check.

Aemond chuckles, gently squeezing her thigh in apology. “If it feels strange and you want me to stop, tell me so,” he murmurs.

Without waiting for an answer, he presses his tongue between her folds and laps a long, languid stripe along her, ending at her pearl. She gasps at the sensation, the sound quickly crumbling into a moan when he circles the bud and flicks his tongue at it. She tastes divine, like he imagines nectar to taste. He moves down again, lapping at her slick entrance and groaning. She tightens her grip on his hair, grinding her hips down against his tongue as he pushes it desperately into her.

The hand that doesn't grip her thigh comes up to play with her pearl as he laps at her hole and Cecily’s hand drops the grip on her skirt to grab at the tree behind her for purchase, moans tumbling freely from her mouth. The silk drops onto Aemond’s head, held up only by Cecily’s hand in his hair. That, she does not let go of. Aemond isn’t stopped or even slowed by the sudden weight of fabric on his head, he keeps his pace and continues to lap at her, tongue curling up against the spot he’s learned drives her wild.

“Ae-Aemond!” Cecily cries, rocking her hips as Aemond pleasures her from all sides. Aemond, secretly, is a touch impressed, perhaps arrogant, that he can feel her beginning to clench already. He has grown quite familiar with how her body tenses before her climax. He strokes at her pearl, silently encouraging her to let go. She cannot hold on a moment longer, and her noises cut off sharply as her whole body tightens– her cunt feels as though its locked Aemond’s tongue in place, grip vice-like. She pulls on his hair and Aemond can only groan as her silence ends and she melts into sweet whines.

“Gods be good,” she whispers when she seems to regain control of her tongue. Aemond pulls his own from her, licking at her once more before pulling his head back and looking up at her. She’s panting, eyes closed, and smiling. Aemond gently lowers her leg, holding her hips to keep her from buckling to the ground. Cecily loosens her grip on his hair, gently smoothing down the tousled strands. “How did you think of that?”

“I wish I could claim to have invented it,” he says, moving to help her get her smallclothes back on. “It was good?”

Cecily lifts her legs one at a time and lets him pull her smallclothes up and drop her skirt. When Aemond stands, she finds his face to hold it. “Strange at first,” she admits, leaning up on her toes to kiss him gently. Aemond wonders if she can taste her own essence on his lips. “But very good.”

Aemond smiles, happily returning her gentle kiss as he helps to adjust and smoothe her skirts. “Good. You were loud. I like it when you’re loud.”

Cecily blushes then, that beautiful shade of pink Aemond loves so dearly. “How humiliating,” she murmurs, winding her arms around Aemond’s waist to hold him, resting her cheek against his chest. “How might I return the favour?”

“You needn’t,” he says.

He can practically feel her pout. “Someday you must let me.”

“Someday,” he promises. "But not today, not here. I would not put my wife on her knees in the dirt. Not unless she begged me.”

Cecily giggles, reaching down to squeeze at his arse. “Do not tempt me. I just might.”

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