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teenagecriminalmastermind · 6 months ago

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blue blood - chapter 4 (an aemond targaryen x team black daughter fanfiction)

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chapter 1: prologue chapter 2: the bells chapter 3: the race

chapter 4: claw isle.

Aemond is delirious with rage.

That girl, that little bastard brat, not only had the audacity to steal the Crown of Jaehaerys from the very dead body of her grandfather, but then has the unmitigated gall to taunt him and hand it over to his wretched half-sister? He can hear her laughter still ringing in his ears, the sound somehow carrying over the thunder and the rain.

Impertinent witch.

He cannot go back home yet, cannot go back with the failure of his mission. Not only was his quest to make that treaty with the Baratheons cut short by Lucerys Strong, his bastard sister just had to add fuel to the fire. He has to find some way to fix this, some way to retrieve that crown within time. He cannot go back empty-handed. He lands Vhagar upon one of the uninhabited islands by Storm’s End, the large dragon shuddering to a halt upon the sandy shores.

He slides off the beast’s back, smashing his fist into the nearest cliff rocks over and over until he feels his knuckles bleed, until the sting of broken skin and blood is enough to calm his nerves. “No, no, NO!” He roars, his dragon sounding just as incensed as him, “that little fucking bitch does not get to do this to me!” He watches his bleeding hand, watches the blood trickle down his fingers and down his palm in swift, dark rivulets as he turns his hand over. Fire and blood. Daella Targaryen will pay, in fire and blood.

He sits on the shore, letting the rain wash away the blood, soaking through his coat down to his bones, his hair a flat curtain that clings to his face. He has to regroup. Think this over. See what he can do next and not what he wants to do.

What does he want to do?

He wants to go back to Dragonstone and gut Daella Targaryen like a fucking fish, watch the girl bleed upon his person as he wrenches the crown out of her hands and holds her beating heart in his palm, his face being the last thing her defiant eyes see.

However, he cannot do that lest he be labeled Kinslayer and truly kick start a war of bloodshed and dragons. No, for now he has to find a different way to win the crown back, or at least force the girl and the crown back into the open and wrest it from her. No, that would not work. No, she has probably handed over the gold circlet to her wretched mother and her father Daemon. Gods, that girl is far too much like her father Daemon Targaryen, in all the worst ways that the Seven could conjure. It is as if they bottled up every single one of his worst impulses and characteristics and poured it into his eldest.

So what does he do?

Well, alighting upon one of their smaller vassals with Vhagar would be a good start. It would put the fear of all things holy in them while letting them know that he has not relented, to let her know that this is not over yet.

Claw Isle is nearest.

Lord Celtigar is steward of Claw Isle. The man is loyal, slightly tough, and not easily cowered. But no one in the Seven Hells can look upon Vhagar and not be scared shitless, and he plans to do just that. “Vhagar,” he speaks to his dragon, voice hoarse after his prior screaming bout on the island, “time to move.” She will feed once they return to King’s Landing, which won’t be too long from now.

When he lands on the shores of Claw Isle, there is already a small group of soldiers collected, bows aimed at the ready and Aemond has to resist the urge to laugh. As if some measly bows and arrows could incapacitate him and his dragon. “Lord Celtigar,” he says in a cool, even voice, spotting the gruff man. “I come bearing regards from King Aegon.”

“We only recognise the one true Queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” the older man says, steely eyes looking into his own. He tamps down the ire that threatens to bubble over, the prior events still rankling in his mind.

“My brother holds all the symbols of legitimacy, my Lord,” he says calmly, “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields his sword Blackfyre. The Queen, as my half-sister calls herself, wears a stolen crown that she had her craven daughter steal from the Keep.”

“A crown that is rightfully her mother’s,” the man replies, not budging from his stance. So Aemond is not winning any allies here. “Daella Targaryen did what needed to be done.” The mention of her name is enough to almost send him in another rage, her voice echoing in his mind as she called him a thief, spoke of him stealing her birthright, as if it was ever a bastard’s to begin with.

“Very well,” he says, plastering a polite smile on his face, resisting the urge to bare his teeth. “Well, my Lord, I hope you let your Queen know that her younger brother has come calling for her. Send a raven to let her know that I shall wait here for the crown to be returned, and that I shall wait for as long as it takes and do whatever it takes. And that if she has any true integrity, she sends the thief her daughter to return it herself.”

The man takes his message and sends a raven in front of his own eyes, making Aemond wait by the shore. “I don’t mind, my Lord,” he says lightly, “I can wait here by the sea. After all, it should not take long, should it?”

Hours pass, and it must be far past the witching hour when he starts to doze off, shielded by Vhagar’s wing as he rests by her head. The sound of footsteps on the sand shakes him awake, and he rests a hand on the pommel of the sword on his hip, body slightly relaxing when he sees that it is just a mere messenger. “A message from the Queen Rhaenyra,” the man says, barely keeping his voice even.

“And?” He prompts the young man, the latter barely older than him.

“The Princess Rhaenys shall be here to negotiate with you, my Prince,” he says, voice wavering. “Her and the she-dragon Meleys are on their way to speak to you.” Why?

“And why has she not sent the Princess Daella?” He questions sharply, anger rising up again. So now the little witch intends to hide from him, huh? Seems like cowardice runs in the family blood.

“The Crown Princess is not in any condition to leave Dragonstone, and the Queen does not intend to risk her Heir’s well being and safety,” he answers. He must have injured the girl worse than he thought then, and a smile of cruel satisfaction lingers on his lips. So she isn’t here not because she is a coward, but because she simply cannot. He wonders how much he made her bleed, whether it hurts for her to take a breath because of him, whether she looks at her hands and thinks of how he is the reason they are stained bloody.

Aemond wonders how much of a mark he has left on Daella.

“Very well then,” he says coolly. “If the Crown Princess cannot make it herself, then I suppose her aunt Rhaenys shall suffice.” It does not take his aunt too long to arrive, the Red Queen coming to a smooth stop next to Vhagar as the older woman dismounts, walking towards him tall and proud.

“Nephew,” she says, giving him a curt nod.

“Aunt Rhaenys,” he nods back, hands clasped behind his back. “I suppose you are here to do the right thing and return the crown.”

Rhaenys’ eyes harden, the ghost of an angry smile playing on her lips. “You have quite the delusional belief, my dear boy,” she states. “Such treachery, and that to your own House? To your own sister?”

“I have only one sister,” he replies, keeping his voice level. “And she is now the Queen Helaena.”

“Aemond,” she says, “I am here as an envoy, merely to convey Her Grace the Queen Rhaenyra’s wishes. She does not wish to sow further discord in the family, and she wishes to keep her brothers close. She knows you are sensible, and she hopes that you, the honorable and level-headed one of the two, will see beyond Otto Hightower’s treacherous machinations.” She seems sincere in her beliefs, and he cannot believe that the one woman he would wholeheartedly have bent the knee to has bought into this con.

“You are being led astray by the counsel of evil men, nephew,” she stresses. “Please, consider our words, our side. See sense, and make Aegon see it too. Otto Hightower and Larys Strong are the vipers that seek to destroy the House of the Dragon from the inside.” The nerve to call his own grandfather a viper to his face.

“Thank you for your sage counsel, Princess Rhaenys,” he replies, voice curt and clipped, “but I suppose I shall withhold myself from taking your offer and let my brother the King know that his treasonous half sister refuses to see sense. Tell my half-sister and her bastard daughter that I will retrieve the crown and return it to its rightful owner.”

Rhaenys does not retaliate, mouth pressed in a thin line as she nods at his words, mounting Meleys. Soon, she and the Red Queen are specks in the sky, on their way back to Dragonstone with a message from him in hand. He debates whether he should head back home now, or let Vhagar have her fill on this small island. It would be cruel to rob the island of a sizable chunk of its livestock, but they have decided to pledge fealty to his wretched half-sister, and they must pay the price of siding with the treasonous queen and not the rightful king.

“Are there any parts of the isle not populated by people?” He asks Lord Celtigar, who points him in the western direction, understanding the nature of the request. “Good,” Aemond adds coolly as he takes Vhagar to that segment of Claw Isle, letting the dragon feed to her heart’s content. Celtigar invites him back to his Keep, ever the observer of guest rules himself, and Aemond surmises it would be prudent to take some food and rest if he is to continue his search for the crown and if he is to alight on the Black stronghold itself.

Aemond sleeps fitfully over the next few days, leaving as soon as Vhagar is ready to depart. This is now enemy territory, and he does not wish to stay here a moment longer than is necessary. He cannot go to Dragonstone just yet. No, he must be prudent and return to King’s Landing.

The sky clears further as he approaches the city, Vhagar’s wings darkening the stretches she flies over, echoing his mood. He dismounts the dragon with an easy grace and then makes the journey back to the Red Keep on foot, his gait determined but erratic, anger bleeding through every step he takes. The guards swing the gates open without question and he walks into the Small Council chamber, black coat billowing behind him as he comes to a stop at one of the chairs, his mother and grandsire watching him intently.

He picks up one of the marble balls on the table and throws it at the wall, the force of the impact ripping through the wooden frame of one of their maps and Alicent winces, startling back in her chair. “Apologies, mother,” he mutters, too restless and angry to sit down.

“I take it you do not have it,” Otto Hiightower speaks, his voice slow and measured, as if trying to avoid upsetting him. He whirls around on his heel to glare at his grandfather, memories of that insolent girl laughing at him running through his head.

“Rhaenyra Targaryen has been crowned Queen at Dragonstone,” he grits out, trying to keep his voice level. “She sent Princess Rhaenys as her envoy, and the Blacks have no intention of handing the crown over.”

“And what of Daella?” His mother questions.

“Daella,” he says slowly, the name poison on his tongue. “Is apparently indisposed. Too injured to even face me.” Hiding behind her mother’s skirts, on the volcanic island of Dragonstone that she calls home. His mother seems not too happy at this development, brows furrowing in worry. “Mother, what causes you concern?” He asks. “If Daella Targaryen is indisposed, then she and the Black Bane cannot take to the skies. This is a development in our favour.”

“I do not wish for the girl to be maimed,” Alicent fires back, fixing her son with a worried and angry glare. “We are not yet at war, Aemond, and I do not wish for us to be the ones to begin one by attacking Rhaenyra’s eldest child.”

“My half-sister declared war the moment she had her daughter commit that brazen theft. It is treason, mother, an insult against our family, against the crown and my brother, but still you wish for it to go unpunished?” He does not understand her hesitance, the kindness that still lingers in her heart for his half sister and her bastards.

“Not like this!” The bite in her words takes him aback, and he stares back at her, surprised at the turn of events. So his mother is more than content to usurp his half-sister, but when it comes to taking concrete steps against her transgressions she wavers.

A week passes, and he raises the same question to his mother over and over again, only to be greeted by the same form of resistance and restraint. Nevermind, he tells himself at dinner that night; he shall rectify this inaction soon, but for now he is tired, he is angry, and he needs a listening ear.

Aemond dons his cloak once night falls upon the streets of King’s Landing, weaving his way in silence and anonymity until he darkens the doors of an establishment he last visited a week ago in search of his brother Aegon. He barks orders to one of the attendants, asking them to bring the head of the place to him for a private audience and soon enough, he is whisked away to a quieter part of the silk house, the lit candles surrounding him like the altar of a Sept.

“Your brother has not been here since, my Prince,” she says, raising an eye with a knowing smile.

“I am not here for your services,” he replies gruffly, lowering his hood as he sits there, fully clothed. “At least, not in the way one would surmise.”

“Then what is it?” She asks.

“I need someone to speak to,” he admits. “Someone outside of my family, who shall not judge me for my words and my deeds just yet.” The woman does not interrupt him, her silence an invitation for him to continue. “A grave error was made in the hours following my father’s death.” She fixes him with a probing gaze, and Aemond knows that somehow, she knows what he speaks of.

“We all saw the Black Bane and his rider depart King’s Landing a day after the bells were first rung,” she states, inching closer to him. So word has spread indeed. He doesn’t protest at first when she pushes his cloak off his shoulders, her hands wandering over his person. “I can imagine you must feel slighted and incensed, that your brother and your family were disrespected so.”

“I do,” he mutters darkly. “That bastard girl had the audacity to steal from the crown, and she thinks she has gotten away with it. That her treasonous actions are actually serving the Realm,” he scoffs. He thinks of Daella’s smile, her cool voice taunting him in the skies. The way she raced to Dragonstone, her body thrown off her dragon in a desperate attempt to reach the sanctuary of home before he and Vhagar caught up with them.

“The heart does not listen to reason, my Prince,” the madam speaks, her fingers carding through his hair as she leans in closer. He knows this should distract him, ground him, but all he can think of is the impertinent girl hiding in the clouds, her voice sure and solid even amidst the storm.

He thinks of the blood seeping through her cuts, the wounds that must litter her pale flesh. Wounds, some of which will scar, a permanent reminder of that stormy night, a permanent reminder of him. He wonders how many more scars she carries on her body, whether he is the only man to mark her.

Aemond rips himself away from the madam’s ministrations, haphazardly throwing on his cloak as his feet carry him rapidly out of the establishment and away from the Streets of Silk, but not towards the Keep. He keeps walking and walking until he comes to a halt at a familiar place, the ground rumbling from his dragon’s sleeping purrs.

Aemond wakes the beast up, hoping she is well-rested enough for another short flight to Storm’s end, where he shall take a small boat and head to Dragonstone. It will not be difficult to slip into the fortress undetected, for they would be expecting him on Vhagar, not arriving on the island by boat and then on foot.

“Come on, old girl,” he says as Vhagar regards him with a doleful golden eye, “we have a visit to pay.”

#house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond x you #blue blood #daella targaryen #aemond fanfiction

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marthawrites · 2 years ago

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Darkened Corridors

Aemond Targaryen x reader

word count: 2.3k+

About: After avoiding Aemond for what he deems too long, he finds you to remind you what you’ve been missing out on.

Includes: explicit sexual content! (featuring minor religious undertones, the dagger is foreplay, Aemond really loves p*ssy)

Note: hello reader happy new year! I’ve come to understand that sunday is a holy day so it only makes sense to share some holy text with you all. desperate Aemond is one of my faaavorites. there’s just something about someone who’s seemingly always in control losing control. thank you to all the content creators, writers, and lovely readers for continuing to inspire me to write and share these fics! ♥ have an idea? I’m open to requests!

Now cross posted to ao3 as well!

"Walking the corridors this late is dangerous. Hasn't anyone ever told you?" An arm snaked firmly around your chest: a forearm pressed up between your breasts and its hand covered your mouth to muffle any sound you might have made. A glint of steel shone in the torchlight. The wielder held it dangerously close, the point cold against the soft flesh beneath your bottom rib.

He guided you deeper into a blackened corner; two shadows intertwined. "How unfortunate it'd be for something to happen to you, my lady," his voice was a low purr by your ear. He held you tight against his front, arms taut to keep you from squirming.

Slowly his hand relaxed around your face and once he was satisfied there were no loiterers his hold finally eased.

Turning around you stared up at the face you were purposely avoiding: single eye dilated to the low light, eye patch, and silver hair hanging down the front of his Targaryen blacks. You hissed between your teeth, staying quiet, "Seven Hells, Aemond!"

"If you had been in your room I wouldn't have had to stalk you down," is all he replied, sharply angled face seeming all the harder in the shadows and scarce torchlight. "What's my favorite bastard girl doing wandering around so late, anyways, hm?" he asked, idly twirling a lock of your hair around his finger.

"You know I hate when you call me that," you blushed furiously. "Especially coming from a one-eyed kinslayer. If you weren't born a prince you'd be in no better position than me."

"Mmh," he huffed a half smirk. "Feisty tonight, my dear."

In one hand you absolutely hated the sway Aemond had over you. In the other you desperately loved it. Your heart thudded loudly in the quiet stone hall and your hands squeezed into fists to stop them shaking in need to press beneath his leathers and slide along his abdomen; at the mere idea, warmth already collected between your thighs.

You were his secret. And him, yours. No one could know about your midnight trysts and adventures on Vhagar. It could ruin his reputation. And, without a doubt, it would ruin your purely political and less than ideal marriage.

Yet here you were, a servant girl for the Queen, doing your best to work even though her son had you nearly swooning each time he looked at you a little too long; the memory of his kiss, fingers, and body never far from your forefront.

You were the bastard by birth, but he embodied the title by attitude.

"My husband has grown suspicious. Not of you exactly, but of another man. I can't keep this up. This marriage saved my family." You tried to sound sure of yourself, looking up at him with an angle of jaw that made him want to squeeze it.

"He doesn't deserve you," he whispered, hand silently shifting to his dagger. Hushed as a prayer he unsheathed it and trailed it up along your body. Knowing. Teasing. Watching as goosebumps pebbled your skin.

A soft whine escaped your lips. "Aemond, please. You know I can't help it when you act like this," you croaked in reply. Wanton tension coiled in your core to the point of trembling. Pitiful.

His eye locked on yours before zeroing in on your mouth, and lower still to your perked nipples showing clearly through your dress. "I know,” he mocked. “Such a shame that you get wet as a maiden for a dangerous man, when your lord husband is soft as a summer fawn." With the barest pressure, the tip of his blade pressed up beneath your chin, forcing your full attention back up to him and not whatever you were pretending to look at instead. "And you've been avoiding me for... how many days now?"

Aemond Targaryen seemed to barely be holding on. You shuddered in his intensity. His scent. The sigil of his house sewed into his leathers; something so close and so far from your reach, something that might have been in a different life. Everything about him tonight was aflame. His eye, hair, touch -- desperate for you as you were for him.

"Too many," you said upwards, lids heavy as you gave him a slow, sad smile. "But my husband will know..."

"And if he says anything I'll make sure he won't have the chance to utter another word about it." He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to yours, 'mmh'ing at the sensation.

His mouth was so soft against yours, lips eager and relaxed alike. As soon as your tongues slid against one another, you gently, delicately, gripped the handle of his dagger and lowered it from where it'd been pointing all the while. Together you sheathed it. Now free, both his hands pressed up your sides, over your breasts, until one held your jaw and the other your neck, biting over your bottom lip. You whimpered.

"When's the last time he fucked you?" Aemond asked between kisses, bodies hot with roaring blood pressed firmly together.

"Two weeks ago," you muttered, eyes growing hazy with need.

He scoffed. "Two fucking weeks... He really doesn't deserve you." Only the muffled noises of you and the prince filled this corridor of the Red Keep: there wasn’t another soul around. Grabbing you around the waist he pushed you against the wall and dipped into the crook of your neck. He kissed, and bit, and sucked, lips tenderly brushing over any part of skin he might have nipped too roughly. He kicked your feet apart and one of his thighs nestled between your legs.

The stone wall chilled your back through your dress, and Aemond’s front seared against the full front of you. Your mind was entirely blank save for the young prince, focused on only him. Both your hands slid beneath the undershirt tucked into his trousers, palms flat and fingers splayed wide as you pressed up his slim hips and lean abdomen. “I’ve been avoiding you because each time I see you, I want only this. And more. You live in my head like the foulest demon,” you admitted through soft moans. Without entirely realizing it, you ground slowly against his thigh, pulling him closer against you by his belt.

That elicited a groan from him. “I’ll kill him. What do you think, my sweet little flame? I grow tired of sharing you.”

You were entirely drunk on him; buzzing, spinning, overwhelmed. "I think I'm going to burn forever with the way you've planted lust in me," you said, sighing blissfully despite talking about burning in the hells for an eternity; you mirrored all of his kisses and rewarded his lovebites with pink scratches.

"When mother makes us pray to the Seven my mind often drifts to that of you. Wicked things. It makes the time go by much faster... and much easier to endure," he said against your skin; jaw, neck, chest. His mouth lowered as his hands slid up the curved slopes of your sides, pushing up beneath your breasts just as his breath warmed the modest swath of your cleavage.

You arched up into him, standing on tippy toes as your eyes fluttered closed. "Aemond...," you gasped, looking down to his bent silver head in time to watch his fingers curl beneath your dress' neckline. You couldn't help the moan that tore from your throat as he yanked the material down, cool night air shocking against the fullness of your bared breasts. Your hands went to his head, fingernails scraping through his hair to his scalp.

Hot mouth wrapped around one nipple, sucking with immediate need. A shiver ran up and down your spine. He released you only to do it again, releasing for a second time to lick over the soft swell, and suckling for a third time. He kissed inward to the center of your chest, tongue trailing along, to repeat his attentions to your other budded nipple.

Whimpering, your head tilted back against the unforgiving wall, grinding against his thigh firmer now, quicker, more needful. You gasped his name so quietly into the dark you weren't sure he'd heard you over his ministrations.

"It's too quiet for you to be getting so loud. I've barely yet touched you... Once those pretty thighs are wrapped around my head the entire hall will hear."

His words sent you spiraling, already barely hanging onto reality. "Let them hear," you breathed, daring and bold.

"Lecherous girl," he said, smug. "This way." Quiet as a ghost he fixed your bodice and turned both of you on your heels into a corner you didn't know existed. Had it always been there? Pushing a tapestry aside he lead you through. "It's dark all the way through. Keep close and hold my hand. This leads to my chambers."

Within a few moments another tapestry was pushed aside and you were in Aemond's private quarter. The familiarity of it put you at ease; though, it didn’t last long.

Hands immediately squeezed over your ass, soft flesh yielding beneath his firm palms. He languidly kneaded the relaxed muscle while backing you up against his desk. “And to think you’ve been ignoring me while I’ve been dreaming about your cunt... fucking my hand at the memory of you.”

Lightening webbed through your entire body, electrifying even the smallest places. “Oh will you shut up about that? I already told you my reasoning,” you mewled, trying so hard to be defiant even as he sat you atop his desk and spread your legs open around his waist. Lascivious.

“No. You’ve chosen to disregard me at all costs. And I’m here to remind you what you’ve been avoiding.” He knelt on the floor in front of you, effortlessly bunching your skirts up as high as they would go. Wasting little time he tugged off your smallclothes. Both arms wrapped around your hips, and he pulled you forward to the edge of the wooden desk until you were at the perfect angle for his mouth. A sigh shuddered from him as he took in your glistening slick; voracious. “This...,” he growled, licking fire up the fullness of your slit. “Is the only thing I wish to pray to.”

You almost choked. One hand squeezed into the hair at the side of his head while the other pushed down against the solid wood to support you. He drew your swollen, throbbing clit into his mouth and every single nerve in your body vibrated with pleasure. Your head tilted back as the Targaryen prince ate you like he was fucking starving.

A string of mumbled moans broke from your throat, completely incomprehensible. Rolling your head forward you looked down at him: kneeling, desperate, and without inhibition. "Yes, my prince... don't stop.. please, don't stop...," you encouraged to him as if in private prayer of your own; pulling and guiding his head along with your desire.

Alternating between long, slow licks of your folds, and quick, tight flicks of your clit, Aemond meant to not stop until you were quivering. Perhaps even beyond. Wet and sloppy as it sounded, he was wholly practiced. Unhindered by the drenched noises from his lewd affection, he tirelessly worked his jaw until both your hands tangled in his moonlight hair.

His hands stayed anchored around your hips and thighs, refusing to slide them into you; the sensation of the first stretch of you would be saved, tonight, for only his rigid need.

"Come, my darling girl. Come on my tongue so I can stuff my cock in this sweet little cunt," he mumbled between kisses, and flicks, and sucks, groaning with his own pleasure at giving you pleasure.

In a moment your entire body arched and flexed, and in the next you shuddered with release. Orgasm turned your bones to putty.

Aemond stood, and in a shuffle of arms and hips he was out of his clothes in seconds. A sheen of sweat shone on his chest, the low muscles of his belly already flexed with barely reined need; his length stiff to the point of discomfort.

With shaky hands you helped him unlace your bodice and dress, shrugging out of it so you were both bare to each other.

He grabbed a hip with one hand and a breast with the other, pinching and rolling and teasing the nipple. "Look at me as I claim you," he rasped, feeling you part your legs for him as your eyes fixed on his one.

You both gasped as he took you in a single forward thrust, your body wet and eager for his solid length. "Oh fu-," you bit your lip, unable to make words.

He pulled back until only his tip was inside you, before snapping his hips forward again. He did it again, and again, and again. Each time a slightly different angle, a slightly different speed, purposely stretching you out to hit different spots. "There it is...," he growled as you jolted, cockhead hitting and dragging along your deepest, most sensitive spot. He absolutely ravished it.

Neither of you were going to last long.

Your fingernails raked down his entire front; from the tops of shoulders, to his collarbone, pectorals, down his abdomen. Welts swelled in your wake. You finally stopped as you held onto his ass, denting half moons into the muscled flesh.

He hissed, pace growing wild as he chased his high. "Come on my cock. Now."

Tension snapped in your belly and bliss overtook all of your senses, weightless.

As soon as you began rippling around his girth he pulled out with an unrestrained moan, cock twitching as he shot his load over your heaving breasts and clenching belly.

You both collapsed into each other, sweat and seed slick between your bodies. With lazy satisfied smiles you slowly began kissing, enjoying each other unhurried, now.

"I really shall murder your husband," he said softly, with meaning, pressing his forehead to yours.

A small laugh sounded in your throat. "All I hear are threats," you replied teasingly, but also with meaning.

Stepping back be carefully helped you off the table, guiding you to his bed where you both fell. The moon shone high and he kept you with him until the young hours of the morning, sending you away wholly blissed out and sated.

thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider a follow and reblog as I have plans to create and share more writings ♥

masterlist

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond smut #fic

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qarl-grimes · 2 years ago

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Little Secrets: Three (Final)(Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader)

A/N: absolutely shooketh at the feedback i’ve gotten to part one and two of this little story. i can’t thank you all enough. alicent may be a little ooc, but for the sake of this story, she is. here’s part three!

Synopsis: She’s his sisters handmaiden, Highborn, but not high enough. He’s a Prince of the House of the Dragon, destined to marry someone of higher birth than her. This, them, can be their secret for just a little bit longer.

Warnings: 18+.

For the purpose of this story, the Readers House has been entirely made up by me. In the ASOIAF books, highborn handmaidens sometimes also serve as handmaidens and companions to noble ladies in the household of their overlords or at the royal court. It is important to note that the Readers House is fairly low.

Reader will be female, but her physical appearance will not be described.

I have tagged that who wanted to be! :)

@moonmaiden1996 @ateliefloresdaprimavera @snixx2088 @alexameliamg @wasntpriscilla @demure-doll @m1ndbrand @tea-effect @novazoldyck @thesadvampire @hangrymama @holy-minseok @highexpectationsgurl

Parts One and Two here.

Your palms are sweating.

It’s to be expected, really, with the way the Queen is looking at you. There is not surprise on her expression, no, but a cold fury that curls into disappointment when she turns sharply to face her second youngest son.

‘I had hoped this dalliance would have ended by now, Aemond’.

You breathe in sharply and look to the floor. She knew, then. For all your sneaking and pleased little smiles at evading the Queen, she had known all along.

‘I will marry her, mother’. You look at him, chest fluttering at the determination set into Aemond’s tone. ‘With your and fathers permission or not, Y/N will become a Targaryen and, in turn, Princess. We will flee to Dragonstone on Vhagar and return only where this a babe-’

‘Aemond!’ The Queen snaps, finally, her hands flying to her forehead in frustration. She glowers at her son. ‘Your father will fade soon enough. Your brother is a menace to the Red Keep. Not to mention the issues with the Driftmark Throne. Do you not think this family has enough to deal with?’ She hisses.

Aemond opens his mouth to speak again, not even slightly cowed by his mother. You, of course, speak when you are not supposed to. ‘I will be loyal to your son, your grace,’ you begin, voice cracking just slightly. You swallow and hold her gaze when she turns to you, brown eyes impatient. ‘I may be from a minor House, but I will be as good a wife as any to your son. Better, even. I love him’. You mouth lifts. ‘And not a childish love. A true love. I would die for him, and he for me. In such times,’ you add carefully. ‘Is such loyalty so easy to come by?’

The Queen stares at you for a very long moment, her lips pursed and her breaths short. With a sharp sigh, she waves Aemond’s way. ‘Leave. I need to think’. You go to leave, whereas Aemond reminds unwavering. ‘I will call you with my decision, Aemond. Go’.

You look at Aemond as you turn and, judging from the smirk on his face, you guess that you look white as a sheet. You had stood up to members of the Kings Guard, but it was the Queen who made you sweat with fear. Ser Criston allows you leave, pulling the door aside for you.

‘Seven Hells,’ you breathe, once in the safety of the corridor.

Aemond’s hands finds your forearm, and he turns you to face him. His lilac eye glints. ‘Yes,’ he muses. ‘Mother can be quite a force. Aegon all but cries when she unleashed her terror on him’.

You scoff at the image, before tugging Aemond toward the archway, where the Queen’s private courtyard opens. It is a small garden, barely larger than the room you had just been in, but it was quiet. ‘She does not seem as if she will agree, Aemond’. You sigh. ‘It looks as if a visit to the Free Cities is imminent’.

Aemond scoffs, hands sliding up your arms to rest on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. ‘She will agree,’ he murmurs, intense in his own way.

You frown. ‘That was your mother being agreeable?’

‘No,’ Aemond speak softly. ‘That was my mother realising that she has lost’.

Exciting twists inside of you, but you narrow your gaze all the same. ‘You’re sure?’ Aemond nods with a smirk. ‘Thank the Seven. I think watching my throw up the entire ride to Essos would have put you off the idea of marrying me at all’.

Aemond smirks. ‘You seemed well enough last night’.

You open your mouth to reply, but suddenly realise the position the two of you are in. Anyone could walk past, including Helaena. You wanted to inform the girl yourself, not have her find Aemond all but caressing your face-

‘Prince Aemond, Lady Y/N’.

You wrench yourself away from Aemond out of habit, finding Ser Criston standing beneath the archway of the courtyard. ‘The Queen is ready to see you’. The Knight looks from you to Aemond, the man he had all but trained to be a fine fighter, and his mouth lifts just slightly. ‘Come’.

The Queen faces you when you enter, her expression pinched and her gaze watchful. She speaks only to Aemond, and her voice is anything but joyous. ‘You will marry, Aemond. I have no doubt that you give me little choice. I will not have a handmaiden sully your sisters honour with her own lack of-’

Aemond pulls you back just slightly, his lips lifting into a slight snarl. ‘Careful, mother’.

You bristle but fight down the need to defend yourself. You had given yourself to Aemond fully, but always with the intention of making him your only. Who was the Queen to condemn you for that? Well, you suppose. She is the Queen.

‘I love Helaena,’ you say, despite yourself. ‘I would never want to sully her honour, your grace’.

The Queen turns to you. Jaw clenched; she dips her head. ‘I have no doubt that is true, but that does not deny the danger you put yours and her honour into. Who do you think the courts would believe, should your honour come into question?’

Aemond straightens up. ‘Do you believe me the kind of man who would not defend her honour, mother, since I am the one who took it?’

‘Aemond!’ you snap, wide eyed and warm with embarrassment. ‘Seven Hells, must you?’

Aemond’s glances sulkily at you with his one eye. ‘I apologise, my love’.

The Queen watches you with a queer expression. ‘Leave us, Aemond,’ she says suddenly, turning sharply toward a small table stacked with goblets. ‘Seven Hells, Aemond, leave us for a few minutes, would you?’ she snaps, when her son makes no movement.

Relenting, he casts you a glance and slinks from the room, Ser Criston pulling the door closed behind him.

‘I never thought my son would want to marry, Lady Y/N,’ the Queen begins, handing you a half full goblet of red wine. You sip it the moment it is in your hand, desperate for something to numb your nerves. You swallow and nod.

‘I can understand why, you grace. Prince Aemond prefers the company of swords to most, I am aware’. The joke falls flat, and the Queen considers you over the goblets she twirls between her fingers.

‘Hmm,’ she hums. ‘But you are sharp, aren’t you?’

You snort before you can quite stop yourself, sobering to say, ‘Apologies, you grace. Aemond has said the same in jest before’. You look at her, willing her to speak, but the silence stretches. ‘I understand that I am lowborn, Queen Alicent. My House is small and meaningless, and my Lord father offers little in bannermen and coin. But I was not lying before – I will be loyal to Aemond. I will bare his children and I will love him. I won’t let anyone hurt him’.

The Queen smirks, and you understand where Aemond gets the look from. ‘When he was born, I swore the same, as I swear when all of my children were born’.

You think of Aemond’s long scar, the skin puckered and sitting where his other lilac eye should be. You have never known him without the scar. ‘Were we women permitted to pick her weapons, your grace, I would be quite tempted to return the sentiment to Aemond’s nephews’.

She looks as if, for a split moment, she might smile. ‘That is a treasonous statement, Lady Y/N’.

‘It is the truth,’ you return simply.

She dismisses you soon after, and you all but deflate into Aemond’s arms on the other side of the door. ‘Congratulations are in order, my Prince,’ Ser Criston remarks, but to Aemond’s amusement. Aemond scoffs and leads you away, his chin dipped to look at you.

‘Well?’

‘We will marry,’ you breathe, mouth stretching into a grin as you look up at him. ‘We will marry, Aemond. I must tell Helaena before word breaks, of course-’

‘I have not wanted to tell you this, for fear of you smacking me as you often do when I lie to you, but I believe that my sister is very much aware of us, Y/N’. Your grin turns to a gape, and Aemond smirks. ‘She is smart, my sister, you know this’.

‘I-I know that! But how-’

Aemond kisses you soundly, his smirk solid against your mouth, and laugh into the kiss, palm smacking lightly on his back until he pulls away from you. ‘We will marry,’ you grin.

‘We will marry,’ Aemond agrees, a smile a little less lethal and a little more content gracing his sharp features.

#qarls talking shit #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #hotd fic

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cirqqq · 2 years ago

Text

On Maiden’s Day, the twins dressed up Lucerys as the Maiden – a most annoying discovery for Aemond. (It’s from Aemond’s POV, so unreliable narrator tagged.)

After that disastrous family dinner night, his sister’s abhorrent family moved back to King’s Landing on the king’s command. Now strong boys parade the halls of the Red Keep every day, victorious, showing off their privilege of the king’s favor. Shameless bastards, Aemond spits. Should Rhaenyra and her spawns continue to this level of entitlement and arrogance, Aemond is sure ‘King’s Landing’ will be renamed into ‘Queen’s Landing’ the moment Rhaenyra completes her coronation.

Just as if the gods are determined to make him suffer more, the strong boys’ cousins, the twin girls sired by Daemon – that in-law slayer – from his Velaryon marriage, also live in the castle now. They are soon to be married to the strong boys and become court ladies, so of course the king had extended his invitation. Helaena told him that before, though his word may not be verbatim to hers.

Anyway, Daemon’s girls seem more than excited to marry the strong boys, passing on whatever obnoxious tradition that inbreeding family enjoys, willingly complicit in that whore’s scheme of plain sight cheating against the gods and the realm. Seven hells. In a blink, this royal hall will be squeezed with plain-looking pups with bastard blood flowing in their veins. And people will have to address them as princes and princesses – what a circus! They will be the mockery of the lords and the smallfolk from Dorne to the Wall.

Despite Aemond’s staunch reprehension towards his nephews, his mother the Queen, however, is very committed to her words of reconciliation with her childhood friend. She announces to host a grand feast to celebrate the Maiden’s Day, and Baela and Rhaena will have the honor to lead noble ladies of the court into the royal sept to observe the ritual: light candles, put on that stupid parchment garlands, and whatever dumb things girls do on that day. Helaena used to be that person. Before she was married off to his scum brother. Turns out the Maiden doesn’t always protect every maiden. Aemond recalls, bitterly.

On the morning of that holy day, Aemond found Daemon’s girls are behaving very suspiciously, sneaking, tiptoeing, up to no good for sure. Aemond had his crosses with the girls back in the days, they grow to be exactly like their devious cousin Lucerys, spoiled, ungrateful, irresponsible, irreverent… (Don’t get him started on listing Lucerys’ faults and sins. Just don’t.) Baela Targaryen especially – that little bitch is wild. Gods forbid what she’s plotting, Aemond is convinced that she shall ruin the ritual and embarrass the whole royal family. So, as dutiful a son as he is, Aemond decides to secretly follow them and intervene when he spots the necessity.

Gods be good. They are only on their way to escort a maiden - she has flowers braided into her curly dark hair and wears a cascading dress with a neckline that accents her intact nape and shoulders, innocent but maturing as well. She was dressed up in the same way as the statue of the Maiden in the royal sept, Aemond noticed. Weird, for someone other than the leading lady (ladies, in this year’s case) of the ritual to dress so grandly. Aemond cannot recognize who that girl is from behind, but he has little curiosity and effort to ponder how little girls concur their festival looks. Disinterested, he walks away to join his own party – men and mothers are not allowed in the sept on Maiden’s Day. He just needs to show up at the Queen’s banquet and compliantly play the puppet in his mother’s show of love and union to endure another day of suffering from his sister’s depraved families. Seven gods. At least the abominable Lucerys is somehow not there to make his task more challenging.

Gods forbid him from ever allowing himself to rejoice so early. When the ladies finished the ritual and joined them in the feast hall, Aemond finally sees who the twins were with this morning. She – that person is no lady. Seven hells. That’s Lucerys f**king Velaryon (Strong, he means, too disgusted to correctly address his nephew, even in his own mind). Every suspicious sign he sniffed earlier all makes sense now. Daemon’s audacious girls had dressed that bastard as the Maiden to sneak him into the sept. Such degradation! And Lucerys – little Luke Strong really knows no shame, just like his whore mother – he first allowed himself in woman’s clothes, then committed outrageous blasphemy violating rules honored by the whole realm for thousands of years, and after all these, that slut is even cheeky enough to show himself in that ‘costume’ to the Queen’s feast, and the great lords and ladies are all watching and whispering… Seven hells.

His brother Aegon, who is a total loser, is edging him with his elbow, “Look - that wench looks like our little Luke.” That wench IS Luke Strong, you drunken idiot. At least his other kin are not blind as Aegon to not recognize Lucerys (Funny, guess who among them all has only one functioning eye?). “Gods be good!” he hears his mother whispering prayers by his ear. Rhaenyra has put on a stone face – even she cannot laugh this atrocity off. Daemon – that man is the most degraded of them all – loudly chuckles when he sees Luke. Jace is scolding Baela – he at least possesses some decency – while his little brothers are playing with the delicate laces on Luke’s skirt.

Maybe Aemond’s scornful scrutiny has lingered too long on Lucerys, the boy, as if sensed something, traced his sight back to him – that’s when Aemond keenly noticed that Luke has multiple piercings on his ears. For this farce? Aemond decides he has seen enough degradation for the day (though it’s only around noon). He excuses himself to his mother and left.

The next day, when Aemond practices his routine prayer in the sept, he intentionally avoids the statue of the Maiden. Most repulsively, it reminds him of Lucerys in that cursed dress, even in this holy hall of the Seven, he finds himself failing to shun that image out of his mind.

Actually, Aemond dares not to lay his eye on the statue of the Maiden ever since.

“我从此不敢看观音”

(this is actually inspired by a famous quote from the Chinese love tragedy story Butterfly Lovers/Liang Zhu)

#lucemond

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