#holy seven hells Aemond
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valleyof-goldenlilies · 8 months ago
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NOBODY MOVE 🚹🚹🚹🚹
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THEY ALL LOOK SAUR GOOD MY BOOTY HOLE IS PRACTICALLY BURSTING AT THE SEAMS đŸ˜©đŸ˜©đŸ˜© wardrobe fr going to eat this time (no more potato sack dresses for my girl Rhaenyra)
(don’t really like how they’re still making it Alicent and Rhaenyra feud centered, i hope it devolves more into an Aegon vs Rhaenyra thing cuz yk, they’re the rival claimants. BUT AEMOND đŸ„”đŸ„”đŸ„”đŸ„” DAEMON đŸ„”đŸ„”đŸ„” RHAENYRA đŸ„”đŸ„”đŸ„” ALICENT đŸ„”đŸ„”đŸ„”)
small note I really love all the details like the seven pointed star window in Alicent’s panel, the dragon shadows in the window of Aegon + Criston’s panel (wonder if it’s Sunfyre or Vhagar, from the throat, it looks like it’s Vhagar but it’s quite small) and in Corlys’ and Rhaenys’ panel (not sure which dragon is that honestly. Caraxes, maybe? foreshadowing 👀)
also the sword stabbing through the Greens’ banner on Aegon’s panel!
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AJNJCNJNKNCKJQNKJNEDNQLKJ SO EXCITED
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bucknastysbabe · 9 months ago
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now, catholic school priest criston and aemonds twin. Criston is from a catholic family, wanted to be a priest since he was a little boy, going to the sunday mass with his mothet was like the highlight of his week, went into the seminary very young, never had a girlfriend, he is a good man alright. then aemonds twin, whos not catholic, not even christian, her dad doesnt even go to church but alicent is very catholic and she wanted her kids to go to catholic school. but shes a menace, a straight up gremlin, like aegon but a girl and not a loser (srry aegon ily). And criston is sure the devil sent her to tempt him and shes like but what if it was god the one who sent me for you??? And specially for you??? Like, as a treat?! đŸ€—
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Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 6k of filth and catholic guilt
Tags: 90’s catholic school setting, Criston had the Crisis, mutual masturbation, confession booth shenanigans, age difference, manipulation, teacher/student relationship, sexual tension, Targtower reader, Criston’s woe is me internal monologue, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, pnv!sex, Jesus saw that Crispy, DESPERATION, priest kink, #imahorridcatholic
A/N: I made that priest edit and I’m proud also listened to talk by hozier for the entire last part. I’m a gremlin and made her her daeron’s twin.
Taglist: @fairysluna @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @arcielee @bambitas
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Criston knew his purpose since the day he could recall. Nothing pleased him more than sitting in mass with his mother, going through Sunday school, getting ready to become an official Catholic. Confirmation was the one of the happiest days of his life.
Vocation became the forefront of Criston’s mind in school. He probably annoyed the hell out of Father Dondarrion, pestering the priest with questions upon questions about seminary. In the mean time, he was the best altar boy a Cole could be. A-team altar boy! Strong fumbled the bells every time, it repulsed Criston.
He did other school things such as tennis, won a state championship in that, got some offers for a spot on a college team. Then in the other season he played second base for the baseball team, won a state championship in that and received multiple offers to college teams. No, Criston had his mind made up. He could lead others to victory— through Christ’s love of course. He had to admit his father was quite pissed about the baseball team but he’d be okay. Criston had a little brother, he was athletic.
The young man had even tried dating, just to see if God called for Criston to instead populate the world and lead a family. Not tend to the flock of sheep. There was a plethora of girls but he fell for a devil.
Her name was Rhaenyra Targaryen and she left him in a puddle of tears. The rich girl couldn’t respect staying chaste until marriage. He was ready to give her a ring. The priest sniffed recalling her harsh words, “You, like, won’t even dry hump me? What’s the point?” At the time the young man was miffed, broken, distraught. Criston held a hand over his heart as he whispered tearily, “You want me to be your whore?”
Mind you, he was a foolish 17 year old. The man was tested with her, but he learned from the experience. Criston was obviously meant to be a priest. He prayed and prayed for God to reveal his path. The answer came in Father Dondarrion giving Criston a letter from the Archbishop himself, inviting the young man to join seminary.
Criston took his first vows at the tender age of 18. He spent the next seven years learning and perfecting his bond with God, ready to guide his brothers and sisters in Christ. He’d smile and wave off comments at his home parish, often elder women asking why such a handsome young man would devote his life to chastity.
He rarely thought much of it. Jerking off was a boring thing, simply a biological process Cole needed to take care of. He took no shame nor pleasure in it, not truly thinking of anything at all. It would lessen as he aged but currently Criston was twenty-five and a ‘hot blooded’ young man.
He got his first job as a teacher in a Catholic school. At the beginning, Father Criston Cole found a passion for teaching while on a mission trip. He was ecstatic for the job. A year later he was significantly less overzealous. Add some years later Criston found himself, well, bored. Agitated. Discontent if you will.
Lord knows he had to calm himself for these wayward children. After a long day the man would pour some scotch and wonder why the rich ones were the worst behaved. Especially the damn Targaryens— he thought he could escape from that name.
Rhaenyra’s father had remarried and they had five children. Rhaenyra had five herself, different fathers came the whispers. The two youngest apparently looked like her. Criston smirked into his glass, God was watching and protecting him even as a foolish kid. She left the church anyways, but the children were polite and well-behaved in class.
Alicent Hightower-Targaryen’s children were a handful. Aegon made Criston sick to his stomach, the idiot either drunk or high in class, flipping up skirts of poor girls. If the priest thought about the eldest too long he’d grow a headache. He chose not to dwell on the fact that the family generously paid for Aegon to graduate— like a twisted version of simony.
Then along came sweet Helaena, she made good marks but often had to be drawn back to attention, and he tried to stifle the bullying drawn to her strange nature. Aemond was another headache, in a good way. He seemed to fit the vocational lifestyle and bonded with Criston over it. Criston truly enjoyed discussing hot topics in the church with the smart lad.
Aemond just needed to let his anger go and let God in, Criston had to do the same, his temper could be stormy. Then Aemond graduated and went off to study the sciences. Criston frankly thought he was done. He forgot. The twins were seniors and signed into his year-long Papal History elective.
He was now 32, and God really had sent him a test this time. In the form of good-natured Daeron’s wily sister. He had to send her to the Headmaster’s office the first day! The pale-haired girl was wearing an
indecent
skirt. One to catch long shapely legs.
He huffed and downed the rest of his scotch. He knelt before his icon of Christ and prayed. ‘Please my loving lord, I am afraid you shall test me, but give me the strength to pass through this.’ He felt strange. This girl was trouble. Criston wiped his face and grabbed his scotch again, one more would do for the night. He hissed, “FuckingfuckfucksticksFUCK!” Eyes widening he apologized to the empty room, “Forgive me my lord, that was uncouth.”
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It was November 1997. Father Cole thought about making a request to a parish to be their full-time priest. He suited up for the lovely worship of Mass, mood sour. Deacon Erryk was next to him, almost out of his seminary studies. Erryk hummed, “How’s the class this year?”
“A pain in my side. I have another Aegon Targaryen in the form of his youngest sister. She seeks to make me miserable.”
The man stifled a laugh and prodded, “Damn. Aegon was bad, he was in my class with you. My condolences Criston, pray that Mary will bless the girl with some sense.”
Criston grumbled, “Indeed.” He felt old. Erryk was about to be a priest now.
Mass went off good as gold, the younger altar boys falling into place easily. He could always see the believers and non-believers based on their actions. Some wouldn’t even stand when he entered the room, the cross bearer ignored too. If Criston could start throwing Holy Water he would, ingrates.
In the front row, Daeron and his sister sat. Criston tried not to grimace as he sat down in his chair. They’d have mass every Friday at the school. Confession on Tuesdays. Criston would teach a RCIA class next semester for those outside of the school at night.
She was staring at him, wearing another little dress with her button-up underneath the skinny straps. He could see her smokey eyeshadow and glossed lips, moving around a piece of gum. Daeron held himself in reverence, hands clasped. Criston turned away, he would not give the evil little blonde any satisfaction!
He shivered when she knelt and took the body of Christ, tongue lapping against his fingers with a licentious look. The priest almost yelped, moving onto the next. He was shaken for the rest of the ceremony. Maybe he should call for advice— no, no, they would think Cole some sort of deviant pedophile. That was a problem enough and she was merely being a temptress. ‘Son of a fucking BIIIIIIITCH’, he thought angrily. Then did the sign of the cross.
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The beleaguered priest sat at his desk during his planning period, grading papers. The headphones on his head played some songs— his only vice. He loved ‘radical’ music. So Criston kept that little secret to himself. He liked to belt rock ballads. Only by himself in the rectory.
How embarrassing. A grown man of the cloth.
The door opening had Criston jerking his head up, hand flicking off his walkman. He raised a brow when it was the little Targaryen and her mother, livid by her expression and wild red hair. She shoved the girl in a seat and crossed her arms.
Criston stood up and greeted the frankly scary woman, “Miss Hightowergaryen, oh, Hightower-Targaryen yes!” He peeked at teary red eyes, deadpanning, “And you.” The senior scoffed, “Good to see you too Father.” He ignored her quip and cautiously asked, “What seems to be the problem?” Alicent raved, “She’s going off the wrong path, just like Aegon. Guess where Aegon is, tell Father Cole please!” She gave her daughter a sharp look.
The girl mumbled something before getting a pinch to her arm. She croaked, “He’s in rehab! Rehab! Alright there mom!” The younger curled in and hid under her blonde hair, streaked with some sort of red dye.
He frowned but couldn’t say he was quite surprised. Criston offered, “My apologies, may he find the light of His way soon. Occasionally some rejoin the church or convert after getting clean and sober. Is there an issue with my student Miss?”
Alicent sighed, calming a bit and taking a deep breath. She looked up, doe eyes wide and pleading. The mother asked, “Can we go into your private office for a second Father?” She stopped and hissed, “Don’t you move an inch!”
A roll of violet eyes was the answer, pouting lips turning further downward.
Criston perched on his desk and tried to soothe the woman, “Alicent, relax my old friend, what can I do for you?” He offered a look of sympathy, watching her pace and run a hand wildly through her hair. The woman stopped in place and whimpered, “She’s so lost, I can’t screw up another one of my babies. I need you to keep an eye on her, pray and guide, something
Something so I know I tried.”
She looked very tired, taking a sharp breath in to chew at her nails. Alicent rambled, “She was so good, her and Daeron were so good. Then she turned sixteen and something happened, I don’t know what, and it’s gotten worse. She hates Sunday mass, like Aegon and Rhaenyra. I don’t want to lose her forever to whatever this is, straying off the path.”
He nodded contemplatively, hand on his chin, thinking. Alicent was in a state of chronic stress, even back when they were all in school. She married Rhaenyra’s father so young, nineteen to be exact. He felt a need to protect the woman of God, just trying her best to lead her children to heaven since Viserys did not seem to be in the picture.
He swore, “I’ll do my best, you have my word Alicent. God bless you, let me bless you.” He prayed over her and the tenseness seemed to leave her shoulders. Alicent smiled softly and thanked Criston, the pair of them exiting the office.
Her daughter remained seated, looking more miserable by the second. She gazed up with curious eyes, mouth still set in a pout. Alicent beamed, “Father Criston will be keeping an eye on you and reporting to me, okay? You will behave and try to learn that the path of the righteous is never easy.”
She raised a brow, “So I’m going to have my priest follow me around? That’s uncool.”
Alicent stiffened and remarked, “No. You’ll come to him when in trouble. You’ll be spending lunch with him too so you don’t go off and smoke like a vagrant. We will go sign it in with the headmaster now. Get up.”
Criston had to hold his jaw closed. He definitely did not know what he was signing up for. Hail Mary, full of grace rambled off in his head. This would be a tumultuous year for sure— inked and sealed onto paper. God bless him.
“I guess we’ll be the best of friends now,” she snarled tearily.
Criston placed a hand on her shoulder and hummed, “God works in mysterious ways Targaryen.” Internally he was climbing a mountain and shouting at the heavens like some Bible prophet. He was feeling very Job-like at the moment.
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First of all, he truly didn’t expect the girl to sit in his classroom during lunch. Criston raised a brow when she entered, slammed down her lunch and plopped down. She cocked her head and smiled, “Afternoon father.”
“Afternoon,” he replied, turning his gaze back upon the scripture he was annotating. Cole wanted to comment on her sudden chopping of that beautiful white-blonde hair, or the fact she smelled of minty cigarettes. She wasn’t supposed to be smoking.
It remained quiet until she blurted, “Do you smoke?”
Yes, in fact he did. But she didn’t need to know that. Criston murmured, “No I do not.” To which she lobbed back, “Is it not a sin to lie? I saw you in the parking lot! Also you smell like marlboros sometimes.” Her face turned bright red— like she had no control over her yapping.
Criston peeled off his glasses and sat back in his chair to level the girl with a stern look. He flatly stated, “Yes, good point, it was a sin for me to lie. Although as your teacher and priest I would not have you pick up bad habits,” he took a moment before asking, “How do I smell of cigarettes in class? Are you sniffing me?”
She stammered, “N-no! No! It’s just when you pass by, I don’t know, stop!”
Criston shook his head in concern, “Please do not sniff me in class, that’s, that’s strange.”
“I don’t sniff you! Quit saying that! Okay, enough of smoke talk! Hi how are you doing Father Cole?,” she animatedly gestured, eyes wild and cheeks pink.
He couldn’t help but snicker at her mad gestures. Snickers turned into genuine laughter, Criston slapping his desk a bit. A different hand slapping down on his desk made the man look up, donning a grin at her grumpy face. The littlest dragon hissed, “Ha-ha very funny. I asked you a question. Small talk, since I’m stuck here with you for lunch.”
Criston shrugged and replied, “Ask a better question, I don’t know how I’m doing half of the time. Especially having to babysit a legal adult.”
Her pout was endearing, the girl biting into her sandwich in an aggressive manner. She chewed and swallowed before blurting, “Is it true my half-sister dumped you in highschool?” Criston squawked in surprise, heaven on earth, how would she even get the knowledge? Rubbing the bridge of his nose he sighed.
“Yes, she dumped me. Didn’t want to stay chaste until marriage. That was a little personal don’t you think Miss Targaryen?”
She seemed to contemplate his words, sounding out her thoughts, “Now you’re a priest and she has like 2 baby daddies and a gay hubby. Cool. Love my family.” Her laugh was a sharp giggle, almost sarcastic in nature. Nothing like the torture of Aegon’s nonsensical shrieks.
Criston smiled a bit at the information, leaning back in his chair. He sucked on his teeth and asked her, “Why’d you cut off all your hair?” She narrowed her eyes and smiled, “I was wondering if you would make a comment, quote some scripture that shorter hair is for lesbians and therefore I’m going to hell.” The older man gaped and stared, almost choking at her blunt words.
“No- what? You’ve got some sort of an imagination!,” he sipped on a water bottle, offended she would assume he was that mean, “I think it fits you nicely, glad whatever dye you put in was lost in the chop.” He shook his head, muttering about lesbian scripture. She giggled again, content with flustering the priest.
Criston tried to hold off a headache as she yapped about school. He snorted a bit when she marked some of the students on the dot. Soon the bell rang and she packed up her lunch, swinging her backpack on. Stopping at the door she asked, “So what’s your poison of choice? I like the fancy camel ones.”
He stared blankly before deadpanning, “Marlboro reds, now begone Targaryen.”
Her endearing giggle echoed as she left, the door swinging shut. Criston sat back in his chair and sighed— she had spunk. He quite appreciated it. Maybe she was a gift to spice up his growing distaste of where his life was at.
His dark eyes widened. He’s got to be too young for a midlife crisis? Now he really wanted a cigarette.
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Father Criston Cole was indeed having a mid-life crisis. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, fitting his clerical collar on. Peering closer he inspected his face. He was still relatively young looking, hair not showing any grays. Practicing a smile he immediately dropped the grin. Crows feet. Great.
The priest shivered at the slight wrinkles. Why did he care? He didn’t have anyone to impress. A cheeky smile and icy eyeshadow, choppy blonde hair flitted through his mind. Goodness gracious he was her teacher, her priest, went to school with the girl’s parent. A spiritual guide!
This was bad. The damn girl had him wrapped around her ringed pinky. Bringing her little gifts, letting the blonde stay after school to chit chat. One time he let her cry on his shoulder, upset about rumors swirling. Criston heard a lot in the classroom.
Slut, whore, burnout, bitch.
He didn’t want to know what the little dragon got up to in her spare time but his knuckles did whiten at the thought of her not treating her body as a temple. Letting stupid boys have their way. Not like he could help. He was a priest and the farthest he’d ever gotten was smooching Rhaenyra and grabbing her tit before freaking out.
He needed to pray. Pray away these sinful thoughts. Guilt wracked his chest. He couldn’t turn the girl away either— he made a promise to Alicent. On a better note, her grades and attendance had improved. Ali called him once to thank the priest for helping her daughter. Although the girl still was apprehensive about faith. He didn’t push the subject; she didn’t bring it up. Maybe sometime soon.
Brushing back his curls, Criston sprayed cologne on his dark garb. He bought it on a self-indulgent whim. Maybe to cover the cigarette smoke, truly to entice a certain favorite student. Instead he was pestered by other girls bringing treats and batting their eyes at him. The man of the cloth could care less about the others. He was hopelessly haunted by his agnostic, rebellious student.
The man prayed some, did a Hail Mary before smoking a cigarette or five with his coffee. He was jittery at school now, worried that somehow a teacher or the elder nun would run and declare him a sinful wretch. Locking himself in the office until class time seemed like a good option.
He tried to grade some papers, mind drifting off to the increasingly heavy burden on his shoulders. Something needed to give— he was afraid what that might be. Deacon Arryk gave the homily that morning mass since Criston was out of sorts. Trying to not stare when she knelt and took the body of Christ. Playfully flicking his fingers with that tongue and saying ‘amen’.
Thank the Trinity and the saints he was covered head to toe in thick vestments. Hiding his cock just brought to mind Criston’s change in habit. Jerking off wasn’t a mindless activity anymore. He imagined plump lips and her raspy voice, teasing him, so delightfully mean. Then he’d flip her around and- he usually came with a pathetic noise by that point in the fantasy.
He pressed his fingers into his temples, groaning aloud. Doomed. Eternal hell. Purgatory sentence maximum if he got lucky. The second bell of the day woke the man from his racing mind. Criston straightened up and popped some gum in. Mary take pity on his soul. Satan himself was testing Criston. Although he couldn’t help but think she was anything but demonic.
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The next day the tired priest had to attend confession for two hours. Usually it wasn’t a laborious affair; most of the kids who attended were the devout sort and only had some venial sins. Daeron Targaryen was a regular attendee, his twin was not.
He thought he was done for the day, sighing in relief. The two hours were up. Until the curtain swished and someone entered. The brunette thought to groan and hit his head on the wood. Fuck him— sorry, forgiveness please Lord for the profanity.
Criston’s eyes widened when he heard a familiar voice. That lilting, teasing, raspy voice that was the specter of the nightmares and fantasies. He could faintly see the outline of her, that damn silvery blonde hair.
“Uhhh, bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been, uh, one year since my last confession?” She made the sign of the cross, bracelets jingling. Criston could snort— blondie was obviously reading off a note card. She remained quiet afterward.
He prodded, “Go on child.”
She huffed, “I’ve lied, slandered, gossiped about others. I’m inattentive in mass. I don’t respect my parents. I’ve been ungrateful, taking the lords body out of a state of grace. Obviously I’m egotistical, depraved of thoughts, I’m selfish.”
Father Cole swallowed.
She laughed blithely, “I could probably keep going except for mortal sins? I steal, sneak, deceive, suffer from jealousy and envy. Bad bad envy. Always want what I can’t have, y’know?”
He wanted to ask her to clarify
but had a feeling.
The twin’s voice lowered to a purr, “I think you’re waiting for the grand finale. I’m lustful, wanton, perform unnatural acts of sex. Inordinate affection, especially for men who are sworn to another. I defile myself to the thought of him.”
Criston gripped his black slacks roughly, cock swelling so fast he was pretty sure his vision had spots in it. He discreetly tried to readjust himself, swallowing back a whine. The man was no better than a horny boy— denying the pleasures of the flesh for so long.
“I’m a fornicator. Not lately. I can’t stop touching myself to the thought of him.”
The priest hadn’t stopped rubbing himself, biting on his bottom lip to shut up as she rambled on. Oh, it felt so goddamn good he was panting. Meanwhile from the other side he could hear her shifting, voice growing breathier as she talked.
“I think about him touching me, kissing me, those pretty lips and dark eyes only for me. I fucking hate when other girls talk to him— I slashed one’s t-tires.”
“No swearing,” Criston grunted.
“Sorry, where was I? I came so hard the other day wondering what his cock would feel like inside of me. I don’t know if y- he would last long but I’d keep riding, oh mmh!,” her breath hitched and he could hear slick noises from beyond the screen. She was touching herself in the booth. Touching herself. In the booth.
He leaned back, head thumping against the wood, practically humping his hand. Criston whined through his nose, mouth hanging open. The man was a goddamn mess, pleading, “You’d ride him huh? Until he got ready again?”
“Mhmmm, yeah, I’d put his pretty cock in my mouth until I felt him get hard. Hah, what do you think he would do to me?”
Oh holy spirits, he had no clue? Everything? He’d do anything? He drew on his fantasies and the dirty mag a boy brought to class once. Criston went home and asked forgiveness for seeing the woman
doing that.
His voice was much more desperate than he expected, tan cheeks turning a shade of darker red. Criston rambled, “I, oh heavens, he would do whatever she asked, maybe, maybe, put his mouth on her.”
He must have said the right thing, her breath quickened and he could see the outline of her arm moving faster. Emboldened, Cole practically whined, “He’d lick and suck at her until she was crying and grabbing his hair, ohfuckinghellfires!” Criston’s cock throbbed and twitched as he cursed and shoved a hand down his slacks.
“Yeah? Yeah? He’d eat me out? Suck on my clit, slip some f-fingers inside? I’d want it so bad,” she whimpered shakily. The priest panted and popped the button so he could fist himself easier, moaning shamelessly, scrunching his eyes closed.
The blonde’s voice was muffled, “Mmm- I’d take such good care of him, he could e-eat me out but I’d ride his cock until he couldn’t cum anymore, F-father please!” Criston could hear her squeal and his dark hair fell into his face as he curled inward. He babbled uselessly, rubbing himself as spurt after spurt of seed wetted his briefs.
There was a heavy feeling in the confession booth. The pair panted, sitting in silence. Shame poured over Criston like a bucket of ice. He quickly rearranged himself to not look like someone who just had the most intense orgasm of his life. The priest wanted to talk, truly, but he had no words.
So he bolted, ignoring her calls of his name. Criston kept moving, heading toward the rectory, he’d have to call out. Everything was spinning and he needed to just, just, he didn’t know. The stickiness in his pants was worsening the horrid feeling of being a pervert, he should’ve just sent her away. He will end this immediately tomorrow, for both of their souls if he hasn’t doomed them.
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She didn’t appear for lunch. Did appear for class, eyes blazing into Criston’s head. Daeron even coughed and shoved her. She was glaring, not writing a damn thing as he lectured about the battle of Lepanto. The priest’s palms began to sweat. He wished the clock would go quicker.
“I’ll get a ride home, don’t worry about me Dare,” she said after the bell rung, students packing up their bags. Daeron raised an eyebrow but shrugged, moving on. One girl attempted to approach Criston with some papers in hand.
The dragon hissed something and shoulder checked the girl— Criston reluctantly scolding the blonde. Like it mattered, the other girl hightailed it out of his classroom. Pale eyes landed upon his own dark orbs, a strange look on her face.
“Office,” she said. Cole wasn’t in the position to deny. He tossed and turned all night, fighting whether to say fuck it and hang up the cassock or dismiss her and never speak of it again. When she was in his presence it leaned toward the former.
Criston walked in first, closing the blinds while she followed him. The man’s head jerked up when he heard the sound of the door locking. Little Miss Targaryen was wearing a particularly form fitting version of the school uniform, tits pushed up under the white button-down. Suddenly Criston was swallowing drool.
She snapped, “Sit down.”
He grabbed her shoulders and shook the senior a bit, leaning down to growl, “Do you even know what the hell you’re getting into? This could ruin us both! You aren’t going to order me around, I’m the damn adult here, I swore to your mother!” He sounded desperate, weary.
She sneered up at him, unphased, “Sit down or I’ll leave and pretend this never occurred. I know you want it, you want me,” she yanked at his white collar, “Mommy doesn’t have to know, Father.”
Why Criston was like a dog at a damn eighteen year old’s commands? He wasn’t quite sure. His tongue was glued down anyways, only huffing as he perched on the chair. She padded closer, smelling of vanilla and some other perfume. He bit off a whine when she sat on his desk, thighs spreading, giving the priest a view of her lacy skimp of underwear.
“Fucking hell baby,” he pled, hands aching to touch.
“What? You sure were enjoying yourself yesterday.”
He moaned, “We shouldn’t— this could cost us our souls. The deceiver is manipulating us, a test. I lost my wits yesterday.” Criston’s fingertips dug into his leaner thighs, eyes flicking between her pretty smirk and the peak of baby pink panties. The girl hummed sadly, faux pout setting his heart to aching something fierce.
“What if it isn’t the devil? What if I’m just a gift, for you, just for you Father,” she leaned in to his face, “Think outside your little imposed box. Don’t you feel this?” She snatched one of his hands, pressing it upon her beating heart, her soft breast.
He looked guiltily to the side. Criston whispered, “If you were a gift then why is are my feelings so wanton and lustful?”
Purple eyes rolled. She hiked the skirt up, exposing pale thighs and her cute underwear. Criston whimpered under his breath, hand still on her breast, squeezing. The girl moaned, “Chaste love, no, I think he sent me just for you, maybe you had the wrong calling?” Criston threw caution to the wind— the festering in his head grew, rotting away his senses.
He’d already fucked up. Her points were making more sense by the second. Why not enjoy life before he spent the afterlife in torment? He peered at his favorite and rasped, “Show me what to do, putting my mouth on you. Can I touch you?” The brunette internally cringed at his whiny tone. She smiled victoriously, breath delightfully hitching, manicured hands unbuttoning her top.
Criston grabbed ahold of those pretty thighs, marveling at how smooth they were as he pulled them forward until her ass was the only thing perched on his desk. She squeaked and grabbed onto his dark hair, cheeks going blotchy with pink spots. The priest figured he’d have a little instinct, something long denied festering along with his sinful thoughts.
Right now he was face to face with her cunt and Criston had lost his bravado, brown eyes peering up at her. She smirked knowing she had the upper hand again. The Targaryen laughed, “Alright, panties off first Father. Do you even know female anatomy?”
He blushed darkly, ignoring the comment and yanking down those pretty panties. They matched her bra, her breasts spilling out of the push-up with heavy breath. He stuffed the lace underwear selfishly in his pocket. Criston gritted his jaw, cock pressing painfully hard against the fly of his pants. She was glistening, swollen, something he could only conjure up and still get it wrong.
“The clit is the nub at the top,” she breathed.
Criston searched her eyes with his own, abashed at the lack of knowledge before delving his face between silky thighs. He moaned pitifully, embracing the natural scent, her hand in his curls. The man lapped at her sopping hole, excitedly delving his tongue inside, already obsessed with the sweet nectar.
“Fffuck,” she whined, thighs tensing around his neck. Criston’s nose bumped against her clitoris, reminding him of the ‘magic spot’ he’d heard girls giggle about between class changes. He licked his way upward, moaning, ignoring his own need. Pink lips sealed around her button, tentatively suckling.
The blonde jerked and mewled, “Criston, Criston, yes Father!”
He flicked his tongue against the button, big hands keeping those strong thighs from closing. She was trying to scoot away from his onslaught on her, whining and shivering. Criston pulled back to rumble, “All that talk and you’re running from my tongue now little girl?”
“M’gonna fucking cum,” she half-sobbed.
The priest wasn’t going to give up. He kept his attentions on that bundle, even slipping two fingers inside her pussy, exploring until she keened again. More and more slick covered his chin and fingers, utterly lost in this divine feeling. The blonde’s legs were shaking now, breath coming in short sobs. She babbled something, one hand white knuckling the desk, the other knotted into Criston’s hair.
He wished he could have saved her shrill cry of his name as Criston pushed the younger woman over that edge. She gushed and spasmed, finally pushing him away to settle down. Her makeup was smudged, hair a fucking mess. Cole thought she never looked prettier.
He was goddamn insane over her and he knew it. The devil long had his claws gripped into the priest. The man just lied and ignored until he couldn’t. Criston grabbed her and placed her on his thighs, cock pulsing, him reaching down to relieve pressure.
The blonde wrapped her arms round his neck, pretty pink nipples exposed now, the push-up doing nothing to help. She plastered herself to his body, lips mouthing across his neck, murmuring, “You learn quick, s’good.” Criston rubbed at her back, slipping a hand down to her a handful of her cute ass.
She pulled back, pale eyes roving Criston’s face. He stared in a daze as she spoke in a sultry, raspy tone, “You’re so hard, wanna fuck you, lemme fuck you Father.” He couldn’t help but moan long and low at her desperate plea. His cock was fit to burst, straining his briefs now.
“I want it, I want it,” he gasped.
In a flurry of movement he yanked off the collar, it would sicken him to have it on. She pulled at the buttons, pausing to unhook her bra, Criston shoving down his pants and underwear. She moaned, placing hands on his chest and sliding down trim stomach until a little hand grabbed his ruddy cock.
He made a strangled noise, eyes rolling up in his head. No wonder people did this— sin was utterly sweet. Criston panted her name, about to guide her hips onto him. He paused, brows furrowing. The deceiver himself spoke through her voice, “I’m on birth control, doesn’t matter.”
That’s all he needed to hear, roughly lifting her to guide his cock into that slick pussy. Criston made a gutted noise as she slipped onto him. Warm, wet, so goddamn snug and gently ridged. He whined, straight up whined, “Don’t move, don’t move, baby baby oh— haaah!”
She purred and pressed soft tits against Criston, their shallow breathing intermingling. The female whispered softly, petting his shoulders and arms, “S’okay, breathe, relax.”
Criston shook from head to toe, exhaling sharply, pitiful noises escaping a raw throat. He pressed his swollen lips to her forehead, forcing rapid breathing to a calmer state. Still, still, the brunettes balls throbbed and twitched.
He was gonna fuck her dammit. He’d gotten this damn far, his darkest desire to fuck and fill her up after more than two pumps would kill Cole. She teased, hands back on his chest, playing with his medals, “You can do it Father, you’re not so twitchy.”
He shook his head silently, focusing on the task at hand. Father Criston Cole could never deny his sweet little dragon. She’d started squirming and whining on his lap, slick soaking his loins. He took a tentative thrust upwards, lashes fluttering.
The dam broke loose.
Criston fucked and groped, lips messily smacking against her pretty plump pout. She rode him in earnest, meeting him thrust for thrust. The chair squeaked, they moaned, grunted, cried out, a feral quality to the sacred act. He was soaking in the slaps of skin, her hitches of breath, chanting his name like a damn litany.
Criston grabbed onto her hips, planting his feet on the floor, biting his lip and scrunching eyes tight. He was moaning and moaning, drool slipping out between searing kisses. His balls were drawing tight— pounding with the need of his release.
He shoved her upwards onto the desk, thrusting brutally as she cried in ecstasy. Criston pled, “M’gonna cum, c-can’t stop, oh fuck.” She cried, “Yesyesyes don’t you dare stop, m’close!” The older man felt his balls slapping against her ass, eyes rolling up again.
His orgasm hit him like a ton of bricks, Cole mouthing at perky tits, moaning as his release soaked her pussy. It was like he was floating. She bit down on her hand to muffle a wail, arching into him, cunt convulsing and wetting him further.
But Criston couldn’t stop. He kept fucking through the oversensitive pain, sounding like he was in agony as he pounded into her. Their mixed releases made everything slide easier, his turgid cock not softening. He babbled, “Not done, another baby, take it for me, take me please.”
The blonde’s only response was clinging to his tan body, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped tight around his waist. She sobbed harder, “Do it do it— oh my God!” Criston whined her name through his nose, drunk off the feeling, not even aware of the blasphemy.
The office grew hot, noises of flesh and high sounds filling the small space. He couldn’t shut the fuck up either, rambling, “Wet baby, can’t help myself, gotta do it, fuck it all! M’still full up, gotta stuff you baby, how can I hngh not?” He reached down between them to circle haphazardly at her abused clit, the pretty thing writhing on his dick.
Another peak was approaching, he was already leaking, ready to empty another load deep inside her eager pussy. She tightened around him as he pinched her clit, crying real tears now, his name on her tongue like a broken record. Criston wetly cried into her fragrant neck, shoving himself deep inside to give her that last load.
He made a noise, she made a noise, everything growing foggy and distant.
Next thing he recalled was his demon, angel, twisted boon cuddled in his lap, tits still out. They were a sticky mess and he hoarsely asked, “How, ugh, long?”
“A couple of minutes. You went a little dumb there and I had to get your limp ass back into this chair,” she pressed her head into his chest, Criston naturally setting his chin on her head. His hands were slowly moving up and down her flanks. He still felt a bit dumb, dazed from the intense situation.
“You,” he swallowed, “Are a gift
I believe.”
She smiled softly, pecking his lips. The Targaryen mumbled, “We need to get ourselves together, I need a ride home.” Criston nodded, clinging tighter to her frame. He stammered, “O-okay, discuss this another time?”
“Sure, but after I show you what a blow job feels like.”
He didn’t object. The collar sat out of his sight, anything he once cherished gone from his mind. She took that place. He was irrevocably, obsessively infatuated. “I’ll have to leave my position after this year,” he murmured. She looked at him, a concerned look on dainty features.
“I think I’ll be around, will you?”
He remained silent, answer obvious in the air. He’d get down on his knees again and beg to never lose this gem. Fucked up from the get-go. For once, Criston Cole didn’t care. He kissed her instead.
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marthawrites · 2 years ago
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Darkened Corridors
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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!
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"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 ♄
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teenagecriminalmastermind · 4 months ago
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blue blood - chapter 4 (an aemond targaryen x team black daughter fanfiction)
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reply to this post if you want to be on a taglist!
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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.” 
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cirqqq · 2 years ago
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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.
â€œæˆ‘ä»Žæ­€äžæ•ąçœ‹è§‚éŸłâ€
(this is actually inspired by a famous quote from the Chinese love tragedy story Butterfly Lovers/Liang Zhu)
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factorydefaultlu · 2 years ago
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Aemond's anger burned.
If you caused his wrath, you'd quickly know it.
He'd drag you by the hair, by the arm or throw you over his shoulder to get you somewhere quiet to bend you over a bed if you are lucky, a table if you aren't.
In his fiery wrath he will rain holy hell down on you in swift, unyielding and unrelenting blows, no matter how much you cried or pleaded or begged.
Then he'd fuck you, bent over as you are, making sure the buckles of his open belt, the leather of his trousers or the fabric of his tunic brushed over your bruised and reddened skin with each sharp and deep stroke.
But as his blazing fury turned to embers, his hands would lace with yours, his breath would warm the back of your neck, his lips would leave gentler marks and by the time he spilled his warm seed inside you, all would be forgiven.
~
Alys anger froze.
If you caused her wrath, you'd quickly know it.
Her eyes would threaten to freeze over even the great sea as she'd glare at you, across a hall or even just your bedroom. She never came to you, no, you had to come to her, sometimes with, sometimes without knowing what you had done to upset her and beg on your knees for her forgiveness.
She'd punish you for days, not with painful touches, but a lack thereof, not with harsh words but with none at all.
It was as if you were invisible to her, as if she didn't need you, or at least not nearly enough as you needed her, as if you had never even existed.
It made you feel closer to madness than forgiveness.
If you wanted that, you'd have to earn it, on your knees and with your tears.
Seven help you if you ever angered them both at the same time.
~ ❄
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qarl-grimes · 2 years ago
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Little Secrets: Three (Final)(Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader)
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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. 
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