#never let the dragon flame burn down | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ivypos-writes · 6 months ago

Text

i have often dreamed of those fires

— aemond targaryen

summary: He’s a firestorm. Her skin burns in his hands.

Or, marriage is her first duty. The second comes in the insurmountable task of seducing her own husband.

warnings: 18+, aemond x wife, arranged marriage, soft and insecure aemond, and a horny wife, he’s touch-starved, sexual tension, first times, fingering, p in v, multiple orgasms, smut with a sprinkle of plot, and the plot is just seduction before the smut

word count: 7.5k

notes: giving in to the brainrot while waiting for s2. english is not my first language. all reviews are very appreciated! thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

MASTERLIST

She spends the first night of her marriage in solitude.

The bedchamber bears no resemblance to the one she owned all her life. The lights are subdued, and a darkness her eyes have yet to get used to rules over every corner. It’s spacious; kept immaculately polished, as befitting a member of the royal family. That’s who she is now, regardless if she feels the part or not.

Prince Aemond—her husband, her husband—left the walls of the room in a hurry, as though scorched by fire. It is a silly thought. He is a dragon prince, and surely doesn’t fear flames.

He seems to fear her, though.

They entered the bedchamber as instructed by tradition, not quite hand in hand, but not too far apart, either. Her ladies rushed after to assist her in undressing; to unpin her hair, letting the waves cascade down her back; to cover her skin with a slip of a dress, more translucent than anything she’d ever worn. She was then left in just the nightgown, with her cheeks tinted pink. Once the ladies deemed her prepared, she was abandoned by all but her husband.

Later came silence.

It must have been the tears that dissuaded him. Once they began to flow, all of Prince Aemond’s attempts to breach the distance between them ceased. She was too shaken to speak; before she could gather her thoughts, he had already left.

Marriage is her duty to the realm. To her family who strived to ensure the best possible match. Marriage is to become her battlefield, and her life, and if the gods are kind—oh, please, let them be kind—it would eventually become a source of joy.

Only she sits alone amidst alien walls and furniture, and there is no trace of contentment she might have once envisioned.

How is she to find happiness, she thinks bitterly, when her husband refused to touch her once?

“Husband,” she greets him, and her voice miraculously doesn’t waver.

He is standing in the entrance to the bedchamber, stiff and pale, with dark shadows marring the underside of his eyes. Pink scar peaks from beneath the leather eyepatch he seems to never part with. His robes are as black as they were every time they have seen one another. He wears darkness like an armour.

Prince Aemond isn’t carved in shapes of impudent rowdiness that she now knows his brother wields to compel attention. There is a quietude in him; a softness coming through the sharp lines of his features. He keeps his face artfully blank; most of the time, it doesn’t betray a single emotion. She does not attempt to look into his eye. She fears that all she’ll find there is repulsion.

“My lady,” he says. Not wife. “I shall escort you to the feasting hall. The Queen wishes for us to break our fast in her company.”

His words lack warmth, though perhaps she should not have expected that from him. Prince Aemond doesn’t seem to possess much fire at all, what with the stone-cold composure he seems to cling to. She wonders if it is only a masterfully crafted mask; if there are any flames deep beneath its layers, flickering and crackling.

She smothers her silent musings. Hurt still lingers inside her.

The Queen may be the only kind face within these walls. Princess Helaena seems to always be lost in her own mind; Prince Aegon is never sober, and on the rare occasions that he is, it seems best to avoid him altogether. She cannot search for a companion in her ladies, or servants, and certainly not in any man.

She is alone.

And her husband doesn’t even want to touch her.

Scarlet shame rises to her chest, and she hopes that it’s not painted all over her cheeks. The Queen will know. She will look at her once, and immediately she’ll realise that she remains untouched.

Perhaps she knows already, and it is the reason for her summons. Perhaps she means to scold her, and berate her, and shame her for all nobles in the Red Keep to see.

Have the servants scanned the linen sheets? She doesn’t recall anyone looking for proof of the newfound union, but surely, they must have.

She swallows her trepidation down and forces her face to remain blank. She cannot decline. It is her duty to obey the Queen’s orders, and this one, she is capable of fulfilling.

When the newlyweds walk down the corridor, it feels like they are miles apart.

Solitude is all she knows.

Her days are filled with nothing of true meaning. She is mostly left to her own devices, be it embroidery or soaking up the sun. She traverses the foreign walls; explores the royal gardens; consumes book after book, hungry for entertainment. Sometimes, she joins Princess Helaena and her children, and they sit beside each other in complete silence.

It is not a bad life. She is luckier than most, she knows, though this fact does little to dissipate her desire for more. She wishes to be alive. She wishes for her smiles to be genuine. To be more than the pretty wife of a prince made of marble.

In truth, she isn’t even that.

Her marriage is not a marriage at all—not in the eyes of the gods—and all the freedom she now has is fleeting. She may lounge about in the courtyard, and eat the best cakes in the entire realm, and read every book to exist, but it’ll take less than a moment for the privileges to be lost.

“My prince.”

She hasn’t called him husband again. They shared all of a dozen words since their wedding night. Prince Aemond is clearly intent on avoiding her company, choosing to spend his time in the training yard or the libraries, and it doesn’t appear that he has even an ounce of desire to change this routine.

He is halfway to the door. Her eyebrow arches.

“Are you leaving?” she asks.

She falls asleep alone and awakes in the same manner, but she never thought that the Prince abandoned the bedchamber completely. Before, she imagined that he slept little.

He didn’t. He simply slept elsewhere.

“I wouldn’t wish to make you uncomfortable with my presence.” He strides over to the door without once meeting her gaze, and his hands clutch a collection of books. “The bed is yours.”

Her voice is harsher than she intends when she spits out, “The bed is meant to be shared.”

The Prince stops in his tracks; she traces the line of his spine when he straightens.

It must be the first time that he looks at her. Not even the vows they exchanged prompted him to meet her gaze. The last rays of sun that crawl through the window turn the purple of his eye a warmer shade.

“Do you—” she begins, and the tip of her tongue wets her lips when they suddenly go dry. Her throat closes up. She pushes herself to continue, “Do you find me repulsive, my prince?”

He must. She has heard many stories of marriage—both good and bad—and none spoke of husbands that refused to touch their wives.

Surely, there must be something wrong with her. Perhaps it is her hair that he dislikes, or her nose, or her lips. Perhaps he imagined her to look completely different, and there is no feature she possesses that pleases him.

Prince Aemond says nothing.

She picks her next words carefully.

“I know that I’m not a wife of your own choosing.” Her hands fidget, and she grabs onto her skirt to keep them occupied. “Neither are you the husband I wanted.”

Warmth. Gentleness. When she was a girl, she pictured a man who would hold her in his arms without shame. She imagined true affection and devotion. It’s been long since ascertained that Prince Aemond is not that husband. That her dreams have always been just dreams.

He doesn’t meet her eyes, and she finds herself vexed by his continued insistence to remain detached. She searches his face for scraps of emotion and finds none. He wields indifference like a sword.

She cannot so easily yield.

Her voice drops; nails sink into the skin of her palms. “You must understand, my prince, that it is me they’ll treat with contempt, should they ever find out.”

And they will. Of course, they will. Her womb will remain empty, and soon they’ll point their fingers at it and pronounce it barren. Humiliation will be hers to swallow; disgrace will fall upon her head like a thorned veil. They will feel pity for the Prince, to be certain, but not for her. Never for her.

The Prince’s hands tighten around the books, but it is the only reaction she receives.

He must not care for her at all. Why should he? She is but a stranger.

But they are now bound to each other. Strangers or not, their lives are intertwined.

She pushes closer to him, and finally, finally he raises his head.

“An untouched wife is no wife at all. It’s a breach of my oaths.”

There is a trace of contemplation on his face. It comes with a crease between his eyebrows, and the slightest twitching of his lips. Prince Aemond lets out a quiet hum, and she must strain her ears to catch its sound before it’s gone.

When their eyes meet, her heart lights up in flames.

“I will not touch you when there’s nothing but fear in your eyes.”

He is gone before she can retaliate.

There is a shift in his demeanour, though it comes hesitantly; with reluctance.

Prince Aemond enters the bedchamber while she’s seated by the vanity. She now recognises the sound of his footsteps—light and unrushed, often reminding her of a predator on a hunt. Her fingers become motionless, weaved into the intricate plaits atop her head. She warily waits for whatever comes next.

They have fallen into a habit of keeping one another at arm’s length. There is a barbed line that divides them, and neither is willing to cross it first.

Fear. This is what he thinks rules inside her heart. He never let her refute—now, she thinks it would have been pointless to even try. There might have been fear that shrouded her expression, but it was never induced by him. She feared the pain, and feared the unknown, but never, never feared the Prince.

He must think himself appalling. Capable of evoking dread. The realisation hits her like a tidal wave. She recalls whispers murmured in shadowed corners, all vicious and biting; wonders how many of them he has heard before. The scar on his face has been there for years. The Prince must have endured constant torment.

Whatever it is that they see—monstrosity, abomination, hideousness—her own eyes perceive nothing of the sort.

Prince Aemond is quite handsome. In truth, he is so striking that her heart jumps out of her chest each time she catches a glimpse of him.

It threatens to jump out now, when she sees him meeting her gaze without the usual aloofness.

He takes a hesitant step forward.

She freezes.

They are never alone. She sees him when they dine, and when he trains, and when he’s lost in another book. She sees him in daylight. In crowds.

Never like this.

There is a silent resolution that she notes in the tight line of his lips. Aemond comes closer, and closer, and doesn’t stop until his heat trickles down her spine.

She holds her breath when his fingers weave in between the strands of her hair.

Prince Aemond’s face betrays nothing. She watches his reflection so intensely that she forgets to blink, and all the while he keeps his expression blank. His fingers are warm. Gentle.

Just hours before, they were holding a sword and aiming it at his opponent.

It certainly feels as if he put a sword to her own throat. She can barely breathe.

His movements are slow and careful. One after another, he unravels the braids, mindful not to tug at her hair. His skilled fingers smooth out the tangles, and every once in a while, they come to her scalp to caress it in a soothing manner.

She traces the curve of his jawline, and the mangled flesh, and the dark eyepatch. He looks rough and feels soft. He is made of contradictions.

When he takes out the last little pin, she breathes out.

It is the first time that he has touched her.

For a fleeting moment, their eyes meet. She wishes to wipe at the mirror, if only to make its image clearer. Has he always been this delicate? Is the glint in his gaze a novelty?

When he clears his throat and averts his eye, his intention to leave becomes explicit. Tension dissipates. This time, she makes no objections.

“Sweet dreams, my prince,” she mutters, and the answer comes in the soft closing of the door.

Her head emerges from beneath the water surface, and she greedily takes air in.

She has wasted her day on blissful procrastination. For the entirety of it, she remained inside the bedchamber, shielded from all eyes and gossip, obstinately rejecting the company of anyone who dared offer it. These people know nothing about her, anyway. Their wish to spend time with her is masterfully feigned.

Sometimes, she misses her home. She misses it so terribly that her lip trembles. She misses being known. Despite the passing time, she has yet to acclimate herself to the new reality. The Red Keep feels as cold as it ever has.

Would she be dismissed, she wonders, if they knew that her marriage was a farce? Would she be ruined, or given a chance to start over?

Perhaps she ought to confess the truth.

Or maybe—just maybe—she should seek out her husband and push him into a wall, and claim his lips until all restraint dies.

Her depraved thoughts seem to summon him.

Aemond enters the bedchamber in his usual manner, and immediately turns back towards the door once he catches sight of her state.

Her breasts peak from the foamy water.

Her skin tints red.

“You don’t have to leave,” she calls out.

The words are quick. Too quick to come across as nonchalant. She bites her tongue, but doesn’t take them back. Perhaps she has reached another level of desperation, and this is the only opportunity she gets to let it run free.

He is more dragon than a man. He cannot keep running from her in fear. She sees the moment that Prince Aemond seems to come to the same conclusion; his hand flexes at his side, once and then again. His shoulders become tense.

She is quick to bite back her smile when he turns around. He wouldn’t have seen it, either way, what with the way he keeps his eye stubbornly downcast.

As if she wasn’t his wife. As if seeing her bare skin was a sin.

Reluctantly, with his head courteously bowed, he moves to take a seat by the table, reaching out for a random book.

Water ripples when she sinks deeper into the bath. If he has no desire to see her, she will not strive to bear herself before him.

The silence is heavy.

“Did you go out for a flight?” she asks, itching to dissipate the suspense.

The Prince hums, as is his habit, and offers a slight nod. “I did. It’d been days since I last rode Vhagar.”

This is a part of him shielded at all times. He keeps it deep in the crevices of his heart—in its darkest, deepest corners. She doesn’t blame him for it. Even without understanding the nature of the fire in his blood, she recognises it as something private. Intimate.

But it is the first time that he spoke the name in her presence, and she cannot hold the reins of her unabashed curiosity.

“When you’re apart,” she begins, “does her absence feel like a missing limb?”

The Prince’s eye turns to her, and though they are far from one another, she is able to catch a glimpse of intrigue.

Briefly, she ponders whether anyone has ever dared ask him unpracticed questions like this. If there was someone who wanted to know him—his innermost beliefs and convictions, and his soul. If anyone attempted to push through the walls he has built around himself.

She supposes that the slightest widening of his eye is an answer in its own right.

Prince Aemond doesn’t immediately reply, and she bites her tongue. “Forgive me, my prince. It is not my right to ask.”

“You’re my wife,” he says simply. It is the first time he acknowledges it. “You have the right to ask anything of me.”

Keeping her bewilderment subdued, she arches an eyebrow when he nods to himself.

“It doesn’t.” Prince Aemond clears his throat, fingers fidgeting against the pages of his book. “It doesn’t feel like a missing limb. Even in her absence, I always sense her.”

It must be the most that he’s ever said to her.

The water has gone lukewarm. Goosebumps rise atop her skin. She could politely request that he take his leave in order to get out of the bath. She could.

She won’t.

“So a part of her lives inside you?”

He turns, and now they are facing one another.

Has the foam dissipated? She doesn’t dare take her eyes off of him, and so she cannot check. If the foam is gone, he can see the outline of her body. Does he see it?

No, she thinks. Surely, he would have already looked away.

“As does a part of me inside her,” he admits. “In more ways than not, we are one being.”

One being. Is this why he refuses to let her come close? Is it because there is no more space in his heart left for her to rest in?

It seems a plausible enough theory. In truth, all theories seem to be true when she’s wallowing in solitude and sorrow and rejection.

“It must be nice,” she murmurs, and this time she is the first to break eye contact, “to be known from the inside. Intimately. In the deepest crevices of your heart.”

Something in him changes. She catches it when she glances at him. The Prince’s hand abandons the book, and when he stands from his seat, she is sure that he’ll leave.

But he doesn’t. She gapes at him when he comes closer to the bath.

“Scoot over,” he instructs.

Her mouth parts, ready to sputter questions, but they all dissolve into nothing when she catches the intensity in his gaze.

She holds her tongue. No words could reflect the depth of her confusion.

Prince Aemond now watches her without past shame.

The scent of fire and smoke permeates the air, and she inhales it sharply. His heat engulfs her back in gentle flames, and she draws her knees to her chest, oddly bashful.

When she does as instructed, he is quick to put his hands on her scalp. A gasp falls from her lips at the touch.

He is washing her hair.

Does he hear her heart pounding? It’s so loud. So very loud.

“It does feel good.” His fingers weave through her hair. “Before her, there was no one who wished to know my heart at all.”

They dine with the Queen, and she engages in conversation with a desperate sort of enthusiasm. The past days have mostly gone in perturbing silence, and she yearns for the opportunity to erase it, even with idle talk. They speak of the gardens, and the ladies-in-waiting, and Princess Helaena’s children that seem to be growing more and more each day.

Aemond holds his tongue beside her, and the quietude in which he wallows no longer takes her aback. More often than not, his silence speaks for itself. All she must do is look into his eye to comprehend the words.

“Children are a woman’s greatest joy,” the Queen rambles on, and there is a softness in her face that takes away all remnants of the usual misery that she wields. “It is only a matter of time before you’ll find it yourself.”

She straightens her spine.

Words die inside her throat. Does she smile and change the subject? Does she confess that she will not find it—she’ll never find it—because her husband has no desire to be a husband at all? All protests and confirmations and pretty promises are insufficient. She thinks it is better not to speak at all.

She nearly jumps out of her seat when something warm engulfs the skin of her palm. It’s Aemond. He has taken her hand into his, and the way he holds her is both gentle and firm.

Do they not fit perfectly? Aemond’s hand is larger than hers; its lines are harsher. She lets their fingers lace together, and when she hesitantly turns her eyes towards him, she finds him already watching her.

He holds her gaze with unmasked expression, as if to say: this is me trying.

She is possessed by a surge of boldness.

The lights of the chamber are dimmed, and she is long prepared for the night. There is a tremble in her hands. She cannot discern if it’s one of trepidation or excitement.

Aemond offers nothing more than his usual greeting when he stalks into the room. It’s neither warm nor cold; as always, it’s not enough. She watches him stride towards the table, and he sinks onto the chair, hands reaching for one of the books.

He doesn’t truly read them. It took her a while, but she now sees right through his habits. Aemond repeats the same exact process every night. He sits with a book, and keeps his eye downcast, and sometimes—just sometimes—his gaze moves towards her when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Each day, he comes back not to read, but to see her.

Each day, she waits for him to act.

There are moments when they touch, and when their touches linger longer than they should. There are moments when he takes her hand into his, or brushes hair away from her face, or grabs her waist as he walks by. There are moments that she allows herself to push closer to the heat that he radiates.

She is tired of surviving on moments alone.

With her breath unsteady, she waits.

Aemond taps his fingers against the surface of the table, and she cannot help but observe the motion. His rings shine in the flickering lights.

“What are you reading?” she asks, keeping the buzzing anticipation on a leash.

His shoulders tense. She never interrupts his lectures.

The floors are cold beneath her bare feet. She keeps her pace slow. The distance between them shrinks, and soon she is standing right behind him.

Aemond’s heavy exhale hits her ears. She wishes she could preserve the sound.

With her shaky hands, she reaches for his shoulders. He is firm and solid; strong and warm. Scorching. When he says nothing—when he doesn’t move away—she lets her hold on him tighten. Just this once, she wants to touch him as though he was hers. Like a wife ought to. The way she never learned how to.

Emboldened by his stillness, she bends closer; their faces are at level. She brushes away the silver strands of hair that shield him from her, and soon she is free to take the sight of him in.

The line of his lips is thin and tight. There is a small, white scar on his temple. His skin catches the slightest hint of pink, and it crawls onto his cheeks in gradual motion. He is right there—right there—and her mouth is dry. She puts her lips to the soft skin of his cheek before she can hesitate again.

Aemond’s breathing turns rugged. She sees the rise and fall of his chest, quicker with every inhale. Her fingertips burn with the want to feel his heartbeat.

When she grabs the book he holds in a vice grip, he turns to her.

Their noses brush.

The air is gone. There’s nothing left of it. Her gaze trails from his eye to his mouth, and they’ve never been this close.

It takes the smallest tilting of her head for their lips to meet.

She is blinded. Flames flood her vision. Her heart bruises her ribs, and Aemond’s fire burns her tongue, and never before did she imagine that a kiss could leave her so ruined.

He is quick to match her pace. His mouth moves against hers with a brutal force; he breathes her in, and she catches the silent groan before it dissolves. She nibbles at his bottom lip, hungry for more, and when their tongues mingle, she no longer remembers her name. He’s sweeter than any cake she’s ever tasted, and she wishes to forever devour him—to never, never stop.

But then his lips are gone. Strong arms seize her hips, and he effortlessly moves her away from him.

She doesn’t understand. Aemond shoots out of the chair, and rushes towards the door, and she watches his shrinking figure—always, always watches him leave.

She senses his gaze on her skin.

An entire day has gone by, and she’s long since stopped expecting Aemond to return. Her heart has turned into stone. She forced it to do so.

And now he’s standing there. Watching.

“Am I not worthy of your affection?”

She regrets the obvious cracking of her voice, though there is little to do about it now. He isn’t deserving of the mask of collectedness that she could attempt to put on. She will not veil her hurt. Because he chose to cause it, he may well see its aftermath.

Aemond doesn’t answer. She knew that he wouldn’t.

“Is it because there’s no fire in my blood that you deem me below you?”

She turns, eager to see his features, and then almost wishes that she hadn’t. There is something broken about him. His face is ashen, marked by shadows of exhaustion. His lip quivers.

“I’m chained to you,” she half-whispers. “The least you could do is not tighten the shackles around my neck.”

“I never wished for it.”

“I never wished for it, either!”

There is a dull ache in her chest. The stranger before her won’t meet her eyes, and she loses her footing again, alone and tired and desperate for a change.

She won’t beg. She’ll never beg.

But she is not yet ready to stop pushing.

“You won’t even let me close.”

Aemond’s face crumbles, and she finds nothing in him but raw, agonising vulnerability.

“It is not easy to learn something so foreign.”

Her fingers find the lacings of his riding leathers.

They have succumbed to a heavy sort of silence. It stretches and grows; haunts their days and nights with equal intensity. She allows this quietude to exist with a trace of vindictiveness inside her bones. If one of them ought to break it, it is him.

As always, he prepares to leave with the first mark of sunset. She bites back all protests rising to her lips. She will not speak. Her words do little more than fall upon deaf ears.

She allows herself this much: crumbs of him, all stolen, when she stands close and brushes her fingers against his clothes. She ignores his scent, and his warmth, and the way her skin itches with the want to press closer.

Aemond’s eye scorches the skin of her cheeks.

He hasn’t moved away. She is glad not to have been forced to choke on scarlet shame—to have him flee her touch again would be the end to all the lingering remnants of hope. Aemond stands still and stiff, and she is half-convinced that he’s holding his breath.

She freezes in her tracks when one of his hands grabs both of hers into a gentle embrace.

The tips of his fingers are calloused. He strokes her skin with his thumb, and she clings onto the last of her composure, unwilling to melt before him.

A single touch. That’s how much it takes to shatter her resolve.

“You’re too good,” he says, and the words are little more than a whisper. “Pure. My hands could only ever ruin you.”

Her eyes find his, and she wishes she could decipher what remains unspoken by looking at him alone. She wants to know his heart and his mind. She wants to know all his thoughts.

Her greedy fingertips trace the lines of his palm. His hand trembles.

“How could something so gentle ruin?”

He has only ever held her with meticulous cautiousness. She knows his touch as tender and attentive. Warm. Doesn’t he see the shivers he evokes? Doesn’t he know that they come from fondness and devotion and the deep affection that she drowns in? He cannot ruin her. His hands are not capable of it.

Aemond doesn’t believe her. His vulnerability shows through the cracks of his usual composure. He tries to enshroud himself in indifference, but she has long since learned his mannerisms. The mask of blankness will not deceive her.

He attempts to tear his hand away, but she tightens her hold.

“Look at me, husband.”

It is a demand. Aemond must recognise it as such, because the lowered eye flickers and gives in.

Because she is a woman of weakness, she lets herself put a hand on his cheek. Her fingers hook under the strap of the eyepatch. She hears him gasp for air, and the sound reverberates in her ears like a prayer.

Her heartbeat is wild and strong, and she whispers, “Don’t you see? There is no fear in my eyes.”

The memory of his gaze induces odd tremors long after he departs.

The mattress dips behind her.

There is an onslaught of heat that spreads over her bare skin, though she has yet to discern what it stems from. The air goes still. Heavy.

It begins with a fingertip tracing the length of her forearm. The touch is featherlike—no more than a gentle stroke that lacks any pressure. So light. So light, barely even there, and yet at once she is consumed by flames.

“Husband,” she breathes into the night.

A rush of hot air hits her ear when he whispers an answering, “Wife.”

Aemond’s fingers traverse the expanse of the skin that isn’t covered by blankets. He moves from the side of her palm, through the nook of her elbow, higher, higher. His hand reaches her shoulders; fingers spread towards the outline of her collarbone, dipping into the crevices and searing a string of goosebumps into her skin. She holds her breath. Her heart pounds against her chest in violent patterns.

He smells of smoke. She wishes to inhale his fragrance until she chokes on it; until it fills her lungs and replaces all oxygen. Aemond presses closer to her, and she holds back a whimper when he moves his hand to her neck.

“I have neglected you,” Aemond murmurs.

“You have.”

“And now I must beg your forgiveness.”

Aemond’s hand closes around her throat, and she holds back a gasp.

Their bodies are pressed together. She exhales in surprise when she finds his forearms as bare as hers. He must have abandoned his shirt before crawling into bed.

Their bed. The bed that is supposed to be shared.

“I rather thought your constant neglect was deliberate practice,” she says, forcing her voice not to crack. “Why would you beg forgiveness for something you feel no remorse about?”

A gasp tears out of her throat when Aemond seizes her arm and flips her onto her back.

Their faces are close; closer than she thought they’d ever come again. In the pale moonlight, his features become soft and veiled. She wishes she could see him in sharp lights; wishes to trace every blemish and mark on his skin. This subdued version of him is not sufficient. She must imprint every part of him in her mind.

When he hums, her own skin vibrates with the sound.

She clamps her legs together.

“Yes,” he muses. “You have voiced your displeasure with astonishing fervour.”

Her lips part when one of his legs sneaks in between hers. He is quick to push her knees apart.

“As was my right,” she replies, and the words come out as breathless.

Aemond’s thigh is solid. She feels the flexing of his muscles against her own skin. Her nightgown rides up from the friction, and soon her calves are left exposed.

“You said you were chained to me.”

“And it was the truth.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when you pretend that you’re not chained to me as well.”

Slightly, slowly, she pushes her head up. His breath hits her cheek; her lips come so close to his chin that she could press them against it without straining.

Aemond’s fingers tighten their hold on her neck.

Their eyes meet, and it is fire clashing with fire. The purple gives way to a deranged darkness; Aemond’s face is unmasked. She looks at him and holds her breath. Looks at him until everything in the background blurs. Her trembling fingers reach to cup his jaw, and when they connect with the soft skin, he lets out a quiet gasp.

“I do it for your own sake,” he breathes out. “You know nothing about the depravities living in my mind.”

She trembles when his thumb comes up to caress her lips.

“So good. So pure.” Aemond trails the outline of her mouth, voice dropping with each word. “And yet you’ve instilled a madness in me that I can no longer quench.”

She wants to grab him by the neck and pull him closer. She wants their lips to press together; to meld into one, and turn to ashes from the force of flames. Does he know that she dreams of the shape of his lips? Does he know that her eyes trace it when he’s reading—that she now knows it by heart? His taste haunts her. Sometimes, she puts her warm fingers onto her mouth and imagines that the heat is him. Sometimes, she touches herself and imagines his lips nibbling on a different spot.

Keeping her scorching desire leashed, she remains still.

It is he who must cross the remaining distance. It is he who must light up the flames.

His hand comes up to her face. Her cheek tickles from his fingertips; lashes flutter when he brushes his thumb against them. She opens her mouth—to taunt him, or curse him, or beg. She only knows that she must say something. Anything. She cannot let this fire die. Her head spins and her skin tingles—

And then his mouth is on hers.

It is a hungry kiss. He aims to devour her. She moans into his lips when he bites down; he shifts his weight, and her skin burns underneath his body. Aemond holds her chin; tilts it to his liking, claiming her mouth with greed and lust and depravity. She forgets to breathe. There is no need for air when he’s this close.

Out of fear that he’ll try to move away, she wraps her arms around his broad shoulders. His skin is scalding-hot, and she cherishes the way it burns.

She licks his bottom lip, demanding entrance, and he is quick to oblige. Their teeth clink, and she pulls him closer, and soon their tongues swirl around one another, none willing to yield. He tastes like fire. She wants to swallow him whole.

They break apart when his fingers grab the fabric of her nightgown.

“I want this off,” he says, already hiking it up, impatient to leave her naked.

“Do you?” she teases.

Aemond is not in a mood for her games.

She gasps in surprise when something rips apart, and then she sees two pieces of white cloth hanging from his hands. He has ruined her gown, and seems to be awfully pleased with himself. She should make her displeasure clear—

He traces the outline of her lips with his tongue, and she forgets all about the robe.

“You’re so sweet,” he pants. “My sweet wife.”

His words push her to the brink of madness. Wife. Wife.

His eye trails from her lips to her throat, and lower towards her breasts. He looks at her peaked nipples, red and aching like her mouth.

One of his fingers brush against the pebble, and she stifles a moan.

“Look at you,” Aemond breathes, and his chest rises and falls with increasing intensity. “I barely touched you, and you’re already trembling.”

He must not realise the extent of his influence on her traitorous body.

She opens her mouth to tell him as much, but then his mouth travels down her throat and her breastbone, and soon replaces his fingers. He peppers her sensitive skin with kisses; nibbles at the flesh in the hollow of her bust. She quivers under his attention, hands finding the strands of his hair. When Aemond’s lips wrap around her hard nipple, she cries out.

His hand traverses up her thigh. Wantonly, she spreads her legs so that his hips can fit in the middle. He is quick to push against her—push until there’s barely any space left between them—and when she feels his rock-hard length, she forgets all about swallowing the desperate sounds. Her back arches, and Aemond keeps sucking at her breast, alternating between soft brushes of his lips and harsh bites of his teeth, and she is burning. Flames consume her whole.

She pulsates against him. Her walls clench around nothing—they’re empty, they’re empty, and she must be filled or else she’ll go mad.

“I want you inside,” she demands, nails sinking into his skin, too lost in her desire to veil herself with feigned innocence.

Aemond breathes out a laugh in response, and the warmth mingles with the cold saliva that he’s left on her nipple. She makes a strangled noise.

He raises his head, and there is a sudden sobriety in his expression. She knows its roots. Aemond insists on holding onto self-deprecation, and it is clear that he still doesn’t think himself worthy of touching her.

She will rip this doubt out, even if its thorns draw blood.

Her hands come up to cup his face.

With intensified ardour, she repeats, “I want you inside.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he rids himself of his resolve.

Her breathing turns rugged when Aemond grabs both her thighs, pulling them further apart. It’s dark, but he must see the way she glistens under the moonlight. Her cunt is dripping wet. She restrains herself from rocking her hips forward in search for friction.

“You do want me.”

She does. She does. She needs him, and she must be touched, and if he doesn’t bury himself inside her—

Her body jerks when Aemond’s fingers descend to her clit.

His touch is a firestorm. She shudders when he circles around the nub; all her rational thoughts die in flames. Aemond flicks his thumb back and forth across her clit with a firmness that has her panting. His digit is already slicked with the wetness pooling out of her entrance; his fingers gather the moisture and spread it over her pulsating lips. Her face and chest must be red with want. She wants him so much that it hurts.

A shaky moan tears out of her mouth when the pressure of his touch increases. Aemond speeds up his movements; it burns, it burns. She buckles her hips, and the muscles of his thigh tense, and he is watching her with raw wonder.

Aemond kisses her sloppily. The way their tongues brush against each other is filthy. She takes his bottom lip in between her teeth, and he grunts into her mouth, and his fingers don’t stop moving against her. The friction is euphoric. Before she knows it, it brings her over the edge.

She spasms beneath him, and he doesn’t let their lips part.

It is like reaching the stars. Like drowning. Like water given to someone dying of thirst. She’s suspended in a place without time; without faces that aren’t his. There’s just Aemond. His lips. His fingers.

He doesn’t slow until she cries out from overstimulation, and even then, he strokes her bundle of nerves in a featherlike caress.

“Touch me,” Aemond breathes against her shoulder.

Still reeling from her high, she is quick to oblige.

“Here?” she asks, hands trailing down his spine, and his answer comes in teeth biting her neck.

He’s softer than she ever imagined.

The way Aemond shudders underneath her palms makes it clear that he’s unaccustomed to tender touch. It breaks her heart into pieces to think of the boy he once was—the one so starved for love but unable to accept it, always, always thinking himself undeserving of it. It hurts even more to know that even now—even when they’re chest to chest, bodies bared and mouths connected—he believes himself unworthy.

He’s so soft. Hard. He is made of harsh lines and smooth dips, and her hands greedily traverse the expanse of his exposed flesh, hoping to prove that her desire for him has no bounds. She wants him as he is. She wants every part of him.

Aemond looks into her eyes, and the purples become blurry. “Your touch heals the rot inside me.”

She claims his mouth because she can. Because he is hers.

When he enters her, she is finally whole.

It hurts because it must. He pushes until the barrier inside her relents; he is slow enough to let her adjust to his length. Pain doesn’t take away the overwhelming sensation of being full. Her breath hitches, and Aemond is quick to steal another kiss before the sound dies on her lips. He kisses her once, twice—kisses her for so long that she forgets who she is.

His next thrust renders her dazed.

Aemond’s neck is slick with sweat. Emboldened—crazed—she gathers the dampness on her tongue. There’s a sound of skin hitting skin; he ruts into her with increasing force. She is not herself anymore; no longer recalls who she was before this. Before him. No one, she thinks. Empty, empty no one.

Her vision swims when his fingers find the spot where she aches most. Aemond sears the smallest of circles into her clit; one of his hands remains on her breast, and her eyes roll back from the onslaught of sensations. His cock thrusts inside her at an agonising pace. The stretch burns.

She begins to toe the line between lucidity and delirium, and he is there to carry her through the threshold.

Her fingers tug at his silver hair. Legs wrap around his waist with a crushing force. She holds him close, and he presses against her, and the sinful sounds that fall from their lips are surely loud enough to awaken the entirety of the Red Keep.

She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. Now that Aemond is inside her, she never wants him to leave.

Aemond’s grunts become desperate. His movements are stripped of control, and she feels him sink his fingers deep into her hips. He holds her like he wants to leave bruises; pulls her closer with each thrust.

“Is this duty?” he whispers into her skin.

“No,” she is quick to answer. “It’s not. It’s not.”

This is something else. Something more. This is wildfire engulfing her heart; flames bursting through her bones. This is her body moulding into his in a perfect shape; lines blurring.

When his teeth sink into her shoulder, she knows that he is close. She rocks her hips against him, meeting each of his thrusts. She’s somewhere high above ground. She is flying.

“Inside me,” she rasps with the last of her breath. “I want your seed inside me.”

“Fuck.”

It sends him over the edge.

Her toes curl. Aemond’s movements turn wild, bordering on violent, and when he shudders and cries out and collapses, he takes her right with him.

There are stars inside her, and all erupt at once. She can do nothing but thrash beneath Aemond’s solid body; hold onto him so she doesn’t fall. She thrums with pleasure and pain and something else—something she cannot name—that has her gasping his name into the darkness. Aemond. Aemond.

He smothers the words with his lips on hers.

She cannot breathe. Air isn’t sufficient for her lungs. Aemond’s hands trail up her body, slow and exhausted, and soon he is cupping her face.

Their foreheads are pressed together.

All she knows is the colour of his eye.

Husband and wife. He holds her close, and their heartbeats match, and they are one.

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #hotd #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #house of the dragon #asoiaf

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brokenmenswhore · 5 months ago

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can I request a jace x reader? rhanerya sends her kids away (s3e3) and baela is off worried about king’s landing so he’s lonely and misses his family and it’s just super pure and fluffy?

if all else burns | jacaerys velaryon

pairing: jacearys valeryon x reader

warnings: s2e3 spoilers!

a/n: sometimes i feel like i’m fighting for my life with the spelling of some of these names that have either ‘ae’ or ‘ea’ in the middle. a lil short i hope that’s ok!

────── ☾ ──────

Jacearys did everything he could to hold his head up high at all times, but each day weighed him down more and more. He still grieved his little brother, his betrothed was off on her dragon keeping an eye on King’s Landing, and now his mother was sending the last of his younger siblings away for their safety.

He was proud to stick around, happy he was needed, but being professional at all times was getting difficult.

He hugged his younger brothers, squeezing them one last time before they were sent off with Rhaena.

He attended his mother’s council meetings, standing tall and keeping his mouth shut. He held his head up high and supported his mother.

You and Jace had been friends since childhood, always leaning on one another when things got hard. Your family had sworn allegiance to Aegon II, so you had fled to Dragonstone in support of Rhaenyra and her family. You couldn’t imagine what Jace was going through, his entire family at war, and no matter what he did, he just kept having to say goodbye to someone.

“Jace?” you whispered, slowly pushing open the door to the room he was sat in, elbows on his knees as he watched the fireplace.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, “everything ok?”

You walked closer to him, taking the seat next to him. “I actually came to ask you the same thing.”

You watched Jace, the fire contouring his face differently each time the flames moved. “I miss Luke,” he spoke.

You reached out a hand, placing it atop one of his. “I know.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, watching the fire dance before he finally spoke again. “Everyone keeps leaving. I fear it’ll only get harder with the war.”

You stood at this, moving in front of him and kneeling before him. His eyes met yours in a moment of vulnerability.

“I won’t leave, Jace. I’m right here.”

He smiled at you, pressing his forehead against yours and taking a deep breath. You continued, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not sure what I would do without you.”

You smiled warmly, “good thing for you that you’ll never have to find out.”

You leaned up and hugged him, allowing him to take a deep, relaxing breath while his chin rested on your shoulder.

“I don’t want to fight this war,” he admitted, “I just want it all to stop. If the Greens would just give my mother her throne, we could move on from all of this- this hatred.”

You pulled out of the hug, placing your hands on either side of Jace’s face.

“I wish for the same,” you replied, “but until then, you are strong, and you will persist.”

“I’m so tired of being strong.” His voice broke, tears threatening to spill.

“So be weak with me.”

Jace smiled as you pulled him into another hug, allowing him to cry for a bit in your arms, using your presence as an outlet for the emotions he never let out. You knelt there for several minutes, not daring to move, just allowing him to get it all out.

When his breathing calmed down, he pulled back a bit and pressed his forehead to yours again.

“I don’t know what to do,” he began to ramble, “I don’t know how to keep everyone safe. I’m supposed to lean on Baela, but she’s been so occupied surveying King’s Landing that she’s rarely ever here. My mother grieved, and now needs to be pragmatic, rather than let her grief consume her, but how do you not let this grief consume you? Until my grandsire died, everything was so simple. The only squabbles were between Luke and Aemond. I don’t know how everything got so complicated. I miss the peace.”

You felt bad for him. You empathized with him; he was in such a complicated position, and you could tell he felt like his family was shrinking with the war, making his responsibilities even more important. His mask of strength was fading. You were the only outlet he had.

“You mean everything to me, Jace,” you spoke, “if all else fails, if all else burns, we’ll always have one another.”

Jace smiled. “If all else burns, we’ll always have one another.”

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #house of the dragon #jace velaryon #jace targaryen #asks #jacaerys velaryon one shot #jacaerys velaryon drabble #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jacaerys velaryon x y/n #jacaerys velaryon imagines #jacaerys velaryon fluff #jacaerys velaryon x reader

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thebadboyfanclub · 6 months ago

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I Will Never Leave You (Daemon x Reader)

I think this more a love letter to Rhaenyra than anything but I’m really proud of this one cause I adore writing characters like this, I hope you guys enjoy it

Rhaenyra adored her mother since she drew her first breath, yet the woman she admired the most and desperately seemed her nod of approval was her beloved aunt (y/n) Targaryen, the middle child of prince Baelon and princess Alyssa, the seat between the brothers suited her, (y/n) had the good heart and the bright mind of her older brother that went hand in hand with the wild spirit and the constant need to protect the ones she called her own that she passed down to Daemon.

(Y/n) had been by Rhaenyras side when she needed her the most, wrapping her arms around the shaking frame of the young princess burying her face at the crook of (y/n)s neck.

“Dracarys”

Even though the dragon was not (y/n)s, beautiful Syrax complied whilst Rhaenyra broke down at the arms of her aunt, (y/n) ran her fingers through Rhaenyras long hair to offer her comfort as she whispered the lullaby she would sing to her when she was little.

She had also been the one to almost harass her beloved brother and king to name Rhaenyra his heir.

“As much as I love my lord husband, he is not fit to lead, the weight of the realm will crush him until he bursts into flames, we can prevent this, you can prevent this”

“And name Rhaenyra my heir? A queen has not sat the iron throne”

“Why not name the princess your heir? She is the second born”

Otto had questioned, (y/n) side eyed the man before she looked down to collect her thoughts, the wound of her brothers digging their claws on that piece of metal had brought such mental combat between them, turning blood against one another, if she had taken a go at them then all efforts for a harmonious family would have gone to war ages ago.

“I am afraid it is too late for me to claim what could have been or some could argue “should have been” but the time is just right for my niece, Rhaenyra is the result of the love you shared with the late queen Aemma, you have already wronged her, do not turn your back on the only thing you have left of her”

(Y/n) and Daemon had wed a fortnight after Viserys and Aemma, their wedlock’s were as similar as the sun with the moon, Daemon and (y/n) mirrored one another, their fire burned bright and their thick skulls could cause the the strongest storm to lash, still at the end of the day they ended up in each others arms, holding each other tight and whispering words of love and admiration.

(Y/n) was the only one that could keep Daemon on a leash, staying by his side as he raged for the “disrespect” their brother had shown, in a delicate manner (y/n) would always grab his hand and bring it up to her cheek to ground him.

“I love you and your bravery, however I do despise when you let your rage overtake everything that’s good in you, let me fix this for you”

Daemon would always take her in his arms and kiss her lips with all the might he could master. (Y/n) was his life line, her eyes were like a much needed breath after a deep dive, her smile resembled the feeling of the brisk air on the early hours of a summer day, her hair was as soft as a birds feather as it brushed on his skin, and her touch, oh that touch of hers…like a soothing balm on Daemons wounded heart.

“What is the matter, my love?”

“We must fly to kings landing by the morrow”

“Has something happened?”

“Lucerys’s claim is at question by Vaemond, Lord Corlys has not even passed and they are already circling around Rhaenyra like crows”

(Y/n) half mumbled half explained whilst her fingers rubbed circles on her temples, (y/n) had never voiced it still a pang of guilt ate her soul as slow as the carnivores ate their dead prey whenever she exchanged letters with Rhaenyra, she gave up on her, she left her alone to fight against those Hightowers, withering away as the bastards started to tighten the rope around the heiress’s neck.

Daemon puffed out a breath, the conversation had always been the same, (y/n) would often bring up her concerns over Rhaenyras well being, asking Daemon if mayhaps they made a mistake by leaving her, fabricating elaborate scenarios of how things could have been different.

With caution Daemon approached his lady wife and once he reached her he placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles on her aching shoulders as she slouched back and a grunt of pleasure left her, the flames from the fireplace licking her face in such a complimenting light, had he not touched her he could assume she was just an extremely accurate portrait from the hands of an exceptionally gifted artist.

“Rhaenyra is strong, she will overcome this”

“Rhaenyra is alone, our brother is barely able to make a sentence, she cannot stand alone at court”

“And what do you think our presence will do? We have been cast away for far too long, no one will pay attention to what we have to say on the matter, besides, driftmark is none of our responsibility”

After the birth of their first born daughter Enora Daemon and (y/n) decided to leave kings landing and reside in Pentos, granting protection with their dragons they were gifted with land and lived like the Targaryens only knew how to live.

“It is under the Targaryen rule, our closests bond to old Valyria”

“Dragons are our bond, which we have our own”

(Y/n) stood up from her chair to face her lord husband, fury that intertwined with confusion painted across her face as her eyebrows furrowed and her lips half open from the shock that his dismiss had caused.

Daemon resented when they fought, he did not enjoy his love being cross with him, though he loved a battle he would hang on dear life on anything and say whatever to make her curl up in his arms with content.

“You do not want to come with me” (y/n) stated

“I do not believe we will change anything”

“You believe that? Out of all I thought you would be the one to get on your dragon the fastest”

“You are with child, our other children are happy here, must we indulge in that mess?”

“That mess? Our brother has been crippled, our niece tortured by the Hightower and now she asks for our aid and you think I will just ignore it”

“You are emotional”

“I am, and proud of it, I will fly to kings landing with my children, you can choose to stay and hide behind our thick and tall walls of this castle. I will not leave our legacy, our blood, to slowly perish. It is your decision at the end of the day��

Daemon puffed out of breath before he reached for (y/n)s arms to which (y/n) stepped back to avoid, her eyes that spewed fire starring right into his soul.

(Y/n) was the diplomat out of the pair, one can imagine the surprise of her stubbornness when it came to this, which also revealed how important this was for (y/n).

“You mustn’t get upset in your condition”

“That is something you should remember, I was fine until I saw that the years turned you into a coward”

(Y/n) spat inches away from his face, with hurried and swift motions she intentionally bumped his shoulder as she made her exit of their chamber, Daemon did not catch a wink of sleep, (y/n) had never slept at another chamber separately since they had wed.

As the sun started to shyly make its descent (y/n) was assisting her three children on their dragons for their journey to kings landing.

“Hold on”

(Y/n) looked over her shoulder to find her husband with his dragon walking towards them, she had to admit that leaving without him would have costed her a great deal, she wanted him by her side, to help her, to hold her, to have her.

“What made you change your mind?”

“My astonishing devotion to you and your stubbornness, I won’t leave you alone with the wolves”

Daemon reassured her before he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, a smile making its way to (y/n)s lips as she gazed at him with love, that sparkle of joy was what kept Daemon alive, he would risk anything to see her well.

A giggle that came from their youngest children interrupted their sweet moment, Daemon and (y/n) looked up as the twins sat on their dragons, admiring the deep affection that oozed out of their parents, Daemon only winked at his children in response and turned back to his lady wife.

“Allow me dearest”

A shriek was heard when Daemon swiped the princess off her feet and lifted her up at her green dragon Zephyr. The family landed unexpectedly since they had not given any information to their visit, Otto and Alicent were fuming upon their arrival, the pair would stir the pot and cause chaos all in the princesses name, Otto was certain of it.

However no one could expect the ever defiant (y/n) holding Viserys by his right arm and the stoic prince Daemon holding the king by the left.

“King Viserys of house Targaryen, first of his name, king of the andals, and the rhoynar and the first men, Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm, with princess (y/n) Targaryen and Prince Daemon Targaryen”

Time stood still as they entered the throne room, (y/n) had persisted on visiting her brother, encouraging him to stand and back Rhaenyras claim, begging him to find his strength and sit on the iron throne.

“I will sit the throne today”

Viserys was able to say to Otto who only bowed his head and stepped aside. When (y/n) gently assisted her brother to sit comfortably his crown managed to move and fall, Daemon was the one that caught it and placed it back on Viserys head. As the pair took a step back (y/n) was the first to curtsy in front of him.

“My king”

She whispered before she smiled, Viserys managed to get a hold of her hand and bring it up to his deformed lips, as cold and slimy the weird texture of his lips left on her hand (y/n) looked back on that memory until the end of her days, as many times as they fought (y/n) held a spot for Viserys, one of loyalty and respect.

Daemon snaked his arm around her waist as they went down the steps and took their place next to a baffled and ecstatic Rhaenyra, (y/n) subtly nodded and side eyed Rhaenyra letting her know she is her for her.

As Viserys reaffirmed Lucerys claim and Rhaenys announced the betrothal of Baela and Rhaena (y/n) was ready to turn and hug her dear niece when Vaemond stepped in front of the king, interrupting the glorious moment.

“You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir, don’t you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon, No, I will not allow it”

“Allow it? I do not think anyone hear asked for your opinion Ser…. Apologies I haven’t been at court in so long, what is your name?”

(Y/n)s words sliced through Vaemond like Valyrian steel and Rhaenyra struggled to hide her chuckle, Daemon stood proudly by her side though his grip tightened around her waist when Vaemonds eyes fell on her for a brief moment before he pointed to Lucerys.

“THAT! is no true Velaryon and certainly not a nephew of mine”

Rhaenyra as the mother that she is took a step forward to stand closer to Vaemond and in front of Lucerys, what no one had seen was an important question that (y/n) had whispered at her husband.

“Which side is your sword on today?”

“Go to your chambers, you’ve said enough”

“Lucerys is my true born grandson and you are no more than the second son of drift mark”

“You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine, my house survived the doom”

“To which you owe it to much greater men than you Vaemond, men that knew their place and played their part in history, something that you refuse to do”

“And you think that you can tell me what my place is? Your brother skipped over you and gave the name of heir to your niece, the gods know what you have done to make him skip over you and your… husband, my name survived and gods be damned I will not see it ended on the account of this”

“Say it, say it”

Daemon antagonised the man, (y/n) assumed her position and slipped away from Daemons grip, her hand gliding from his back all the way down to his sword, dark sister, and pulled it out the sound of metal brushing against its scabbard was enough to make (y/n) grind her teeth in annoyance, thankfully no one seemed to pay attention to what she was up to.

Except Daemon whom had already a mischievous grin tugging at his lips as he internally thanked whoever blessed him to change his mind and was now going to be a witness on this wonderful event and as he viewed it “important milestone” in his lady wife’s life.

Vaemond was caught in his own fury and sense of entitlement to see his end coming, even if he had seen (y/n) with a sword he would pay her no mind, a man of such ignorance wouldn’t feel threaten by a woman with a swollen belly or any woman for that matter.

“Her children are BASTARDS and she.is.a.whore”

“I will have your tongue for that”

Daemon watched with pride as his wife lifted the sword and with one clean slice Vaemonds head was cut right above his tongue. Enora was taken aback by her mothers acts while her two siblings Alastor and Aelia hid behind their fathers legs to avoid witnessing the gruesome sight of the corpse at such a young age.

(Y/n) stood still as the sword touched the ground to support her, glaring down at the man that had so much to say, a man that thought himself as indestructible and yet he laid on the cold floor as his blood gushed out of him and pooled on the ground.

“He can keep his tongue, to explain his treachery to the gods”

“Disarm her”

Otto commanded as his voice boomed through the throne room like a proper king that would command his kings guards to obviously attack (y/n), though the real king -Viserys- had just opened his mouth to stop this when Daemon took only a step forward.

“Don’t you dare”

Daemon warned them, in a rather surprisingly composed way for the situation Daemon approached her and took the sword from her, wiping it away at his clothes lazily before he placed it back on its original spot, his hand brushed a few strands of hair that had moved and let it glide behind her shoulder, he preferred it when her hair was out of her face, so he can fully take in her beauty.

(Y/n) was seen smiling brightly, basking in her accomplishment that was so grotesque that some reported that a numerous ladies that had been witnesses had fainted or vomited at the sight.

“You must rest, my love”

“Before that”

(Y/n) proclaimed, she left her husbands side momentarily only to stand before Rhaenyra, her hands going up to cup her nieces cheeks and place a kiss on top of the heiress head, a gesture that held such affection and compassion, (y/n) had Rhaenyra in her heart and her mind as her own daughter, images of the princess running careless on the grass and finding refuge in (y/n)s hug flashed before (y/n)s eyes.

“My dear niece”

“(Y/n)” Rhaenyra breathed out

“I will never leave you, ever”

Requests are open!

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novaursa · 12 days ago

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To Hold Back The Night

- Summary: The Stranger was a familiar companion for you. And Jace decides to hold your hand while you dream of death.

- Paring: sister!reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Everybody dies.

They call it “living,” but in truth, it’s just dying slowly, one breath at a time. You know this because you see it—every death, every scream, every fire-laced ruin. You die each time your eyelids close. You dream, not of soaring, nor of love, nor even of warmth, but of endings. And though you live now, you have died before. You died even before you were born. And you will die again and again, caught in this endless cycle of death and rebirth, trapped in the web of time’s cruelty, a flame only destined to burn itself out.

Tonight, you stand alone on the balcony, looking out at the angry, storm-tossed sea. The storm rages above Dragonstone, a swirling cauldron of lightning and dark clouds, and it feels like a heartbeat—a pulse of wrath in the sky, matching the fury in your dreams. You think of your brothers, each bound to a fate you cannot change.

Jacaerys—the one they call “the Heir,” the one with a fire so fierce it rivals your mother’s, fierce enough to drown even the dreams that haunt you. You see him, armored and cloaked in the colors of your house, riding Vermax into battle. The flames lick at his heels, the heat of dragonfire tearing the sky as he fights against that which cannot be bested. And then, there is nothing. Just silence and ashes, his face turned to the cold earth, eyes empty, his crown no more than a twisted thing in the mud.

And Lucerys. Sweet Luke, with his gentle laughter and kind eyes. You feel his fear as he faces a darkness far greater than any he could’ve imagined. Vhagar’s shadow, vast and relentless, looms over him in your visions. You hear the thunderous beat of her wings, and you feel his last breath, the weight of that terror as he is torn from the sky and cast down into the churning waters below. The waves swallow him, and he is gone, just like that, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of a laugh.

Little Joffrey, too young to understand, too young to dream of anything but glory and warmth. He laughs at death as a child would, thinking himself invincible. But you see him surrounded by blood and smoke, his cries lost in the thunder of battle, his body colliding to the ground so fast it doesn't even make the sound once he hits the ground. His death is swift, brutal, the life draining from him with the innocence of his last smile.

Your mother… Rhaenyra, who burns with a fierce love for all of you, so certain that she can shield you all from the flames. But in the end, it is she who stands alone against a tide of betrayal, against the very people she once trusted. You see her, wounded and broken, betrayed by kin and throne alike. They strip her dignity, casting her aside as if she were nothing. And there, in the depths of Dragonstone, in the shadows where no light dares to reach, you see her final moments—a proud queen brought low, left to die in a darkness so deep it seems to swallow even the flame in her eyes.

You breathe, slow and trembling, as you feel each death, as real as if it were your own. Each night, the dreams claim you, binding you to a fate you cannot escape. And though you dread them, you embrace them, too, for they are all you have of them when the waking world fails to provide comfort.

“Do you think I am mad?” you whisper to the storm, letting the words vanish into the roaring winds. The heavens offer no answer, only a fresh burst of lightning, illuminating the dark waves below.

“She would say so,” you murmur, thinking of your mother’s worried glances, the way she would press her hand to your forehead, checking for fevers that were never there. “Or maybe it is the gods’ cruelty, a torment meant for those born under the shadow of dragons.”

You do not hear the door open, nor the footsteps drawing closer, but suddenly, there is a warmth behind you, a familiar presence.

“Y/N.”

His voice is soft, yet it holds that quiet strength you have always known, a steadying force amid the storms that plague your mind. Jacaerys steps closer, his hand gentle as it finds yours, fingers warm against the cold that has seeped into your skin. “Come back inside. You’ll freeze out here.”

You shake your head, your gaze still locked on the storm-tossed horizon. “I… can’t, Jace. Every time I close my eyes, I see it—all of it. How it ends. How you die. How Mother dies. How… I die, too.” The words spill from your lips, raw and unbidden, the pain of it gnawing at your chest.

His grip on your hand tightens, a gentle anchor pulling you back. “Then don’t close your eyes,” he whispers. “Stay here, with me.”

You turn, finally, meeting his gaze. His face is etched with worry, his dark eyes searching yours with a desperation that tugs at your heart. He brushes a damp strand of hair from your face, his thumb tracing your cheek in a tender gesture that speaks of years of unspoken promises.

“You aren’t alone in this,” he says softly. “Whatever it is you see, whatever you fight against, I will be right by your side.”

Jacaerys found his mother in the solar, a fire crackling in the hearth as she poured over letters and maps by candlelight. Her brows were drawn tight in concentration, shadows dancing across her face, making her look older, wearier, though her fierce beauty still shone through. When she saw him lingering in the doorway, her expression softened.

“Jace,” Rhaenyra said, gesturing for him to come closer. “What troubles you? I can see it in your eyes.”

He stepped forward, closing the door behind him to ensure they were alone. He hesitated, the words feeling heavy on his tongue, tangled with worry and fear. “It’s… it’s Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter than he’d intended.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened, concern flickering over her face. “What of her?”

Jacaerys sighed, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling as he tried to find the right words. “She… she’s not well, Mother. The dreams… they’re getting worse. She can’t sleep without seeing death. She told me last night she sees us all… dying, over and over. She’s haunted by it.”

Rhaenyra’s face tightened, the lines of worry deepening. “I know. I’ve seen it too, Jace. The way she wanders, the darkness under her eyes… her heart is burdened with things even I can’t understand.” Her voice grew softer, almost mournful. “I wish I could reach her, soothe her fears, but she holds it all so close. It’s as if she’s bearing the weight of the realm alone.”

Jacaerys clenched his fists, his frustration evident. “She shouldn’t have to, Mother. I can’t bear to see her suffer like this. Last night, I found her standing on the balcony, drenched by the rain, staring out as if she were ready to throw herself to the waves.” He swallowed, his voice catching. “And I know… I know it won’t end if something doesn’t change.”

Rhaenyra looked at him, her expression unreadable. “What would you have me do, Jace? I’ve done all I can to help her, to comfort her.”

Jacaerys took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Let me marry her.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath escaping her. “Jacaerys… are you certain? This is not a simple choice. And that path carries its own burdens.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice firm. “But I love her, Mother. And I believe… I believe she needs someone who can be there, always, to help her bear the dreams, to remind her that she isn’t alone. I can do that. I want to do that.”

Rhaenyra studied him, her expression thoughtful, though there was a hint of pain in her gaze. “You think marriage will save her?”

“I don’t know if it will save her,” he admitted, his voice breaking with the weight of his helplessness. “But I can try to give her something solid, something real to hold onto. Every day, I see her slipping further away, lost to those visions, and it’s like watching a flame gutter in the wind. If there’s a chance—if there’s anything I can do to keep her with us, I’ll do it.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers tapped softly against the table, her own gaze turning inward as she considered his words. “When she was born,” she said quietly, “she was small and frail. The maesters doubted she would survive, but I held her close and willed her to live, every night praying that she would see another day.” Her voice trembled slightly. “And now, after all this… I fear she carries a burden I cannot lift. I see her suffering, and I know the pain it causes you. I feel it too.”

“Then let me be the one to help her,” Jacaerys pleaded. “Let me share that burden. Maybe, if she knows she isn’t alone, if she has someone who understands, it might ease the darkness.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened, her maternal love evident. “You truly love her, don’t you?”

“With all my heart,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I would do anything for her.”

She sighed, looking at him with both pride and sorrow. “You are more like your father than you know, Jace. Brave and loyal to a fault. If you believe this is the path, if you think it will bring her peace… then I will not stand in your way.”

Relief washed over him, and he reached out to grasp her hand. “Thank you, Mother. I will not fail her.”

Rhaenyra squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “See to it that you don’t. Our family has already seen too much pain, too much loss. I cannot bear to lose either of you.”

Jacaerys nodded, a fierce determination settling in his heart. He would stand by his sister, would anchor her against the currents that sought to pull her under. And perhaps, together, they could find a way to break free from the nightmares that bound her.

As he left the room, he felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. But in his heart, there was a flicker of hope. He would find a way to reach her, to draw her back from the brink.

And he would never let her go.

The morning sun crept through the windows of your chamber. You lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, caught between sleep and waking, lingering in the half-light where dreams clung to you like shadows. Every breath felt weighted, every beat of your heart like the tolling of some distant bell. The visions had come again, the same as they always did—death and fire and faces you loved slipping away into the dark.

The door creaked open, and you felt a presence fill the room before you saw him. You knew it was Jace. There was a warmth, a steady strength in the air that belonged only to him.

“Y/N?” His voice was soft, hesitant, as though he feared disturbing you.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. There was worry in his dark eyes, the kind that lingered even when he smiled, though his lips trembled in a faint, hopeful curve. He stepped closer, and you felt his warmth, his hand reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if uncertain.

“Are you… feeling any better?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You gave a faint, humorless smile. “Better? I think that word doesn’t mean much to me anymore, Jace.” Your voice sounded distant, hollow, as though it were echoing from somewhere deep within you. “The dreams never stop. Every night, they grow sharper, more vivid. And I… I am powerless against them.”

Jace’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Instead, he knelt beside your bed, looking up at you with an intensity that made your chest ache.

“Y/N, there’s… there’s something I need to tell you,” he began, his voice thick with emotion. “I spoke with Mother.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, knowing the weight of his words before he even said them. His gaze softened, and he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing over yours in a touch that was both warm and hesitant, as though he feared you might vanish.

“We are to be married,” he said quietly, watching your reaction, his eyes searching for something—hope, perhaps, or at least acceptance.

You felt a strange stillness settle over you, a quiet that almost numbed the words. You knew his intentions, the depth of his care, the fierce way he held on to hope. But you also knew the truth—the truth the dreams had shown you time and again. You let your fingers slip away from his, folding your hands in your lap as you looked down, avoiding his gaze.

“That shouldn’t happen,” you murmured, a hollow note in your voice.

He looked taken aback, hurt flashing across his face. “Why? Y/N, I… I love you. I want to help you, to share this burden, to remind you that you’re not alone.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of those dreams settle heavily upon you once more. “Jace, every time I close my eyes, I see death. Our family is crumbling, falling to ruin, and I see myself at the center of it all. How can you say you love me when I bring only suffering?”

His hands reached for yours again, stronger this time, refusing to let go. “You don’t bring suffering, Y/N. You are suffering alone, and I can’t bear it.” His voice broke slightly, and you could see the raw emotion shimmering in his eyes. “You don’t deserve to carry this alone. Let me be there with you, through whatever comes.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard as you pulled your hands free from his grasp. “No, Jace. Don’t you understand? In my dreams, I see you die, over and over. I see you fall, burning. If we marry, I will only draw you closer to that fate. I… I cannot do that to you.”

He leaned forward, capturing your gaze with a fierce determination. “Then let me die by your side, if that is what fate holds,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur. “If the future is as dark as you say, then I’d rather face it with you than run from it alone. Let me be the one to stand beside you, whatever may come.”

Your throat tightened, words tangling in a knot of fear and longing. “Jace… you don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t know what I’ve seen. I am haunted, every moment, every breath. There is a darkness around me that you cannot see.”

“I see you,” he whispered, his voice rough and resolute. “And that is enough.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and he reached up to brush it away, his touch warm and gentle, like the promise of sunlight breaking through clouds. “Please, Y/N. Don’t push me away. Let me be here with you, let me share the burden.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to hope, to think that perhaps his love could be enough to shield you, that perhaps this weight could be lightened. But then the visions surfaced again, sharp and unyielding, and you saw it once more—Jace, falling, burning, slipping from your grasp as fate tore him away.

“No, Jace,” you whispered, voice trembling as you pulled back. “It would be selfish of me. I can’t… I can’t be the reason you suffer, the reason you fall.”

He shook his head, frustration and love warring in his gaze. “Y/N, this isn’t just about you. This is about us. Don’t you understand? I would rather suffer by your side than live without you.”

The silence between you was thick, filled with all the unspoken fears and dreams, the shadows of what could be and what would never come to pass. Finally, you turned away, the words barely escaping your lips.

“If you marry me, you will only bring the end closer.”

He rose to his feet, standing over you, his hand still hovering as if he wanted to touch you but feared you would slip away. “Then let it come,” he murmured. “Let the end come, if that is what it means to love you. But I will not turn away, Y/N. I will not abandon you to the dark.”

A part of you wanted to believe him, to let yourself fall into his embrace and allow him to bear the weight of your pain. But you knew, deep down, that the darkness within you was a burden only you could carry.

“Then we will face it as one,” he whispered, determination firm in his gaze, as if he could will away your fears by sheer force of love. “Even if it means standing in the fire.”

And though a part of you wanted to protest, to argue, you felt yourself soften, your heart stirring with a fragile, flickering hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, you could stand beside him in the dark. Perhaps, with him, the dreams would loosen their hold, and you could find a measure of peace.

But the shadows lingered, and even as he held you, the visions danced on the edge of your mind, whispering that love was just another kind of flame, destined to burn out.

#house of the dragon #game of thrones #hotd #hotd x reader #asoiaf #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #hotd jacaerys #jacerys velaryon #jace x reader #jace x y/n #jace x you #jacerys x reader #jacerys x you #jacerys x y/n

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shalomniscient · 21 days ago

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nightmare. || various x reader

Sometimes pasts have difficulty staying buried. You help her through it all the same.

cw. allusions to childhood trauma/abuse, descriptions of nightmares

notes. in a hurt comfort kinda mood. also look she's formatting

ARLECCHINO

She's back there again.

The walls are cast in shadows, and there is not a single candle to light the darkened halls, making it seem as if it stretched on endlessly. The curtains are drawn shut, thick velvet suffocating any sliver of light. All along the halls are closed doors. The air is thick and stagnant, resting heavy on her shoulders like a blanket. Arlecchino— no, Peruere, takes a step forward. Then another, and another. She passes door after door after door. They seem more like headstones than anything else, and the house almost seems like a corpse itself.

Almost.

Because for as much as the house is still, it is not silent. Behind each door she hears the cry of an agonized child; the clash of steel on steel; the crunch of a shovel on dry earth. The sound of blood dripping onto wooden floorboards echo in time with her beating heart. With each step, another door carves itself out of the smooth walls. Doors, doors, doors all the way down, endlessly. She feels the urge to burn rise inside her—oxygen and a spark, with only herself as kindling.

Red explodes the corners of her vision. Red, like blood. Pristine white walls turn black, and the wailing only grows louder, a cacophony of pain and misery and anguish. Smoke bleeds from beneath the door frames like dragon's breath. They remain shut. She claps her hands around her ears—it burns, it burns, it burns—and smoke settles in her lungs—it burns, it burns, it burns—and then the flames swallow Peruere whole—

Arlecchino wakes up.

Her back is uncomfortably damp, and she sits up slowly, the blankets falling from her chest down to her waist. Her heart rattles in her chest, and she has to blink several times to clear the redness from her vision. Her forearms feel painfully hot, as if she'd been standing far too close to a fire. She breathes in slowly—in, out, in, out. She tells herself she is not there anymore, that she is safe, that she is home.

Tonight, however, it doesn't seem to work. Arlecchino sighs, running a hand through her mussed hair. But then she regrets it immediately—because the sound causes you to stir, a slow yawn escaping you as you blink your eyes open, squinting up at her from where your cheek is pressed to your pillow. She can see the haze of drowsiness still covering your irises, and the way your hair is ruffled from moving in your sleep, and the tiny trail of dried drool from the corner of your mouth. You’re still waking up, but the haze clears the longer your gaze lingers on her.

"Bad dream?" you mumble groggily, not pushing up from the pillow but nonetheless lifting an arm to cup her jaw in your palm. Your touch is cool against her heated skin, and she leans into it almost instinctively. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, and the most she can manage is a wordless nod. You hum at that, your thumb stroking the arch of her cheekbones. "Guess you won't be going back to sleep, huh?"

She shakes her head. No.

"Well," you yawn again, "I won't be letting you do paperwork either at this hour."

She opens her mouth to protest—then closes it immediately following the very stern look you shoot her. You lie still for a moment, contemplating what to do with her, and Arlecchino takes the time to trace your features, noting the drowsy slope of your eyes and the relaxed lines of your face. Your chest rises and falls slowly with each breath, and before she knows it she’s breathing in time with you and calming her racing heart.

"You know, I could do with a cuddle buddy," you say eventually, rolling over and spreading your arms wide. "I’ve never done well with the cold."

Arlecchino rolls her eyes at your shameless wheedling, but she doesn't refuse. Instead, she shifts and gently lays on top of you, her arms looping around your back as she holds you to her chest. Her face finds the delicate slope where your shoulder meets your neck, and she breathes in deeply again. A cool night breeze slips through the slight opening of the window by the bed, tossing the curtains and letting a pale sliver of silver moonlight dance on the lines of your bodies, pressed close enough they may as well be one. You press a kiss to her temple as your hands splay over her broad back.

She still doesn't sleep that night, but she rests, and the fire in the back of her mind is now nothing more than a softly crackling hearth.

KUJOU SARA

Sara sighs as she sits on the engawa, one leg tucked beneath her and the other hanging off the edge. Her yukata is loosened and rather mussed from the way she’d been tossing and turning in her sleep, crumpled in a way that her father would’ve once disciplined her for. Sara squeezes her eyes shut at the thought, a strained, bitter laugh slipping from her lips. Even though he is long gone, rotting in some jail cell beneath Tenshukaku, she will never truly escape him.

In the end, she is Takayuki’s daughter, through and through.

The tense line of her shoulders falters, and her head drops. The water in the pond by the engawa ripples, distorting her reflection into unrecognisable waves. Without her consistent control, her wings slip open, unfurling slowly, the joints creaking from disuse. They ache, and her expression twists from the discomfort—intense enough that she doesn’t even notice the door sliding open until your gentle touch brushes her back.

She startles, jerking forward and spinning around only to meet your concerned eyes. When you note her surprise, you tilt your head and offer an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” you murmur, shifting forward slightly to kneel behind her, “I should’ve said something first.”

Sara breathes in deep, letting the air expand her lungs, then shakes her head. “No, no, it’s alright… I was just, ah— lost in thought.”

“Mhm,” you hum, clearly not convinced. Your hand drops, instead reaching for her own on the engawa. You intertwine your fingers with hers with a softness she never really felt before you, and Sara has to fight the urge to draw back like some frightened animal in response. Instead she swallows thickly as your thumb brushes ever so gently over her knuckles. “Nothing pleasant, I assume.”

There’s no accusation in your tone, only a quiet factuality. Sara’s wings twitch, involuntarily, before any resistance she might have had withers away. She squeezes her hand around yours, leaning forward ever so slightly to rest her head against yours. You don’t pull away, remaining right where you are and letting her seek the comfort of closeness from you. The frightened animal in her heart presses up against you, and you hold it tenderly, smoothing down those ruffled feathers.

“The usual,” she says, a little hoarsely. “About my father…”

Your expression darkens just a fraction at the mention of Takayuki. You’ve hated him ever since you found out what he’d done—and sometimes, Sara thinks you hate him on her behalf as well, since she can’t seem to be able to. Not yet, at least. Before he was a traitor, he was the man who took her in from the streets, the man who gave her direction and purpose and a name, and she would not be the person she is today without him. It is not love, most certainly not—but it clings to her all the same, and she has not yet learned how to shed this weight completely yet. But you kiss her temple all the same, and her heart feels a little lighter as well.

“You don’t have to continue,” you say softly, and Sara slumps against you further. Your free hand rises up to gently press along her spine, between her wings, massaging the tense muscle there. Sara breathes in shakily, and you pause. “Too much?”

“No,” she says quickly, shaking her head against you. “No, no, it’s— it’s good. Don’t stop. Please?”

You chuckle softly, then nod, resuming your touches. You continue until Sara feels the drowsiness start to return to her, creeping up her spine from the pads of your fingers to the back of her eyes. Her head slips down to your shoulder, and from there she can see the pond by the engawa. The water has calmed, and in the mirror-like reflection she sees herself again, but she also sees you.

In the end, she is still Takayuki’s daughter—but she is, learning, one night at a time, that she is also more than that. When she falls asleep, she dreams of a clear blue sky, and the wind in her feathers and in her hair sings a song of freedom in your voice.

#sev.writes #arlecchino x reader #kujou sara x reader

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anyca786 · 3 months ago

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"YOU'RE A MENACE, DAEMON TARGARYEN"

Daemon Targaryen x sister!Targaryen

WARNINGS: canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister), angst (smut warning: fingering) Daemon being Daemon.

Series

The rocky shores of Dragonstone were transformed into a somber gathering place for the funeral of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. The two were laid to rest on pyres, wrapped in white cloth.

Syrax, Rhaenyra's dragon, perched atop a hill overlooking the field, her eyes filled with sadness. Daenys approached her niece, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Daemon joined them, whispering in Rhaenyra's ear, "They're waiting for you."

Rhaenyra spoke in High Valyrian. "I wonder if, during those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness."

Daenys' heart ached at her niece's words.

Daemon replied, "Your father needs you more now than he ever has."

Rhaenyra shook her head. "I will never be a son."

After a moment, Rhaenyra stepped forward bravely, her hand clutching Daenys' tightly. Syrax watched as Rhaenyra attempted to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She glanced back at her father, who did not return her gaze. Then she looked at Daenys, who nodded.

"Dracarys," she finally said.

Syrax crawled forward, her breath scorching the air as she ignited the funeral pyres.

Rhaenyra, unable to bear the sight of her mother's body burning, found solace in Daenys' arms. She buried her face in Daenys' chest, sobbing silently. Daenys stroked her hair gently, watching the flames with a heavy heart.

Daemon mourned for his brother and niece, but the look on Daenys' face was a dagger to his heart. He had never seen her so heartbroken.

While Daenys spent rest of the day comforting her niece, Daemon turned himself to the Brothel, surrounded by gold cloaks and sex workers engaged in various sexual activities. Words were sent that Daemon chose to celebrate his own rise.

After Viserys banished him for the stunt he pulled at the Brothel, Daemon stood at the doorway of Daenys' dimly lit bedchamber, his face etched with anger. He hesitated for a moment before entering, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

Daenys was lying in bed, wearing only her nightgown. The soft flames from the candles luminating her body. She looked up as Daemon entered, her expression neutral. "Daenys," Daemon began, his voice low.

Daenys closed her book. "What is it?" she asked, her tone expectant.

Daemon took a deep breath. "Viserys is sending me back"

Daenys' eyebrows raised. "Of course he did," she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What did you expect?"

Daemon's jaw clenched. "Daenys, I-"

"You insulted Viserys' dead son, Daemon!" Daenys interrupted. "You played a dangerous game and lost. It's your own fault."

"It was a jest," Daemon retorted, his tone equally harsh. "A harmless jest."

"Harmless?" Daenys scoffed. "You're a menace, Daemon Targaryen."

Daemon's anger flared. "How dare you speak to me like that?" he growled.

Daenys replied, her voice rising, "You're selfish, arrogant, and cruel. You care about nothing but yourself."

She arises from her bed and stands in front of him.

Daemon stepped closer, his eyes filled with fury. "I care about you," he said, his voice low.

Daenys laughed bitterly. "You're a fool, Daemon." she said.

Daemon grabbed Daenys by her shoulders, "Don't you dare call me a fool," he shouts.

Daenys looked at him defiantly. "I will call you whatever I want," she said.

Daemon inched dangerously closer to her. 'Daemon, what-" She didn't even finish the sentence as he slammed her body the against the table. Daenys let out a whimper as loud as the thud of her back hitting the white wood.

"What-" He interrupted her again, "This little body deserves to be fucked until you're crying my name. I want to break you so harshly you feel me for days after for being disrepectful to me. Every time you sit down or walk, you'll remember me," He lifted her up in one swift movement and then setting her on top of the table.

She tries to hop off it but Daemon kept her pinned with a hand on her hip, with his other hand he pull riped the thin layer of the nightgown. He groaned when her soft round breast were set free.

"Dirty girl, wearing these,' He murmured, making her shiver. "Are you wet, princess?" He whispers in her ear.

She squeaks in response, "Daemon, no...we can't," she pleads half-heartedly.

"That's not what your body says, princess,"' he said as his hand brushes up her thigh to her clit, gathering her wetness and circling it slowly.

"Seems you're soaked, babysister," He smirked, "Is this for me?"

She doesn't respond, throwing her head back with a whimper as Daemon pinch her clit softly.

Sinking down, He kisses up her thigh before latching his mouth to her core, his tastebuds exploding with the sweet taste of her.

She moans as he circles her clit with his tongue, pressing a finger into her as well.

"Daemom, please,' she cries out breathlessly but he ignores her, adding another finger into her. He work her clit, inducing a string of moans from her as she tries to wiggle away from him.

"Daemon," she whispers, making him move his mouth away. He rise to his feet again, keeping his fingers inside her.

"What do you want, Princess?" He asks her, tilting his head mischievously, "Do you want me to stop?"

She bites her lip as he changes his angle and pace, stroking her insides deeper than before, "Tell me you want me to stop," He whispered while kissing her soft silky breasts,"Beg me." He starts biting and sucking her nipples hungrily.

She stays quiet, another moan escaping her lips. He increases the pace, making her pant as her walls begin to flutter against his fingers, "What do you want, Princess?" He ask her again as her orgasm threatens.

'I- I want," she drifts off, biting her lip to stop a scream as he adds a third finger. 'You want what?" He taunts her, knowing exactly what she wants from the way her core was throbbing.

"Make me come, Daemon. I-I want y-you" she chokes out in a sob as he increases the pace, sending her body into overdrive. "Your wish is my command, sister," he smirked, sinking down again, licking her clit. She cries out as her orgasm washes over her, her walls squeezing the life out of his fingers as she falls over the edge.

Daemon works her through it, not relenting until she is a panting mess. Standing to his full height, he encapsulate her lips in a harsh kiss, wanting her to taste herself on his lips. "What do you say?" He tilts his head with my eyebrows raised.

She gulps, her eyes wide again with innocence "Sorry,"' she whispers, her face flushing red. Daemon chuckled.

She helps herself off the table, and he watches her as she tries to cover herself with her hands. Before she could do it, He grabbed her hand.

"We're not done, yet," He warned her.

A/N : Double update. Cause I'm ovulating.

#daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd daemon #daemon targaryen x reader #hotd #smut #daemon targeryan #tumblr

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shesjustanothergeek · 3 months ago

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The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Six: Salt and Blood

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Alright, everyone. This is the last time you'll see baby Aemond and the reader, so let's cherish it. In the next chapter, we will start where the show did with the characters aged up in Ep. 8. I'm very excited to write for adult MC. I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit worried about writing Aemond's inner dialogue, as I've never written for a male character who isn't obsessed with the reader, but I'm sure I'll do fine. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Warnings: Alicent being delulu, parentified sibling trauma, and watch me make you feel even worse about Driftmark.

As you journeyed from the gloomy corridors of the Red Keep to the sulfuric atmosphere of Dragonstone and now to the sandy shores and scattered shells of Driftmark, an air of sadness seemed to cling to you wherever you went. You stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the tranquil sea, overlooking the stone coffin that cradled your late Aunt Laena. Two deaths, each carrying its weight of sorrow, yet only one mourned.

You wondered what it would be like to die choked in flames like Ser Harwin and Lyonel Strong did. Would it be the same as suffering dragon fire like your Aunt? Most likely not. Hers was a swift burning of flesh from bones, while theirs was hours of agony and suffocation.

Despite what your family claimed, the idea of dying to your own dragon’s flames wasn’t an appealing end to you. It didn’t seem noble like how stories explained it to be. It was horrifying to have your skin torched from your body, to feel the power of a thousand suns on your flesh. It would be excruciatingly painful, and you wished it upon no one, not even those you despised most. You would much rather meet the Stranger in your sleep.

You barely settled into your new home on Dragonstone before your mother received the two ravens. One bringing news of Ser Harwin and the other of Laena, containing death in the ink. You consoled your mother and father as best you could, hugging and kissing and telling them that you loved them and were sorry. It was an impossible task to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. You hated seeing them so distraught and wanted to make them feel better.

At night, you cried into your pillows in your now isolated bedroom until Jace and Luke entered, watery eyes matching yours. As the eldest, it was your job to hold your family together when your parents couldn’t, and it left you no time to properly grieve the loss of an Aunt and a father figure.

You felt terrible for your cousins Baela and Rhaena. To go to bed one night and wake up the next without a mother was a depth of grief you couldn’t imagine. You didn’t think you could live a life without your mother; you would die with her, and the ability of your cousins to continue without her was admirable as you observed their sullen faces streaked with tears.

Your Great Uncle Vaemond spoke his sermon in High Valyrian, which was too fast and practiced for you to understand. You could decipher some words here and there, but ultimately, you were lost listening to a man you rarely met. You felt your mother straighten her stance from behind, her arms coming to circle the three of you in a protective embrace.

Vaemond’s eyes were on yours, Luke’s, and Jace’s, but everyone else was focused on him—on the coffin with Lady Laena’s face carved into it.

As your eyes wandered to the other people surrounding the funeral procession, fear struck you as you caught your eldest uncle’s eye. It wasn’t very comforting to see Aegon so soon. You had set it in your mind that you wouldn’t have to see him for many years, and yet, here you were, dressed in an obsidian and red-sleeved gown, pearls adorning the collar and your veiled headpiece. Quickly, you turned away, instinctually taking Jace’s hand in yours.

An air of stiffness surrounded your family that you weren’t blind to. It was always there, but now, more than before, you felt it. You thought it was childish to be so locked into familial drama when someone lay dead inside a casket. Though you didn’t remember much of the times you met your Aunt Laena, she still deserved the respect of putting these grievances aside. You knew you were part of it, but more important things were happening than what you suffered.

The cries of your father sent waves of sadness into your heart, and with the sudden urge to get him to stop, you left the safety of your brother and clung to your father’s waist. He lifted you into his sea-worn arms and clung to your frail body as if it was the only thing that kept him from sinking into his grief. You rested your temple onto his shoulder, tears of empathy falling from your eyes as he pressed your head closer.

Afraid of what would become of your father if you let go, you allowed him to crush you in his embrace for as long as he needed it as a scornful laugh broke through the tense atmosphere. You peeked from your position to see Great Uncle Daemon chuckling to himself with a shake of his head at what Vaemond said. You felt annoyance bubble inside you, solidifying your distaste for the man as the Velaryon guards clad in silver armor and blue seahorse sigils lifted the ropes and lowered your Aunt into the roaring sea.

You didn’t leave your father’s side for the remainder of the day, not even when he slowly lowered himself into the sea with his sister as the cold, salty breeze swept through the evening. You wanted to speak with Aemond, if just for a small moment, but your family came first. They always came before anyone else, a fact that your mother instilled into the very fabric of your being.

Sitting atop one of the rock ledges near your father, you dipped your feet into the saltwater, dragging your toes to watch the water ripple and allow time to pass. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone. The image of him falling into the ocean as your Aunt played repeatedly in your mind’s eye. You were afraid in his grief, he would follow her. Only when your father’s squire, Ser Qarl, took your father from his place with his sister did you leave, joining the rest of the goers for the wake late in the evening.

Searching through the crowd of people for your mother and your brothers, you couldn’t find them. Alone with none of your family for protection, you felt fear pull at your chest. Your hands began to scratch at your arms and scalp, attempting to quell the insatiable itch. The fabric prevented you from doing so, and tears of fright soon began to collect at your lashes.

From across the balcony, you saw a flash of green, a color that had never offered you comfort until now. Yet as quickly as you saw it, it vanished, leaving only a head of white promptly running down the stairs. You felt your heart drop into your feet as you watched Aemond run across the sandy dunes like he was running from you.

The call of a dragon you never heard before screeched through the gray skies. It was mournful as if it were calling for a lost pet or child. In this case, it was a rider. As you looked up, you could see the vast shadow of Vhagar’s silhouette soaring through the clouds, flying in the same direction your uncle went. You felt your eyes grow wide with worry at the realization, wanting to chase after Aemond and warn him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” a tender, feminine voice came from behind you as you jolted in surprise. The tall figure of Queen Alicent stood before you, curly auburn hair pinned back into a magnificent updo and clad in her usual green and gold as she put a hand on your back. “Your mother already sent your brothers.”

“Where is she?” you hastily asked. Aemond was no longer on your mind.

“I’m uncertain. Your father is off drowning his sorrow in his cups with his squire,” she answered in the same velvet voice you remembered her having, bitterness you didn’t understand laced in the undertone.

You felt offended by how the Queen spoke about your father. He was grieving. He was allowed to spend time with whomever he wished, doing what he wanted.

Alicent lifted her arm, wrapping it around your petite frame, and led you inside Hightide. It was not as cold or formidable as Dragonstone; its dark magic melted into the walls, yet it didn’t hold the warmth of the Red Keep. Still, you felt unwelcomed here, either by the place or its people. The pale stone walls were filled with bits and pieces of shells from clams, mollusks, and other long-dead shell creatures mixed into the mortar to make it stand the test of salty air.

The Hall of the Nine, where you passed as Queen Alicent, led you to the guest chambers, where you held the Driftwood throne where your grandfather Corlys reigned. You recalled when you visited this place many years ago and how he went on about the many treasures from his sieges and conquests that decorated the room in all its glory. He and his wife, Rhaenys, sat in a heated discussion in front of the hearth.

Once you reached the door to your shared bed chambers with your brothers, Alicent turned to you. It was the first time you had seen her since what Aegon had done to you, and you felt tension. It seemed as if she wanted to speak, to say everything that had been bottled up since the revelation of her son’s transgressions, but she was unable to do so as tears choked her. Instead, the only words that came out were those she couldn’t say to her children.

“I hope you can find the time to visit the Keep. Helaena asked when you would be returning, and it broke my heart to tell her you wouldn’t be,” she confided, stroking the thin black fabric covering your dark hair. “Aemond has turned inwards since you left, and Aegon has become crueler to him. It makes me wonder if he’s always been this way and that my love for him has blinded me from his transgressions.”

You said nothing. The mention of Aegon’s name still felt like a blow to the stomach. “I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive my son for what he did to you and that we may yet be the family we were always meant to be.” Your tongue felt like lead as your breathing began to race, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as Alicent kneeled before you, a sad smile on her supple lips as she tenderly swiped your tear-stained cheeks with her smooth thumbs.

“I love you, my shining light, my dream.”

Leaning in, she took your small frame by your shoulders, kissing your forehead as one would do to their babe. You felt sick, nausea churning in your stomach as you quickly opened the bedroom door, hastily shutting it behind you in fright.

It was all too much—Lady Laena’s death, Ser Harwin’s, seeing your father in shambles, and Queen Alicent’s steadfast belief that you should become a part of her family no matter what happened to you. The Queen desired to wed you and Aegon despite the horrors he committed. The realization that she genuinely didn’t see what your eldest uncle did to you as something that would permanently bar you from joining the union pierced your heart. You would much rather marry Aemond or Helaena, but having no ties to her seemed better.

Your brothers peered at you curiously from their beds as you clutched your chest, looking as if you ran the entire way here. They didn’t ask any questions, and you didn’t move to speak, loosening the ties of your gown and shrugging it off until you were only in your smock. You didn’t feel like changing into your nightdress in front of your brothers, deciding to climb into bed and shove your face into the pillows, refusing to cry in front of Jace and Luke as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Aemond learned of Lady Laena’s death, he knew it was a sign from the Gods that his time had come. The Seven had deemed this the moment to prove himself to everyone who doubted him and thought him useless without a dragon.

Vhagar.

The largest, oldest, and strongest dragon in the world was riderless.

Aemond believed that once he gained the only thing he lacked, life would finally be what it should have been. He would make his father proud, shove all the taunts and jests from Aegon and his nephews back into their faces, and finally become a man you deemed worthy—your Mors Martell.

As Aemond fled from the wake when the candles had long melted, he thought only of the ichor coursing through his veins. Dusk was upon the island, and the night’s wind blew harshly, strands of his silver-blonde hair covering his face as he climbed over the dunes. Vhagar was further from the castle than he initially thought.

“Fuck.” Aemond released a sigh of exasperation and scrambled across the uneven ground.

When he came upon the dragon, he was in awe. Vhagar was as frightening as she was enormous—a giant, green-scaled, moving mountain that shook the ground and blew sand with every movement and breath from her powerful lungs.

Taking advantage of Vhagar’s resting state, Aemond crept along the sparse grass, feeling each gust of air she created with her wide nostrils, blowing the sand into his face and ears. Anxiety was present in his gut, feeling a slight tremble in his limbs as he closed the distance, wrapping his hand around one of the many ropes draped across Vhagar’s scales. Suddenly, he felt the ground underneath him quake, and the head of the dragon lifted with a low rumble.

Vhagar observed Aemond with tired yet calculating amber orbs, double eyelids blinking. She grumbled as she bore her teeth to him. They were the size of a fully grown adult, sending a shiver down his spine. As if it were an act of divine intervention, Vhagar laid her enormous head back down, seeming disinterested in the young boy before her.

If Lady Laena’s death wasn’t proof enough Aemond was fated by the Gods to claim a dragon, the most powerful beast in the world, laying its head in acquiescence certainly was. Blinded by his small victory, nerves still in his mind, he reached for the rope ladder again, only for Vhagar to raise her head and growl, low and deep. A snarl formed on her great maw as Aemond stumbled back in shock and saw the light of orange flames gather at the back of her throat.

“Dohaerās!” (Serve!) he shouted instinctively, recalling the many lessons he observed in the Dragonpit as he felt the heat of fire on his countenance. “Dohaerās, Vagus! Lykirī!” (Serve, Vhagar! Be calm!)

With Aemond’s commands, the she-dragon relaxed, recalling her flames and closing her mouth. She purred to him like a cat, a sign that she approved his merit while standing in the face of death. Vhagar would allow the Prince an attempt to claim her, but he must prove himself before the eyes of the Gods, before the eyes of a dragon.

Aemond took the ropes and climbed atop the mighty Vhagar’s back, positioning himself in the saddle and grabbing the reigns.

“Sōvēs!” (Fly!) Aemond ordered, and Vhagar rumbled, raising her legs and shaking the sand from her scales. “Sōvēs!”

She obeyed, taking a few giant steps and flapping her great wings, pushing off from the ground and leaving a sandstorm in her wake. Though Aemond told Vhagar to fly, he still had yet to control her as she took to the night sky in a near-vertical position, catching him unaware. The force knocked him from the leather saddle, leaving him dangling in the air with just the reigns for purchase. Aemond screamed with fear, feeling as if his stomach lurched out of his body as he struggled against the whipping wind to regain control.

She tested him as he grabbed the pommel, sat upright, and pulled the ropes to balance her. He felt like he was on a bucking horse, loosening, tightening, twisting, and turning to the left and right to steer her safely. Vhagar ignored Aemond’s movements and continued to fly like he wasn’t there, diving into the dunes of Driftmark before he reared her upwards, dragging her claws across the sand. He squealed in terror, blocking the debris that scratched his face as she soared over the sea.

Aemond knew he needed to prove himself to her, to show the war-hardened dragon that he deserved to ride her. Her chirps and groans from the day earlier called to him like nothing before, singing to the Prince in her dragon song of forlornness and isolation. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to claim her. They both shared that feeling of loneliness deep within their souls, that same oddness in their families. The dragoness was too large to be held within any structure, leaving her in forced solitude, her only companions being her rider. Aemond was the only one, despite his Valyrian features, not to have a dragon.

That would no longer be his story.

Aemond fortified his mind and will, putting his soul into his movements as he lifted Vhagar higher in the sky. He could feel the blood of Old Valyria coursing through his veins as the mighty dragon obeyed, leveling out her vast wings and soaring over Spicetown and back to Driftmark. He screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him in the skies, a bright smile he was sure you could see in Lannisport.

Aemond had proven himself. He had shown himself and all who doubted and bullied him for not having a dragon that he was capable, that he was worthy.

Everything was as it should be.

Perhaps you would allow him to kiss you again and spend the night in his embrace. Aemond had no doubt you would be proud of him as he listened to your assurances that he was brave, a dragon knight who you could trust with your secrets and protect you from enemies, and that he deserved your heart.

Aemond landed Vhagar with a grace he hadn’t possessed before, climbing down the rope ladder on her side with windburnt cheeks. As soon as his feet touched the sand, he ran straight to the underground caverns of High Tide to wake you and explain everything.

“Jace!”

You faintly heard a voice calling, sounding distant in your dream state. Ignoring it with a groan, you rolled over, trying to return to sleep.

“Jace, wake up! Someone stole Vhagar!”

This woke you from your sleep. You sat up to see Baela and Rhaena hovering over your brother’s bed.

“We need to stop them!”

Jace and Luke quickly threw the covers off and stuck their feet into their slippers as you observed them curiously. Rubbing the sleep from your face, you yawned, begrudgingly following them.

“You cannot steal a dragon,” you countered after a long silence in the pale stone halls, your voice laced with sleep. It felt like you had hardly gotten a wink.

“She is my mother’s dragon! I was supposed to claim her,” Rhaena countered, tears collecting in her dark eyes.

Yawning again as you followed a few paces behind your siblings and cousins, you rolled your eyes, wanting to bite with the remark, “Why didn’t you?” But you didn’t say it. The reason was apparent why she didn’t, and Rhaena didn’t need any more reason to be distraught.

They led you to the caverns of High Tide, stumbling in your sleepless state. They led to the beaches lit only by dim torchlight, your movements groggy and slightly annoyed. On the other end of the tunnel, Aemond appeared before you with a proud grin and windswept hair. You couldn’t help but mirror his expression, a contagious self-satisfaction that spread to you.

He needn’t say it aloud. You could tell by how he carried himself, shoulders back, chin high, and a slight lift to his cheeks, that your uncle claimed a dragon—the mightiest one in the world, Vhagar.

“It’s him!” Rhaena exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Aemond.

It didn’t deter him, countering with his head high, violet eyes flicking from you to your cousin. “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” she yelled, hurt as if this reasoning would change Vhagar’s fate. As you moved to Aemond, Jace grabbed your hand, stopping you with an anxious yet demanding look on his face.

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now,” your uncle replied, and you felt your brows raise in shock. You knew better than most of the cruelty he could commit, but after spending time with Aemond and seeing the softer, gentler, and kinder side of him, it took you off guard.

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena argued, charging toward him in a challenge. Your skin began to itch, and your breath quickened.

The hatred felt at the funeral carried over into your brothers and cousins. Tension in the air crackled like a fire in a hearth, watching the yellow and orange flames slowly dwindle into embers until someone threw tinder to spark it.

“Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride,” Aemond sneered. “It would suit you.”

Your lips parted in empathetic offense as you looked from your uncle to Rhaena, tears of guilt and shame pricking at your eyes. You apologized about the pig, and you thought Aemond forgave you, but it seems he couldn’t let go of the hurt no matter how close you were. The feeling of joy for your uncle’s feat was as brief as your friendship.

With a surge of rage, Rhaena charged forward, attempting to push Aemond, but he swiftly countered, and she fell to the ground. You jumped back in shock as you covered your mouth, Luke standing beside you. Baela screamed, protecting her sister as she punched him across his face and Aemond yelped in pain. Without thinking, you went toward your uncle, fearful for his well-being in your heart, but he swiftly stood before you could reach him, returning the same swing to Baela. You gasped in horror and moved to the side, narrowly missing your cousin’s body from colliding with yours.

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond snarled at the twins, and without warning, Jace ran to him with a shout, shoving your uncle in offended anger and smacking him across the cheek.

You screamed for them to stop as you watched Luke try to join the fray, but you held him back, scared that he would get caught in the crossfire. He was the youngest and the littlest, most likely to get hurt. You needed to protect what family you could. Aemond brought this upon himself with his words of arrogance, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to defend him, too.

The scene before you was violent, a flurry of white, black, and red running atop Aemond as Luke slipped from your grasp, all pummeling, kicking, and screaming at him as you cried for them to stop. He was helpless as he suffered blow after blow, and you felt your heart splinter. This wasn’t a fair fight. Without worrying for yourself, you jumped on top of Jace, pulling him back from your uncle and giving him a chance to defend himself. You felt like a betrayer, turning against your twin to save your uncle. Your brother grunted as you both fell to the ground, his body on top of you as you struggled to keep him from fighting.

You and your siblings had fought before, but nothing like this. It was so vicious, filled with violence and want for pain, as Jace whipped his head back into yours, causing it to slam against one of the many jagged rocks across the ground, having you see stars. He went back into the brawl with no worry for your safety as you heard the unsheathing of a knife, your eyes blurry as you struggled to see the scene before you.

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond yelled, suddenly holding Luke by his neck with a rock in his hand.

“My father is alive!” Luke gasped in protest, flinging his arms and blood running down his face.

You needed to get up to protect Luke from physical harm and the threat of discovering your lineage. You didn’t believe Aemond would kill Luke. He was capable of violence, but he wasn’t a murderer. As you tried to move, your skull felt filled with sand, pulling you back down to the ground as you felt the warm trickle of liquid run down your neck. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your sight and mind.

Aemond spoke again to Jace, seeming to forget your existence and holding a sense of superiority. “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?”

You forgot how cruel Aemond could be. Your stolen moments of reading and kisses in the night had closed your eyes to it.

“Aemond, don’t,” you mumbled, skull pounding as the excruciating sounds of your brothers and uncle’s shouts pierced your ears like needles.

You blinked your eyes into focus, seeing Jace wildly swinging a knife at Aemond as you managed to kneel. Your brothers didn’t realize how dangerous what they were doing was, that a knife wasn’t something to use against someone who was armed with only a stone in hand. While Aemond was bigger and had more combat experience, a dagger would kill him. Being upset because someone claimed a dragon wasn’t worth murdering over.

Reaching your arm out with a soft grunt, you grabbed Jace’s ankle as Aemond pushed him over, holding the same rock above his head as he did for Luke. You thought Aemond knew better than this. You gave him the perfect opportunity to run and get help now that Baela and Rhaena huddled into a scared, crying mess, but he was too far gone into his anger to see reason, blinded by it.

“Aemond! No!” you shouted hoarsely, trying to stand but failing as your head pounded like a drumbeat.

He turned to you then, lowering the rock to his side as he stared at you with the sudden realization of what he had done. Your uncle was filled with a surge of superiority inside him. He couldn’t think straight, and when he happened upon the five of you, people he was always told that he was above, something inside him that lay dormant finally broke free. He knew he was always capable of violence, but felt remorse when he saw your bruised nose, tear-streaked cheeks, and blood dripping down your throat.

Did he do that to you?

Suddenly, Aemond was blinded, sand thrown into his eyes as he stumbled back and heard the yell of Luke, unimaginable pain soon following. You watched in horror as your brother savagely sliced into your uncle’s left eye, blood pouring and splattering across the ground.

Aemond couldn’t remember if you were amid his attackers. He surveyed the bruised and battered bodies before him and realized what he had done as his stomach fell to his feet.

He hurt people, just like Aegon. You would never entrust your secrets to him. His hands committed violence, but his heart desired to tell a different story—one of a strong and noble prince who went through many trials and tribulations to prove himself worthy of the princess's heart.

All you could hear were screams. Screams from you, screams from Aemond as you crawled towards him, sobbing.

“Aemond!” you cried as he doubled over, falling into your body as he screeched in pain.

“It hurts!” he wailed into your chest, his free hand clawing into your back. “It hurts! Help me!”

You trembled, arms struggling to keep yourself upright against his weight as the flurry of guards rumbled inside your skull like thunder. Unable to make out their words as they moved, it seemed like you were watching the world from outside your body, from the lenses of another, as Ser Harrold pried Aemond from your embrace.

It hurt. Everything hurt—your heart, stomach, muscles, and head. You weren’t sure who led you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, and Jace to the Hall of the Nine as a flurry of people gathered, pushing and shoving as you clutched your skull. The room was so bright, so loud, as you heard your uncle’s screams. You felt sturdy arms grab you by your shoulders, roughly moving you as if you were nothing more than a doll, as it felt like your eyes were about to burst. Steel blue fabric blocked your eyes as you saw the hazy image of a seahorse stitched into the fabric.

“Father?” You reached out, small digits feeling along the fine silk until the texture of scruff scratched at your skin. Blinking, you saw the aged face of your grandfather, Lord Corlys, as he gathered you and your brothers behind him.

Where was he, and where was your mother?

You felt sick as people scattered around you like seagulls when they discovered a bloated whale carcass, all trying to see the injured Prince, who cried until the Maester poured Milk of the Poppy down his throat. It felt like when you accidentally drank the water from Blackwater Bay, like a cold, nauseous sensation that sent beads of sweat rolling down your spine.

“I don’t feel good,” you whispered to Jace as you leaned into his side, clutching your head and gut. He paid you no mind, peering behind your grandfather to see your other one appear, bearing total weight upon his dragon-head cane.

“How could you let such a thing happen?” Viserys questioned Ser Harrold, examining Aemond as you heard the sickening squelch of flesh and rattle of metal tools. “I will have answers!”

Despite it undoubtedly being a harrowing sight, you wanted to be by your uncle, to hold his hand through it, to feel his pain with him, but you couldn’t. You needed to be with your brothers. What they saw and experienced would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Luke had taken Aemond’s eye.

“The princess and princes were supposed to be abed, my king,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard explained, shame woven in his words.

Viserys wouldn’t allow his knights to show such carelessness, surveying each of them with critical eyes. “Who had the watch?”

“The young prince was attacked by his cousins, your grace,” Ser Cristion nonchalantly replied. His words angered you for reasons unknown, and you felt a lump rise in your throat.

Viserys turned to the room, looking between the two Kingsguards on opposite sides of the family as he hobbled on his cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he boomed in a way you hadn’t seen before. You were afraid he would direct his anger at you, Jace, and Luke, wrapping your arms around them like you were in any state to protect your brothers.

“I’m very sorry, your grace,” Ser Westerling said, head hung low in unimaginable disgrace. You felt bad for him. There was no way he could have stopped this. He was doing his duty and serving his King. It was Ser Criston who should be blamed.

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes before, your grace-”

“That is no answer!” your grandfather yelled at Ser Criston, causing a clap of pain to thunder inside your skull.

You wanted to go to bed, sleep for eternity, and be awake to everything as it was yesterday. Your brothers and cousins unbloodied and Aemond dragonless and with an eye.

“Where’s mother?” you noiselessly questioned Jace, leaning into his ear and almost losing your footing. You needed to stay strong for them.

“It will heal, will it not? Maester?” Queen Alicent asked, velveteen voice quivering with pain for her poor son. Maester Kelvyn finished stitching Aemond’s skin, throwing the needle and thread into a bowl with your uncle’s fleshy, viscous eye.

“The flesh will heal. The eye is lost, your grace,” his nasal voice replied matter-of-factly.

You were going to be ill.

Quickly, you ran through the multitude of people, pushing past Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, who tried to stop you before you vomited all the contents of your stomach onto a person’s unsuspecting shoes. The crowd gasped in revolt, those not close to you jumping back and clutching their chests in shock. You found yourself before the fireplace, basking in its comforting warmth as you leaned onto the hearth and looked at the unlucky soul you retched on.

Perhaps the Gods had a twisted sense of justice as you saw the disgusted face of Aegon before you. You didn’t hide your amused smirk.

“Tend to the Princess!” the King shouted to the Maester, seeming to forget about his injured son and throwing his cane in your direction.

A flurry of green came before pale gray, tenderly cradling your visage in her palms as if you were her child, inspecting it. You grabbed the Queen’s wrists and attempted to push her away as if her touch burned, but she resisted, struggling against your childish strength until she grabbed your shoulders. Her touch reminded you of Aegon as you burst into tears, muscles going limp and at Queen Alicent’s mercy. She turned your head in her grasp, examining you with the utmost care that made another wave of nausea through you.

The crowd observed in anxious silence as Aemond turned to watch his mother treat you with the affection he wished to receive. Familiar hatred bloomed inside his heart, swallowing his dry mouth as he thought resentfully. He would still have his eye if he hadn’t been so concerned with you.

“I want my mother.” you whimpered, lips quivering in fear as the Queen lovingly wiped the blood from your neck.

The Queen released you from her grip as if you had struck her, chest heaving and wide brown eyes watering as she turned to her eldest son. Your mother was here; you didn’t realize it.

“Where were you?” she interrogated Aegon, smacking him upside down before he could answer.

“Ow! What was that for?” he questioned, incredulously rubbing at the afflicted area grimly. You held no sympathy for him as you hugged your sides.

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your siblings suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she whispered heatedly so only he could hear, shaking his gangly body in rage. You looked at the Queen with confusion, thinking she had gone mad with grief when she said “siblings.”

As the grand Hall doors creaked open, a shaft of golden light spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the marble floor. With an air of elegance, your mother swept into the room, her silk gown trailing behind her. Following closely was Uncle Daemon, his formidable presence filling the space. Amidst the whispers and murmurs, your name and that of your brothers floated through the air, drawing your attention. Without a second thought, you moved toward her, the sensation of fingertips brushing your bicep as if a ghostly hand had tried to hold you back, sending shivers down your spine.

“Show me, show me!” your mother ordered you and Luke, softly running her digits across your body as you sobbed with relief. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled before you could get a word out, leaning from behind his chair.

You saw his wound on full display. An ugly crisscrossed row of stitches lined up his eye socket and onto his forehead, the flesh puckered and pink as it fought the infection. Your mother moved your face before you could stare any longer as a chorus of accusations from your brothers and cousins sang. You couldn’t get the image of his gash out of your head.

“He was going to kill Jace! I didn’t do anything!” Luke loudly shouted as you scrunched your eyes with a painful wince.

“Enough!” you heard your grandfather yell, and you looked at him with helpless, watery eyes, but no one listened.

“It should be my son telling the tale!” the Queen protested, fist pounding against her chest with conviction over the voices.

You continued to look at your grandfather in anguish, the King of The Seven Kingdoms, whom everyone ignored except you. “Silence!” he yelled, voice rattling inside his hollow chest as flem flew from his decaying mouth.

The Hall went silent, quieter than the Stranger himself, as everyone looked at one another, stunned at the turn of events. People came here to mourn the loss of a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a wife, and a sister. Viserys looked at you and then at his son, his ivory staff sounding with every movement as you swallowed, the taste of bile strong.

“He called us bastards.” you silently whispered to your mother, wiping the tears and snot from your face.

“Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened.” The King approached your uncle as he slumped into the armchair, stepping swiftly and with a newfound curiosity. “Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” Alicent questioned, clutching at her neck as tears threatened to spill. “Your son has been maimed, and her son is responsible.”

“Twas a regrettable accident,” your mother countered, moving her body to shadow the three of you from the onlookers.

“Accident?” the Queen repeated, astonished. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush! He meant to kill my son!”

You realized the truth didn’t matter now. All that did was what people perceived it to be.

“Twas my children who were attacked and forced to defend themselves!” your mother argued as she placed a comforting hand onto Luke’s shoulders. “Vile insults were levied against them!”

Your grandfather turned from his son to the four of you as you inhaled a shuddering breath. “What insults?” he questioned, a dangerous lilt to his tone that you had never heard before as the Hall went silent. It raised the hairs on your arms.

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question,” your mother replied, her chin high yet holding a nervous waver to her voice.

As she turned towards you, your mother’s eyes conveyed a silent but insistent demand to verbalize what you previously whispered. She wished everyone to hear these words from you—the compassionate and considerate eldest daughter known as The Gods’ Light among the common folk. With tears streaming down your cheeks and your chest heaving with emotion, you gazed at Aemond with a sense of guilt. You knew the words you were about to utter would carry an extraordinary weight. Both sides sought someone to bear responsibility for the turmoil, but you recognized the unspoken truth.

At that moment, honesty seemed inconsequential. Aemond had suffered the loss of his eye due to Luke’s actions, and you keenly felt your failure to shield your brothers from harm. You would never fault at your duty again.

“He called us bastards,” you confessed, lacking the anger and conviction of your siblings as you sniffled, refusing to look at Aemond.

You watched as the Queen’s auburn tresses bounced with the slight affirming nod of her head, a look of disbelief and recognition crossing her face. At that moment, it became clear that she had informed Aemond about the deception, hardening your heart with betrayal. You had believed that she was different and loved you like family, and it stung to realize that she didn’t hesitate to spread lies that would hurt you.

“My children are to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons,” your mother reasoned, stepping forward to her slouched father as you attempted to reach for her hand to keep you hidden. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such awful slanders.”

As you gazed at your mother, her expression eerily mirroring that of Alicent’s, your lips began to quiver with unease. Was your mother implying that he should be subjected to torture? It seemed unfathomable. She couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Over an insult?” the Queen asked, shaking her head in disbelief. You knew she was trying to protect herself as you glared at the woman you once thought held the moon. “My son has lost an eye!”

“Tell me, boy. Where did you hear such lies?” the King seethed, face a hairsbreadth from Aemond as you whimpered.

“The insult was training yard bluster,” Alicent swiftly reasoned, eyes flicking desperately from her son to her husband. “The lot of boys. ‘Twas nothing-”

“Aemond,” your grandfather interrupted, ignoring his wife’s explanation. “I asked you a question.”

Your uncle sat in solemn silence, his lone violet eye unwaveringly fixed on the ground while his father awaited his reply. Before he could utter a word, the Queen unexpectedly interjected.

“Where is Ser Laenor, the children’s father? Perhaps he would have something to say on the matter,” she jeered.

Your grandfather turned, sparse brows scrunching together as he turned to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, your grace. I… could not find sleep and decided to take a walk,” your mother answered for them, smooth palms wiping across her crimson skirt.

The Queen let out a derisive laugh, her disbelief evident as she shook her head at her old friend. It was impossible to ignore the precise timing of Daemon’s arrival into the Hall of the Nine, trailing just moments behind Rhaenyra with her tousled strands of golden hair. Alicent bore the knowledge of her friend’s calculated machinations, even as Rhaenyra’s children stealthily slipped out of their beds to perpetrate the heinous act of maiming her son. She couldn’t dismiss the nagging suspicion that Ser Laenor was likely engaged in equally treacherous activities.

“Entertaining his young squires, I presume,” Queen Alicent sneered like before, making you feel the same deep-seated ire.

As no one dared to voice their opposition to her words, a glint of silver caught your eye from the corner, revealing Ser Criston Cole’s silent laughter. Like Ser Harwin, you felt the urge to wipe that smug grin off his tanned face, even though you knew it was impossible.

“Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer,” your grandfather began, staggering before your uncle. “Who spoke the lies to you?”

Everything went silent; the roaring of the fire and the crashing of the waves in the darkness were all that could be heard in the Hall. You understood that whoever Aemond implicated might not live til the next morn. You felt your throat grow tight and struggled to breathe, clutching at your throat as you swallowed the acrid taste in your mouth. Queen Alicent told him as you recalled the time in Helaena’s room. It confused you at first why she would spread such gossip as she seemed to hold a tenderness for you. Claiming your brothers were bastards went without saying you were, but you realized that whatever contempt she had within her heart weighed far more significant than any affection for you.

Some of you wished to shout that it was her, but you realized that was something Alicent would do without a second thought if the roles were reversed, and you did not want to be like her. She was wicked and cruel, just like her eldest.

“It was Aegon. He told Aemond to call us that,” you answered as every pair of eyes flocked to you. You didn’t like how close your grandfather was to him, afraid that he might strike him for the consequences of his mother. You felt your heart lurch into your throat as you gained the courage to speak the words aloud of all the bad things he did to you. “And he… he”

Before you could finish, your mother tucked you into her waist, kneeling and pushing your face into her shoulder. You tried to pull away from her when his hand rested on your head, the welt sensitive to touch.

“Don’t,” she whispered into your hair, disguising it as a kiss. They deserved to know. Everyone needed to know what awful Aegon did to you. You wanted to move against her, but your mind was foggy and muscles weak.

“Me?” Aegon exclaimed with shock, wide amethyst orbs looking at you with a broken expression.

“And you, boy,” your grandfather crept towards him, the rhythmic tapping of his cane piercing your skull like an ice pick. “Where did you hear such calumnies?” Your uncle refused to answer him as his gaze bore holes into your being. There was no remorse in your heart for him. “Aegon, tell me the truth of it!” Viserys shouted, causing you to flinch and cover your ears.

“We know, father,” Aegon replied fearlessly, refusing to remove his stare from your quivering form. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Feeling the stares from the guests, you admired your uncle for not implicating his mother like a coward, removing your body from your mother, wiping the snot from your lip. Let them look, you thought, inhaling a deep breath as you felt your mother bring you closer. They would stare at you for the rest of your days. It was best if you grew accustomed to it now.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” the King declared, banging his walking stick off the pale stone floor. “All of you! We are family! Now, make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it.”

You grimaced at his words, and though you loved your grandfather, having been his favorite granddaughter, you disagreed with him. You refused to apologize for your family trying to defend themselves, and the Queen couldn’t help but agree more.

“That is insufficient,” Alicent said, gesturing to her son. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. Goodwill cannot make him whole.”

Aemond’s fingers dug into the wooden framing of the armchair, and your chin quivered at the thought of what he might be feeling.

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys sighed, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken,” she sobbed, clutching at her chest, flicking her hair back in a manner that reminded you of Aegon. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have the hand of her eldest to one of my sons. To mend the rift and unite the House of the Dragon once more.”

“Alicent,” your grandfather breathed in a warning, yet still turned to his daughter, having a hint of hope in his violet eyes.

You looked at your mother, shock overcoming any sadness you felt as she shoved you behind her skirts like a hen would do to her chick, too stunned to speak. “I refuse.”

The Queen shook her head, a sneer curling her plump lips and wet cheeks. Rhaenyra was a selfish, wicked woman with no inclination of decency. Why couldn’t she see this would be solved if she returned Alicent’s rightful daughter to her? The Queen steeled herself to the belief that she would have to fight for her right to have you. She knew deep in her bones that you would one day be by her side.

“Then I shall have one of her sons’ eyes in return. The Princess is innocent,” the Queen declared with a desperate wave of tears.

Aemond looked to his mother, face impassive, and senses dulled from Milk of the Poppy. He didn’t recall telling her about what you did for him, though it was very little. It felt like he was becoming a second thought to his mother, who seemed only to be scheming on how to insert his niece into their lives. Aemond realized then that he would always be second in his mother’s heart to you, and he felt hollow at the thought, the love that once filled it for his niece ceasing to exist.

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” your grandfather warned Queen Alicent. She said nothing as her chest heaved, brown orbs flicking between her husband and old friend.

Believing the matter finished, the King backed away, but Alicent wouldn’t allow this to be the end. She looked to her sworn protector, an apathetic expression on her visage.

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Ser Criston looked to the Queen with a startled expression as Luke cried for your mother. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” your mother steadfastly declared, ensuring the three of you were behind her.

“Stay your hand,” the King commanded as the Queen shook with rage, desperately looking between her husband and sworn protector. She reminded you of a deer cornered in a vast forest, listening to the distant howls of wolves closing in for the hunt.

“No, you are sworn to me!” she yelled, finger pointing to her chest indignantly. All waited for the knight to respond, the Lord Commander slowly bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Protect your brother,” your mother whispered, never straying her eyes from the Queen. Without further instruction, you stood before Luke, gradually backing him away from the group of people unnoticed. You understood Alicent would not hurt you, as did your mother.

“As your protector, my Queen,” Ser Criston replied with a wary head tilt.

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” your grandfather declared, seething, his face centimeters away from his wife before he addressed the room. “And let it be known that if anyone’s tongue dares to question, the birth of Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, you let go of Luke, coming to take your place beside your mother as she thanked the King. The unsheathing of a blade cut through the room as the form of Queen Alicent charged toward your family, startling you, the King’s ancestral dagger in her grasp. Luke screamed as she reached the four of you, but your mother stepped in her path before Alicent could enact her rage.

Suddenly, a person shoved into you, disregarding your existence as you found yourself on the floor. You noticed how the stone seemed to ebb and wave like the flow of the tide. Lord Corlys appeared beside you, lifting you into his arms, securely bound around your torso as he took you into the circle of your cousins and brothers, your mother struggling against the Queen.

“You’ve gone too far!” your mother admonished the Queen as tears burned her eyes. She pushed against Alicent, and she jerked against her, trying to get to your brother.

“I?” Queen Alicent exclaimed, voice thick with anguish as you attempted to push out of your grandfather’s arms, kicking your legs into his side. “What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, and the law while you flout to do as you please?”

“Alicent, let her go!”

The Queen still poised the dagger to strike, its new path being that of the heir to the Iron Throne as your mother looked helplessly to the onlookers. No one made to separate the two as they all stared in shock, the fire illuminating their faces like wraiths of death. Landing a hard smack to Lord Corlys’s neck, he dropped you as you shoved through the onlookers toward your mother. She put her life for yours and your brothers, but who would put hers before theirs?

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? My happiness and dreams? It’s templed under your pretty foot again!” the Queen sobbed, her form trembling with hurt and rage, everything that she bottled inside her for years.

“Release the blade, Alicent,” Lord Otto commanded, a man you hadn’t met until this morn, but she paid him no mind, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pushed against her old friend.

“Wasn’t taking her, my only light, enough for you? And now you take my son’s eye, and to that, you feel entitled,” she confessed, tears making the Queen’s mouth thick with wetness as you shouldered your way to the inner circle of people.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” your mother interrogated, a bitter grimace on her sharp lips. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent stared at your mother with an enraged offense that wrinkled her brows as she felt fire surge through her, and with a loud cry, she unthinkingly swung your family’s ancestral dagger. You screamed, running to your mother as you pulled her back, seeing a gash on her inner arm that gushed with blood.

“Mama,” you wept, tenderly holding her limb as if it would break.

Dropping the dagger, Alicent took an instinctual step toward you, a blanched, horror-stricken expression across her round face. She longed to go to you, to dry your tears and stroke your head against her bosom like your true mother would, but she could not. The terror and fear in your wide brown eyes that resembled her own sliced through her chest and laid her heart and soul bare as she felt a small hand slide into hers. The Queen hoped to see you standing beside her and thought herself mad before she securely took her son’s fist.

Much like you, Aemond knew his parent needed him. “Do not mourn me, mother. ‘Twas a fair exchange,” he expressed with a maturity beyond his years. He turned to you, a violet gaze once filled with joy now devoid, hollow, and one less eye. “I may have lost an eye but gained a dragon.”

You wished Aemond hadn’t claimed one this way and felt a hiccup wrack your lungs as you cried into your mother, Jace, and Luke coming beside you. You sadly realized this was the end of the fleeting companionship you cultivated with your uncle. All the stolen moments of reading, ideas, philosophies, and aspirations you shared under the cover of privacy were nothing more than air the moment he ran across the dunes. You would have still cared for him without a dragon, as before, but his pride wouldn’t allow it, and now he stared at you with an eye that you knew far too well.

Aemond hated you. He loathed you and your brothers with a fire that would never cease. This was your fault. He lost an eye because of you—because he cared about his bastard niece and had the foolish dream of becoming the man you loved. You did not deserve it. You were nothing more than a common girl born from sin, undeserving of your station. He would despise you for the rest of his days no matter how his heart screamed to have you by his side when darkness fell and all that was left was the ghost of your touch.

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Happiness never lasts in ASOIAF. I'm going to miss writing for baby Aemond and reader. They were so cute! From now on it's going to be messed up young adults with severe mommy uses and mental illness. I'm not going to say who has which XD. Thank y'all so much for reading and I hope to see y'all in the next chapter!

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velvetlilacsdaisies · 10 months ago

Text

Stay Still | B. Durran |

Bodhi Durran x fwb!fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: NSFW, SMUT, MDNI, swearing, p in v, (unprotected sex pls pls be safe), cockwarming, not proofread well, switch!Bodhi, possessive!Bodhi, bratty!reader, poorly written smut, smut with little plot

A/n: hehhe this came out of my ass idk what got into me during my reading bonanza last night 🤭. I just felt truly inspired to try to write a full smut. This is my first official smut I’ve wrote so I would love feedback to improve on it if you have it, but I hope you find this as fun as I did!!

You sighed boredly laying on Bodhi’s bed, stomach pressed against the plush mattress, idly looking over a book about runes you tried to occupy your thoughts with. It had been thirty minutes since you arrived at the Section Leader’s door looking for some company in nothing but your black dressing robe and matching tiny nightgown underneath. Anticipating when he opened his door, he’d haughtily pull you into his quarters and ravish you like a man starved…but no. He merely gave you a once over before letting you in, and sat back at his desk doing his research on wards for Xaden.

You wanted to help as much as he did with resurrecting the wardstones for your friends, but now it had impeded on yours and his arrangement. It’s been two weeks since you last found yourself in the embrace of the man you craved, and you were desperate for the attention you lacked. It had become an unspoken routine you two had secretly engaged in since after Threshing last year. Only using each other other than for just distractions from the trials of surviving the Rider’s Quadrant at night, while during the day you were just squad mates.

You could feel another wave of heat go through your core at the thought of the secret that the two of you shared. You had been fighting the wanton desire since the last time you had found each other. Not that you weren’t satisfied by Bodhi, but you never stopped wanting him it had become glaringly obvious for you. You had even resorted to giving into flirty banter with Ridoc in front of him to get the Flame Section Leader’s acknowledgment, left with not even a sarcastic remark or scolding look on his part. Since Violet returned from Samara, there was a dire urgency to find answers on the wardstone.

But today was exemplarily tougher to push that ache down. After a rather intensive Flame Section sparring session after classes, you had been forced to watch Bodhi spar without drooling. His shirt discarded halfway through the session when he was challenged by Sawyer, the sweat glistening off his chiseled muscles. As if he knew the effect he had on you. The relic that swirled over his bulky biceps and veiny forearms and his dragon relic that loitered on the back of his left sharp shoulder blade down to the side of his refined torso. You had to take an extra cold shower once all the girls left the locker room to calm the burning desire that consumed you which proved to be no help.

You got off the bed, and made your way to him feeling impatient as your core throbbed once more. His back was towards you, displaying his relics that you admired and worshiped in the solace of the night. Your arms wrapping around his chest from behind, your nails lightly scratching his broad bare chest.

“Boh,” you whined, nipping at his earlobe. “Are you done yet?” You asked, a simper to your tone. The arousal in between your legs getting too heavy to bare, and clenching your thighs was no longer an option to fight the want for him. You wanted him now. No—you needed him, and you weren’t going to deprive yourself another minute.

“I don’t have much longer until I finish this section.” He murmured. He screwed his eyes shut trying to focus on the text in front of him, tilting his neck out of instinct to the side letting your lips press needy kisses down to his shoulder.

He had known when he saw you at your door in your skimpiest night clothes what you wanted. Finally making a move in the unintentional stalemate between the both of you. It didn’t fall on to blind eyes the way you went out of your way to be bratty throughout the last two weeks, attempting to get a rise out of him. It almost worked, but never being a jealous man, and clever enough to see right through you. The flirty comments to Ridoc, the way he could feel your alluring eyes burn holes into him during any time he was in the vicinity of you. He almost felt guilty leaving you hanging and to resort to blatant facades of making him jealous, a silent plea to just take you already.

He wanted to do nothing, but to fuck you and remind you who you belonged to.

You looked enticing, and every primal thought that flooded his mind he pushed down to the back of his mind when you appeared in front of his door. The churam he smoked an hour ago doing nothing to stop his chest from hammering, and the blood rushing to his manhood, twitching, at the sight of you. He had to use every ounce of his self discipline to keep his composure in check, letting you in without pouncing, devouring you like he wanted. Xaden would arrive back in Basgiath tomorrow expecting intel, and he hadn’t gotten very far in his research besides dead ends.

Your name got stuck in his throat barely sputtering it out as you sucked on the spot that you knew drove him wild, the conjunction of his neck and shoulder.

You weren’t exclusive with Bodhi, but you had learned everything about him that made him tick. From the littlest things like how his eyes lingered when your flight jacket was slightly undone bearing the slightest bit of cleavage in the low cut tank top you wore underneath—to what made him absolutely feral—the feeling of your lips with your teeth marking his sweet spot that would be barely concealed by the collar of his tight black training shirt the next day. Noting how he would wear the mark proudly like the patches on his jacket. Having a boyish grin when a squad mate would bring it up playing coy. No one knew they were left by you.

“I’ll help you after…” you purred, your hands traveling down his torso to the waistband of his night pants. Fingers nimbly tracing the barely grown out hair that led underneath the cotton. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you.” You pouted before peppering more kisses on his cheeks, feeling satisfied at the sharp intake of air he took at the movement.

You would get your way, there would be no other outcome of you showing up at his door tonight than to be ruined by Bodhi Durran.

“I’m expected to have something to report on tomorrow.” He protested weakly, savoring your mouth against jaw, but still keeping his eyes on the parchment.

His dissolve was close to crumbling, feeling the cold fingertips slip underneath his waistband. All he wanted to do was bend you over his desk, imagining your cheek pressed to the ancient texts laid out on the wooden surface as he railed into you from behind. His cock hardened more at the idea of him inside you.

“Xaden won’t-” you were cut off by the scrape of the wooden chair against the stone floor making you stumble backwards slightly. Bodhi abruptly slid his bottoms down, revealing half hardened manhood, sitting back down in the chair.

“C’mere,” he growled. His tone had a dangerous lilt to it, only making the wetness that had pooled in your panties grow more. His usual warm brown eyes blown out filled with something more than lust.

Your throat ran dry, obeying as you stepped in between his legs. He leaned his forehead against your stomach, inhaling steady breaths as if he could smell your arousal. His rough hands gripping your bare outer thighs before slipping under your nightgown, roughly kneading the soft flesh of your ass. Then he hooked his fingers around the fabric of your undergarments dragging them down your legs.

“You want me to fuck you, but have another man’s name leave your lips?” He gritted out through his, barely speaking above a whisper.

Bodhi knew he was overreacting, but when his cousin’s name came out of your mouth, his primal instincts came bubbling to the surface. A feral fire fueling him, no longer to be tamed. How dare you bring up Xaden, when you came here solely looking for relief from him after acting the way you’ve been.

You were taken aback by the words, leaving you stammering. “I-I’m sorry, Boh..”

This was a new side to him, you’ve never seen before. A nervous pang made your heart skip a beat, though excited at the aggressiveness in his actions.

“You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing the last two weeks?” He cupped the back of one of your thighs, bringing a leg over his. “Think you were being sly?” He questioned.

You shook your head furiously, forgetting how to speak momentarily.

He pinched the inside of your thigh, only adding to the fire that blazed in your core, a soft gasp leaving your slacked jaw. “Use your words, babygirl.”

“N-no,” the words airily released from your throat, a pink tint to your cheeks.

He smirked, a dry laugh escaping him. “That's what I thought.” He dragged your other leg over his so you were now straddling him, knees perched on the extra wide seat. “Since you want to be a brat, you can sit on my cock until I’m done here.” He held his member with one hand, pumping slowly. “You got it?”

You gulped, watching how it twitched ever slightly, and his shoulders relaxed as he held himself. Nodding eagerly, biting your lip, still looking between the both of you awaiting for him to be inside you.

His free hand wrapped around your hair, pulling it, forcing you to look in his eyes. “What did I say about your words?” He growled. A soft moan left your lips at the gesture. His darkened brown eyes wavered in hunger and pride at the reaction.

“Y-yes, please…” you begged, feeling him rub the tip against your slick folds.

“Good girl, so wet for me,” he groaned.

He slowly inserted himself at your entrance, his hand finding your hip to help lower yourself on to him until he bottomed out inside you. His thick member stretching you out in a blissful sting that he could make you feel. You both sighed at the feeling, and you rested your head in the crook of his neck holding on to him with a near death grip.

You could feel yourself throb as he went back to working. His hands lightly brushing your sides every time he flipped a page or went to jot a note down in his notebook, causing jolts to go down your body. You tried to grind your hips to provide the teeniest bit of relief, Bodhi would only grip your thighs with a bruising force.

“Stay still,” he hissed, his head rolling back as he felt you clench around him again. A small smirk graced your lips, an idea coming to your mind.

One of your hands slid in between you, and found your clit. You moaned, as your fingers circled the sensitive nub.

“Y/n…” he warned, listening to the sweet noises you made in his ear, gripping the quill in his hand tightly. He had thought he had the upper hand in this, but as you touched yourself, his cock warming your insides, he felt the remaining bit of his dissolve crumble. “You’re such a fucking brat.” He held your hips, halting your movements.

“Do something about it then.” You challenged, pressing a chaste kiss to his full lips.

He thrusted up into you, sounds sweet as sin coming from your throats. A wicked smile twisted on to your face, finally. “I fully intend to.” He mumbled, pulling you into another kiss, this time longer and heated. You nipped at his lower lip, earning a hiss from him as you slipped your tongue into his mouth.

Drilling into you at a slow agonizing pace, your tongues fought for dominance, the kiss becoming broken up between strings of noises leaving the both of you. The slow burn pleasure painstakingly from the pace he had set. You tried to lower yourself up and down to go at a faster pace and to your dismay he slowed his movements more, squeezing your hips in caution.

You pulled away panting, “more.” You were a whimpering mess, frustrated to find your release. “Please, Bodhi.”

“Just because you get what you want doesn’t mean you still can’t be punished.” A lazy smirk etched on to his broad jaw. “I have to remind you who you belong to.”

He slowly thrusted up into you again, making you cry out. His face contorted to a look of pleasure as he provided deep slow strokes into you, the sight of him biting his now bruised lip heavenly.

“I’m yours, please.” You begged, nails biting into his shoulders. “Only yours.” You cried when he thrusted particularly harder when you said that.

“Y’ feel so good around me.” He drawled. “Like your pussy was made for me, sweetheart.” His words caused an effect on your whole body from your pussy clenching harder around him to your heart swelling from the praise.

The atmosphere felt entirely different from the usual casual hook ups from before. His forehead resting against yours, occasionally nuzzling your nose with his whispering lines of worship for you taking his time.

“Feels so good,” you panted, looping your fingers in his curls at the nape of his neck. You could feel yourself go dumb as his fingers found your clit, circling it with the same agonizing pace of his cock. You don’t know how much of this you could take. “Please, please, please let me ride you.”

“Do you deserve to ride me?” He taunted in between thrusts.

You nodded vigorously, “please let me make you feel good, Boh. Please.”

He stopped playing with your clit, bringing his fingers to your swollen lips. You sucked your juices off of them, tasting yourself as he leaned back in the chair.

“Mm, since you’ve been begging so nicely.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

The moans you released as you fucked yourself onto Bodhi’s cock were angelic. Letting you lower yourself up and down, watching as you got lost, getting drunk on his manhood. His hands had a firm grip on your waist, helping guide you down his length.

“That’s it, ride me like the good slut you are.” He watched your cunt sink onto him, swallowing his length whole.

You could start to feel the familiar coil of release start to come undone, and you knew you weren’t gonna last long. The sounds of your slick and his pants encouraging you to go faster.

Bodhi sensed the way you gripped him, you were going to climax, and met your rhythm bucking his hips upward. “You gonna come f’me?” He asked.

You could only mewl in response, the pleasure rendering you speechless as you rode him harder. Your vision blurred with stars, your body going rigid from the surge of tingling pleasure that electrified your body. The coil finally unraveling in your core as you orgasmed. You let out a throaty moan that was muffled by his lips, kissing passionately.

The tawny skinned man didn’t stop his movements, feeling his own release chasing yours. His aching cock twitched in need of relief. He muttered curses, his pace getting sloppier as he whimpered your name.

“Come for me, Boh.” You whispered softly. His arms wrapped tightly around your midsection, clinging to you like his life depended on it as he kept fucking you.

You felt the twitch, and his release shoot into you, a guttural groan following it. Feeling the mix of your arousals seeping out of you, his cock throbbing.

The heavy breathing from the both of you was the only noise in the room, you two staying in the position. You lightly scratched his scalp letting him regain his composure, his arms loosely holding you still. After a minute, he leaned away looking at you silently.

The intense gaze made you self conscious, clearing your throat as indication you were getting up. His arms only tightened around you once more, but he let his cock sink out of you, feeling your releases cover both of your thighs.

“I should get going,” you stated bluntly.

“Stay the night?” He reached over for the t-shirt that was crumpled on the floor beside his desk. Gingerly wiping you off first, being extremely gentle and careful to not be too abrasive with your sensitive parts, before he cleaned himself off.

You blinked in surprise, he never asked that before—let alone so nonchalant. You two never stayed too long in one another’s quarters after, let alone spend the night with one another. This would encroach the boundaries you mentally placed on this arrangement, ultimately entangling what you had already felt for the man in front of you.

“Aren’t you worried someone will see?” You asked warily.

He offered his usual boyish grin. “That’s kind of the point, sweetheart.”

Personally the pacing was weird for me to write, but I hope it gave you guys what you needed! The idea of fwb possessive Bodhi now has me in a chokehold lmao. Like I said, I am always open to improvements and feedback as this was a bit out of my comfort zone 🫶🏻🩷

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adragonprinceswhore · 26 days ago

Text

Romancer

Aemond Targaryen x Wife

Summary: During King Aegon II tumultuous coronation, Aemond’s wife becomes the first casualty of the Targaryen civil war. The young prince’s grief drives him to Flea Bottom, where he meets a mysterious Qartheen necromancer, who promises to bring his love back. But as with any sorcery, there is a price to pay; with each of Aemond’s touches, she slowly rots away.

Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, death, violence, sorcery, necromancy, angst, longing, smut

A/N: Happy Halloween! 🖤

Word count: 4200

‘Twas but a fleeting instance.

A dragon, the Red Queen, and her traitorous rider burst through the floors of King Aegon II’s coronation.

Chaos followed. Shrill voices begging for mercy, children weeping, sobbed ramblings closer to nonsense than prayers.

Prince Aemond, whose seeing eye had been fixed on his wife before the tumultuous entrance of Rhaenys Targaryen, steps to the side to protect his sister from Meleys’ wrath.

When their cowardice wins, and the dragon and her rider leaves, his seeing eye falls back to where he had last seen his beloved.

Only now, he cannot find her.

As members of the King’s guard swarm around the royal family to protect them, a futile gesture far overdue, Aemond pushes between them to rush down the steps of the elevated platform made for the Targaryens to bask in the admiring gazes of their people.

She couldn't have left, she was here just moments ago.

His eye is frantic as it searches the soot-covered ruins around him. His silvery hair whips to the side as he desperately jerks his head from one side to another. Then, he catches sight of her hair.

She lies on the ground, pushed down by large stones crushing her body.

Aemond hauls them off with a strength bestowed upon him by his despair. A sob leaves his throat as he pulls her into his arms, gently stroking her hair, burying his face there and inhaling the dust decorating it.

He holds her until the heat of her body leaves her. Until she’s cold as ice in his grip. Stiff and strange.

Only once does he glance down at her, and to his horror, she’s changed. It’s not her anymore.

The soft cheeks he used to trace his fingers down are now hollow. Her skin is discoloured, and her eyes lifeless. Almost white, like the soul has left them and in its wake, a mist settles over the grave that once was a loving gaze.

Prince Aemond sits like that, with her lifeless, rigid body in his arms, for too long.

He cannot tell how many hours have passed, but he knows that he has lost a day when the sun appears, and disappears. It feels like an eternity trapped in the blink of an eye.

No one dares approach him. They know that the fiery prince will show no mercy to whoever chooses to disturb his mourning.

So he’s left alone in his devastation, until he cannot bear it any longer.

His fingers are blue from the cold air enveloping him in an embrace so chilling, it rattles his bones.

His love has also turned impossibly cold in his hold. Colder than the freezing, blue burn of a dragon’s flame.

When he can no longer withstand the chill, he finally stands. His legs almost give in and every inch of his body hurts. Still, he persists, never letting his love fall to the ground as he keeps a secure hold around her.

She is heavier than anything he’s ever carried before. He knows her, and this is not her. How many times had he not lifted her onto their bed? Pulled her in his lap? This sack of flesh weighs far more than she ever did, and yet he cannot let go. So he persits, and carries her to their chambers, sacrificing his own aching limbs in the process.

When he thinks he might pass out from the effort, he reaches their marital bed, and lays her on top of it.

Tenderly, he places her arms on her stomach, brushes her hair from her face, and closes her eyes.

She’s merely sleeping, nothing more. Nothing permanent, nothing everlasting.

Soon, she’ll open her eyes, look up at him, and give him a smile that melts his heart. Until then, he carefully places a quilt over her, and lies down next to her to find sleep, as husband and wife, just like so many nights before.

He finds slumber next to her, if only for a few hours. By the hour of the wolf, he’s once again awake, laying on his back, staring at the intricate carvings in the wooden canopy above him. In a moment of weakness, he reaches for her hand to hold, but when his touch is met by freezing cold fingers, he winches and quickly lets go, instead placing his hand on her stomach, covered by the quilt he’d placed over her.

His mind is too restless to let him find slumber. One hundred ideas, possible scenarios, flash in his mind. Thoughts of how to fix this; how to undo this, won’t let him rest.

The Seven say that death is final, but is that truly the case? Surely, in Old Valyria, where dragons roamed free and the practitioners of the dark arts ruled, warlocks would not be content with leaving death to the Gods?

Another day passes by as Aemond is deeply submerged in his own contemplation.

This cannot be the end of her; of their life together. His dear wife. His one true ally. The sweet mother of their future heirs. She is not gone. She cannot be.

By next daybreak, an idea from his latent mind floats into his consciousness, and causes the troubled prince to finally see clearly.

Necromancy. The art of bringing back the dead.

Fuelled by the fire of determination set ablaze within his chest, Aemond reluctantly leaves his lover's side, throws on a cloak, and orders a member of the King’s Guard to guard the door to his chambers with his life.

Before he leaves, Aemond throws one last glance at his wife’s lifeless form, and kneels by their bed, pressing a chaste kiss against her cheek. ‘Tis cold and stiff, as he should have expected. Still, his heart breaks when his lips are not met by the warmth he so wishes would still flow within her.

“I will bring you a cure”, he promises next to her ear, and ventures out into the dark, bustling streets of King’s Landing.

Flea Bottom is as he remembers.

Filthy and depraved.

The mere smell of the streets corrodes the insides of his nostrils, air so thick with stench from pigsties and tanneries the prince buries his nose inside his hood and breathes through his mouth.

Around each corner of the dilapidated buildings lurks another distraction; whores beckoning him into their lairs, conmen trying to trick him into buying false treasures.

‘Tis not a place for the educated. Nor is it for the devoted. Flea Bottom is reserved for the lowest of men; the ones who revel in debauchery and make a living of their falsehood.

With the help of a few silver stags, Aemond manages to navigate the dirt-filled cobblestones of King’s Landing’s foulest corner. By the hour of the eel, he’s directed towards a short, stocky man with small eyes obscured by thick, bushy eyebrows.

At last, he has found what he’s looking for;

A foreign man familiar with the dark arts.

He smiles when the prince tells him of the task, cold yet amused, resembling a serpent,

“There is always a price to pay, my prince. What are you willing to sacrifice?”

“Anything”

“What if the sacrifice is your own selfishness?”

Aemond does not need convincing. He has already made up his mind. Without her, warm and comforting and breathing in his arms, he is willing to offer the sorcerer anything. The strange man inspects him with beady eyes that shine in the fire dancing against the stoney walls,

“10 gold dragons. And I will restore your lady once more”

In the shadows of the night, Prince Aemond brings the warlock into his chambers.

The mysterious man does not ask for much in order to perform his sorcery.

He orders a servant to bring him boiling water, sage, dirt from the courtyard, and a small vessel.

The staff of the Red Keep work quickly, and when he has all he requires, he pulls out a short, thin dagger from the inside of his pocket, and hands it to his prince,

“A drop of your blood, your grace”

Aemond complies, and slashes the tip of his ring finger with the small blade. The warlock catches his blood with the vessel and proceeds to the bed, cutting the skin of the prince’s wife as well, mixing her blood with his. He adds the soil of their land, smoke of burnt sage, and water to his concoction before working his fingers into her mouth to force it open, and pours the brew down her throat.

Nothing happens.

Quietly, he leaves her bed to wash his hands in the basin by the hearth. He does not seem displeased by the fact that his magic did not work, or frightened by the dragon prince observing him closely.

Aemond inhales, ready to have the deceitful bastard executed, flames of anger dancing within his blood from the humiliating disappointment of trusting a common conman.

But just as he’s about to unleash his fury, he hears it.

A sigh, quiet as a whisper in the room, yet loud as thunder in the young prince’s ears, floats from their bed to where he stands. He whips his head so quickly to the side his neck hurts, and hurriedly walks towards where she lies, still with her eyes closed and in the same position he had left her in.

He carefully brings his hand out, shaking like the leaves of a tree caught in a storm. His eyes cannot see her clearly, unshed tears becoming a veil of relief over his eye. His hand gently grabs hers, and despite her still cold skin, he feels it, the drum of her heart, dancing in her chest and sending waves of thuds through her body. He leans in closer, wanting to whisper a greeting against her soft skin, yet is disturbed by the presence behind him he had nearly forgotten,

“We have not yet discussed the price, your grace”

Aemond leans back and turns to face the sorcerer. He wears the same wicked smirk as before, as if the prince’s despair amuses him.

Disgusting creature.

“You have your gold. You are dismissed”

“Oh, but that is not the price the Gods wish to see, my prince”, he says with a sickly sweet gleefulness that chills Aemond’s bones,

“Witchcraft angers the Gods. It mocks them. I told you your selfishness will be the price you pay, and They have agreed”

“What do you speak of? Spit it out”

His smirk widens, “Release her hand”

Aemond gently lets go of her, and watches as a bruise blossoms forth from underneath the delicate skin of her wrist.

“With each touch, she moves closer to the Stranger once more. You may have her by your side, but you cannot indulge in her”

Frozen in place, the prince does not answer. What will become of his life if he is not allowed to touch his beloved? Being beside her, yet so far away.

The man forces Aemond out of his thoughts,

“Will you settle for that, my prince? Being tempted by her every day, until you draw your last breath?”

“If that is the price the Gods wish to be paid”

“Hm. And you are content with a life without heirs? Without a bedmate? Or will you look for that elsewhere? Have another bed your wife, claim the offspring as your own?”

The question turns Aemond’s stomach.

“Watch your tongue, warlock. Or I will take it”

His icy voice does nothing but amuse the man further, whose lips draw even taunter as he feigns regret with a courteous nod,

“Forgive me, your grace. I did not mean offence. Surely, you must have considered all implications carefully to reach this conclusion”

In truth, he had not. But the thought of another touching what belongs to him, his most dear possession, is so repulsive to Aemond he swallows the bile pushing up his throat.

No one else may ever touch her.

By next morning light, she awakens.

Still in a delirious state, she asks her husband to come closer and embrace her, frightened by the visions she had seen in her resting state.

The contentment Prince Aemond feels from once again speaking to her; seeing her draw breath, seeing colour reappear on her cheeks, is dulled the separation between them, and the realisation that this is how they will remain from now onwards.

He tells her of it all; Rhaenys bursting through the boards, the necromancer and the price he paid to bring her back.

A tear falls from her lashes when he tells her that they may never touch again, for she will once more decay if they do.

With a forceful swallow, she pushes down her own sadness and nods, grateful that he loves her too much to live without her.

And so, their new normality begins.

They enjoy the same things they did before; taking their meals together, reading together, speaking of their duties together.

He had told court that her life was saved thanks to a skilled maester visiting from Oldtown, aware of the dangers enlisting a man of the dark arts carries.

Should the truth about her resurrection come to light, she might be sanctioned not only by the court, but by the Citadel as well, and thus forced back into the arms of the stranger.

In their endurance, their days grow tense, each moment tainted by the unspoken heartbreak of separation.

The most prominent change to their lives together is the longing squeezing the prince’s heart.

Never before has he ached so much for something as he does for her touch.

The pain inside his heart doubles when he catches her eyes observing him from across the table whenever they sit together.

She looks so devastated by their separation, so overcome with yearning.

He knows the feeling, ‘tis the same sorrow that reflects in his heart. And yet, there is nothing they can do.

Aemond would rather spend an eternity with her, and never once more feel the warmth of her fingers on his flesh, than to watch her get pulled away by the stranger yet again.

So he endures.

An unforgiving storm whips the Red Keep with vexed, rainy lashes when he returns from Storm’s End.

He is drenched, dripping from head to toe. His face looks haunted; as if he has met the eye of death himself.

She sits by the hearth, embroidering a small, green dragon onto one of his tunics. Her needle clumsily pierces the tip of her finger as she sees her husband’s distressed state,

“What is the matter, my love?”

“Lucerys, he-, he’s dead”

Aemond shakes from the cold of the rain soaking his clothes. With shaky fingers he peels off his leathers, until he is only in his underclothes, standing right before her by the fire to seek some warmth,

“I did not mean to-, Vhagar-, she-”

The explanations die on his tongue.

She meets his gaze, bewildered and pitiful, and nods in silent understanding, unsure of how to comfort him. Aemond sinks down to his knees, feeling the heat of the fire lick against his cold skin. ‘Tis little comfort; his bones still feel freezing. As does his heart, when he looks at her. So close, yet never close enough.

Torture, that is what it is. A cruel jest from the Gods.

“How can I ease your distress, my love?”, she asks, and he nearly whimpers at her sweet concern. If he cannot confess his suffering to her, then who?

“I fear I am a selfish man, after all”, he says defeatedly,

“Even now I miss you, when you sit before me. I crave your touch - to feel you near. To be inside you. I am not whole unless I am with you - part of you, my love”

The smile on her face is filled with sorrow, piteous eyes glimmering against the warm glow of the hearth. She shuffles in her seat, pulls her hand out, and opens it in an inviting gesture,

“I can spare a few years in my elderly days if I may feel your touch for one more night, my love”

And who is he to deny his love?

To dismiss her sweet pleas?

He would never deny her anything.

He moves forward, crawling towards where she sits like the depraved hound he is. When he reaches her, he pulls the skirts of her small clothes up to reveal the soft meat of her things, and lays his head there, only for a moment.

A sigh escapes him, so content to feel her softness against his cheek once more. ‘Tis like finding salvation after a life in sin; an otherworldly experience.

He nuzzles into her skin, and she brings one hand to the side of his face, gently tracing his cheekbone and threading the silk of his hair between her fingers. After a moment of still devotion, he pushes the fabric further up to kiss her cunny, the only drink his parched lips crave.

A startled gasp echoes above him, and the hand she carefully stroked his hair with turns into a painful grip. He adores the sting against his scalp. Hurriedly, he steals a peak from her, wasting no time to finally feel whole again.

Kissing his way up her panting body, he finally tastes the reward he had coveted so. Her lips are even sweeter than he remembered them; soft, warm and most comforting.

He stands and pulls her up to do the same, leading her to their bed with quick, long strides. He removes her small clothes as if he despises them, tearing the fabric and grunting at the layers separating him from the light of his life. When she is finally bare before him, he strips himself and joins her on their bed, finding his home between her thighs. She is so slick he slides in as if he were the missing piece of her incomplete body, and they both cry out at the all-consuming bliss of finally being together, being one, once more.

His arms snake underneath her back, pulling her so close to him each inch of her skin touches his. Their lips stay locked together, moans and pleasurable sighs bouncing between their mouths.

He cannot tell if the wetness on her cheek is proof of her own relief, or his.

Nevertheless, he kisses it away, closes his eyes, and disappears into the bliss of having her again.

They stay intertwined through the night, and by first light, Aemond reluctantly lets go of his love.

The light that illuminates their chambers is scarce in the early hours of the morning, yet he can see the discolouration travelling up the limbs of his wife; painting her legs and arms in odd, painful colours.

Their indulgence had cost her greatly.

Regret stabs his heart; potent and aching.

What have I done?

‘Tis as if the small dagger the warlock carried were lodged inside his chest, reminding him of the devious man he had become.

A kinslayer.

His bloodthirsty quest for selfish pursuits; justice, comfort, love, is naught but foolishness.

And now those around him pay the price.

Aemond makes sure to keep distance from her, and he suffers immensely from it.

On the night he came back from Storm’s End, he had found peaceful slumber in the arms of his beloved. Each night since, he is tormented by nightmares; visions of his worst fears playing in his mind.

Cold skin, blood, bruises.

He fears Rhaenyra’s wrath. The retribution he will have to atone for Lucerys’ life.

Will he be the one to pay it this time?

Or will the burden of his crimes once more fall on the shoulders of his loved ones?

Aemond does not need to wait long for retaliation.

Rhaenyra’s revenge go by the names of Blood and Cheese, a ratcatcher and a disgraced butcher. The pair snook into the chambers of his young nephew, heir to the Iron Throne Jaehaerys, and slew the boy in front of Aemond’s sweet sister, Helaena.

His hands are no longer merely tainted by the crimson of Lucerys’ blood. His pursuit for vengeance cost him the life of his nephew, and his sister, so lost in grief she can no longer leave her chambers. He only visits her once, horrified by the ghost of a person the queen has become.

‘Tis my fault.

And it echoes in the prince’s mind anywhere he goes.

When he trains with Ser Criston. When he flies on Vhagar. When he breaks his fast with his wife.

‘Tis my fault.

When his mother can’t meet his eye. When his brother sinks deeper into his cups. When his grandfather no longer confides in him.

‘Tis my fault.

The only light remaining is his dear lady wife.

She still regards him with love.

Her eyes still sparkle as he enters their chambers after a long day. Her mouth still forms a smile whenever he greets her.

“Her sweetness is wicked”, Prince Aemond thinks, “So inviting, beckoning me in, yet I must remain at a distance”

They still sleep next to one another, separated by an arm’s length. A small distance that feels infinite as he longingly steals glances of her sleeping form.

A siren calling to him, taunting him with her soft, warm flesh.

He knows that a night with her in his arms would ease his distress; allow him to find slumber and wake up as a better man.

I would be a better man, for her.

And that is the last thing he thinks before he shuffles closer, gently pulls her into his arms, and buries his nose in her hair.

If he were a better man, he would have stopped after one night. But by now, Aemond knows that he is not.

He is a self-serving, weak craven.

The first night of having her in his arms while she slept did not soothe the longing aching in his chest as he thought it would. It doubled it. And by next nightfall, he waited for her to drift to sleep before greedily pulling her into his arms once more.

He sees the toll his nightly indulgence has on her body rapidly. The bruises that had decorated her limbs grow darker, like those of an apple decaying. They now travel from her hands and feet, up her arms and legs, and bloom out over her stomach, chest, and neck.

Aemond finds himself looking at her less and less.

‘Tis my fault.

“Mayhaps we need to seek out the sorcerer again for council?”, she questions one day as she carefully observes the bruises colouring her body. She presses on one and winces, lips pulled down into a displeased frown.

She is withering. Rotting away.

“I will”, Aemond says, and the lie is so bitter on his tongue, he wonders if his foul ways have caused poison to grow from within him.

He had stolen Lucerys’ life above Storm’s End. A quick affair, an instance that he regretted as soon as he saw Vhagar’s jaw close around the small dragon. He did not mean to do it; to take his life. He only meant to seek justice for his eye; for the pain his nephew had caused him. For disfiguring him.

‘Tis what he has become known for; kinslaying. The merciless murder of the young boy who wronged him. If the court only knew of how vile he truly is.

With each night that passes, he steals another flicker of the flame keeping the light of his life alive. He sees her grow paler, the bruises now covering nearly every inch of her being, slowly working their way towards her heart, drumming weaker and weaker in her chest.

And yet, he cannot stop. He needs solace; the only good thing in his life. Holding her near, feeling the heat of her melt the icy bolts of remorse and guilt shooting within him.

Tonight, he knows it is their last time. She can hardly open her eyes anymore. Her lips are purple, skin a sick melody of various shades, and her heart beats slowly, as if it is fighting with each thud.

Just like the nights before, he lies down next to her, pulls her into his arms, inhales her scent, and closes his eyes.

“This time, she perishes by my hand”, he thinks, “She gave me everything, and yet I took more”

But what is love, if not to take?

Take and take and take, until there is nothing left.

No one savours love.

No one would ever feel satisfied with only a taste.

It is meant to be devoured. And that’s what Prince Aemond tells himself, as his love finally draws her last breath in his arms.

“Forgive me”, his whisper begs,

“I have devoured you. I have let my selfishness slaughter you. Now I await my own demise, one that will come to me soon”

His fingers gently dance over her cheek,

“I welcome it. I welcome a chance to meet you once more”

He holds her closer, feeling the warmth of her body leave for the second time in their lives,

“Until then, sleep well, my love, and I will return to you soon”

A/N; I hope you enjoyed this little Halloween fic of mine! I tried to go with a bit more classic, haunting and tragic theme, and it was so fun to write.

If you enjoyed this, please check out my fic Colour My Mind, Bring Me Back. It has very similar vibes and I'm sure you'll enjoy it. Kisses!

#aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #my fics #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen x you #aemond one eye #aemond x you #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen smut

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sylusjinwoon · 7 months ago

Text

{ 158 }

penpal.

academy arc

jinwoo sung x fem.reader

were you going crazy?

what was up with those shadows surrounding your classmate?

settled off to the left side of the classroom, you watch sung jinwoo from your periphery, seeing what looked liked dark wisps surrounding the entirety of his form. the boy was simply reading the pages of his textbook, yet something about him terrified you.

you weren't sure just how long you had been staring at him, your gaze following the tiny wisps of shadow as it seemed to dance around him-

before stiffening when your gaze met with his cool, grey eyes.

becoming paralyzed, you found that you couldn't look away from him, with jinwoo gently flashing you a kind smile. he opens his mouth, ready to greet you when four rowdy classmates interrupts him, surrounding his desk as low chuckles echo throughout the area.

you wanted to call out to them, to somehow warn them-

but no words could come out.

"wow, you're a big shot, aren't you? wearing that glove and all."

"why are you only wearing it on one hand, though? is there a black flame dragon in it or something?"

"ughhhh, my hand!! the black flame cow in my right hand is roaring-!!"

the four males began to laugh incessantly, making your anxiety shoot through the roof. you trail your gaze over to his gloved hand...

"hey, look. take off your glove. let me try it on." one of the boys demanded, further making you anxious at what was to come.

jinwoo remains silent, completely unfazed by these goons who were trying so hard to intimidate him. you had to fight back a grin, feeling the tiniest bit of admiration despite the anxieties you held for him.

"bastard, are your ears stuffed or something? why aren't you replying when we asked you to take off your glove?"

"what is it? do you have a tattoo on your left hand or something?"

jinwoo lets out a huff in response before taking off his glove, revealing a severely burned hand. your throat was felt clenching up in response once more when you caught a glimpse of his scars-

scars that appeared like deadly spiderwebs against his pale skin-

scars that were certainly not normal.

"what? never seen a burn wound before?" jinwoo's voice retained its tranquil quality, causing a wave of discomfort to be seen across the four rowdy students as they each clicked their tongues in utter disgust and disdain.

"we were just joking around, why get all serious?"

"just wear that glove again, i'm scared i'll get nightmares about it."

"FUCKING DISGUSTING."

you watch as the four boys proceed to exit the classroom, only to see a flash of purple from your periphery as an invisible force made them freeze before tripping over the doorway, landing headfirst into the floor (the sudden impact causing the students who were currently out in the hallway to laugh at them).

your heart was racing, nearly stifling you with its anxious beats when you look back at jinwoo to see him smiling at you. he calmly meets your gaze for a brief moment before giving you a wink (acting like he had shared some inside joke with you), catching you completely off guard.

he turns his attention back to his textbook and continues to read, sometimes sneaking glances at you while keeping that knowing smile on his handsome features, making you purse your lips in response.

looking away from him, you pretend to look down at your own handwritten notes, yet the sensation of his eyes being on you never seemed to cease.

{ ... }

the discomfort and anxiety you felt each time you sat next to jinwoo became too much to bear when you asked to switch seats with another girl from your class.

of course, she hadn't the slightest clue about the general offness seen with jinwoo. you knew that all she saw when it came to jinwoo was a cute boy that was top of the class.

but no one ever did notice the strange way his eyes seemed to glow-

how his mannerisms and style of speaking were a tad bit too mature for a mere teenager-

or how there were an almost constant presence of shadows surrounding him.

admittedly, sung jinwoo freaked you out.

even now, when you were literally three desks away from him, you swore that you could feel his piercing gaze against your back.

and you didn't know what you could have possibly done to have warranted such attention from him.

only when class had ended were you finally able to breathe, knowing that jinwoo had track for the next couple of hours. he had already left the classroom when you slowly began to pack your belongings together. adjusting the blouse of your uniform, you brush back your hair and begin making your way to the library to find a few good books to read before heading home.

the moment you stepped into the room filled with books, you let out a happy sigh. breathing in the fresh scent of pages, you eagerly step into the library and head to your favorite aisles.

fantasy... romance... mystery... gahhhh there's so many good books to read! it's a shame we can only check out 4 books at a time...

you think bitterly to yourself, taking a few books off the shelf when a flash of purple catches your attention. with a tilt of your head, you look out the window to see jinwoo settled directly below you. he was taking casual sips of his water all while sneaking glances at you from his periphery.

you pout, resting your free hand against the glass, gaze narrowing down at him. jinwoo realizes that he had caught your attention, fully facing you now as he lifted up his hands to give you a tiny wave. the suddenly soft and sweet action was enough to make the heat grow against your cheeks, with you unable to ignore the gesture as you wave back at him.

his smile was enough to distract you from the lengthening of your shadow made in response to the setting sun, distracting you from seeing the several, glowing purple eyes that remained hidden from within its dark depths.

{ ... }

the morning you came into your school, you saw something fall out of your locker, making you question how such a note could have gotten into the metal compartment.

for starters, it had a lock on it-

a lock that only you had the key to.

so just how did this folded note even reach you?

you shake your head and ignored all logic when it came to how you had gotten this note, proceeding to unfold the piece of paper as it read:

your eyes and smile are really beautiful. tell me, are you seeing anyone right now? ( s. monarch )

your throat turns dry upon reading the note, making your heart race in response.

was this person... actually flirting with you through a note?

and just what kind of nickname was s. monarch?

was this guy just really cocky or something?

yet, even knowing that this note was kind of cheesy, why did it succeed in making you smile?

you look down at the page to see that it had plenty of space for you to write your reply. trying to hide back your grin, you take out your favorite pen and decide to write:

thank you for your compliment. i am not seeing anyone at the moment, but i'm curious- who are you?

you sign off the note with your full name before placing it back within the confines of your locker, somehow knowing that your face was completely flustered right now.

your good mood had dramatically increased, and you found yourself looking forward to talking to this new penpal of yours.

{ ... }

your eyes and smile are really beautiful. tell me, are you seeing anyone right now?

thank you for your compliment. i am not seeing anyone at the moment, but i'm curious- who are you?

ah, i'm sorry, i can't say. it would ruin the mystery :)

mystery?? why would you wish to keep your identity a secret, monarch?

i have my reasons. besides... i want to use this chance to get to know you better.

may i ask how you're able to read and place new notes within my locker?

nope, sorry. it's still a secret ;)

ugh, you're kind of annoying, monarch -_-

i've been called much worse. :)

{ ... }

you spend the next couple of weeks exchanging notes with monarch, giggling each time he asked questions about you, like wanting to know your favorite color-

favorite books-

favorite foods-

just, anything and everything that made you who you are.

while you answered each of his questions, you would read his own responses pertaining to his own personal interests.

you could say purple and black are my favorite colors.

i wasn't much of a big reader before, but i'm enjoying a lot of murder mystery books. maybe you can recommend me some other good novels to read?

my favorite foods are pretty much anything that my mom makes, haha, but kimchi stew and bulgogi beef are my personal favorites.

altogether, he seemed like your typical, teenaged boy. the conversations you had with him remained light-hearted and fun.

but that all changed when you received today's note within your locker during your lunch break:

what do you think of sung jinwoo? i notice you tend to avoid him a lot.

your eyebrows furrow in response to his question, wondering why monarch would even care about how you felt when it came to jinwoo. however, you were always honest with him before, so you saw no reason to lie to him now.

you truly want an honest answer? well, to put it bluntly, jinwoo terrifies me. there's just this... really strange and dark aura about him? yet no one seems to notice it but me. sure, he's plenty polite on the surface, but... i feel like there's more to him than meets the eye. it's almost like... he has some secret, one that no one can understand, but keeps well hidden? ah, sorry, i am well aware that i am not making any sense, but it's how i really feel. jinwoo makes me feel anxious.

after finishing your note, you place it back within your locker before walking back to your classroom.

somehow, you couldn't ignore the sensation that you were missing something vital...

that there was some connection you just weren't seeing when it came to monarch and sung jinwoo...

{ ... }

your heart was racing when class ended for the day, and you wondered if monarch had already sent you a reply. with a noticeable bounce in your step, you go to your locker and unlock it, seeing a brand new note settled atop your various notebooks.

meet me at the library after school.

a painful clench was felt at the base of your throat, with you picking up the single note, your hands trembling as you fought to calm down. letting out a deep breath, you close your locker and brush back your hair, holding monarch's latest note close to your chest.

were you getting nervous?

why did your legs feel stiff and heavy all of a sudden?

with each step you take, getting oh so much closer to the library, you swore that your heart was going to choke you with its rapid palpitations-

praying that you wouldn't suddenly die of a heart attack, you open the door to the library-

only to see a lone figure standing in front of the window. the setting sun shining directly in your eyes made it difficult for you to see who it was, giving you no choice but to come closer to the person.

wiping away the tears from your eyes, you stepped closer and finally saw just who monarch truly was-

letting out a gasp when sung jinwoo himself was looking at you with those same, glowing eyes.

"you... you're monarch?!" that was all that you could manage, the anxiety immediately becoming worse as your heart continued to beat faster within the confines of your chest.

a rich chuckle escapes from his lips, "indeed, i am." he confirms your suspicions before taking a step closer to you.

jinwoo seemed unaware (or perhaps he just didn't care?) about your mounting discomfort and anxieties, still coming closer to you as you continued to take several steps away from him.

only when your back met with one of the sides of the bookshelves did you finally stop, with jinwoo smiling down at you. he places his gloved hand against the shelf, trapping you against him.

with his free hand, he gently traces at your bottom lip, making your breath hitch in response. despite how much of a nervous wreck he made you, you couldn't ignore the sudden warmth you felt spreading across your veins at the look of adoration he gives you.

"you have plenty of good reasons to fear me, i'll admit, but... is it really just fear and anxiety that you feel for me...?"

his whisper was almost seductive, trailing his fingertips down your features before gently grabbing a hold of your chin.

"or have you mistaken your anxieties with feelings of love for me, too?"

your breathing comes out in uneven breaths, and you could feel your cheeks further heating up in response as your heart skipped several beats-

"wait, you said too, did you just hint that- that you feel love for me?"

jinwoo's glowing purple eyes became alight with amusement as he gives you an eager nod. "obviously, these feelings of mine have only grown since the moment i saw you again..."

you became speechless then, watching with bated breath when jinwoo inches closer and closer to you, "despite how long it's been for me, you have not changed... not even a little bit, sarang."

your knees immediately become weaker when jinwoo calls you by that sweet term of endearment, and you nearly fell to your knees when he finally kisses you. his arms were kept locked around your waist, kissing you with a fervor that made you feel oddly nostalgic-

perhaps you had no reason to fear sung jinwoo after all; especially with how addicting his kisses had quickly become to you.

a.n. - and we are so back with the fluff i have always loved writing about! i am so happy, passing a really difficult final exam as i look forward to the rest of my academic year 😭 so i decided to write another jinwoo story!

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

#sung jinwoo x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo sung x you #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling #sung jinwoo #jinwoo sung #.stories

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sinsirellaxx · 5 months ago

Note

Hello!could you write something for daemon targaryen x reader?

She is part of rhaenyras advisors and she is very cunning and smart, she also has a very private life and doesnt care for daemon in the slightess.

Daemon follows her one day to discover more about her and he finds her looking at a man and smiling to herself.

Now he can see all that he didnt before and how another has the love that he will never experience.

Nothing burns hotter than Dragon fire

Daemon Targaryen x Reader (well, not really – it's one-sided)

Warning: Not proofread.

There you were again, with that cunning smile and his niece on your tail following you around like a little duckling. He was used to everyone else following Rhaenyra around, drawing everyone in like moths to a flame. But you … you just had something special. Almost magical in the way you held yourself like a true Targaryen. Except you were not. This confused Daemon greatly you were always in the middle of thing – whenever there was laughter you were involved, whenever his niece went flying you were with her and whenever most people around your age needed help, they would easily be found next to you. You were not Targaryen, yet you held yourself with so much pride and grace one could easily mistake you for one.

At first, he hadn’t taken notice of you. You lacked everything he was looking for – those things mainly being Valyrian attributes. You were a well-mannered beauty, yet you seemed plain – but how would he know? The prince knew nothing about you.

The more the Rogue Prince saw you around his niece, the more he was able to observe you. To protect his niece – that’s what he would claim if anyone were to ask. If anyone dared to ask.

Spending more time with you proved to be rather difficult … for him. Your obvious lack of interest hurt his pride, he was a Targaryen Prince for fuck’s sake and yet you still never even spared him a glance.

How rude.

But instead of detesting you for your arrogance it made him desire you even more – he couldn’t stop thinking about you and that stupid melodious laugh of yours. After the realization hit him, he sought you and Rhaenyra out more and more. Sometimes he found his niece by herself and instead of being disappointed he’d use the chance to ask about you, but his niece was almost as cunning as you – she’d leave without answering and that provocative smirk on her face.

The first time he saw you alone in one of the corridors he considered himself lucky, his eyes lit up as he made his way towards you, but his face fell immediately when you nodded shortly at him as you walked past him. Everything in him had screamed at him to just grasp your hand but his pride did not let him. Instead, he clenched his fists as he forced himself to continue walking.

The first time he dreamed of you, was the one thing that drove him out of his shell. In his dream you had snuck into his room in the middle of the night, climbing into his bed, dressed in a satin robe. You had climbed onto his lab, straddling him with your warm, bare thighs as your fingers ghosted over his revealed chest. He could still feel your weight on him after he woke up – his stomach still tingled as if you had just removed your fingers, his cock throbbed when closed his eyes again, the images of you grinding down on him unfolding in front of him. When he opened his eyes again, he knew he had to have you.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to find you smiling shyly at one of the Kings Guards, your small hand on the tall man’s shoulder. Daemon walked closer, his eyes fixated on the man as the Guard smiled warmly at you before walking away. The Targaryen prince watched you turn around to steal one last look at the man with a lovestruck smile on your face.

Well, fuck.

#hotd daemon #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #hotd #hotd x reader

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ficsilike-reblogged · 3 months ago

Text

As High As Honour - III

Summary: You never expected Aemond Targaryen. Pairing: Soft Dark!Aemond Targaryen/F!Reader (No use of Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Attempted assault (not by Aemond) Emphasis on the soft and the dark! Highly dubious consent! Fem-receiving oral, unprotected p-i-v sex, age-gap, canon typical violence, babies Word Count: 26.5k (is anyone surprised?)

Book Three: The Dragon and The Lark

You scarcely remembered shoving Aemond’s hands off of you before stumbling toward your dragon. The mournful cry he let out had fresh tears stinging your eyes as you climbed atop his back. You flew back to your camp in a haze—the one thing you do remember is that Vhagar was nowhere in sight. It could be hypothesized that Vhagar had done her rider’s bidding and then flown back to the Red Keep, but surely you would have seen her massive form in the skies, even from a distance.

You did not want to believe that Aemond would do this. But what other option did you have? Other than a dragon, nothing else would be able to burn a fortress like Harrenhal. You would never forget the heat of those flames. Never forget how green…

“Not all green is true.”

What had Helaena meant?

You turned that question over and over in your mind as you went through the motions of informing the Crown of what had happened and having your traveling party turn around to return to the Vale. Their efforts wasted. In a single night, the future you thought you could have was ashes.

Your temporary apartments in the Red Keep were comfortable, as usual, but you could not shake the feeling that something else was on the horizon, waiting for you.

Rhaenyra and Alicent had been kind to you, offering their company in your sullen silences as you tried to make sense of it all. You did not tell them of what Helaena had said and you refused to ask the younger princess about it; you would not ruin the first few moons of her marriage with your questioning.

It seemed that your one avenue was Aemond. Despite knowing that he could very well be lying to you, what other choice did you have? You found him in the shadows of the Red Keep’s library, long fingers curled around the leather spine of a book.

“You have not gone to my father with your suspicions,” he mused quietly before setting it aside. The prince waved a hand at the chair opposite him but you did not move to take it. His tilted lips slowly slid into a sharp smirk when he realized you would not sit.

“You and I both know that taking anything to your father is a waste of time.” You sucked in a breath, trying to steady your thundering heart. This was someone you had trusted. Someone you had a fondness for. You wanted to believe him but you could not deny how damning it looked. “Make me believe that you did not do this, Aemond. Tell me what you know. Why you were there.”

Aemond hummed as you looked at you, eye dragging from the toes of your boots to your silver hair and you had to stop the shiver you felt trying to work its way down your spine. But it was visceral and consuming. “You seem convinced of my guilt.”

“I am giving you the opportunity to try to sway me. I do not want to believe that you did this. Do you not understand? The boy I knew-”

In a flash, Aemond was standing, pushing toward you with quiet but purposeful steps. “I am not a boy any longer, my lady.” The heat of him once again bled through your gown and your next breath stalled in your lungs. Everything about him burned. Burned like dragon fire. But you could not and would not voice that to him. It would only give him hope where you know there could be none. “You were a boy when I told you I’d race you through the skies. You were a boy when you called me a witch. A boy when-”

“Not anymore. Would you have me do to prove myself to you? What task would you set for me to prove to you that I am a man?”

“Tell me what you know, Aemond.”

He was quiet for another stretched moment before his chin tilted up. The move let more sunlight bloom behind him, framing in light but casting the sharp, beautiful angles of his face in dark shadow. He looked like some sort of dark god, craving vengeance.

Or something else. Something, someone you would not name.

“I did go to Harrenhal with the intent of seeing you. But I arrived on horseback. Ser Criston can confirm that as we traveled together. Vhagar remained in the valley outside the city. I was welcomed into Harrenhal’s storied halls by Lord Larys.”

Larys had been the only Strong to survive the fire. Everyone else had perished, having gathered together to celebrate your betrothal to Harwin. He had not accompanied you to the Red Keep but arrived later and was welcomed with softly spoken condolences and offered his father’s spot on the Small Council.

“He had invited me. It seemed I was not the only one who believed you were throwing your life away by tying yourself to an oaf like Ser Harwin Strong.”

You recoiled as if he had struck you. “Harwin was kind to me.”

“You deserve more than kindness.” The smoke of his voice had your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You did not understand why he had such an effect on you. “And I plan on giving everything to you.”

“Aemond.”

He hummed again as if he were amused. “I left the castle after dinner, wanting to see the godswood. I noticed the fire had started when I started to walk back. There was nothing I could do. Nothing you could do.”

You shook your head. That was too easy. “The fire was green. Only Vhagar and my dragon breathe green fire. Are you suggesting I set Harrenhal ablaze?”

“Of course not. You have a soft heart.”

A scoff tore itself out of your throat. A soft heart. You did not have a soft heart. “Tell me, then, what it is I saw.”

The prince moved closer and you could once again smell him, dragon, mint, lavender, and leather. Intoxicating and-

Stop it. Stop it.

“I do not know what it was, my lady. But I intend to find out.”

Before you could tell him that answer was not adequate, he had grasped your hand and pressed a searing kiss to your fingers. And then he was walking away, leaving you only with the scent of him to burn your throat.

But Aemond, it seemed, was simply waiting for you to confront him before truly revealing his plan. On the eve before you were set to return to the Vale without any sort of answer, your presence was demanded in the Great Hall. What greeted you was nearly the whole of the court waiting in anticipation and Larys Strong in chains.

Your ears rang as he was accused of killing his family and destroying his ancestral seat. And it was Aemond who had brought forth the accusation.

“And how do you plead, Lord Strong?” Rhaenys asked.

Larys looked at Aemond for just a moment before blandly looking back at Rhaenys and Viserys, who sat slouched on the Iron Throne. Aemond stood at the edge of the royal dias, hands folded neatly over the pommel of his sword. He said nothing and the silence stretched throughout the Great Hall.

And that, it seemed, was damning enough.

“I, King Viserys Targaryen,” Viserys started, his voice shaking and wet from his affliction, “first of my name, sentence you to die for your crimes of murder and kinslaying.”

Larys turned and his eyes landed on you, almost as if he were expecting to see you. His gaze did not move from you, he did not blink, even as he was forced to his knees and Ser Harrold raised his sword. And you could not look away either, and then-

“I would prefer if Prince Aemond took my head, if it is all the same.”

The crowd held its breath as Ser Harrold turned to look at his king and the prince. But, like Larys’ refusal to speak out against the accusations, Aemond said nothing but he drew his sword from its sheath at his waist and in a handful of steps, stood in front of Larys. And still your gaze did not move. Larys was still looking at you and Aemond moved his head just enough to follow the other man’s line of sight…and saw you.

Larys’ head was cut from his neck and fell to the floor with a wet thud. His body fell, too, and crimson started to puddle immediately across the light stone. And that was the end of House Strong. A small splash of blood streaked across the high arc of Aemond’s cheek but he did not brush it away, instead focusing on cleaning his blade before walking away, his stride long and powerful.

As the crowd’s murmurs started to reach a crescendo, you blindly walked back to your apartments and tried to wrangle the thoughts coursing through you. Larys had killed Harwin. Larys had killed him and the entirety of his family…

Your thoughts came to a screeching halt with the announcement of Aemond’s presence in your rooms. You turned to see him striding him, skirting around the serving girl who had let him in.

“It is done, my lady.”

“It is.” The words sounded muffled in your ears. But it was done. Silence stretched between you, tight and uncomfortable, but you could not find the words to break it. What could you say? What else could be done? “What did you say to him to have him reveal such atrocities?” Was all you could ask.

Aemond hummed and his chin tilted up, and it reminded you of a cat who had just devoured a fat canary. “I simply appealed to him as a fellow second son.”

The simple sentence felt like you had plunged into an icy lake. You remembered how they spoke at Jacaerys and Helaena’s wedding and one thought jumped to another to another before... “It was you who gave him the idea.”

“Careful, my lady,” Aemond said softly but you could hear the iron beneath it. “Be wary of your accusations.”

“Accusations?” You hissed. “You have already confessed to appealing to him as a fellow second son. What other conclusion would you have me make? What other option have you given me?”

“It was not I who killed him. And it was not my intent to have him burnt to ash. Harwin deserved a cleaner death than that.”

“Stop it! Do not be so cruel!”

Aemond moved closer. “But he was always going to die, my lady. He claimed what was mine.” He reached out and gently set his hand against your cheek; a soft touch in contrast to his cold words. “But now you can rest knowing that it was not my hand that struck him down.” His thumb traced the curve of your cheek and he leaned in just far enough to brush his lips against your temple. You should have pulled away. Should have told him, again, that his affections were misplaced and unwanted. But you were rooted to the spot and your skin burned where he had kissed it.

The next breath rattled out of you and you felt Aemond’s lips pull into a smile against your skin. “Larys could have taken the Black.” You weren’t even sure why you were still speaking or why you even would suggest Larys still draw breath with his crimes.

Aemond pulled back just enough to look at you. He did not move far, his chest still brushed yours with each of his steady breaths. “I would not have doggedly pursued him if he had not meant to kill me as well. He had wanted to leave you no option but himself.” The prince paused and then his hands curled around your arms. “Nothing and no one will keep you from me, my lady.”

Even as you shook your head, you burned. “You will find another. Someone closer to your age-”

His grip tightened and then moved, anchoring at the base of your skull and giving you no room to wrench yourself free. “There is no one who could compare to you, your light, your fire. I have deprived myself of you and your attentions and I shall suffer no longer.” Aemond pulled in a slow breath. Calm and measured. “I will give you time to mourn. I am a man of honor and I know you felt something for Harwin, no matter how unworthy he was of your heart.” He dragged his lips down your temple to press another whisper of a kiss against the highest part of your cheek. “But I’ll not wait forever. My patience grows thin.” And then he was gone, leaving you with the echo of his scent and the burn of his touch.

If you thought that Larys’ execution was the end of it, you found yourself sorely mistaken. Aemond was not finished. The green fire that had destroyed Harrenhal had been a mystery you thought would never be solved, thinking that perhaps there was something in Harrenhal’s stone that turned the flames green. Larys was gone, that was what mattered, wasn’t it?

Not to Aemond. Rhaenyra summoned you into the Small Council chamber on the morning you were set to leave again. Aemond sat beside her as she sat next to her father who looked like he had been roused from a deep sleep. The golden mask Viserys had taken to wearing to hide the rot was loose around his head. But the light in his purple eyes was more present than it had been in years—that gave you pause, more than the tight line of Rhaenyra’s mouth. Rhaenys almost looked relieved and the rest of the royal family had also joined you alongside the Small Council. Helaena took her place beside you and wrapped a hand around the meat of your arm, as if she needed grounding for what was to come.

“Tell them, Aemond. Tell us all what you have found.”

Aemond nodded once and his lilac eye dragged across the crowd for a moment and then settled on you. He explained the Alchemists’ Guild had created something called Wildfire. A synthetic dragonfire—and wild, as the name denoted. The order to create it had come directly from the Citadel itself.

Larys had procured a handful of jars for himself and had stashed them within Harrenhal, waiting for the correct time, as he had put it. Those jars had been enough to destroy the largest of the towers of the storied fortress and kill dozens.

Larys killed them with fire. Killed his father and brother for their titles and inheritance…and for you. (His confession of that last point came to you by the shaking hand of a servant girl who had been told to wait to deliver it to you “at the right time.” She had found you the night after his execution, slipping through the passageways you had once traversed yourself as a girl in the Red Keep. The missive had been brief but would haunt you for the rest of your days. If you had been mine, my brother would still live. There had been other accusations, too, stating that you had intoxicated him the moment your eyes met his when you first were introduced at the Eyrie. It had been a cruel final act, leaving you under the crushing weight of guilt you had to suffer with alone.)

Aemond enlisted the one-time paramour of Daemon, a woman named Mysaria, who had a network of “spiders” throughout the city. When digging further, Mysaria’s spiders found that the plot was truly beyond what anyone could have been expecting. Since the Conquest, a certain powerful subset of the Conclave had been hellbent on destroying the dragons and any trace of magic left in Westeros. They had studies of how the dragons’ growth stunted since the creation of the Dragonpit. There were collected tomes upon tomes of how to kill dragons within their eggs.

The suspicions you had about something being wrong with the dragons had proven true. Did you feel any pride or righteousness about being right? Of course not. You would have preferred to be wrong—but the truth was out now.

Your mind was filled with thoughts of your dragon and how there was a centuries’ long plot to destroy him and all others like him. He was yours. Your freedom made tangible. How could you ever think to live without him? How could anyone think to take him from you?

When you were finally able to leave the Red Keep, you pressed yourself along your dragon’s spine, wanting to feel as close as you could to him. Each flap of his massive wings echoed in your chest. And he seemed to feel your want for closeness and took a few extra turns around the Eyrie before landing, keeping you atop his back for a little longer.

It was a balm to be back in the Vale. Dealing with your duties was a welcome distraction from the ache in your chest. Harwin was gone but your dragon was safe. Perhaps that was all you could have. A dragon of your own and the diadem on your head.

True to form, Viserys was slow to act upon the information Aemond had presented. He feared gaining House Hightower’s ire by demanding the maesters and archmaesters still involved in the plot be remanded to the Crown’s custody. Daemon and Aemond held no such qualms and landed Caraxes and Vhagar atop the Seneschal’s Court in the Citadel and demanded all who were involved to be handed over.

From what you had gleaned from the whispers in the Vale, there had been a short-lived stand off before Lord Ormund Hightower faced threats of a revolt of his vassals and also pressed the Citadel to yield to the princes’ demands. Your courtiers sometimes whispered of how Aemond had ordered the maesters who had taken part of the conspiracy to be fed to Vhagar and the wildfire caches to be destroyed in the maw of the Dragonmont on Dragonstone. When that was finished, Aemond and Rhaenys destroyed the Dragonpit atop Meleys and Vhagar when he returned. The dragons would be cared for on the outskirts of the city, without chains and dark roosts.

“He is a true Targaryen,” Lady Waxley said. You weren’t entirely sure if you liked the breathy tone she used but you quickly dismissed that thought. Aemond was not yours to covet.

“And I hear he is still unattached,” another woman added. “Unusual for a prince—even a second son, no?”

Aemond was not just a second son. He was his family protector. He rode the largest dragon in the world. He was studious and a master swordsman and-

You bit your tongue so hard it bled.

Moons waxed and waned, and you thought that you had rid yourself of Aemond and his attentions. And you worked to set him out of your mind as well. It was strange, how often you thought of him. He was haunting you.

And you knew that was what he wanted.

But you knew this wayward infatuation he thought he had for you would fade. He would marry a young highborn lady and you would find a suitable heir from one of your distant cousins. The events of these past moons would be…relegated to the dark of your memory. In time. Even if the ghost of his kisses still followed you in your dreams. The thought of telling Alicent of his affections briefly crossed your mind, but decided against it, knowing it would only embarrass you and Alicent. And with the burn of his touch came the realization that you would be alone. It had been a girlish, childish hope that you would find a husband and have a family of your own. You had put your obligations to the Vale above your own wants. It had been the honorable thing to do. And then Harwin had given you hope. He held you gently and kissed you passionately. He had wanted a family, too. One with you despite your differences. The tears you shed for Harwin were, selfishly, also for the life you would not get to live. A handful of new suits were brought before you after returning to the Vale and you rejected them outright after they made it seem like they were granting you a boon by even considering you as a potential bride. You could and would rule the Vale without a husband and a few were even younger than Aemond. Harwin had been the ideal choice: older than you, mostly understanding of your position, and in possession of a kind heart and handsome face. And now he was gone. So be it. As you looked over the subpar qualifications and lives of your Gulltown cousins to pick a potential heir, Ser Oswin came into your solar, holding a missive and his cheeks sunken with shock: Viserys was dead.

While you led a coalition of the highborn of the Vale down to the Red Keep, your dragon circled restlessly overhead. You would have preferred to fly with him, but you knew that leading the Vale and publicly showing your support for Rhaenyra as heir was more important than your comfort. The Houses of the Vale may not follow you blindly, but they did trust your judgment. And you were going to see Rhaenyra crowned without question.

When you arrived, the city was draped in black and mostly somber, but you did hear a few whispers about the impending coronation. You had your handmaidens distribute food on your way in, stating it was a gift from Queen Rhaenyra. It was a small way you could help sway favor. Things were changing—you just hoped it would be for the better. And as your wheelhouse continued on, you were pleasantly surprised to realize the city did not hold as putrid of a scent as it had previously. There were fresh water fountains tucked between buildings and it looked like the streets had been recently cleared. Daeron’s plans seemed to be working marvelously to better the city for everyone.

Your dragon settled in the deserted tourney grounds and you made sure some of your younger lords and ladies were comfortable in their apartments before you set off to find Alicent and Rhaenyra. You found them in Rhaenyra’s solar, quiet and holding each other’s hands. You greeted them with a curtsey followed by tight hugs. “Tell me what you need,” you whispered.

Rhaenyra shook her head. Salt from dried tears had left streaks down her cheeks. “His suffering has ended.”

Alicent brushed a lock of Rhaenyra’s silver hair away from her cheek and kissed her temple gently. She also had tears in her eyes, making the brown of her gaze all the more vibrant. “And he went into the Seven Heavens knowing you would carry on his legacy faithfully.”

Rhaenyra nodded before sighing. “He has been ill for so long, but I still feel as if he was taken from me too soon. What if I still have more to learn? More for him to teach me?”

Truthfully, you thought of telling her of how she had been ruling in his stead for years with Rhaenys and Alicent as her guides and a strong Small Council at her back. But she was still delicate and she loved her father, no matter his faults. “He was a peaceful king. And I have no doubt you will be much the same. You have a strong council, a respected and loyal Hand, and you have us,” you said, curling your hands around one of hers. “We are here for you, Rhaenyra.” You turned to Alicent and saw the ache in her eyes as well. No matter how unfair her marriage had been, Alicent was still a dutiful wife. “And I am here for you as well, please never forget that.”

After the prayers and services for Viserys were finished, Alicent was the one who crowned Rhaenyra, setting Jaehaerys’ crown on her brow and proclaiming her Queen for the Seven Kingdoms to behold. The crowd, full of highborn and smallfolk alike, cheered and chanted her name like a benediction. Jacaerys was publicly named as her heir as Helaena stood at his side. You were pleased to have been given a seat in the first row of revealers and you readily curtsied with the rest of the crowd as Rhaenyra held out her arms, like she was greeting all of them, welcoming them all into her arms. Daemon chuckled at his place beside Lucerys—his lady wife and daughter were seated beside you and were likely to be busy with courtly life as they had been away from Westeros for some time.

As the crowd continued to cheer, you caught Aemond’s eye as he stood behind Rhaenyra on the raised dias. His sword was sheathed at his side and in his fine leather and linen clothes, he looked every inch the prince of a dark fairytale of Old Valyria. His silver hair was a curtain of silver silk and his lilac eye nearly sparkled in the sunlight of the Great Hall. Yes, a dark prince indeed. And you steadfastly ignored how a flock of hummingbirds seemed to have taken up residence in your stomach when you looked at him.

You danced with Lord Blackwood’s nephew, Davos, at the festivities that night, Daemon, and then also took a turn with Aegon’s Lady Farwynd. She was a riot of spring colors and bright smiles; you understood why Aegon was so taken with her. Hopefully their betrothal would be announced soon. But as you looked at Jace and Helaena, Aegon and his lady, and Rhaenyra and Alicent, any joy you might have felt soured in your chest. Of course, you were thankful that Rhaenyra seemed to be at least mostly welcomed by her subjects, but you were alone. And you had no one to celebrate with at your side. But you shoved that self-pitying part down until you could hardly feel it. You were the Lady of the Eyrie. You had so much to be thankful for. That was what mattered.

“That’s her,” someone whispered as you nibbled on some roasted boar and honeyed carrots at one of the tables. “Ser Harwin’s betrothed.”

“Well, certainly not anymore.”

Someone tittered a laugh and your heart twisted.

“A shame, is it not? And she was lucky to-”

You stood from your chair and walked away, unable to listen any more nor caring if they saw you. Yes, you had been lucky. And that luck ran out. But you would still be an honorable Lady of the Eyrie. That would be your legacy. Something wet splashed against your neck and it took you a moment to realize you were crying. Hot, fat tears were trickling down your face and you hastily wiped them away as you ducked behind a pillar, hoping no one saw your pitiful display. Now was not the time for your heart to crack open.

Seven Hells, these last handful of moons had been confusing and volatile. You had mourned Harwin and the future you had hoped for. Larys had been dealt with. A plot to destroy the dragons had been foiled. Viserys was dead. Rhaenyra was Queen. And you would support her and quash any murmurs you heard of dissent. You had to be…content with that, with what the gods have given you.

“What has you so forlorn?” You turned to look at Helaena as she rounded the pillar to stand beside you.

You pressed a smile to your face but you knew it was not convincing as she continued to frown at you. “It is a joyous night, princess. I simply am a little overwhelmed.”

Helaena’s purple eyes moved across your face before nodding. “There are many people here. And they all seem to want something. Even if it is only a moment of our time.”

You could only imagine what an event like this would be for Helaena. It had to be an assault on her senses but she seemed to have resigned herself to soldiering through it as a duty. “Shall we hide here together, then?”

Helaena nodded, a soft laugh pressing at her mouth. “I think that would be wonderful.”

You spoke quietly with her for a few moments, letting her tell you of the newest additions to her collection and how she was settling into married life. She seemed to be handling all of it with the soft grace you knew her to always possess and that she would need as the future queen. Jacaerys eventually came to steal her away for a dance and they smiled at each other, heads angled toward one another with matching pink on their cheeks. You leaned against the pillar and watched the pair move through the steps of the dance with a wistful sigh. Yes, they would be good—together, to each other, and for the Realm. You had no doubt. It was something you could feel in your bones.

“You have been avoiding me.”

You had not been avoiding Aemond, per se. The funeral and celebrations and all the pomp and pageantry between had been exhausting. As a head of a Great House, there were certain expectations. An example you needed to set. And if all of that kept you from this exact situation? That was a happy happenstance. “What do you need, my prince?”

“You know what I desire.”

Your eyes shuttered for a moment as the smoke of his voice wrapped around you. “I know what you think you desire.” Steeling yourself, you turned to face him. Gods, he was beautiful. Even more so from this distance. You could see the fine stitching of his doublet and the silver and blue threads of the three headed dragon embroidered over his heart. It suited him, the blue. “But I do suppose I have been remiss in thanking you for uncovering the plot to destroy our dragons. You have done a great service to us all. I do commend and thank you for that.”

Aemond moved closer and you fought the childish urge to turn and flee. It was strange to find yourself feeling like prey. But with that knowing light in his eye and the set of his shoulders, what else could you be?

“I would not leave the Crown or House Targaryen defenseless.” His eye dragged down your body as he said it and you felt every inch of it. “I must protect them. Just as I must protect you.”

You were not entirely sure what you could or should say to him. You thanked him, that should be the end of it. It needed to be the end of it. Rolling your shoulders, you prepared to leave and gathered a handful of your skirts. “I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening-”

“I did not say I was finished yet, my lark.”

“I do not need your per…” Words stalled. “What did you call me?”

Aemond moved closer again, with all the grace of a trained warrior. One of his long fingers trailed down the fine stitching of your sleeve, and then pressed against the scar you had hidden. Again, your senses were clouded with the heat of him, the scent of him. Of metal and dragon and heat and lavender. “A lark.”

“Lark.” You knew the bird. You knew its sweet song and its gentle nature. You knew its place in the songs of lovers and on the tongues of poets. You were not a lark. You were your mother’s shrike. You were House Arryn’s falcon. But a lark? Is that how he saw you?

“Yes, my lark.”

“I am not yours, Aemond,” you nearly hissed before turning on your heel and walking away before he could whisper again. But with each step you took, the sobriquet echoed in your mind.

My lark.

You sat beneath the shadow of the heart tree and watched as Jeyne walked around the Red Keep’s godswood with Cregan Stark at her side. The young lord of Winterfell and a host of other Northern Houses had come to the capital to attend the coronation and swear fealty to Rhaenyra. And it was there that Cregan had caught Jeyne’s eye.

It would be a good match, to be sure. Politically it made sense and the way Jeyne was smiling was certainly an indication of how she felt, too. Cregan’s cheeks were often pink in her presence and you were fairly certain it was not because he was unaccustomed to the southron weather. Rhaenyra had asked you to chaperone them as they became better acquainted with each other. You were happy to oblige. The youngest princess was about to reach the age of majority and Cregan had just done so himself, after a long regency over his own seat of power. It was a little melancholy for you to see the last babe you had held in your arms now entertaining suitors.

You would watch them out of the corner of your eye as you worked on the embroidery in your grasp and look away whenever Cregan nervously looked in your direction. The last time he did so, he seemed confident enough to grasp Jeyne’s hand and press a shy kiss to her fingers when he thought you were not looking. Jeyne’s answering giggle kept you from stepping in. By the time you finished the moonbloom and dragon’s breath flowers on your small bit of linen, Jeyne was floating over to you with a smile on her face.

“Come, my little love,” you said as you rose from your seat. “Let us go speak with Her Grace, hm?”

Rhaenyra was pleased Jeyne was so smitten and you let yourself out to allow them discuss what the future could possibly hold—that seemed like it would be a special moment to be had between mother and daughter. To pass the time before tonight’s feast, you had a serving woman get you a bit of Arbor Gold from the kitchens and you sipped on it as you reclined on one of the holdfast’s balconies, watching the comings and goings of the city below.

“Lady Arryn, is it not?”

You stood and turned at the sound of the unfamiliar voice and saw a tall man dressed in extravagant silk and samite robes the color of the sky at dawn. “It is. And it seems you have caught me unawares; I apologize but I do not recall your name.”

The man bowed with a laugh. “I am Alios, a Magister of Pentos. Your queen was gracious enough to extend an invitation to me for her coronation.”

You tried to keep the surprise from your face. Inviting foreign dignitaries wasn’t unheard of but you knew the current Sealord of Braavos in attendance and the bad blood between Braavos and Pentos was storied. “And how are you finding our fair capital?”

“It is pleasant enough. But I am most fond of its art.” His sand colored eyes made a lazy path down your form as the corners of his lips turned up into an appreciative smile.

And you had to laugh at the unmitigated gall of it all. “The art is hanging on the walls, my lord. I am sure you would appreciate it all the more.”

Alios stepped closer and you found your grip tightening on the chalice in your hand. He might be handsome in certain ways, but there was something rotten about him—it did not help that his pallor reminded you of curdled milk. “What is paint and fabric compared to the beauty in front of me?”

Another laugh escaped you but it sounded stilted and uneven to your ears. “You are bold, my lord. It has been some time since I have been in Essos, but I do not recall such overtures being polite across the Narrow Sea.”

Alios waved it away. The golden rings on each of his fingers parkled in the dying sunlight. “I am an impatient man. If I see something I find beautiful, why waste my time on being polite?”

“And am I to assume that you are accustomed to getting everything you desire?” You replied. It was almost charming for a complete stranger to approach you in such a way. An affront to good decorum, but charming in a way that reminded you of a child that had not yet learned the way of courtly machinations.

He stepped closer still and smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. “I am.”

The Arbor Gold was sweet on your tongue but you had to consciously keep your face from pulling into a frown as he took yet another step closer to you. “A pity, then, that I will have to be the first to teach you the lesson that you cannot also get what you want. Usually it is babes in arms who are learning such.” You pushed out another laugh, trying to retain some sort of jovial matter. It would not do for you to insult one of Rhaenyra’s guests, no matter how ridiculous you found them. “I would be obliged to show you where the tapestries House Targaryen saved from the Doom are hung. The Red Keep can be a maze to those not acquainted with its halls.”

“I would accept your offer, my lady. Please, lead the way.” He was saying everything correctly, aside from his overt flirtations. He was arguably handsome. Wealthy, if his clothing and standing as a Magister was any indication. And about your age. He could be…suitable. But why could you not find anything but barely checked revulsion for him? You hurriedly gulped the rest of your wine and led him through the halls to the storied tapestries. Thankfully, there were other courtiers viewing them and a small bit of tension slipped from your shoulders. You were not alone with him. “Will you not tell me their histories?” Alios asked.

Your tongue rolled in your mouth for a moment. “I do believe there are placards beneath each. They would be much more succinct than I could ever hope to be.”

“And if I do not care for brevity?” He arched a brow. “I must confess, Lady Arryn, that it seems you want to be rid of my company.”

You pressed a smile to your face. Well, at least he was not completely dense. “I do apologize for any slight you may feel, my lord, but I do not have the patience for such frivolities today. I am needed elsewhere. Please excuse me.”

You were quick to quit the hall, even when you heard him call your name with a laugh on his tongue. You would not suffer his presence any longer. And it was fortunate that you spied Rhaenyra rounding the corner a few paces later, flanked by a pair of Queensguard. She smiled as she spotted you and was quick to wave you to her side. “I have much to tell you,” she said as she linked her arm with yours.

Finally pulling in a full breath, you let her lead you into the Great Hall where the kitchen maids and staff were preparing for the night’s feast. A handful more were starting to lead carts filled with bread and vegetables out of the hall, too, no doubt being distributed throughout the city. Lady Mysaria, the new Mistress of Whispers on Rhaenyra’s Small Council, Princess Rhaenys, and Daeron had continued to voice the need to provide for the Smallfolk in abundance and Rhaenyra was happy to oblige.

Rhaenyra plucked a bit of cheese from one of the platters on the nearest table and handed it to you before popping some into her mouth as well.

“You are in a jovial mood,” you mused.

Rhaenyra’s smile widened and she drew you closer with a hand in yours. “Helaena is with child.”

Something akin to a yelp escaped you before you were pulling Rhaenyra into your arms. “Blessed news. A babe on the way. They will be wonderful parents.”

Rhaenyra pulled back after a moment, a smile still splitting her face. “I cannot fathom it. My boy will have a child of his own. And Helaena, the sweet girl, has been simply glowing.”

A giggle slipped by your lips as you shook your head. “Of course she is. I expect nothing less.” The news had something fluttering in your chest. Rhaenyra was queen, her line secure, the Realm at peace. House Targaryen was flourishing.

The feast that night was jovial, even more so with your secreted knowledge of Helaena’s condition. You made sure she had an extra plate of lemoncakes sent her way after the first course was finished and Helaena gave you a smile as bright as sunlight when they were placed in front of her. It was enough for you to focus on and not how you felt two insistent and very different gazes trailing your every move.

One burned. The other made you itch.

When the feast was finished, you welcomed your handmaidens insisting on you resting for the night. To be true, the festivities had taken a toll on you. You preferred the infrequent crowds of the Vale and Eyrie to the constant bustle and pageantry of the capital. But you would not squirrel yourself away for long. It was time to celebrate. Hopefully this would be the first, last, and only coronation you would have to attend. Focusing on the smiles of your dear friends and family would surely be enough to soothe any discomfort you had. Only a small group of your fellow Valemen had come to you with grievances they wanted you to mediate or settle during the celebration, so you supposed that was another mark of good fortune.

You slid into the near-scalding water in the copper tub with a sigh. Lavender oil had created small, rainbow slicks in the water and you let it soak into your skin as you rested your head against the back of the tub. Pulling in a deep breath, your tight muscles started to unclench and your mind finally went quiet.

Just for a moment.

Your eyes snapped open as you sucked in another lungful of the floral fragrance. Lavender. Aemond smelt of lavender. It would be egotistical to think that he had taken to using lavender oil simply because you did, would it not? But now the seed of the thought had been planted. You dragged a hand down your face and sunk a little lower in the water, letting it lap at your upper lip. Lavender. Lavender. Lavender.

The scent had always reminded you of home, of your mother. Wherever you went, so did the scent of the purple bloom. Your mother had used it, credited it to her healthy glow and soft skin. And you had always wanted to be like her and had insisted your maids use it with you as soon as you could accurately form the argument.

And now it was Aemond. Aemond who smelt of dragon and mint and leather and lavender.

Despite the coming autumn, it was a warm day. You fanned your face as you watched Jeyne and Helaena try to capture a dragonfly with a fine silk net. The younger princess had wanted to gift it to Helaena in celebration of her pregnancy, but could not figure out how to best capture the insect and eventually had to ask Helaena for help. Helaena didn’t seem to mind, spouting off all the ways she had tried before and had led Jeyne this way and that for materials for their “hunt.” It warmed the recesses of your heart to see them together. Jeyne did insist on being the one to wait in the tree for the dragonfly to pass by again, telling Helaena she was to remain “both feet firmly planted!” on the ground. Jacaerys eventually joined the pair, shouting a brotherly “be careful!” to Jeyne in the tree before sitting beside Helaena on the soft grass below.

The coronation celebrations were slowly coming to an end and you would soon be home in the Eyrie again. Away from Alios and his disconcerting attentions. Away from Aemond and his silent stares. After arriving in the capital, you thought Aemond’s quiet had meant a new chapter had started. Perhaps his feelings for you had started to wane. But he stared. And his stare burned. You could not deny the heat of his gaze nor the tilt of his mouth when you caught his gaze. He was unrepentant and would not look away.

Your thoughts of Aemond were quickly usurped as Rhaenyra settled beside you on the bench. “They are considering the name Aerion for the babe,” she said instead of a greeting.

“And what if they have a girl, hm? What shall they name her? You were quite taken with the name Visenya as a girl, if I remember correctly.”

Rhaenyra hummed, not taking her eyes off the couple as they continued to sit quietly together in the shade. “Your mother was the one to sway me from that name.”

“Oh?”

Rhaenyra nodded. “She said that some names hold more weight than others.”

You knew what she meant. Your mother had long pondered if Queen Visenya had placed a curse of some sort on her own name, guaranteeing that she would be the one and only. Tragic demises usually awaited any babe that was considered for it. “Well, we shall just have to see what they choose for their little heir when the time comes.”

That seemed to be enough for Rhaenyra who sat quietly beside you for a moment—until Jeyne fell out of the tree. Thankfully, the princess was unharmed but it was deemed best that her hunt for the dragonfly resume tomorrow. You plucked a few blades of grass from Jeyne’s hair as Rhaenyra herded everyone back into the shadows of the Red Keep.

“Lady Arryn!” You turned and saw Alios striding toward you, a gaggle of similarly dressed men at his back. “I was hoping to have a moment of your time, if you would be agreeable.”

You certainly were not agreeable but courtly politeness kept you from voicing your displeasure. “Is there something you need, my lord?”

His smile stretched across his face and it instantly rolled your stomach. “Just as I said: a moment of your time. I would have you walk with me.”

You smashed your tongue between your teeth for a moment before nodding. “A moment, my lord. I have other duties to attend to.” As you passed a handmaiden, one of Alicent’s retinue, you were quick to wave her to your side. You would not leave yourself alone with Alios and his ilk. His intentions were unclear and you did not want to know them, truthfully. The more time you spent in his presence, the less you wanted him near you. It did not leave you with any comfort when Alios eyed the handmaiden at your side with barely checked contempt, but when you blinked again, his face was back to its placid smile again.

He led your small group back out into the gardens and you again bit your tongue to avoid something unkind slipping by your lips. This was a waste of time. Surely he had to see your disinterest.

“Have you ever been to Pentos, my lady?”

“No. But I hear it can be agreeable.”

“‘Agreeable.’” He laughed. “It is far more than agreeable. It is the jewel of the Free Cities.” Pride oozed from every syllable as he tapped at his chest. “I would be honored to show you its beauty and wonders.”

“That is a most gracious offer, magister, but I must decline. I have my duties and responsibilities here. I must not shirk them. No matter how tempting the offer.” The offer was not tempting but, again, courtly politeness kept you from saying so. But you were tempted. Gods, you were tempted.

“Perhaps I shall spirit you away regardless. You would warm to my city eventually.”

The handmaiden gasped behind you—the man had just proposed kidnapping you, it was a polite reaction compared to what you wanted. But still, you reached back and looped your hand through her arm and held her to your side. “I will not be warming anything of yours. I would thank you for the company but I found no enjoyment in this exchange. Please excuse us.” You then steered you and the handmaiden back toward the Keep without fanfare and your tongue now bleeding behind your teeth with how tightly you had bit. As soon as you were in the safety of the shadows of the Keep, you shooed the handmaiden back to her duties after thanking her for her company and hurried to Rhaenyra’s solar.

Luck, it seemed, was on your side as the royal family was still inside and the Queen was fussing over her daughter, just as she had been before Alios had rudely intruded.

“Where did you go?” Helaena asked, turning to look at you from her perch on an overstuffed chaise. “You were here one moment, gone the next.”

“I was called away. It is no matter now. It shall not happen again.” You pressed a smile to your face and hoped you were telling the truth. Surely Alios would now understand that you wanted nothing from him. Short of telling him that you found his very presence repugnant, you had made your opinion of him clear. Briefly, you thought of telling Rhaenyra of Alios and his unwanted attentions, but as you watched her fuss over her daughter and then pivot to also fuss over Helaena while balancing her father’s crown on her brow, you decided against it. It was not the time. You handled this yourself. Asking anything of Rhaenyra now would simply be selfish.

Over Rhaenyra’s shoulder, Helaena caught your eye. Her purple gaze was heavy, like she was seeing something on you that you could not scrub away. The queen-to-be saw something.

The door to the solar opened and Daeron strode in with a teasing smile at the ready. “I heard you fell out of a tree trying to catch a bug.”

Jeyne squawked in embarrassment. “Who told you?” And as the room descended into familiar familial chaos, you tried to smile. You had made the right choice, hadn’t you?

The day faded into the next and you were thankfully tied up in showing a few of your younger bannermen and their families around the capital and presenting them to the Crown. It was a bit monotonous but you would not complain. You were helping, in your own way, to solidify Rhaenyra’s reign and your own power over the Vale. And it mostly kept you out of Aemond and Alios’ lines of sight. They were off…busy with their own endeavors, you were sure, and you were happy to not think of them. But your mind did wander to Aemond. Now would be the most suitable time for him to find a more agreeable match. You hoped whomever he found would treat him well. He deserved it.

And you steadfastly ignored how hope and something you could not name twisted in your chest at the thought of it.

But it was no matter as you retired to your chambers before supper service, trying to regain a bit of energy you would need in order to play the part of Lady Arryn for the masses. And it was a blessing that you had such a high title and sway. But gods be good, it could be tiresome.

As you took a moment to breathe and attempt to sort through all the dynamics between your bannermen’s houses (there seemed to be a bit of tension between Lord Coldwater and the newest Lord Elesham and Lady Waynwood had come to you in hopes of helping her son and heir secure a suitable match and that was just the last hour) and how you should approach each of them. It helped soothe your mind as you rolled one of your mothers rings around your finger. Unladylike, true, but it helped nonetheless.

A quick knock at your chamber door had you turning, thoughts halting for a moment. You expected to see one of your handmaidens, or one attending to one of the other royal women summoning you to one solar or another. But what you found instead was Alios, leaning against your closed door, fingers twirling the lock with a smile on his face. “It should not have been this difficult to get you alone.”

Something vile rippled down your spine. Nothing good could come of this and your stomach twisted. “This is inappropriate, my lord. I must ask you leave at once.”

But he only stepped toward you. “Why should I? I have gone through much and more trouble to finally speak to you like this. Without any unwanted ears listening.”

Danger. Blood. Violence. Something whispered at the back of your mind for you to run. To scream. To flee. To fight. “Leave. It has been some time since I lived on the other side of the Narrow Sea, but I do not recall unannounced and unwanted visitors being polite.”

He took another step. And then another. And you took one back—only one as the back of your legs hit the edge of your featherbed. Your eyes darted to the door behind him. Surely you could be swift enough to evade him.

“If you try to run, I assure you that you will regret it, my lady.”

Ice ran through your veins at his words. “You dare threaten me?”

“I dare,” Alios said, smirk pushing at his mouth. “And I am certain you would prefer that your mother’s transgressions were not revealed to the court.”

Questions ran through your mind as your ears rang. What could he possibly mean? What connection did your mother have to this grievous and foreign man? And what did he want? He did not wait for you to voice these questions and pressed on with another taunting step toward you.

“Pentos and Lys do not often trade with one another, but I enjoy their wares when they arrive on our shores. And one such man came to Pentos not a year past, with quite a story to tell.”

You knew instantly of whom he spoke. Ghael. Your kinslaying uncle. But you would not let this interloper know that he had struck at a part of you that still ached. “I would not have you waste your breath recounting stories. I’ll not ask again: leave.”

But Alios inched closer still. “Your uncle told me stories of his maiden niece, locked in a tower of her own making, surrounded by stolen wealth.”

“He was the thief,” you seethed. “He stole my father’s life and livelihood. He would have murdered me in my bed, a child, had my mother not spirited me away to Westeros. Whatever he has told you, you have been misled.”

And as Alios’ infuriating smirk continued to grow, you realized you had already shown your weak spot. “I do not believe I have, my lady. Here you stand, as he said. A lady of considerable standing and wealth. You are kin with the new queen. Her children seek you out for comfort and conversation. Now, tell me, why would the only daughter of a Lyseni merchant be of such high standing if she had not taken something that belonged to another?”

You rolled your lips into your mouth for a moment. It would be worthless to try to convince him in seeing how he had been led astray, would it not? But still, you could not stand for such slander. “My position in court has nothing to do with my misbegotten uncle. My mother was the queen’s aunt, she was a cousin to the late king. Anything my mother brought from Lys was my father’s. All of it was my father’s and Ghael usurped what he could after murdering him. All that my father had was my mother’s by right. I now see Ghael has not learned in these years how to handle his own affairs. He offered you a great sum, did he not, to return what he says was stolen from him? The last man he sent this side of the Narrow Sea met his end swiftly.”

“That man was not me and your uncle promised me something far greater if I returned what you and your mother stole.”

Another step.

Another.

“And what is that?” You asked through gritted teeth. Sweat lined your palms but you fought the girlish urge to wipe it away on your gown.

“You.” And then the man lunged and his grotesquely slick lips pressed against yours. Your next breath was a half muffled shriek as you shoved at his chest. He stumbled back for just a moment before he surged forward to again claim your mouth with his; one of his hands wrapped around the back of your neck as the other grasped your breast with a cruel grip. One of his boots knocked into your feet and had you falling backward against your featherbed with a yelp. Alios laughed as you, again, shoved at his chest, and you nearly screamed as his tongue traced against the seam of your tightly closed mouth.

You raked your nails down his cheek and snarled in near delight as blood bubbled beneath your fingers but you were not done. Shoving your knee up, Alios let out a gasp of pain as you found your mark and he reared back, giving you just enough room to move out from under him and stumble to your feet. But he lunged again, grasped at the sleeve of your gown and yanked. The seams popped beneath his grip but you surged backward as the fabric tore and ripped down your arm. Alios threw the ruined fabric aside as he stood straight again. His sneer returned even as his chest heaved.

The door burst open and Aemond strode in, no doubt having heard the disturbance. And to your horror, several courtiers were peering around him into the room, already whispering.

And Alios was the first to speak. “I did not know the women this side of the Narrow Sea were so tenacious!”

The whispers increased in volume but you scarcely heard them over the roaring of blood in your ears. “You impudent liar! He has attacked me-”

“She is embarrassed! You have caught us in quite the position; I daresay I usually leave my lovers much more satisfied than this.” His following laugh had your blood boiling.

“He continues to spew falsehoods!” Despite wanting to appear calm and collected, as you were known to be, as the Lady of the Eyrie should always be seen, the terror and unbridled rage was starting to gnaw at your bones. This could ruin you. Ruin everything. Your mother’s legacy. Your legacy and legitimacy as the rightful ruler of the Vale. All of it would be lost to the scandal.

But Alios simply laughed again and bent to grab your discarded sleeve. He waved it around like a tourney favor. The blue and silver fabric shimmered mockingly in the dying light. “We were in quite a rush, as you can see, Prince Aemond.”

It took you a moment to realize Aemond had his sword readied in his hand and he had not moved to sheathe it again. “And will you deign to tell me that the blood on your face is from her passionate embrace?” Aemond’s tone held the icy formality you knew him to use in court but it now had a steely underbelly you could not ignore. And his sword still glinted in the light.

Alios’ smile faltered a fraction and he touched his cheek, as if he had forgotten the small injury you had bestowed upon him. “As I said: we were in a rush.”

The whispers at the prince’s back continued to grow and your heart raced. You stared at Aemond, silently begging him to believe you. Despite your rejection of his suit, he had to believe you in this, did he not? He had to know you better than to cavort with a near stranger so openly.

“I know Lady Arryn to be a woman who holds honor above much else. Her honor has been without question.”

Tears sprang to your eyes as Aemond’s words as the smallest bit of tension fell from your spine. He believed you. “Thank you, my prince.”

But it seemed that the Pentoshi Magister was not yet finished. “Fine! I was trying to protect her honor by implying our tryst was amicable but Lady Arryn attacked me.”

Someone gasped and any relief you might have felt vanished as bile coated the back of your mouth. “Cease your lies! You are-”

“That is a dire accusation to levy against Lady Arryn,” Aemond said, his tone not wavering, but you would swear you saw the grip he had on the hilt of his sword tightening for a moment. Just a moment.

The fortress shook for a moment and your dragon’s distinctive shriek echoed through the halls and air. He had come for you, too.

“Indeed it is,” Alios agreed, the smile returning to his face for a flash before he schooled his features into a mockery of genteel resignation. “I wanted to spare her the embarrassment of-”

“You will not accuse me of your own crime.” Despite the shake in your voice, it rang out for all to hear. This would not stand.

“And I will not have you accuse me of such treachery,” Alios sneered in return before turning to Aemond again, his chin tilted up for a moment. “Your country allows trials for such matters, does it not? We should have this settled, for all to hear.”

“I choose violence.” The words spilled from between your lips and you would not and could not take them back. He had tried to dishonor you. In front of the court and your Valemen, no matter how small of a crowd. And your honor was your armor. “I demand a trial by combat.”

The smirk that stretched across Alios’ face was all teeth, like a rabid jackal. “I was so hoping it would come to that. Have I mentioned that I was once a bravo? I have killed many men for less.”

You bit back the snarl you felt growing. Alios being a bravo might give him a fair fight, but you knew Oswin would fight gallantly and prevail. The truth was on your side. He had never faltered in his protection of you. You might not be able to truly wield a mace, and your true weapon was a dragon. Your dragon. But you knew that using your dragon as such would be seen as dishonorable if not completely underhanded. Yes, you would have to rely on him, your sworn shield.

You were herded out to the training yard, the crowd growing with each step you took. Seven hells, how were you going to explain this to Rhaenyra? She was to be celebrating her ascension and you were demanding a trial by combat against one of the foreign dignitaries during the festivities. You asked one of your handmaidens to fetch Ser Oswin with haste before you were all but shoved into one of the chairs on the small overlook of the training grounds. A queensguard was posted at the entrance to the hall and you were unsure if this was to keep you safe or to keep you still. Your heart was still thundering in your chest and blood roared in your ears. How could so much go so wrong so quickly? The crowd had grown, too, much to your horror. The whispers you could catch told the story of how this could be the end of you. A harlot or a lady caught unawares by a man with ill intent? The gods would decide. Your dragon had followed you, paced atop the Red Keep, to peer down into the training yard with his blazing eyes as he loomed over you. For better or worse, he was with you.

You looked down at your hands and saw streaks of Alios’ blood beneath your fingernails and soaking your nail beds. You must have dealt him quite a blow—but you could find no satisfaction in it now. But you still pushed out your next breath as you curled your fingers together against your palms, whispering one of the few chants your mother had drilled into you for protection. She had once told you that having the blood of your enemy made it all the more potent. And with the fear and growing loathing coursing through your own veins, you knew it would be formidable. But you wished not for your own safety, but for Ser Oswin’s. His son was still growing. His lady wife adored him. And then regret started to tug at the back of your mind—should you have asked for someone else? Anyone else?

But as your handmaiden slipped back to your side—alone—your hope for protecting Ser Oswin might have come to fruition regardless.

“Where is Ser Oswin?” You whispered, blood pumping past your ears.

“I have not been able to find him, my lady.” Her eyes lowered and you saw tears lining her lashes.

Alios laughed as he lounged against a training brace, a thin and sharp sword dangling between his fingers. He no doubt heard your handmaiden. “Do you not have anyone who would fight for you and your supposed honor, my lady? Perhaps they see you as I do.” His self righteous smirk only faltered when your dragon blew green smoke into the air.

“Hold your tongue.” It was Aemond who spoke next.The gathered crowd parted for him immediately, letting his powerful stride carry him forward. He wore no armor but his sword was sheathed at his side, waiting and wanting.

Whispers ripped through the group as Aemond continued to close the distance. What would a prince of the Realm be doing here?

“I shall fight for Lady Arryn’s honor.” Your heart started to claw its way up your throat as you watched his long fingers curl around his sword’s pommel. “I know she tells the truth.”

Alios scoffed and stood straight. “The woman is a trollop. Trying to seduce me and then turning to violence when I declined her advances. She is no lady.”

Aemond hummed and looked at you as you leaned forward in your seat. “I think I should have your tongue for that.”

“You may try, princeling. But I’ll have your blood first.” Before the septon could even recite his prayer or Aemond unsheathe his sword, Alios lunged. His sword arched toward Aemond’s neck who simply stepped back to avoid the blade. With Aemond’s next step, his own sword was pulled and met with Alios’ in a heavy clash.

Aemond shoved Alios back and ducked in time to miss the blade coming at his face again and then rolled as Alios swung down, hoping to stab the prince in the back. But Aemond was quick. And cruel.

He pivoted and thrust his sword out, driving the blade through Alios’ knee. Alios tumbled into the dirt with a scream as Aemond pulled his sword free and stood tall again. Blood dripped from his sword but you doubted he cared as he calmly crushed Alios’ wrist beneath his heel. The other man’s screams choked him and you leaned further still and watched as Aemond pried the sword from Alios’ grip and cast it aside.

“Recant your accusations against Lady Arryn.” His voice was smooth and light. The fight had been short, true, and had presented him little challenge, apparently. “Now.”

Alios spat at him but it did not land, instead slithered down Alios’ splotched cheek. “I spoke true! She is-”

The point of Aemond’s sword sunk into the center of Alios’ sternum. “Careful, my lord. I would consider letting you keep your life if you proclaim that you falsely accused Lady Arryn. But I will not allow you to continue to proclaim these lies.” With a flick of his wrist, you watched blood bloom across Alios’ chest and he let out a short gasp as Aemond stared down at him.

Something you could not name stirred in the dark of your chest. Aemond was an unmoving force. A shadow of death cast across his opponent.

You could see Alios’ chest heave with each breath before he nodded, body going lax. “Lady Arryn did not try to seduce me. It was I who sought her company and was refused.”

Hushed conversation ripped around you but you could not tear your eyes away from Aemond. And, as if feeling your gaze, Aemond turned to look at you. His lilac gaze met yours—just for a moment—before he turned back to the man beneath his foot and sword. He did not move.

“You said you would let me live if-”

“I said I would consider it. I have considered it. And I still find you lacking.” He hummed. “But it would be dishonorable for me to kill an unarmed man. I shall let you try to best me.” The prince pulled his foot and weapon back and watched, almost disinterested, as Alios scrambled to find his footing and sword again. More blood started to dribble out of Alios’ chest but he still raised his weapon.

And then Aemond moved. He parried Alios’ sluggish advance and then turned and sunk the entirety of his sword through the other man’s chest. Up to the hilt. Alios froze for just a moment before pulling in a stuttering breath and then sprayed blood across Aemond’s face with his last moments before the Stranger took him.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

The crowd’s whispers reached a crescendo just as the septon, pale and shaking, stepped out into the dirt of the training ground and clasped his hands together. “Th-the Seven have spoken. Lady Arryn has been proven innocent of…of the accusations levied against her. Lord Alios was a deceiver…” He droned on a little longer but you scarcely heard it. And you could not tear your eyes away from the growing pool of blood beneath Alios’ body. Not until your dragon extended his ridged neck and took the magister’s body between his blackened teeth as the crowd below screamed again and quickly fled. But he paid them no mind as he devoured his snack before taking to the skies again, satisfied that you were safe and his own hunger sated. For now.

It took you a stretched moment to realize Aemond had gone. And you were alone on your little perch as the rest of the crowd dispersed, satisfied with your innocence and their unconscious need for bloodshed. Alone with your thundering heartbeat and racing thoughts.

You curled your hands into your skirts for a moment, trying to breathe through…everything. Your hold shook. How had this happened? All of it? And now it was over. The blood was surely cooling on the dirt now, waiting to be washed away by some squire or master-at-arms who tired of looking at it.

A soft footfall on the stone floor at your back had you rising and turning—and there stood Aemond. Crimson stained his hand. The wound he had dealt Alios must have been deep, deeper than you witnessed. Before you could form a single word, he moved, closing the distance. The blood was still warm as Aemond grasped at your face, pressing his hands to your cheeks and dragging you close. “Do you see now, my lark? Have I not sufficiently proven myself to you?”

You could feel Alios’ blood starting to grow tacky and cool, leaving streaks across your face that you would feel even after you had scrubbed the crimson away. “I did not wish for you-”

“But you have me. And I have spilled blood for your honor. For your house. For you.” His thumbs pressed into the plump of your cheeks, burning and viscid. “I have proclaimed it for the Realm to see. No one shall speak against you. Not while I have air in my lungs.” Aemond leaned his forehead against yours and his eye shuttered.

“Aemond…” The scent of blood had your throat tightening. He was safe. You were safe. “Thank you.”

His eye opened again and for a moment you thought he would kiss you but his grip on your face only tightened a fraction before he reached up and dragged one of his bloody fingers between your brows. Another hum rumbled through him as he looked at the mark he’d made before he turned and walked away without another word. As he disappeared back into the Keep, the blood grew cold on your skin.

It was not until you were back in your room that you realized that he had marked you in the way a groom would in a Valyrian marriage ceremony. And your heart ached.

You could feel Alicent and Rhaenyra’s eyes boring into each side of your face as you stirred honey into your tea.

“I have already apologized,” you muttered into the fine porcelain as you raised it to your lips.

“You needn’t apologize at all,” Alicent said, again, as she glanced at Rhaenyra. “I was the one who arranged for the magister to attend the celebrations.”

“His actions do not reflect upon you, Alicent. How was anyone to know that my kinslaying uncle had such reach or such patience?” The tea cup rattled in its saucer as you set it down. “But I must, again, apologize for having Aemond be wrapped up in this folly.”

And for the umpteenth time in your life, Alicent and Rhaenyra exchanged a look before turning back to you. “Aemond can act rashly, I will admit, but I believe that his defense of you was something we all knew was inevitable.”

You froze for a moment, fingers still half-curled around the teacup’s handle. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra let out a small noise—you weren’t entirely sure if it was a laugh or a sigh. “You cannot be so blind to see that my brother is devoted to you.”

Devoted. It was a terrible, heavy word. But your heart still skipped a beat at the thought of it. And you hated that it did. But it was involuntary.

Before you could form a thought to sway them away from the current topic of conversation, they were, thankfully or not, called away to wish some of their guests safe travels back to their homes in the Westerlands.

You found your way back to your own apartments and were pleased to find Ser Oswin at your door. The gold cloaks you had sent out to find him after your trial concluded had returned with news that your sworn shield had been found and was being tended to by maesters. While you had a strange solace in knowing that he had not abandoned you, it was quickly wiped away by concern for him when you saw the bandages around his head. The maesters told you that he would heal completely, but he would need some time to find his bearings again. They hypothesized that he had been struck about the head and moved into the dark alleyway near the Red Keep where the gold cloaks had discovered him. It seemed Alios had planned for nearly everything in his attempt to destroy and possess you. Having Ser Oswin indisposed when you were alone in your chambers and still missing when you called for a trial by combat had been a devious plot.

Ser Oswin was not wearing his armor and you were quick to have him sit on the chaise your apartments offered and sent another handmaiden to fetch tea for him. “It gladdens me to see you upright, Ser, but are you sure you should not be resting?”

The knight shook his head but grimaced with the movement. “The maesters said I am well enough to return to the Vale with you, my lady. And I had to see you.” He pulled his lips into his mouth for a moment. “I have not fulfilled my oaths to you as your sworn shield.”

“Ser-”

“You have given me a sacred duty to keep you safe. And I was caught unawares when you needed me most. I will wear this shame forever.”

As your handmaiden returned with the tea and quietly made herself scarce in the shadows of your chambers, you tentatively reached out to grasp Oswin’s hand. “Alios was a cunning man. Underhanded and cruel. You are a man of honor—you are not to blame for anything. I am grateful that you will be well again soon.”

Oswin set his other hand over yours and his gentle eyes met yours for just a moment before he, again, shook his head. “You have always been kind to me, my lady. You and your lady mother both.”

“You are deserving of that kindness, Ser Oswin,” you whispered, trying to press as much gratitude as you could into your voice. He was a stalwart sword and shield. A good man. A loyal father and husband. “I am thankful, truly, that I still have you at my side. And I would have no other. You must know that.”

Oswin eventually excused himself after you swore to him that he had not lost his place as your sworn shield and that you would not hear a single word against him and his honor. It was not his honor that had been revealed to be wanting. Alios was more of a villain than you had first thought. It was one thing to plot to destroy you but to also destroy the life of your stalwart shield was another. You hoped his soul was never given rest.

Princess Rhaenys, wearing the thick necklace of interlocked hands denoting her position as Hand of the Queen, had told you to refrain from drawing any more attention during the remainder of your stay. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she had to stifle a small smile. She gently squeezed your shoulder with a shake of her head. “I am glad you were not harmed further.” That was a kindness, to be sure. But you did keep to the edges of the last day’s celebrations. It was a balancing act; being seen in public to show you were victorious but not be too much of a spectacle as to invite more whispers. Everyone needed to believe the fact that you were innocent.

Daemon was the only one who found some humor in it all and bemoaned the fact that he had not borne witness to the short trial and asked you, only somewhat jokingly, to “accidentally seduce” another magister so he could have his turn at killing someone. “It’s been too long. My gentle lady-wife despises violence.” You tried to laugh. It marginally worked.

As you sat in the shadows provided by one of the pavilions set up along the courtyard to watch a troupe of mummers reenact the love story of Florian and Jonquil, you could hear a few whispers. Most, thankfully, were content with your innocence being proven by the trial by combat. But there were some that questioned why a prince was the one to defend you.

“Perhaps that simply shows her innocence all the more,” a woman bedecked in the colors of House Reyne said. “The gods sent a prince as her champion and he prevailed. And swiftly.” The woman waved a hand. “I’ll hear nothing more of it. I am not one to question the gods.”

You almost smiled at that. Almost. It was a boon that the masses of the Seven Kingdoms took the Faith of the Seven as law. It was hard to argue with a god’s will.

But you knew it had been Aemond.

As if you could not help it, you turned your head and spotted him in the crowd. He was seated behind Rhaenyra and beside Jeyne and Daeron who both looked like they were enjoying the performance. But he was looking at you.

He had once told you that his patience was growing thin. That had been many moons ago. Even with his defense of you against Alios, could he possibly…finally be seeing that whatever feelings he thought he harbored for you were mislaid?

And why did that twist at something in your chest?

You shook that thought away as the mummer’s finished the first act of their performance and you clapped politely with the rest of the crowd. The crushed velvet curtains that had been strung up that morning to create a stage closed and you smiled as Jeyne caught your eye and waved at you, full of girlish giddiness.

You stayed seated as others milled about, socializing during the intermission. A few were brave enough to give you shallow pleasantries in passing but they scattered as Alicent approached and claimed the seat beside yours with a flutter of her cerulean silk skirts. “How are you, my lady?” Her mouth tilted up with the honorific, mirth coloring each syllable.

“I am pleased Her Grace’s reign has started with such peace and festivity.” I am grateful to be going home soon was unspoken but understood with how Alicent patted your hand with a wry smile. The Dowager Queen linked her fingers with yours and stood, wordlessly tugging you to your feet and leading you away from the crowds and into the shadows cast over the yard by the Red Keep’s reaching towers. It was only when you were truly alone did she drop your hand.

“Tell me true: are you well? You have been out of sorts these last days.”

And you could not deny her and her gentle, brown eyes. “It has not been without its surprises. But I am thankful that I have not sullied Rhaenyra’s celebrations.” You sighed and squeezed her hand. “You mustn’t think any more on it. I am trying to do the same.”

Alicent nodded after a moment, accepting your want to not speak of Alios and his plots. “My son, Aemond, asks of you.” She paused and your heart thudded. What had he told her? “You must know that what Rhaenyra said was true: he is devoted to you. I want to see him happy. Content.”

Alicent loved her children, you could not and would not deny that. If her children needed warmth, she would burn the world for them. But sometimes, you noted, that she seemed to have missteps in connecting with them. Your mother had been the one to say it out loud: Alicent was a child herself when she was forced to become a mother. It was unfair and another strike against Viserys that you would never forgive. Alicent would fight for her children, support them, make sure they were cared for. She loved them. She did. Truly. But the divide persisted. It might have lessened a fraction as the years passed but you knew that families and the blood they had running in their veins were complicated.

“That is a worthy want.”

She nodded, the golden circlet atop her auburn curls catching the sunlight with the movement. Four tiny, golden dragons curled around it, each with different gems for eyes. Rhaenyra had commissioned it for Alicent’s last name day and you had smiled like a fool when you received Alicent’s raven detailing it. You were so pleased that she and Rhaenyra were so fulfilled with each other, finally free of the constraints of societal obligations and the like.

But the joy you felt fizzled when you saw her gnaw at the edge of her thumb. Why was she so nervous? “Alicent?”

“My son has told me he has been courting you. Why have you kept this from me?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. “I… I assure you, he is not courting me, Alicent. He has made…overtures but I told him that-”

“He has said you make him happy. You make him happy.. Do you refute it?”

Your tongue was sand in your mouth as you stared at Alicent, your surrogate sister. “I have given him nothing to have him think that way.” It was the gentlest of phrasings you could muster at the moment. How could you tell her that her son was delusional in his affections for you?

Alicent took a single step toward you, the soft sole of her slipper silent on the stone. “But you make him happy. Surely you could at least consider him-”

“Consider him as what?” You asked, agog. “I am more than a decade his senior. He is-”

“He is devoted.” Her voice rang out, clear and unmoveable. “You wanted a family, a husband. You have been the one to encourage him in all of his endeavors and now you want to deny yourself this because it is my son?”

The unchecked vitriol in her tone nearly had you recoiling but you could do little else besides let your jaw drop. “Alicent…surely you would want someone more suitable for him. Younger, more-”

“He wants you. While I shall not force you to accept his courtship, I would ask that you do not dismiss it out of hand. My son…” She rolled her lips for a moment and her dark eyes hardened. “Aemond has been denied most everything. I’ll not have you refuse him so callously.”

“It is not out of callousness. It is out of concern. I am not… I am so much older than him. I want the best for him, as you do. I am… I have come to realize that having a family is not what the gods have planned for me.” The words hurt to say but the next rolled your stomach, “If Aemond also has a hope for a family of his own, I can help him find a suitable bride-”

Alicent scoffed and you recoiled as if she had struck you instead. “He has chosen you. You are the sole heir to a Great House and a Prince of the Realm wishes to take you to wife. There is no one else worthy of him.”

Before you could even think of a rebuttal, she turned and walked away, letting her words echo in your mind as she retook her seat at Rhaenyra’s side. Your entire chest ached. One of the few people who had been an unmoving presence in your life was mad at you. It felt like a knife between your ribs. And it only continued to bite at your marrow when you looked out into the crowd and saw Aemond watching you. Again.

Why couldn’t he see that you were trying to help him? Even if it left you feeling sick and cold for reasons you could not name. Even if the show had not finished, you murmured to one of your handmaidens that you were retiring for the afternoon and she hurried to keep step with you back to your chambers before you dismissed her for the remainder of the day.

It was better to be alone right now. To try to gather your thoughts that were racing through your mind with increasing, dizzying speed. What had Aemond said to his mother to convince her, so fervently, of his supposed feelings for you? In your desperation, you pushed the fat of your thumb into the quill on your vanity until blood bubbled across your skin. The pain was fleeting but the solace it gave you, as you murmured the chants your mother once whispered to you, was immeasurable. You would move through this. You would go home. This would end.

You licked the blood away and wished, as you so often did, that you could see your own future as you saw others when they had come to you and your mother under the shadows of the Eyrie. It had to be willingly given, not forced as it had been with Alios. If you could have seen his death, perhaps you could have… Well, that doesn’t matter now.

You eventually collapsed across the fine blankets of your bed and shut your eyes against the sunlight still streaming into your room. Perhaps more rest would help you. Or at least distract you from your thoughts for a moment. And the brief nap was restful, thankfully. When you opened your eyes a few hours later, it felt as if you hadn’t moved at all.

A knock sounded at the door—that must have been what woke you. You stood and shuffled toward it and welcomed in the handmaiden who said you were being called to supper with the Targaryens. She helped you change into yet another fine gown and straightened your appearance.

Just as she finished righting the ties on the back of your gown, another knock sounded. She was quick to answer it and turned with a small smile. “Prince Aemond, Lady Arryn.”

The silver-haired prince stepped in as the handmaiden curtseyed and dismissed herself before you could think of keeping her from doing so. Your stomach clenched as you looked at him. Both dread and a strange sense of furor swirled beneath our skin. “What do you need, Aemond?”

“Is it so uncommon for me to come and visit the lady whom I defended?”

That was a fair point but, thankfully, he did not wait for your reply and swept his hand into the folds of his doublet and produced your silver necklace, the one Alicent had given you ages ago which matched your diadem.

The necklace was one of your favorites, even if it was now always associated with the first time Aemond kissed you. But why did he have it? When did he spirit it away from your chambers?

“Aemond…” You started, already reaching out for it.

“Turn around.” He twirled a finger between you, that same smirk tilting his lips.

You wanted to argue and perhaps mention that he had stolen the necklace from you and the entirety of this situation was inappropriate and unbecoming. But you bit your tongue, hoping that this small acquiescence on your part would hurry this along. Your eyes fluttered shut as the scent of him enveloped you and the warmth of him bled across your back as he stepped closer. It was involuntary, wholly out of your control. And you could not stop the shiver when you felt the metal of the necklace wrap around your neck. It was warm, almost uncomfortably so, from when Aemond’s body heat had leached through it.

But your eyes snapped open when something heavy fell against your sternum instead of the delicate feathers you had memorized from your constant wear.

You looked down and your gasp nearly choked you as you grasped at the new addition to your necklace. The sapphire was large. It fit neatly into your palm and had been cut so it sparkled with even the smallest of movements. It took your breath away. Even more so when you noticed how the delicate silver feathers fell towards it. The clasp at the back of your neck clicked in place and Aemond’s long fingers moved over your shoulders, pressing until you turned in his grasp. His minted breath swept across your mouth. He looked down, watching as your fingers mindlessly clutched at the sapphire. His mouth tilted up into a smirk, pleased.

“It suits you.”

Your mouth opened with a rebuttal but all that came out was another soft breath. There were no words you could conjure at that moment. Nothing you could say.

He curled his hand over yours and then raised your joined hands to his mouth, brushing his lips against your knuckles. “Come. They are waiting for us.” And then he was moving, pulling the sapphire from your grip to let it rest against your sternum, and linking your fingers together as he started to lead you from your chambers. And when you tried to pull your hand from his, his grip only tightened until you were hissing. “Do not fight me, my lady. I have told you: my patience wears thin.” His voice was low, steady, but you could not deny the authority that dripped from every syllable.

It did not stop you from loosely tugging at your hand again with little success. “Yes, I have been informed by your mother that she believes we are courting.”

“We are.”

“Aemond. You must cease with this delusion. If you want a wife, I shall find you one. One that is worthy of you, closer to your age, and-”

Aemond drew you both to a sudden stop and his lilac eye blazed as he looked at you. “You are mine. You have always been mine. Did I not tell you that the gods shaped you for me? And I for you? I will have no other.” And then he was moving again, and you were pulled alongside him, trying to match his long, powerful strides. And it only took you a moment to do so. Your steps fell beside his with ease once you put in a small bit of effort. Each step was in sync. Aemond seemed to notice it as well and let out a small hum as you neared the doors to the Great Hall. The men at the doors bowed to both of you and announced your names as you walked inside.

Almost immediately, Alicent’s brow arched and Rhaenyra leaned over to whisper something in her ear as you bowed to them, seated at the high table. Seven Hells. How were you going to explain this? You had little time to think of anything before you were tucked into your seat at the table. Of course, Aemond was at your side. You bit your tongue for a moment and watched silently as food was loaded onto your plate by a few of the serving men and women but your heart gave yet another lurch when Aemond’s hand covered your plate just as a ladle of mushroom sauce was about to be poured over your boar.

“My lady does not care for mushrooms. Thank you.”

The serving man dipped his head in apology and carried on to the next plate and you stared uselessly at your unmarred plate as words tangled in your throat. “When did you learn I detested mushrooms?”

The smile that pushed at Aemond’s mouth was soft and you fought the urge to return it. “I listen, my lark.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest and you hated it, just for a moment. No one had… Your people listened when you gave decrees and held mediate disagreements. But you knew they didn’t listen when it came to small matters as to what you liked or disliked on your plate. And why did that make this small act of knowing all the more precious to you?

That realization had you pressing your fingers to your mouth for a moment. You could not feel like this. Not with Aemond. Harwin had made you smile. He was kind. But he had not listened when you tried to tell him how you felt about your dragon, what he meant to you. But you knew that Aemond would understand. Your nails dug into your upper lip for a moment, trying to will the comparison away. Aemond had overstepped. He had put into motion Harwin and House Strong’s demise. He had kissed you and kissed you and kissed you despite your protests and simply said that you were his for the taking. Surely you could not be feeling…

Your chair nearly toppled as you stood up. “I am afraid I’ve taken ill. I must retire.” You then hurried from the Great Hall after making another quick curtsey in Rhaenyra’s direction. Your heart thundered in your chest as you swept down the hall back toward your chambers. As you turned a corner, you pulled at your necklace, needing to be free of its added weight and the way Aemond’s sapphire thumped over your heart.

But it would not come free.

The necklace’s clasp would not give, no matter how you pulled or how you fussed, it would not come undone. At your wit’s end, you strode over to the looking glass and turned the necklace around so you could look at the clasp and you nearly screamed. The clasp had been replaced—you had only seen clasps like this in Lys as a child, meant for jewels denoting a man or woman’s status as a prize within a pillow house. Only the madam or master of the establishment had the small, intricate key to undo them.

And Aemond had made sure the necklace, with his jewel, his mark, would not leave your neck without his consent.

Rage and something akin to delight bubbled beneath your skin for a moment. And then you were moving, throwing the entirety of your traveling wardrobe into your trunks and yanking off your gown and changing into your riding clothes. Your handmaidens would see that you were ready to leave when they came into the room tomorrow but you would not be there.

No.

You pushed at the hidden door, muscle memory telling you to lean into it for an extra moment, before it clicked open. You hurried down the sloped staircase and finally pulled in a breath when the chilled night air hit your face. You pulled your cloak higher and slid its hood over your silver hair as you made your way through the still-bustling city streets. And while your dragon tended to roost wherever he wanted, you always knew where to find him. Tonight, it was just outside the Iron Gate and at the start of the Rosby Road. What you weren’t expecting, however, was your dragon to be coiled around Vhagar.

His large head was nestled between her wing and flank, content to watch you approach in the dark with his blazing green eyes. Vhagar rumbled a greeting, too, not moving. You weren’t…entirely sure what you should make of this revelation. True, your dragons had flown together over the city. But this was more than that. This was a familiarity usually reserved to bonded pairs. Mated pairs. And that feeling you wouldn’t name twisted behind your ribs again.

“We must go, my darling,” you said to your dragon in Valyrian.

He huffed.

“Please? I cannot stand to be in this place for a moment longer.” You hated how petulant you sounded, how desperate. But you needed to leave. Before Aemond did something else. Before another move was made against you.

Your dragon grumbled but started to move, nudging his head against Vhagar’s as they slowly disentangled from each other. It was a sight to see, to be true, to see the two largest dragons move so effortlessly around each other, imposing shapes made gentle in the moonlight. He bent his wing to you and you slowly took your seat astride his spine. The familiar heat of him settled your frazzled mind for a moment and he let out a worried grumble as you curled your hands over the spikes you usually held.

“I simply need to go home,” you muttered before leaning down to pat at his side. “We need to go home.”

The night air bit at your skin as he took to the skies but with each lungful you breathed in, your heart felt a little lighter. Home. You were going home. A loud rumble had you turning in your perch and you saw Vhagar behind you, slowly flapping her wings as she followed you north. If your dragon went left, she followed, if she curled east, he matched her movement. They were dancing. Then, just as you hit the border of Rosby, your dragon started to climb higher into the sky. You held tighter and leaned forward to counteract the sudden change in altitude, content in knowing he would never let you fall, and watched as Vhagar mirrored him. They twisted together for one turn, then two, and three before they both spit green fire into the air with a matching, heartbreaking roar as they leveled out. You shut your eyes against the flames but felt them warm your skin for a moment. But, as you opened them again and your dragon continued northward, you turned back to see Vhagar holding her spot in the moonlight, watching you and your dragon fly away.

The Eyrie was growing colder by the day. It would be a short Autumn. You tried to focus on the coming Winter instead of the unease you felt brewing like a storm in your stomach.

You had received four ravens from the capital. The one from Helaena was short and lovely, thanking you for the embroidered blanket you had given her before your abrupt departure, meant for her coming babe. Another was from Alicent who maternally scolded you for leaving without a proper goodbye and then immediately forgiving you for it. But, with the next line of her flourished handwriting, she told you, again, of Aemond’s wants. Alicent remained ever confusing. The next was from Rhaenyra who thanked you for your attendance at the festivities but also questioned you about your lack of proper goodbye. Much like Alicent, which should not have been a surprise to you as they shared much more than a close friendship, the Queen mentioned Aemond, although in a much more subdued way. My brother remains devoted to you, as ever.

Devoted. It was a double-edged word, you were coming to learn.

The last was from Aemond himself. I shall let you have your peace for now, my lark. But I will claim recompense soon enough.

You threw his into the fires of your solar’s hearth with shaking hands as if that would protect you. For a few days, there was the blissful quiet of the Vale. You were glad to see the resolution you had demanded between Houses Coldwater and Elesham seemed to be sufficient and Lady Waynwood was delighted to tell you that her son was delighted with the match you had made with Ser Oswin’s comely niece. It was fine. Until it wasn’t.

It seemed that you wanting to hear any whispers from Lys years ago was still bearing fruit. You heard rumblings of further discontent in Essos. When the Triarchy had dissolved after Daemon and Lord Corlys smashed their hold on the Stepstones (and constant infighting between the city states), there had been a tepid peace in the Disputed Lands…for a moment. But soon old grudges were reignited and war erupted again. Some captain, Shakaro, had been vying for the affections of the famed courtesan, The Black Swan, and had been murdered. That was only after the Myrmen and Tyroshi captains stewed in their anger that Shakaro had held back her fleet of Lyseni ships during a bloody and long battle with Lord Velaryon and his fleet—and it did seem to have a kernel of truth. The Lyseni suffered the fewest losses. But the specifics of why didn’t particularly matter to you right now. What mattered was that Lys was in the middle of a war and your uncle had tried to have you destroyed in one way or another for his own gain. The war must be hurting his coffers.

It started with whispers of a skirmish here or there in the Narrow Sea. Someone new called himself the King of the Stepstones and the northern Free Cities of Braavos, Pentos, and Lorath were quickly pulled into the war as well. It should have been a foreign war that you simply monitored via whispers or raven. But you soon received reports that the war was hurting trade from King’s Landing up to Gulltown.

You would not stand idly by when there was a threat to your people. Trade was crucial and necessary. Doubly so now with the threat of a looming winter. You flew your dragon down to Gulltown to receive their reports personally. And it was true. The blockade the war had created had spilled as far north as your shores. And while your granaries were full now, you would not have your people potentially starving in Winter because of a war you did not start.

Lord Torrent was watching as you looked over his reports, taken by his men as they sailed from Littlesister in the Bite into the Narrow Sea. You were not going to ask why his men were sailing in the Narrow Sea nor why he had a large gold necklace with a pendant stamped with the mark of the powerful Rogare family from Lys that looked like it had blood on it. That wasn’t your problem right now.

“You are estimating we have lost a dozen ships?” You let the parchment furl back into itself before handing it back to Lord Torrent.

“Yes, my lady. If not more.”

“Livelihoods were on those ships,” Lord Grafton said, stepping forward. His pallid cheeks were splotched with red, emotion he was trying to suppress. “House Grafton and the people of Gulltown will not survive if this were to happen again.”

You rolled your lips into your mouth for a moment. “I am giving you both leave to defend your lands as necessary but you may not engage further. There must be no aggression from the Vale until I am given leave from the Crown. I will not have our people die needlessly by inviting this war onto our shores.”

Your dragon grumbled at your back and both of the lords gave you a cautious look, wondering what you and your dragon would do. He was an extension of you. And while you had learned to swallow your anger in mixed company, he was still free to express it. But, as the years had passed, you thought he had learned to stymie his anger when others were around, too. Most of the time.

“My lords, I thank you for your reports and I pray the gods bless you all. I shall fly to King’s Landing to bring our concerns to the Crown.” And fly you did, telling Ser Oswin and your trusted handmaidens that they would be sending out ravens to the rest of the Vale, preparing them for the near-inevitability of war. You tried to focus on that instead of the growing, gnawing pit in your stomach when you thought of who else awaited you at the Red Keep.

Your dragon landed atop the remnants of the Pit and then took to the skies when you steered him away from landing atop the Red Keep again. He watched over you as you made your way through the city but finally deemed you safe when the Queensguard posted at the front bowed to you and let you in.

You were led to the Small Council by a grim-faced Jacaerys who met you in the hall and then shuffled into one of the vacant seats around the table. The somewhat spacious room was far more crowded than you had ever seen it, filled with gold cloaks, Queensguard, heads of noble houses and the like. Rhaenyra was the picture of regal power at the head, with Alicent and Rhaenys on either side and Jacaerys stood at his mother’s back, spine straight. There were already discussions of the coming conflict and you heard of the incursions onto the isle of Tarth and Estermont and the battering of the Stormlands, the edges of the Riverlands, the Crownlands and, much to your astonishment, Dorne. When the ruling Princess of Dorne, Aliandra, had refused to engage with the envoys from Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, they had sent small but creative bands of mercenaries to Dorne’s shores to show their displeasure. While Dorne continued to prove itself a formidable adversary and quickly dealt with the mercenaries, Princess Aliandra wanted retribution.

And who better to help than the Dragon Queen? Their alliance was tenuous at best, everyone in the room knew it, but it was still an alliance. The Princess would arrive with her councilors within a fortnight and Lucerys blushed the tiniest bit when Rhaenyra announced that he was the Princess’ betrothed as part of the alliance. He and his dragon, Arrax, would patrol the easternmost Dornish shores. You could tell that it made Rhaenyra nervous, just as it did when she gave Jacaerys leave to patrol Blackwater Bay. Jeyne and Silverwing would remain at the capital as a safeguard, doubly so as Helaena could not fly in her condition, despite her love of doing so. Daeron and Aegon would bolster defenses along the Riverlands and Stormlands shores while Laena, Rhaella, and Rhaena were asked to fly above certain parts of the Royal Fleet as they guarded Dragonstone, Driftmark, and the rest of the Gullet, including their home of Sweetport Sound. Ser Laenor would provide coverage to Lord Coryls’ fleet as they pushed into the Narrow Sea with Princess Rhaenys and Meleys.

“My hope with all of this,” Rhaenyra started, hand curled tightly over the marble ball in front of her, “is to keep our people safe, to finish this quickly. We must be victorious.” Her purple gaze cut to Daemon as he sat in the chair opposite her. You had tried to avoid looking in that direction as Aemond was seated beside him. “Princes Daemon and Aemond have graciously accepted to fly to Essos and meet with the magisters of the other Free Cities.”

“Even Pentos?” Someone asked—you vaguely recognized him as Ser Alfred Broome. Why he was even in attendance was beyond your comprehension at the moment and you felt several pairs of eyes move to settle on you.

“Pentos was the first of the Cities to ask for aid. They know that Alios’ crimes against Lady Arryn were an abomination. Or need I remind you what happened?” Aemond’s voice cut through the tension-thick air with a vicious ease and you saw Aegon trying to stifle his smirk behind his hand.

Ser Alfred’s face went red and tried to hold the prince’s gaze for only a moment before looking down. “No, my prince. Everyone here knows of how you defended Lady Arryn’s honor.”

“What news do you bring from the Vale, my lady?” Rhaenys asked, effectively pulling the conversation into a different direction. But she, too, was fighting a smile of her own. It faded, however, when you spoke of the lost ships and the sightings of the boats nearing Gulltown.

“It seems we must truly fight on all fronts,” Rhaenyra said, grave. She then gave you an order to protect your shores and the Bay of Crabs atop your dragon and your bannermen were given leave to defend their shores and lands.

The queen reiterated that she wanted this dealt with quickly. There was a hint of darkness to her tone but no one commented on it. It stirred a strange sense of pride within you. She was the sword and shield of the Crown. She wanted her people safe, by any means necessary. You were thankful that the crowd dispersed quickly when she dismissed them, either to ready their bannermen or deliver news with the like. Before you could also take your leave, Rhaenyra called out your name and told you to wait a moment. A handful of people sent you glances out of the corner of their eyes but none had the audacity to linger in an attempt to understand what the queen wanted with you. And as the gods continued to test you, Alicent and Aemond were the last to leave, each of them giving you looks you could not decipher before leaving.

“I was not expecting you today,” Rhaenyra said, shoulders finally losing a bit of the rigidity they’d held throughout the meeting. “But I will never be unhappy to see you.” She rounded the table and took one of your hands in hers with a squeeze.

A small smile pushed at your lips. “I did not want to wait to bring you reports from the Vale. I had not known you were gathering others.”

“It was not planned to be so large, but I am pleased that you were able to attend. I am sure it was the gods themselves who sent you to me at this moment.” She sighed and squeezed your hands again. “I am also wondering why my brother has been so despondent this last moon. Could it be because his betrothed absconded to the Eyrie without a proper goodbye?”

Your breath stuttered in your throat. “I am not betrothed to Aemond.”

Her silver eyebrow arched. “That is not what he nor Alicent seem to think. And the way he behaves around you, and you with him, it does not seem as if you are opposed to the match?”

You tried to steel yourself to the fact that yet another person had been sucked into this delusion but all you could do was shake your head. “Your brother and I are not promised to each other, Your Grace.”

“It would be a fine match, though, would it not? Dragons in the Vale.” She sighed and you fought the urge to scream. How could Aemond be so adamant with this lie?

“I will fly back to the Eyrie. I-”

“Oh, you must stay for the night. Surely your dragon needs the rest, and you as well. Before this war truly starts, rest now; let me know you are safe for a few hours more.”

You could not deny her that, not when her purple eyes looked at you like that. But you did not allow yourself to stay a moment longer and left before the first light of dawn started to crest the horizon. You left missives for Alicent and Rhaenyra this time, wishing them and their children safety for the upcoming conflict.

And you meant that. You wanted them all safe. Healthy. Happy. Even Aemond. No matter his delusion and your own conflicting feelings, you only wanted the best for him. And soon you were consumed with readying The Vale for war. The armor your mother had commissioned for you still fit with a few additions and your dragon seemed pleased to see you in it. A small comfort to you both. Your mother was with you still. As was he.

Your handmaiden, a girl of barely ten-and-four namedays named Mya from House Woodhull, helped you out of your armor after your latest fitting. She had just started her duties at the Eyrie a moon ago and was a quiet, timid girl. You hoped her time under your care would bring her a little more out of her shell.

“You depart tomorrow for Gulltown, do you not, my lady?” She asked as she set one of your gauntlets atop the velvet cushion on your table.

“I do. And I know I shall return here to find the Eyrie just as I left it, in your and the others’ capable hands.”

Mya went pink with the compliment but nodded and tucked her chin to her chest. “Of course, my lady. I would never dream of letting anything go wrong in your home.”

She was a sweet girl and you smiled as you dismissed her for the evening after she helped you into your nightgown and robe. Your skin still smelt of lavender from your bath—you never could find the will to stop using the oil, even if it now also reminded you of Aemond. And you once again ignored how your chest twisted and your traitorous mind conjured his face whenever you closed your eyes.

You turned toward your bed, seeing that Mya had turned down your blankets for you as well. Sweet girl. Your pillow was cool, too, and you shut your eyes tightly as you murmured a chant to your mother’s gods. Tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow was the start. Tomorrow was…

You pushed out a breath.

A familiar roar rattled the night sky and your eyes shot open. Just as your feet hit the cold floor, a quick knock snapped against your door and Mya was bursting in again. “Lady Arryn, a dragon has come to the Eyrie.”

You knew who it was. In your bones, you knew it.

She led you out to the High Hall where you knew he would be waiting.

“Prince Aemond, my lady,” another of your knights said with a quick bow in your direction as you entered.

Aemond stood in the center of the cold hall, draped in his riding leathers and a deep, dark cloak stretched over his shoulders. “Lady Arryn. I would have a word with you.”

Your heart leapt and raced. He was meant to be leaving for Essos soon, was he not? Just as you were to start defending the Vale in earnest. What was he doing here? Before you could even think of doing something else, you mindlessly led him to your solar as thoughts raced. Had something happened? Had someone been killed?

Mya set about stoking the fire in the room before skittering out of the room with a quick, matching pair of curtseys toward you and Aemond. He, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to memorize the entirety of your apartments and lingered on the open archway that led into your bedchamber.

“What have you come to say?” The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could think of a proper greeting or line of questioning. “Is it Helaena? Are she and the babe well? What-”

“I am leaving for Braavos at dawn. I will meet Daemon in Pentos after securing the city’s alliance and we will then move to destroy Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh’s strongholds in the Disputed Lands.”

Even as you felt your brow furrow, you nodded. That was a suitable plan for him and Aemond, the riders of the largest and most battle-hardened dragons with matching temperaments. They would be a formidable pair and cutting off their supplies should keep their focus pulled into two directions and make them easier to defeat. Hopefully.

“I wish you good fortune and blessings upon your endeavors, Aemond.” You paused and felt his lilac gaze rake down your form. “But why are you here?”

Aemond took a step toward you and you instinctively took a step back, feeling like a mouse being cornered by a cat. But your retreat only seemed to spur him on and in a few short steps, he had closed the distance between you, filling your lungs with that familiar scent of Aemond Aemond Aemond. Leather, mint, dragon, lavender.

“Would you have me sent out without knowing that I would return? You would deprive me of one last taste of you?” The tips of his fingers were firebrands against your skin as he closed his hand around your wrist and tugged you close. His breath puffed against your mouth as his lilac eye bore down into yours.

Your next breath stalled in your lungs. Gods, he was beautiful. But you could not. “I do not wish you dead, Aemond. You must know that. I only wish that you see-”

“See what? See that you refuse to accept my affections?”

“They are misplaced!” You retorted.

His grip tightened on your wrist, just shy of painful. “They are yours. My affections, my heart, my body. They are yours. I am yours. Just as you are mine.” The prince moved ever closer and the familiar burn of him enveloped you instantly. “Ask anything of me, and you shall have it.”

“I ask that you find a lady wife that will love you as you deserve.” It was your last, gentle refusal.

And Aemond shook his head. “There is no one else. There is only you. There has always only been you, my lark.”

A knock at the door had him pulling back and Mya once again stepped inside, carrying tea for you and Aemond. She smiled at you and you must not have managed to press the answering look to your face quick enough because she lingered at the table, her small fingers still fiddling with the teapot. “Are you well, my lady?”

Just for a moment, you thought of telling her to call for Ser Oswin, for the guards further down the hall. You could have him sent away, surely seeing the error of his thoughts and actions in a way he could not unsee. You licked your lips as your eyes darted between your handmaiden and Aemond. But a small movement, just a simple change of stance, had Aemond’s hand brushing against the hilt of one of the daggers sheathed at his waist. It was a silent threat, but a threat nonetheless.

And so, you pressed a smile to your face and shook your head. So be it. You would not put an innocent in harm’s way if you could prevent it. “Retire for the night. Prince Aemond and I have much to discuss. You have more than earned your rest. I thank you for your hard work.”

She waffled for a moment longer before sighing and dipping into a curtsey. “Good night, my lady, my prince.” And then she was gone and you were alone with Aemond once again.

A satisfied hum slipped between his lips as his hand slipped from the dagger’s hilt. He had won. “See how simple that was? Not everything need be a fight, my lark.”

“Simple?” You spat the word. “When you threaten the lives of the people in my care, what choice have you given me?” Your next breath stalled in your throat but you pushed it out anyway. “What do you want? You have made it so I cannot refuse you. Let us get on with it.”

Aemond moved closer still, clouding your mind for a moment with the scent of him. For just a moment, you wished that your body did not react to him in such a way. But it was visceral and unconscious on your part. It was like every part of you was simply waiting to be devoured. By Aemond.

“Take off your clothes.”

Your heart stuttered and shattered. Tears stung at your eyes as you shook your head. “That is not fair, Aemond.”

The prince smirked. “I did not ever state that I was fair.”

“You would take this from me? Unwillingly?”

“You can deny it all you want, my lark. But I know your heart is mine. If I must start with claiming your body, so be it.” He reached out and undid the velvet tie of your robe, spurring you on, before moving back, allowing himself to enjoy the view.

Your hands shook as you peeled away your robe, leaving you only in the fine silk of your chemise. Aemond cocked his head to the side, wordlessly telling you that you were not finished. You clamped your eyes shut as you reached for the straps and pushed one and then the other off your shoulders. The fabric pooled at your feet with a whisper, leaving you in just your smallclothes and the necklace you still could not remove.

And then he moved. Again, he grasped your hand and led you through your solar and into your bedchamber, to your bed as your heart thundered behind your ribs. You could do little else but stare as he undressed, revealing his pale skin and corded muscle until he was standing tall and bare before you.

It felt as if you had walked through your dragon’s fire the more you stared at him. Gods, he was beautiful. Carved from marble by the gods themselves. And then shame burned, too.

You could not want this. “Aemond-”

But he simply reached out and pushed you back across the bed until your spine pressed against the mountain of pillows you usually slept on. Your heart hammered behind your teeth as he climbed atop your bed and closer to you. His warm hands slid up your legs and curled around the plush of your thighs and a slow breath slid out from between his lips. “I have dreamt of this. Of you. I always knew you were perfect.”

What would he do to you first? Would he simply rut into you like an animal and spill his seed inside you? Or would he toy with you more? Try to-

The questions went still in your mind and Aemond simply pressed himself over you. He reached around to the back of your neck and you heard a distinct series of clicks before your necklace finally came loose. He let the sapphire drag over your heart before he set it aside and then pressed his head between your breasts. It was almost gentle. Almost innocuous. Almost the careful touch of a lover you had quietly yearned for and read about in the scandalous books of your younger years.

Then, as if you could not help yourself, your hand found the silk of his hair. You gently pushed your fingers through it and let it glide against your skin. His next breath was a slow exhale that wet your skin.

Aemond reached up and pulled the ribbon from around his head and set it aside. And then all you saw was blue blue blue. The sapphire he had used in place of his eye glimmered in the low light of your chambers, cut beautifully and cruelly; it matched the jewel of your necklace, the collar he had given you. Without a thought, you reached out to press against his cheek but he caught your wrist before you could touch him. You could see the question in his gaze, the want, the ache. And you pressed forward again until your palm rested against his warm cheek. You traced the cruel, jagged scar beneath his eye with the edge of your thumb before simply holding his face in your grasp. You could not help it. He was beautiful. So beautiful.

And the prince leaned into the touch, like he needed it like his next breath.

“You care for me.” The words were whispered before he turned to skirt his lips against the delicate skin of your wrist.

“Of course I care for you,” you murmured. How could you do anything but care for him? Even at his worst, even when his affections scared you, hurt others, you could not simply stop caring for him.

His fingers traced circles up your sides until they brushed against the soft skin of your breasts, soft but purposeful. “You told me, promised me, that I would have a dragon. You knew it.” He turned his head just enough to drag his lips above your thrumming heart. “You came, you rode your dragon hard, when you heard of the loss of my eye. You came, knowing that I would not understand that you were risking your honor and reputation to make sure I was well.” His large, warm hands cupped your breasts fully, thumbs skirting against your nipples until they pebbled. “And, despite how I know you will deny it, I know you had a hand in House Harlaw’s eradication.”

“I-”

He turned and pressed the point of his chin to your sternum so he could look up at you. “You cannot lie to me, my lark. I have mine own spiders whispering their truths to me.” He paused, lilac and sapphire anchoring on your face. “You killed for me. Because I was harmed. When my mother cried and my father refused to move against a lesser house, you killed them.”

“Your mother did all she could.”

“She did. And she called for you and you came. For me.”

And you could not deny it. You had gone, dashed to your dragon and sped through the skies to do all you could to help heal him.

But your thoughts of how you had only wanted to heal him quickly fizzled to nothing when his long fingers started to do the ties at the sides of your smallclothes. He pulled the fabric away from you and, just for a moment, brought the bundle of cloth up to his nose and he sucked in a greedy lungful of air, like he was trying to memorize the scent of you. The simple action had heat racing through you, coiling further in your belly.

But still, he set the small bundle aside and Aemond’s warm hands skimmed up your thighs again, kneading the supple flesh there as he pulled in a slow, steady breath. It brushed against you, making you embarrassingly aware of the slick that had pooled there, betraying your own ache. His nose brushed against your curls, and the pleased hum he let out vibrated against you, stealing a whimper from between your lips.

“Divine,” he murmured. You were not sure if he was speaking to you or simply about you. But it mattered little as he pressed a kiss right above your mound before licking a bold stripe up your folds. A gasp tore itself out of your throat and another came closely behind it as Aemond continued to lick and suck and twirl his tongue. He was ravenous. Immediately insatiable. Your hips lifted, either in an attempt to buck him away from your core or to pull him closer, you could not tell—but it mattered little when he slung an arm across your waist to pin you to the bed, pliant and controlled.

His tongue continued to move, delving into you and then wrapping around your clit until your chest heaved with each breath. You still leapt when you felt his fingers start to slide against the soft skin of your thigh. Aemond deftly circled through your folds, coating them in your slick. But then he moved, and you gasped as you felt the pads of his fingers circle your entrance before pressing in. Further and further he delved, as his tongue continued to pull you apart. His fingers curled and found a spot inside of you that had you keening. Pleasure sparked up your spine and your hands tugged uselessly into the fine blankets of your bed as the prince hummed against you, drunk on your taste, before pulling your clit into his mouth entirely and sucking on it until you let out a choked wail into the sticky night air. Your entire body hummed with the aftershocks but Aemond continued to lick at you for a few moments longer, only pulling back when you whimpered. He pressed his cheek against your damp thigh and looked up at you as he pulled his fingers free of your cunt and pressed them into his mouth. His eye closed as he groaned at the taste. “I will never get enough of your taste.” He turned his head just enough to press a searing kiss where your thigh and your hip met before he sat up.

His cock was rigid and long and wanting. Your heart continued to hammer in your chest as Aemond moved to press his hands on either side of your chest, staring down at you with a sense of vicious knowing. You could feel him, warm and hard against your thigh. “Aemond?” His name broke in your throat.

“I could stuff you full of my seed right now, leave you dripping. I could put a bastard in your belly and have you need to marry me when I return to avoid the scandal.” His long fingers trailed a meandering path over your womb, dancing across your heated skin. “You’d look so beautiful, round with my child.” He hummed.

Tears stung at your eyes again, for an entirely different reason. “Please…Aemond. Please do not do this to me.”

But he simply leaned down and pressed a kiss just below your navel. “I could do it, my lady. And I cannot tell you how I have contemplated it when I am alone in the dark, with naught but your memory to soothe me. But I am a man of honor. And any child I have you bear will be trueborn.” He sat straight and gently cupped your face as if he had not just threatened to ruin you. “No, I shall wait until I return to know what it feels like to fuck you. And it will be after I call you wife.”

The next kiss he pressed against your mouth was gentle and tasted sharp and sweet as his tongue plundered between your lips. A low groan vibrated against your mouth as he pulled back and it took you a stretched moment to realize he was touching himself. His hand was wrapped around his length, harshly moving up and down, up and down with a wet sound that had your core clenching.

“It should be you,” he said through gritted teeth before nipping at your bottom lip. “This belongs inside of you. I want to see it drip out of you.” His hand moved faster, faster. You could not look away. “I am going to put a babe in you. As many as you want. Make you come on my cock like a whore, my own personal whore. My perfect lady wife.” With the last word, he came, spurting his release against his hands and the warm skin of your stomach. Aemond’s chest heaved for just a few breaths before he stood straight, his pale skin pink with the exertion. You watched, heart in your throat, as his sticky fingers gathered the rest of his spend and he brought his fingers up to your mouth. “Open,” he commanded.

And you did, allowing him to press his digits to your tongue. He tasted…salty with a hint of citrus and his lilac eye was blown wide as he made sure you licked him clean. Aemond drew his fingers back when he was satisfied but still hooked his thumb on your chin and tilted your head up just enough to press a lingering kiss against your mouth with a pleased hum.

“You were perfect. Just as I knew you would be.”

He did not let you leave your featherbed as he curled his sinewy arms secured around your frame. He had cleaned you with a strip of damp fabric and delicately kissed you, now, as if he had not just debauched you so thoroughly.

Sleep sank its claws into you a few moments later, as you listened to Aemond hum against your skin. It was a lullaby. A lullaby for you.

And when the dawn came…he was gone. But your necklace was once again secured around your neck and your skin still burned from where he had touched it.

Your dragon was well fed. But you know he craved more. And you did, too.

You had not heard a single word of how Aemond’s campaign had gone across the Narrow Sea. And no matter who you asked, no one seemed to know if Aemond was successful. Or healthy. Or alive. Your one solace was hearing that the strong defenses to the south were mostly successful and a massive dragon had been spotted off the shores of Myr but that had been the end of it.

Or the start of it. It seemed your thoughts could never be free of the prince. It was a curse, truly. You wanted to see him again. Just to know he was well. And if you spent the nights alone in your tent, hand clutching the sapphire of the necklace, that was your secret to keep. It hadn’t been a lie when you said that you cared for him. You did. You do. But you were not sure when your care had mutated into this. And you could not rid yourself of the ache you now felt between your thighs and twisting in your chest when you thought of him. It was ridiculous and cruel and left you with a sense of self-loathing. How had he manipulated you into this? Into this strange longing? You threw yourself into making sure the Vale and its people were still taken care of to try to rid yourself of those warring emotions. And that was your duty. To provide. To protect.

They still called you The Flame of the Vale. And you heard more than a few of your courtiers whisper of you and your dragon’s wrath as you passed.

Sitting astride your dragon often reminded you of standing atop a rocking boat. Waiting and moving with each of his long, slow breaths. He was an extension of you, and you of him. Both of you stared at the horizon, waiting for the telltale sight of foreign ships. You knew they were coming and you itched to meet them. This was what you needed, what you wanted. You could be a dragon now. You could be cruel and rage and reduce something to ash without care for your reputation.

Only one band of Myrish corsairs had made it ashore and they had been quickly met with the might of the Vale. All others had been reduced to ash in their boats or torn apart by your bannermen’s fleets. But more had come, trying to catch your forces unaware just before dawn. Your dragon’s roar had rattled the very ground, nearly drowning out the alerting horn blasts along the shore, warning all of you of the sneaking threat.

And now, as the sun beat down on the bloodied sand and water, you felt that biting sense of savagery continue to grow. “Dracarys!” you bellowed, diving out from above a cloud and setting ablaze another ship. Green flames danced along the wood and the screams that followed were almost musical to your ears. Another ship came and met the same fate and another and another. But the Lyseni fleet was nothing but tenacious. You had counted five scorpions—four had been destroyed before they could be fired but the fifth-

Your dragon turned abruptly with a screech and a drag of green fire lighting up the clouds. And you felt the scorpion bolt rush by your head. You let out a frustrated scream as you steered your dragon back around to dive down down down toward the ship that had just tried to kill you both. And your dragon echoed your scream with one of his one before bathing that ship in his green fire as well.

But you should have known. Should have known it was too easy. Just as you turned to set your sights on another ship, another bolt barely missed your head—you felt its fletching tear across your face. And then another was shot, clipping the edge of your dragon’s wing but doing little more than agitating him. And then another and another. To your horror and rage, you realized there was a line of small ships just cresting over a large wave, a scorpion tethered to each of their bows. For a stretched moment, you watched the sailors hurry to load their weapons again. They were not going to stop. And neither could you. With your heart in your throat, you chanced a look back toward the shore, watching the few ships that had managed to get through your line of ships and dragon fire start to batter the waiting knights and bowmen on the shore. Your men were holding them back, but you knew that you must keep them from being overwhelmed. You needed to protect them.

You urged your dragon forward with a shout and you heard the sailors screaming for the others to hurry, to shoot, that they were going to kill you and your dragon. But you could not stop. “Angos!” You cried and you instantly felt the rumbling of his growing fire beneath your legs just as another bolt shot past your dragon’s neck, and sprayed your armor with his boiling blood as he reared back, angry, for just a few breaths. But another bolt came and you had to dip down until his feet dragged in the sea for you to avoid it. But they were getting closer closer closer. Your dragon spit his fire at the first ship, turning its crew and scorpion to ash to be washed away.

“Turn! Turn! Turn!” You heard the sailors bellow.

You turned your dragon toward them, watching as they hauled their scorpions to the side, still aiming for you. But, just as you watched one of them pull back the bolt, green fire from above drenched the ship, snuffing out their screams. And your dragon let out a pleased rumble as you craned your head up to see Vhagar descending like a leviathan from the clouds above, dark and terrible and beautiful. As she turned left, you and your dragon went right and in just a few moments, the last of the scorpions and their crews were gone. The ancient she-dragon then turned toward the shore and swept away the invading forces in more green fire. You could hear the cheers from the shore, celebrating with you. Tilting your chin up to feel the sun and smoke on your skin, you saw Vhagar swooping toward you again and without your steering, your dragon moved to mirror her. The massive dragons were achingly delicate in their movements as they turned and twisted, pulling higher and higher into the sky and clouds. They were dancing. Together. An exhausted laugh bubbled out of you at the realization.

It came crashing down on you then, that your dragon was happy. You were alive. The battle was over. And you let your hands peel away from the spikes that served as your reins and held them out straight, letting the air sweep through your fingers. This was freedom. Your eyes closed for just a moment, allowing yourself to revel in the ash-covered victory, but they snapped open when you heard Vhagar’s distinctive screech. She circled left and your dragon flew right and you turned your head to see Aemond in the saddle, his silver hair mussed by the wind and his mouth tilted into his familiar smirk.

He was alive. He was here.

Your dragons eventually leveled out and slowly made their way toward the shore, the very tips of their large wings just barely brushing against each other as they kept each other close.

“Dragons!” Someone shouted as you drew ever closer. The crowds below, victorious and celebratory, darted away from the shadows your mounts created.

Sand spit beneath the pair of dragons as they landed and your dragon rumbled, pleased in several ways, as you slid from his back. Aemond descended the well-worn ladder of Vhagar’s saddle and you watched as he rolled his shoulders back before turning toward you. And your heart leapt.

And you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate it now.

But you still refrained from wanting too much. He was still so young. And you were…you.

Before he could take more than a half dozen steps toward you, he was surrounded by knights, thanking him for his help and lauding in the victory with him. You watched the smallest of smiles pushed at his mouth. Yes, this was his victory, too.

The camp was soon devolving into a somewhat refined celebration of the battle won. Food was carried in from the nearby Gulltown and set up on tables along the beach that now looked more grey than golden. But no one truly cared, not when the mead and wine were passed around and stories were shared of battles not soon forgotten and the honor they had earned. The cut on your cheek was cleaned and bandaged, and would leave you with only a small scar according to the healer. But it was Aemond’s low voice that you listened to, listened for, over the din of the revelry.

He and Daemon had easily secured the allegiance of Pentos, Braavos, and Lorath, before also managing to have Qohor and Norvos join their ranks as they moved into the Disputed Lands. It had been a bloodbath.

“Her Grace wanted this dealt with quickly. My uncle and I were happy to oblige.” His eye anchored on you on the other end of the long table and your grip tightened on the thick tankard in your hand.

Swallowing your pride, and the other rising feelings, you stood and raised your drink. “To Prince Aemond, Prince of the Realm, and hero of the Bay.” The crowd cheered and raised their cups, too. “And to each and every one of you, of my knights, the finest of the Seven Kingdoms: the Realm will speak of this day and of your bravery during this war for ages to come!” The crowd cheered again and the music that had been played in the background grew in earnest volume, letting the merrymaking continue and grow.

You hadn’t spoken to Aemond since you landed. And with every passing second, the sapphire around your neck grew heavier. This was wrong. All of it. You knew that. Aemond’s feelings would fade and yours had been so muddled and confused. You needed to be free of this all. After graciously accepting a few of the toasts given in your honor, you dismissed yourself back to your tent.

How had you become this? Hadn’t Aemond hurt you? Nearly forced you? But hadn’t he also kissed you softly and kept every single one of his promises? As you pressed a damp strip of cloth to your neck, you tried to clear your mind. Tomorrow you would be back in the Eyrie, away from it all. You just needed a bit of peace. A bit of quiet. Guidance. You pulled a small dagger from the dark of one of your bags and raked it across your palm as you settled on your knees in front of the small fire in your tent.

The undulating language your mother once sang to you felt a little stilted on your tongue, but you still continued on, asking for guidance, asking for peace, as you raised your bleeding hand above the fire and let the crimson drip into the flames.

One.

Two.

Three.

You sat on the weirwood throne, a babe on your lap. The little one’s hands drummed against your protruding stomach as they let out a happy giggle, lilac eyes alight with joy.

“Be kind to your mother, my son.” Aemond was at your side, reaching out a hand to cup the back of the little one’s head. “She is delicate right now.” And then his lips brushed against your temple and-

“My lady!”

You pulled back with a gasp, your skin burning from the flames. You curled your hand against your chest with a hiss as flashes of the vision danced on the backs of your eyes. Turning toward the sound of the voice, you saw a man standing at the entrance of your tent, his face hard and furious.

“The whispers are true! You’re a witch! A defilement of the Seven!”

You teetered to your feet. It felt as if all your limbs had been weighed down with sand and your tongue was useless behind your teeth. “I am n-not a witch, my lord. I-”

“Do not deny it! I have seen it and I shall make sure that all of the people who swore fealty to you were-”

The rest of the words were gargled as blood filled his mouth. Aemond stood behind the man, a bloodied dagger in one hand, the man’s tongue in the other. You hadn’t even seen his approach and your knees nearly knocked together as he moved to press the tip of his blade against the man’s throat. “You shall speak no word against Lady Arryn at all. And if you think to write it, I shall have your hands next.” He then grabbed the back of the man’s jerkin and all but threw him out of your tent. “Get yourself to a maester. I’ll be sure to tell everyone that you were too into your cups and mistook your blade for your fork.”

The man stumbled away with a wet cry and Aemond turned his gaze to you. He tossed the man’s tongue into the fire and set aside his dagger as he strode toward you.

“Aemond…” His name was a weight on your tongue.

“Did I not tell you that I would protect you? That you were mine to hold?” He reached up to press his thumb against your quivering mouth before he pulled in a slow breath. “I have a gift for you.” He led you to sit at the small table near your bedroll and then grabbed at a dark bag he must have dropped near the flap of your tent earlier. He set it atop the small table and opened and…

It took you a stretched moment to realize what he had set in front of you. The hair was grey, longer, too. Age had lined his dull orchid colored eyes and he still wore a single gold hoop in one of his ears. This was…

“Aemond…”

“He will never threaten you again.”

He had given you the head of your uncle.

You had not asked for it. Had not entertained the thought of killing him with anyone aside from your dark daydreams in years. “How…” the question trailed off. “Why?”

The prince did not look away from you as he answered: “I swore to you that no harm would come to you, did I not? You refused to become a kinslayer but he was no kin of mine.” Again, he reached out to hold your face as he stood above you. “I care not that you have secret rituals and gods to which you pray. I want you and all of your shadows.”

You had prayed for peace and guidance and the blood and flames had shown you Aemond and children. He had carved a man’s tongue out for you. He had bathed your enemies in dragonflame when they thought to shoot you from the sky. But, gods, there was a darkness to his affections for you. But were you not a child of shadow, too?

You stood from your seat and Aemond’s hand fell from your face for a moment, allowing you to be the one to reach out now. Your fingers shook as they pressed against his cheek. His scar was scalding beneath your thumb. “Any children we may have would not carry the Targaryen name. They would be Arryns. You would have to defer to me for counsel whenever another house came to the Eyrie to settle a dispute. I cannot and will not ask you to lower yourself in such a way-”

Aemond all but snatched your hand from his face and pressed it against his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “Let me be the one to judge if something is lowering myself, my lark.”

You shook your head but couldn’t find it in yourself to take your hand back. “Aemond-”

“Your mother was a Targaryen to her core but carried the name Arryn. You were born in Lys and adopted the House and its colors only after you were named heir. You ride one of the largest and oldest dragons in the world. You may be called an Arryn, my lady, but you are a Targaryen. You are the Blood of Old Valyria. Our children, no matter their name, would be the same.” He moved closer, until you could feel each of his breaths against your mouth. “I love you, my lark. I have loved you since I was a boy and I shall love you until my heart no longer beats in my chest.”

Tears started to cloud your vision as you nodded. He loved you. There was no escaping it. And perhaps you loved him, too. With that thought, you surged forward to press your mouth to his.

The wedding was a grand but small affair. Well, your second wedding was. The first had simply been you and Aemond on the shores of Dragonstone, wed together in the Valyrian tradition with blood on your mouth and staining your tongue. The second had been in the small sept of the Eyrie, after the Daughters’ War had officially ended and the Realm was at peace. He draped you in a cloak embroidered with a three headed dragon, stitched in blue. His color. Your color.

Both of you refused a bedding ceremony. And it was probably for the best as Aemond certainly took his time taking you apart on his tongue and then again on his fingers before finally sliding his cock into your velvet vice.

His thrusts were slow but powerful. Stars burst behind your eyes with each of them, only coupled with his wet mouth clamping over your neck, the swells of your breasts, anywhere he could sink his teeth. He hauled one of your legs into the crook of his arm so he could drive deeper deeper deeper into you until you would swear you felt him in your throat.

“Do you feel me, my lark?”

“I…” Sparks of pleasure were cracking at every nerve ending and hazing your mind until that was left was Aemond. “I feel you.”

He took you three times that night, leaving you gasping and leaking of him. Sated. And, despite it all, because of it all…happy. Little Rodrik Arryn came screaming into the world less than a year after your wedding. It became a regular occurrence for anyone visiting the Eyrie to see the little lord asleep on his father’s chest as Aemond sat on the Weirwood throne beside you. When he reached his sixth moon, Aemond secured Rodrik to his chest and climbed onto Vhagar’s back, letting his son have his first flight on the oldest dragon in the world. He did the same when Artys was born a year later. Your vision had come true.

It had been a conscious decision for you both to give your children names native to the Vale. But, when your daughter was born, it had been a mutual decision to bend the rules. A subtle nod to Visenya and your mother.

“Lady Vaella Arryn!”

The crowd assembled in the High Hall cheered as you held your daughter close, nestled safely against your breast. One of her small hands was tightly curled into the soft fabric of your gown and she let out a short whine when Alicent came to hold her granddaughter.

“Well done, darling,” Alicent cooed as she let the babe get comfortable in her arms. “Oh, she is just as perfect as your boys.”

Aemond hummed and pressed a brief kiss to your temple. You could feel his smile against your skin. “Of course she is.”

When the guests had retired for the night, Rhaenyra being the last as she sang a Valyrian song to the giggling babe to help settle her, you heard a familiar rumble come from above. Echoing elation nearly consumed you as you sped through the halls of your castle until you were in the gardens and staring up at your dragon.

“Have you come to meet her?” You asked, holding Vaella close with a smile.

Your dragon grumbled, as if this was not his idea (and as if he had not come to meet your sons, too), and moved closer, his uncareful steps spitting rocks and trampling flowers. But you hardly cared. Holding Vaella a little higher, you smiled as he neared her, bright green eyes focused entirely on the small bundle in your grasp. The elation you felt settled in your bones, a far cry from the panic you’d felt only a few moons ago when you’d given birth. He always worried over you. But he knew you were happy and he was happy, too.

“This is Vaella.”

He rumbled in greeting and Vaella reached out a tiny hand toward him with a gurgle of her own. He then nudged at your hip, as softly as he could, until you got the hint and strapped Vaella to your chest and climbed onto his back and held tight.

“Just a few turns, yes?”

An answering plume of smoke curled from between his teeth and then he took to the skies, letting the winter air sting your cheeks. But your daughter smiled contentedly up at you, letting out a happy sound as your dragon burst through a cloud. She would be a fearsome little one. You knew it.

The Vale, even as the last vestiges of Winter were slowly slipping away, was prospering. As were the Seven Kingdoms. As part of the alliance with Dorne, Rhaenyra declared the Stepstones were granted to them. Lucerys was a fine consort to Princess Aliandra, and it seemed that Dorne had accepted becoming part of the Seven Kingdoms. They retained their titles and their customs and Rhaenyra seemed pleased that she would rarely have to mediate any of the disputes between Dornish houses anyway. As long as Lucerys was happy, Rhaenyra was happy. Jacaerys and Helaena had welcomed Prince Aerion just at the war’s end and then Princess Rhae soon after. Aegon and his Lady Farwynd were starting their own family on their remote island and Jeyne was busy planning her wedding festivities to Lord Stark, set to be held on the first true day of Spring. Rhaenys was pleased when she announced that Laena had given birth to another girl, a beauty named Alysanne, and Rhaenyra proposed a tentative betrothal between Aerion and newest addition to House Sunglass. Daemon and his wife and daughter had been invited to Pentos as guests of esteem and they were taking full advantage of it. Daeron was on his own adventures, too, discovering the secrets of Qohor and hoping to visit Qarth soon, as well.

Yes, the realm and your family were at peace.

Aemond was waiting for you as you landed, a teasing smile on his face. “My ladies are courting scandal by staying awake at such an hour, out of bed.”

You laughed and stole a kiss against his mouth as you dismounted and your smile only grew as he bent to kiss Vaella, too. He stood straight and your heart clenched as you looked at him, your husband. You no longer fought against the feelings he conjured within you. He was all you wanted, him and your little family.

“I love you,” you murmured against his mouth after putting Vaella in her bassinet.

You felt his smile against your lips before his hands curled over your hips and he dragged you close. “I know, my lark.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought of it all! I have a side-story Aegon and Lady Farwynd coming soon(ish) and two more Aemond one-shots on the docket, too.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fic #hotd fic #house of the dragon #hotd #female reader

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