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hildergard · 7 months ago

Note

Could you do something where Aemond is already married/betrothed to a highborn lady that’s been approved by Alicent and Otto but he has a relationship with a low born woman (a brothel worker or any lowborn really) and once he becomes Prince Regent he starts bringing her around the castle, giving her a room to herself, treating her better than how a lowborn should be treated in Alicent and Ottos eyes and they don’t like it but Aemond doesn’t care.

MINE TO PROTECT ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Suggestive content, swearing, possessive behaviour, classism

WORDCOUNT | 4k

NOTE | I have seen a lot of fanfictions where the Reader is a brothel worker so I made her a baker instead. I hope that's alright with you! Thank you so much for this great request! I had so much fun writing it <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

In the seedy streets of Flea Bottom, rumours travelled in a precise order, memorised by all.

A Lord, drunk with lust, would disclose the Crown’s secrets to a simpering whore, who would be quick⏤once the gold dragons were in her purse⏤to repeat what she had just heard, noble semen still running down her thighs. The other, much less wealthy, customers would then talk about it loudly in bars, attracting the attention of patrons who, once sober, had only to spread the news.

Today, the rumour burst into your little shop when Old Gerald came through the door, looking for his daily loaf of bread.

“Prince Aemond’s been made Regent," he said.

For a second, you did not move. The dough fell on wood. Your floured hands remained stuck in the sticky, flabby mixture. It would have to be kneaded again. The sight of your dirty fingers woke you from your torpor. You gripped the towel from your apron and wiped your palms roughly before turning your back on your customer⏤less to get the fresh loaves of bread out of the oven than to regain your composure.

He had done it.

Your shovel rasped against the burning slab of clay and peeled off the loaves.

A few days earlier, when night had enveloped the citizens of King's Landing in its thick cloak, he had told you of his plans and dreams⏤the two were always intertwined, for Aemond Targaryen provoked fate rather than waited for it. His touch had done nothing to soften the brutality of his words. Sordid tales of fire and blood, the kind that filled the tomes of the Citadel.

Even the Targaryens could not play with fire indefinitely. Aemond rose in the flames. For how much longer? You had protested, your voice hoarse from the moans he had managed to draw from your throat, but he would have none of it and simply told you to trust him, as if all this were far too complicated for you.

And perhaps that was the case, for what did you know of war and power?

“What about his Majesty?" you asked.

Old Gerald tossed you three coppers, which you pocketed, before handing you a thick piece of cloth.

“They say he perished in dragonfire. Seems Targaryens are closer to men, after all. With all this quarrel for t'throne, it were inevitable. And, let me tell you, it'll happen again. Today, a brother sits on t'throne. Tomorrow, it'll be an uncle or a sister. Things like that never end.”

You carefully wrapped the golden loaf in the cloth.

“Wi' Rhaenyra in Dragonstone and his brother's heir dead, he’ll no doubt be crowned King. And the Lady Baratheon, Queen.”

You winced at the name but immediately hid your reaction with a tight smile. Gerald, bless him, took no notice of your torment. You handed the loaf of bread to the old cobbler, who nodded at you and returned to his shoes.

The rumour ran on and kept you thinking all day. You burnt a dozen loaves of bread, spilt two sacks of flour and forgot to deliver her apple pies to Dorthy Porter, making you lose a silver stag and a customer.

When the key finally turned in the lock of the shop and cut you off from the rest of the world, your shoulders slumped. The sun and all its problems gave way to the moon. Under its silvery eyes, other rumours would no doubt spread but you did not wish to hear them. You longed for your straw mattress and the comfort of your dreams⏤perhaps your love would visit you there, also freed from the pressure the Gods were piling on his shoulders.

Tiredness weakened your knees⏤you dragged your body more than you climbed the stairs to your modest bedroom. In the middle of the room, the bed and its pillow stretched out its arms to you. You let yourself fall into the feathery embrace and closed your eyes for a moment, praying to the Gods that you would find sleep easily.

They ignored you.

The doorbell rang.

Your eyelids struggled to open. Sleep paralysed them⏤it clutched at your eyelashes and tried to keep them closed but you fought the temptation and, at last, gazed into the dim light of the room. Another series of blows, more hurried, struck against the wood. The whole shop seemed to shake.

“I’m coming, I'm coming…” you mumbled.

You gasped as two members of the Kingsguard appeared on your doorstep, their cloaks far too white to be dragged through the muddy streets of Flea Bottom.

“The Prince Regent, His Highness Aemond Targaryen, summons you.”

They did not care for your reply and seized you. You protested, demanded to be told the reason for this summon, but nothing would do. The guards dragged you like a rag doll through the streets of King's Landing, indifferent to your screams and struggle. Above and around you, the candlelight in the windows intensified. Some people poked their heads out to watch the racket. You lowered your chin and remained silent, but the damage had been done.

Already, rumours were spreading. The baker had been arrested. What had she done? Who would make their bread from now on?

The dizzy shadow of the Red Keep loomed larger and larger. Just the outline of it made your skin crawl. For the first time, you would be treading on the floor of Kings and Queens. You were being plunged headfirst into this unknown, powerful and dangerous place, populated by men and women who despised people like you. One of the guards tightened his grip around your arm. You yelped. Why were they taking you there? Aemond always came to you, not the other way round.

Did someone know? You blanched. Impossible, you thought immediately. You had been cautious.

But what if... What if someone had seen you, despite all your precautions?

Were they taking you to the Keep to put you to the sword?

A flash of fear stabbed you in the guts.

You finally passed through the large gates of the castle. They were still open, yet, no one was in the courtyard. The swords were resting on the workbenches and the horses were asleep. Only a few guards patrolled the ramparts, their heads turned skywards in search of a dragon.

“Hurry up, girl. The Prince is waiting.”

A solitary, proud figure emerged at the top of the stairs, in front of the entrance. His long white hair fluttered in the wind and the bluish moonlight accentuated his strict features and pale complexion. The mere sight of his face reassured you. You defied the guards and walked towards him.

His rough hand⏤hardened by duty and war⏤gripped yours before thin lips kissed it. The Prince pulled you towards him. Your heart slowed as his familiar scent enveloped you and your shoulders relaxed. For a second, you surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and love. The smell of musk and leather soothed your body, but your head kept its wits about it.

“What's happening, Aemond?”

He closed his eye as his name fell from your lips and smiled. His hand came down and grasped your waist in a possessive embrace. You leaned into the touch.

“There are rumours that Aegon–”

You squeaked. His fingers had dug painfully into your flesh at his brother's name.

The mere mention of him brought back painful and humiliating memories, which your lover had confided to you, his head on your pillow. Even today, the wounds had not healed. They continued to transpire in every aspect of his life. You are the only thing he has not stolen from me, he had told you one night. Saying that name was like throwing his past back in his face and breaking your promise. He'll never succeed, you had replied, but today, Aegon was on your mind. What did his wound mean for the Crown, for you?

“Is it true?" you managed to articulate.

“The Council has made me Regent," he nodded. “We will not need to hide any longer, my love.”

“What do you mean?”

But Aemond did not answer you. He smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and let his fingers brush your neck. With a nod, the kingsguards left. The clink of their armour echoed for long seconds, but the din faded with the tenderness of his gestures. His finger traced the veins in your chest. They led him to your breasts, hidden by your dress. Aemond grunted⏤terribly offended by this affront⏤and pulled at the fabric but it held on.

Claere Linstar's work was reknown throughout Flea Bottom. You could not find a better weaver⏤today, you were thankful for the two silver stags you had spent. The garment would become the guarantor of your dignity, the bulwark against your desire.

When you realised that your Prince was not going to answer your question, you took a step back. His hand fell limply between the two of you as a brief look of pain clouded his face.

“Aemond?”

He straightened up and held out his hand to you.

“Follow me.”

The labyrinthine corridors made your head spin. You lost count of the turns you took, the staircases you climbed and the alcoves you passed. The beauty of the mouldings and frescoes drew admiring sighs from you several times, but Aemond did not care. He walked past them without giving them a second glance. He's used to all this, you reminded yourself. People of his rank bathed in this luxury and grandeur since birth.

On the way, maids dressed in red and white stopped at your sight. Their gaze fell on your face, on your body, on your hand locked in the Prince's... Your cheeks heated and you tried to pull away, but Aemond tightened his grip. Out of habit, his thumb caressed your skin. This time, his touch only made you tense. You bowed your head, ashamed.

They knew.

The thought stayed with you.

You only lifted your head when Aemond stopped in front of an ornate door. The mouldings curved into flowers and birds⏤an ode to spring and renewal. Your eyes swept the decor, stopped on a bush of camellias and, finally, met the Prince's satisfied gaze.

“We've arrived," he announced.

Aemond opened the door with a confident gesture. Inside, an immense room stretched out and seemed to never end. Wealth oozed out of every corner, from the four-poster bed to the dressing table adorned with sapphires. On the wall, frescoes of flowers had been painted to match the powder pink drapes⏤an explosion of colour that turned drab the corridors you had been raving about just a few minutes before.

“Is it to your taste?”

You turned back to Aemond. Although his chin was up and his back was straight⏤proud as ever⏤red bloomed on his cheeks. Your lover seemed embarrassed, a far cry from his usual composure. Almost timidly, his hand sought yours. He couldn't help it, you realised. His fingers always found yours⏤skin against skin to find what he had been deprived of all his childhood.

“I don't know anyone who wouldn't like it," you replied.

“Hmm. Good.”

He pulled you to him. His hands went down to your buttocks and pressed you against his chest. Your pelvises collided. Suddenly, the room made sense. You let yourself drown in these familiar gestures. Your hand caressed his muscular shoulders, moved up to his jaw and brushed against his lips. Aemond kissed the pad of your thumb before replacing it with your lips. Soon, the wet sound of saliva echoed through the room. The sweet melody ignited a fire in your lower abdomen and moved down between your thighs.

Your hand resumed tracing arabesques on your lover's smooth skin. It stopped at the buttons on his doublet and hastily undid them before wandering lower and lower…

Aemond stopped you before you could take him in your hand. His hand grabbed yours. He kissed your palm and pressed it against his cheek.

“These will be your quarters.”

The fire went out, leaving you frozen with shock. Your heart skipped a beat.

“What do you mean?" you asked breathlessly.

“Now that I am Regent, we will not have to hide any more.”

A new glare lit up his eye. Purple turned black and made you shiver. Flames seemed to dance in his pupil, crushing all remains of the second son he had once been. That Aemond was dead. In his place was a Regent who thought himself above laws and men.

“It's not proper, Aemond," you tried to protest. “If it gets out that I'm here... If the Dowager Queen or the Hand–”

“They have no say in the matter. My word is law now.”

“If you want me here… Perhaps I could serve the Crown, join the kitchens. Anything but that, Aemond," you said, gesturing to those quarters, far too luxurious for someone of your breeding.

“You do not belong in the fucking kitchens," he scoffed. “No. You will be by my side, as my equal.”

“You're engaged," you retorted. “The Lady Baratheon won't take kindly to my presence here. You nobles can make Small Folk disappear in a blink of an eye and no one would notice or care.”

Alira Merchin's story was remembered as a cautionary tale for young girls naive enough to think love could conquer blood. The fable was classic⏤hundreds of similar romances filled libraries, and perhaps it was these very ones that had encouraged the girl to seduce the heir of House Harte. The man fell in love and made the pretty merchant his lover.

This did not please his wife, the daughter of Lord Chelsted.

She got rid of the merchant with disconcerting ease. The poor girl was found trampled by horses in white and green bards. That day, Lord Harte lost his true love and spent the rest of his life suffering the consequences of his betrayal.

Your heart dropped. What would happen to you if you tickled the stag? Ours if the Fury. Their motto was an ode to their rage, to their thirst for violence. If Floris Baratheon found out that Prince Aemond was bedding you... and in the Keep nonetheless…

The storm would come for you and you would perish in its eye.

“It's not a good idea, Aemond," you finally said.

“Do not fret, my love. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here to protect you.”

The Prince pulled you into bed.

Your protests died on your lips, muffled by moans and the exquisite feel of his skin against yours.

Your fingers tightened around your thighs. The soap made your skin slippery but did nothing to wash away the shame that had been clinging to it for days. It colonised your flesh and left it tainted, eating away at your muscles and weighing down your heart.

On the first day, after a passionate night, maids had arrived to prepare you, but you refused their care. You were no Lady. You had bathed alone all your life and would continue to do so. More than anything, you wanted to escape their watchful eyes, which would no doubt have noticed the hickeys on your chest and thighs.

You did not know how rumours got around in the Keep, but you were sure that they first burgeoned on the maids’ lips. They blossomed as quickly as in Flea Bottom⏤the inquisitive nature of man was innate⏤, but it would not be Old Gerald getting wind of it. No. The stakes were much higher in these parts, and the consequences even more dire.

The door to your quarters stood in the way of the horror surely awaiting you, but for how much longer?

Your hands massaged your calf, hoping to rediscover a cherished routine. You longed for the feel of dough beneath your fingers. What would become of your shop? Would you have to sell it? Maybe someone had already moved in⏤abandoned houses never stayed so for long in Flea Bottom, the cradle of the poor and the homeless.

You could not cherish the roof above your head, yet, you supposed you had to learn to appreciate it. Aemond did not seem eager to let you go.

Aemond.

Every day, the sun tore him away from you. His hours were devoted to the Small Council and military strategies, only half of which you understood when he explained them to you. Your Prince needed to talk, to get rid of the weight that was arching his back. You became the shoulder on which he rested, the ear into which he poured his doubts, the flesh in which he forgot himself.

“I wish to be with you every hour of the day, to attach myself to your side, but the Gods will only grant me this pleasure when I win this war. I am fighting for you⏤for us,” he had told you.

The moon brought him back into your arms. Every night, without exception, he would cross the threshold of the door and wrap you in a reassuring embrace. His arms would block out your gloomy thoughts and chase away shame and regret⏤all seemed worth it if it kept him close to you. The stars looked down on your love. When the bells rang the hour of the owl, you indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, whispered sweet nothings or simply enjoyed the peaceful silence that the other's presence guaranteed. Sometimes, Aemond, lying on the bed with your head on his stomach, would read you stories with his hand buried in your hair.

And then, the hour of the Nightingale would sound, its tranquillity burning away in the first rays of sunlight. The enchanted interlude would close and you would spend the day dreaming of a life where sun and duty did not separate you.

Shame would reappear, its weight with it, and fear⏤tangible and vibrant⏤would turn your stomach.

The spectre of Floris Baratheon never left you. It haunted you. In the frescoes of camellias on the wall. In the bouquets of flowers dotting your quarters. In the venison served for dinner. The tales of her beauty reached you and left you bitter, but what they said about her quiet authority made your blood run cold.

She would come for you.

The Lady Baratheon occupied all your thoughts, so much so that you forgot about another much more dangerous threat.

One day, Alicent Hightower stalked into your room.

You dropped your embroidery in your lap and hastily sat up. The needle fell to the floor with a disturbing chime. The bell was tolling⏤this farce had gone on far too long and it would now end.

The Dowager Queen dropped a small leather bag on the table. Its contents clinked and masked your gasping breath for a second. Your heart was pounding against your temples. Soon, the air would run out. Already your throat was closing up and you were struggling to swallow.

“What is it?" you asked weakly.

“Five thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy you a new life, far from the Keep, far from Westeros.”

Away from my son, she meant.

“I won't leave Aemond.”

He needs me, you thought.

“The Prince Regent does not need you," the Queen scoffed as if she could heard your mind. “He is engaged. Or have you forgotten that? Whoring yourself in the way you do… It would appear so. Have you thought about the repercussions of your actions when people find out about you? The risks it means for Aemond? Your very presence here jeopardises this entire war.”

“I have tried to–”

“He does not love you, you fool. He just wants a cunt to fuck without having to spend a single penny.”

You recoiled, surprised to hear the famously pious queen speak so vulgarly.

War transformed souls. It made them ugly. Alicent Hightower’s wide eyes and pursed lips twisted her face into a terrifying expression.

She sighed and, for a moment, her features became those of a compassionate woman.

“I don't know what… hold my son has over you," she continued in a calmer voice, “but you seem smart enough to understand this will end badly. You must leave. Take the gold and let us be done with this farce.”

The door slammed against the wall before you could even consider the proposal.

Aemond reached your side with a confident stride.

“What's going on here? Mother?”

When the latter did not answer, he looked to you for answers. You lowered your head, unable to bear the look of concern in his purple eye any longer.

It fell lower, onto the table and the leather purse.

“What is the meaning of this?” he raised his voice.

Silence stretched before Alicent Hightower relented.

“You cannot… support a lowborn in such manners, Aemond. The girl must go.”

The Prince ignored his mother and took you in his arms. His nose nestled under your ear as his hands buried themselves in your hair. He guided your head into his neck and whispered comforting words, which you could not hear. You did not care. His familiar scent embraced you and brought tears to the corners of your eyes. They wet your cheeks and his collar.

You should never have come here.

“Out.”

His mother protested.

“Imagine the shame for your future wife, the Lady Baratheon! For her house! If we lose Storm's End because of... because of this w–”

“Hold your tongue and leave.”

“Aemond, if you do this, we are lost!”

“Get out!”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. Aemond sighed. His hand drew abstract symbols on the back of your head for a moment before encouraging you to look at him.

“Oh, my love," he said, seeing your misty eyes. “All is well now. She will not hurt you any more.”

The danger you had put yourself in was greater than you had thought. Fear dried your mouth and exhausted your words. You stammered a few excuses before taking a deep breath. Your Prince's fingers did not weaken. They continued to comfort you and, at last, gave you the courage you needed to finally speak.

“Maybe I should return to Flea Bottom. I–”

“No," Aemond’s voice cracked.

His hands framed your face and pulled you closer until your noses were touching.

“You are not leaving me.”

His lips were harsh, covering every inch of your skin. He kissed the bridge of your nose, your warm cheekbones, your wet eyelids. Tears ran aground in the cracks of his lips and dried up under his exquisite tenderness. No beauty spot, no eyelash, was spared. His lips erased his mother's words and the doubts in your heart.

“You belong here, with me. I do not care for blood or war. I only wish for your love.”

Aemond filled the space between your mouths. His hands reached down and grasped your breast. He feasted on your lips and the taste of them like a hungry man. Tingles caressed your spine and tickled your lower abdomen. You rolled your hips, searching for his, but your lover pulled away.

You didn't want him to stop.

The Prince shushed your complaints and pushed you to the bed. Your back bounced on the goose feather mattress. Eager to feel his skin against yours, you sat up and tried to pull him to you, but Aemond took a step back. A petty smile stretched his lips as he heard you whimper. He ignored you and stood silent, admiring you. His eyes, now black, gazed down at your body, contemplating its shape and softness.

“Aemond, please…”

Your lover grabbed an ankle and kissed it. You moaned. He moved up your calf, caressing your knee and digging his fingers into your thighs before spreading them apart. His teeth nipped at the flesh, which his tongue immediately soothed. Your breathing quickened and breathy moans fell from your swollen lips, intoxicated by his touch. He skipped over your dripping cunt, his hands grazing your hips and sides.

Suddenly, Aemond stopped touching you, placed a farewell kiss on your belly and sat up on his elbows.

“I will take care of everything, my love. You will never have to fear for your life. It is mine to cherish, mine to love, mine to protect," he said before reaching up to capture your lips with his. “Mine.”

“I love you," you sighed.

Aemond smiled, as he did every time the words fell from your lips. One could not get used to the sweetness of love. It forever stirred the heart and soothed the soul. Your Prince placed a chaste kiss on your lips before moving down and disappearing between your thighs.

His words vanished in desire and pleasure. You forgot them the next day, when the hour of the Nightingale struck.

You should have known that Aemond Targaryen would keep his promise.

Three days later, the Lady Baratheon was found dead in the Kingswood, impaled on a stag's antlers.

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adragonprinceswhore · 4 months 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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saintsanddevils · 27 days ago

Text

Never Alone - pt 2

Aaric Graycastle x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re called to the Fourth Wing, much to Aaric’s annoyance.

Warnings: Iron Flame spoilers, ANGST, yearning, slow burn friends-to-lovers, dual POV (Reader & Aaric)

Word Count: 2.5K

Part One | Part Three

————

-Rider’s Quadrant-

(Reader POV)

My thighs are burning and my feet ache from climbing those damn stairs when I finally reach the top. The line of recruits is going by faster now. I’m hoping this means it’s almost over. Or maybe more people are falling to their deaths on the parapet.

Shit, this is such a bad idea.

I close my eyes to calm my breathing, counting backwards from 100 before I can feel the nerves slowly dissipate. I try to tap into that earlier anger and frustration. Remembering when I found Cam’s room empty and barren, a half-ass letter about touring the country twisting my gut. He’d never do such a frivolous thing. Halden would, but not Cam. Besides, he would’ve invited me to go with him. The fact that he didn’t was his first mistake.

Now, I’m sweaty, tired, and grumpy and about to strangle the life out of a Prince of Navarre.

I’m next in line when I freeze. Violet Sorrengail stares at me in horror. I’ve known her for far too long that I recognize the waves of shock, worry, and sorrow flit through her hazel eyes.

It’s Dain who speaks first, startling me by his presence.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters low enough so only the three of us can hear. “You too?”

I steel my spine, pinching my nails into my palms to keep myself from bolting. If Cam wants to get himself caught up in a war, I’m going to make sure he doesn’t die.

“Y/N… Thorne,” I wince, knowing I just used my mother’s maiden name. Hopefully, no one will see the connection. It’s too late now.

Both Violet and Dain stare openly, the latter looking as though he’ll crack a tooth from grinding his teeth so hard. Violet looks more understanding with the way her face begins to soften.

“I know why you’re here,” she says. “But I don’t think anyone can stop him.”

I narrow my gaze. “I know, that’s why I’ve come to make sure he doesn’t break that pretty neck of his.”

Violet’s mouth almost curves into a smile while Dain shakes his head in obvious annoyance.

“Let’s just invite the entire palace, while we’re at it,” he murmurs to himself.

“Y/N Thorne,” I repeat.

Violet nods, motioning to the woman next to her to write it down.

I turn away from them only to stop when Violet whispers, “Don’t die, Y/L/N.”

I smirk before stepping onto the parapet. “Promise, Sorrengail.”

——————————————

“Aaric Graycastle to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing.”

Aaric Graycastle. I scoff. He must’ve made that last name up. I recognize his middle name, and I promise myself not to give in and tell him how much it suits him. He has enough arrogance as it is.

I don’t take my eyes off his sandy-brown hair as he makes his way to stand in the first row of the Fourth Wing, a few feet away from Violet in the second row. He stands perfectly straight as he waits next to a girl who looks like she might puke at any second.

The crowd of cadets thins the longer we stand here until the woman on the dais draws my attention away from Aaric. “Y/N Thorne to Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing—“

Dain stops her, speaking quickly before she nods, and he steps away, meeting my gaze.

“Correction,” she continues. “Y/N Thorne to Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing.”

I give Dain a nod of appreciation as I make my way over to Aaric’s and Violet’s wing. Violet gives me a look of relief, but as I look for Aaric, he’s glaring up at Dain on the dais.

“Miss me?” I mutter as I walk by him.

His tight fists are white by the time I find a spot in line. I’m two people away from him, but there could practically be no one around with the way I’m entirely too aware of his presence. He’s taller than all the first years, broader too, making it easy to see him in my peripheral.

Time moves quickly as speeches are made and when the dragons land heavily on the roof of the courtyard, panic grips me by the throat. Screams fill the air as they assess us like prey. They’re huge. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a dragon, but it’s still just as terrifying. Survival instincts rise up and I feel myself begin to take a step back. A large hand suddenly grips my wrist, stopping me.

“Don’t move.”

Aaric is now beside me, holding me from bolting from the courtyard. With how quick he is in a fight, I’m not shocked he was able to maneuver his way next to me before the dragons could take notice.

His fingers tighten before slowly moving down my wrist to my palm, over the small scar, to the tips of my fingers. Warmth rushes through me from his touch, calming the rising panic. He slips his hand around mine and squeezes until they’re bound tightly together.

I count my breaths as he holds on to me, never letting go for a second. Not even as the new recruits around us scream and run for the parapet behind us.

Aaric suddenly stiffens as a one-eyed Orange Daggertail swivels its head towards them. And we’re directly in the way.

The dragon opens its massive jaw.

“Get down!” I hear Violet shout behind us just as Aaric lunges, tackling me to the gravel. He covers my body with his as fire blazes above us, close enough that the heat is practically suffocating. I curl to touch my forehead to the ground, holding back tears as a wave of overwhelming fear crashes over me.

I will not die.

I will. Not. Die.

I begin to count backwards from 100, breathing in and out, slowly. The crescendo of screams slowly begins to die down the longer we lie here, but the smell of burning flesh intensifies.

“You’re okay,” Aaric whispers in my ear. His breath tickles the skin of my neck. “Stay still. Keep counting, that’s it. In and out.”

I don’t acknowledge how I must be muttering the numbers aloud. I keep counting, as he instructed. My body trembles beneath his as I feel him slide his hands into mine. He tightens his fingers, grounding me.

I’m reminded of a time when I nearly drowned in the frozen lake near Cam’s winter home. We were reckless and young, and I remember him pulling me from the ice as he screamed for his guards. He was so scared as he held me on the shore, panicking over my lips turning blue. The way he held my hands, his warmth burrowing deep inside my bones as he wrapped around me, is similar to the way he holds me now. It’s achingly familiar.

As quickly as it came, the fire dies. Sulfur and burning flesh still fill the air.

And Aaric hasn’t let go of me.

His body cages me, his chest to my back. His breathing matching mine as I slowly rise out of the fog of fear. It lingers, but I’m more clear-headed now. And I’m now more aware of Aaric’s closeness. It’s been years since we were this close to each other, and the thought sends blistering heat up my body into my cheeks.

Now is not the time.

Aaric slowly rises, his weight lifting from me as he continues to hold my hand to help me scramble to stand next to him.

My heart swells with the idea of him protecting me, keeping me safe, but anxiety rushes over me as the smell of burning still lingers around us.

I look him up and down. “Are you hurt?”

He’s doing the same thing to me as he shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. Thank, Malek.” His hand squeezes mine, lingering before reluctantly releasing. He drops it back to his side quickly. “Are you?”

I shake my head, staring up into those concerned green eyes of his as everyone around us tries to get back into formation.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Aaric visibly swallows before he nods and shifts to stand facing the dais. I catch sight of Violet over his shoulder, and besides her smoldering jacket, she seems okay. Her wide eyes meet mine, and she nods towards the line.

Right.

I turn away from Aaric and stand with my back straight, trying to keep still as Lyron Panchek yells from the dais to get everyone in order.

The trembling has settled now that I know I’m still breathing. In its place, guilt has settled like lead in my stomach. The gravity of what I’m doing is startlingly clear now. I could die any day at any moment. All because of my unwavering loyalty to the one man I’ve ever… I swallow that emotion down before it escalates any further.

I need to stay focused.

I would’ve been dead moments ago if it weren’t for Aaric. And because of me, he almost got hurt or worse. I can’t let that happen. Even if we’re in the one place guaranteeing we’ll die with even one misstep, I need to keep him alive.

No matter the cost.

————

(Aaric POV)

Aaric is waiting in the shadows outside of the girls’ dormitory when Y/N finally steps out. With the night cloaking him, he quickly grabs her from behind. She turns in time to throw her elbow into his stomach on instinct. Aaric drops his hands from her, holding his torso as pain racks up his ribs.

“Good shot,” he coughs.

Her eyes widen before she pushes him back into the corner he was hiding in.

“What the hell, Ca-“ she catches herself before continuing at a lower volume. “What the hell, Aaric?”

He leans against the stone, breathing deeply as he holds his stomach. “Well, I was hoping you and I could talk, but clearly you’d rather beat me up first.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “It’s your own fault for creeping around in the dark. You’re far too comfortable kidnapping me, it seems.”

Aaric can’t help the laugh that barks its way out of his mouth, causing pulses of pain from his newly bruised rib.

She visibly softens at the sound, her mouth twitching before she looks away to hide her smile. Aaric clenches his hand to resist the urge of grabbing her by the chin so he can see it.

“Well,” she leans against the opposite wall, giving each other ample space. Space Aaric really doesn’t want to give her, but he doesn’t move from his spot. “What is it? Curfew is in a few minutes.”

Aaric nods. “That won’t matter much longer because I found you a way out of here.”

She startles. “What?”

“Don’t worry, Dain will take you. He’ll escort you back home, and you can—“

In the next blink, she’s suddenly before him. Just as he steps back, hitting the wall, her hand reaches up to wrap around the collar of his leathers.

“Don’t make me slap you again,” she says slowly, menacingly. “Because I won’t hesitate.”

Aaric doesn’t doubt it. The tenderness of his cheek reminds him that she didn’t hesitate earlier.

“You listen to me, because I guess I wasn’t clear enough before,” she leans forward, her eyes blazing as she pulls him down by the collar so he’s inches from her face. “If you’re staying, I’m staying. You’re getting a dragon? I’ll get myself a damn dragon—”

“And what?!” He stops her, his voice gaining volume as the last of his patience wears thin, making him cling to desperation. “I jump, you jump, I die, you die? Is that what this is?” He shakes his head. Over his dead body would he let her die because of him. “I’m not going to let that happen, Y/N. You’re going home.”

“It’s not up to you,” she shakes her head before letting him go and stepping away as if he burned her. “You’re so concerned for me? Then stay alive. I’m not going anywhere.”

She tries to move past him to the door, but he crowds her against the wall, holding her hostage. Fury lights her eyes as she bears her teeth at him like a caged animal.

“Let me go, Cam.”

Aaric gives her a smirk as sharp as a blade. “Sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

She scoffs. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being unnecessarily difficult.”

She glares up at him, and it’s only when the flames from a distant torch light her eyes that he softens his hold. He feels her chest brushing his, breathing heavily against him. Her skin pulses against his fingers as he holds her wrists to the wall. His thigh between hers to keep her from kicking.

This close, her scent is intoxicating, making his head swim with indecision. If this were an entirely different situation, he’d be trying to hold himself back from finally leaning down and capturing her soft lips with his—

He steps away, setting her free. Grinding his teeth, he watches her face contort from annoyance to confusion. He thanks every god he can think of for the darkness of the corridor.

“You can’t stay,” he chokes out. This plan went to hell, and now he has nothing left but to beg. “Please… Please don’t stay here.”

She tries to reclaim the space they lost by stepping forward, but he steps back. It’s better this way, or else he’ll never let her go.

“As long as you’re here, I’m staying.” Her voice is soft, calm. A part of him wishes she was yelling at him instead. It’d be easier that way.

Can’t she see how scared he is? How terrified he’s been since that deranged dragon tried to burn her to ash? He knows it’ll haunt him. He can’t live with himself if she ends up on that gods-forsaken death roll one morning.

Guilt creates a hole in his chest as she turns away, heading back to her dorm.

“Tell Dain if he’s going to take me back, I’m going down fighting. And if you ask him to do this for you ever again,” she gives him a cold, dead stare. “I’ll tell every single person who you are and find a way to ensure your father knows exactly where to find you.”

The threat stings, but he knew she’d use it. She held every card the second she stepped off the parapet. If only she knew how close he’d come to leaving when he saw tears in her eyes after the dragon’s fire.

“I can’t-“ he swallows, closing his eyes to compose himself. “I can’t watch you die.”

She doesn’t look back as she twists open the door. “Then don’t look.”

#fourth wing #aaric graycastle x reader #aaric x reader #aaric graycastle #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing fanfiction #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #the empyrean #empyrean fanfic #iron flame spoilers #iron flame #onyx storm fanfic #onyx storm #violet sorrengail #dain aetos #never alone aaric series

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flowerandblood · 6 months ago

Text

The Price of Pride (12/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, unprotected sex, targcest stuff, smut, the angst, sexual tension, imprisonment, abuse of power ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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Never before in her life had she been so terrified as she was the night their army was supposed to return from the battle of Rook's Rest. Lying in bed in her chamber, she looked towards the door, hoping in despair that it would open in a moment and he would appear in it, saying that they had won.

That he had returned.

It frightened her how far this had gone, how attached she had become to him, that the thought that he might die made her eyelids fill with heavy, burning tears.

She didn't care if he married her or not, she didn't resent him for taking her maidenhood even though he wasn't her husband, she didn't expect anything from him.

She just wanted him to survive.

She stood up, knelt before the bed on the floor and folded her hands as if to pray.

"Father, surround him with your support and wisdom. Warrior, give him the strength to fight. Mother, protect him and let him return home. Stranger, do not take him away yet." She muttered and sobbed quietly, burying her face in her hands, thinking she was pathetic.

He'd abducted her and forced her to serve him, fucked her like a whore, merely ensuring she didn't betray him, she repeated to herself, trying to pull herself together, but then she panicked again at the thought of never seeing him again.

She swallowed loudly, laying her head on the bedding, trying to calm her breathing, wondering how she would feel if he and Aegon had died and her father had marched into the Red Keep at the head of his army to liberate her.

Would she throw herself into his arms with joy?

Would she feel relieved?

Her heart and mind were filled with complete emptiness when she realised that she would not.

She didn't want to be saved.

The longer she thought about it, the more it came to her that she and her cousin were identical: they were drawn to each other like moths to a flame, burning in each other's embrace, taking from each other what they both so desperately craved.

He felt as rejected as she did, overlooked by his mother, who showed more tenderness to her lover instead of to him, her son, who was dying every day in the loneliness of his heart. Moreover, he could not openly ask for his mother's attention: it would show his weakness, the fact that deep down he was not a man but a little boy.

As rider of the greatest dragon in the world and protector of the Realm, he could not afford it.

She had only fallen asleep at dawn and shuddered when someone suddenly walked into her chamber, snapping her out of her deep slumber.

"My Lady. Prince Regent summons you to the Small Council chamber." Said Lysa.

Prince Regent.

She reached for the robe lying on the chair as quickly as she could, threw it over her shoulders, tying it around her waist, and went out into the corridor.

What has he done?

She made her way through the Red Keep with a quick step, finally standing in front of the door that the guards had opened for her, and she caught sight of his face sitting at the head of the table in the place reserved for the King.

What has he done?

She glanced around at the people sitting at the table – the Dowager Queen and Criston Cole looked distressed and tired, as did the other lords, however her cousin was grinning broadly, looking at her in a way she felt uneasy from.

"Leave us alone." He ordered and everyone around him stood up, bowing to him, leaving the chamber one by one.

She swallowed quietly as the door finally closed behind her with a quiet clatter of old wood, and they were left on their own. For a moment, they just looked at each other – her cousin hummed under his breath and spread himself comfortably in his seat, as if he was enjoying the moment, satisfaction and contentment in his gaze.

"Come closer, hāedar." He said softly, making a gesture towards her with his hand, as if encouraging her not to be afraid.

She moved towards him uncertainly, feeling that her lips were slightly parted in an accelerated breath, her heart pounding like mad.

She wanted to ask him where is Aegon, but didn't, recognising that the question would upset him.

He didn't like not being the centre of her attention, like a small child demanding her full involvement.

When she stopped in front of him his hand was still outstretched towards her, so she placed her fingers on it – she sighed as he pulled her gently and she fell into his lap, sitting down clumsily, trying to find a comfortable position, leaning against his shoulder for balance.

She closed her eyes when she felt his lips place a soft, sweet kiss on her cheek, the tip of his nose running over her skin as if he wanted to wordlessly tell her that he was glad to see her.

"– lēkia –" She whispered, not knowing what to say, afraid to use words, knowing that she had to be careful what she did now, feeling that something had changed.

He felt mighty and powerful.

Something had happened on the battlefield.

Had he disobeyed her?

Was Aegon dead?

Fear mingled with a sense of pleasant comfort in her heart when his familiar, broad hands stroked her back, trailing up and down, sliding up to her very buttocks, causing a delightful shiver to pass through her.

"– look at me, hāedar – look at me –" He sighed, his index finger tilting her face so that she looked straight into his own – his gaze was hot, filled with something she didn't understand, his breathing heavy, as if the very sight of her aroused him.

She dared to take his cheeks in her palms, and he closed his eyes as her thumbs gently stroked his skin, his lips slightly parted in a blissful expression.

There were so many things she wanted to ask him.

She was so afraid.

What have you done?

Why are you so proud of yourself?

Will you take me now while your brother's body is rotting somewhere?

She pressed her forehead against his, not knowing what to do, who was the man who had returned to her, thinking that he was at once close to her, beloved and foreign, terrifying.

"– iksan arlī, hāedar (I'm back, little sister) –" He whispered, stroking her hair, her shoulders, her back, her waist, her buttocks as if trying to remember what it was like to feel her body, his eyes closed, his face relaxed, as if he were in heaven.

"– ivestragon nyke skoros massitas, lēkia (tell me what happened, big brother) – kostilus (please) –" She muttered pleadingly, and his eye opened – contrary to what she had feared, his gaze was not cold or frustrated, but filled with warmth and relief.

"– my brother thoughtlessly interfered in the battle between Vhagar and Meleys – he paid for his foolishness and burned in the fire – he is alive, but incapable of performing his duties – I will remain Prince Regent until that changes –" He said quietly, as if he was telling her his secret, something meant only for her ears, stroking her cheeks and hair.

She sighed in relief and for some reason embraced him, cuddling his face between her breasts, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

My brother thoughtlessly interfered in the battle between Vhagar and Meleys.

So he didn't do it, she thought, feeling lighter, as if someone had dropped a stone from her back.

Simply the will of the gods had happened.

"– do you believe me, zaldrītsos? –" He whispered, as if he needed to hear it, his hands clenched tightly on the material of her robe at her back.

She had to believe him.

Hundreds of soldiers must have witnessed it, the sight of the dragon falling from the sky and what had happened before.

Why would he lie now, knowing that she would discover the truth anyway?

She stroked his soft white hair with her palm and placed a warm, loud kiss on the top of his head, cuddling him into her as if he were a small child.

"– I do, lēkia – I do –" She assured him and felt his manhood pulsate hard beneath her, then again and again.

She sighed when she felt his fingers untie her robe and nightgown, when with a light, impatient movement he slid their material off her shoulders, exposing shamelessly her breasts.

"– someone will see – ah –" She mumbled, involuntarily pressing him closer to her body as his lips in some subconscious, thirsty impulse found her nipple, sucking and licking it alternately – a powerful shudder ran along her spine, down to her fingertips and her swollen lips, making her cunt pulse hungrily around nothing.

She moaned helplessly as one of his hands clamped down on her ass, his hips beginning to roll back and forth, rubbing his hard, swollen erection against the place between her thighs.

"– no one dares –" He murmured softly, pulling away from her hard, puffy nipple only to move his mouth to the other, repeating the same caresses on it. "– I forbade it –"

She cried out in pleasure, clenching her fingers in his hair when she felt his hand slide from her buttock to between her thighs from behind – she began to rub against his fingers when she felt them sink into her leaking, soft folds with his sigh of satisfaction.

"– my little sister missed her brother – hm? –" He gasped, circling around her swollen bud, making a wonderful, tickling tension begin to rise in her lower abdomen, their hips meeting each other, his cock hard and swollen between her thighs.

"– did you not hear my desperate prayers? –" She mumbled, rising to her knees, lifting her robe and nightgown above her thighs as his hands slid down to his belt – he unbuckled it, looking at her with eye that was surprisingly vulnerable and warm, as if something in her words moved him.

"– what were you praying for, sweet girl? –" He whispered, untying and spreading the material of his breeches to the side, embracing her waist with his arm, with his other hand holding his swollen erection.

She liked the new position she found herself in – she knew that if he had wanted to, he could have simply come and fucked her in her bed, he, however, clearly desired something else.

Proof that she missed him, that she wanted him, that she needed him.

She placed her hands on his shoulders for balance and slowly lowered herself onto the fat head of his cock, feeling him open her wide on himself with their quiet sigh of pleasure.

She decided to tease him for a while and see how he would react to that.

"– for the Father to give you wisdom –" She gasped softly, letting him deeper into her hot core only to lift herself up again, sliding his manhood, slick with her moisture, out of her almost all the way, his mouth parted wide, his gaze fixed on her face, simultaneously terrified and delighted at how pleasurable what she was doing was. "– for the Warrior to give you strength –"

They both groaned pathetically as she let him into her all the way, closing their eyes only to open them a moment later, their hips in some subconscious, natural rhythm beginning to thrust out against each other as she pressed her forehead against his.

"– for the Mother to protect you –" She mewled as they both sped up, his stones slapping again and again against her asscheeks with loud splats of their bare skin, his cock thick and swollen, teasing her sweet spot with cruel precision, making her cunt begin to leak, the chair underneath them creaking loudly.

"– fuck –" He muttered, digging his short nails into the bare skin of her arse, forcing her to let him pound into her harder, his mouth grabbing her hard, sweet nipple and began to suck on it again, a wonderful, aggressive thrill of pleasure shook her body, her walls giving his erection a firm, sure squeeze.

"– for the Stranger not to take you away –" She cried out, moaning loudly along with him, her fingers clenched in his long hair, their bodies slamming against each other like mad, the tension deep inside her reaching its zenith, making her pant hard, their sweaty foreheads pressed together, their eyes fixed on each other.

"– hāedar – oh f-fuck –" He mumbled out, clenching his fingers on her body as tightly as if he felt he could no longer escape what was happening to him, how much he wanted it – their lips met in a messy, sticky kiss full of their tongues, her weeping cunt began to clench around his throbbing erection, bringing them closer to fulfilment.

"– ah – don't stop – gods, your brother is about to fill you –" He breathed out, and she cried out loudly, feeling that his words had done something to her – she heard him groan loudly, shocked when he felt her come hard on his cock, soaking his entire manhood in her wetness – they were both panting with relief and delight as his mouth spread wide in bliss, and his warm seed spilled deep inside her.

She snuggled her face into his neck, moaning quietly, unable to calm down as he did, their hips rocking for another moment, his arms embracing her tightly, cuddling her into his body.

"– dīnagon nyke, hāedar –" He sighed softly, combing his fingers through her hair, his lips placing a warm, tender kiss on her temple, as if he wanted to reassure both her and himself.

She froze, clenching her fingers on his black leather tunic, feeling her heart stop in her chest.

Marry me, little sister.

"– my brother is plunged into a deep sleep – there is no telling when he will awaken – we will manage to marry in the Great Sept by then – I have ensured that the message sent by the King does not reach the Iron Islands – I want it to be you –" He said in a voice trying to be calm, but she could hear it breaking, filled with the fear of rejection.

Gods, what was she to do?

If she became his wife, she would never run from him again.

She will become his property, like his chair, table or bed.

She would bear him children and he would bed his servants as soon as she was no longer young and beautiful.

"– I'm afraid –" She mumbled at last.

She heard him swallow hard, his free hand stroking her back reassuringly, as if he wanted to soothe her.

"– what are you afraid of, zaldrītsos? – tell me –" He whispered in her ear and fell silent, waiting anxiously for her words.

She pressed her lips together, feeling warm tears under her eyelids, her heart filled with stinging pain.

She embraced him and snuggled into him, deciding that this one time she would try to do what she had always dreamed of doing.

That she'll confide in someone like a friend.

"Marriage is for a woman like a cage. She can be happy only if she gives her husband children while still remaining young and beautiful. I don't know if a person born out of hatred can be fertile, but even if I am, I don't want to wait for the days when I find out that you are not faithful to me – I don't expect you to be, because since when have husbands been faithful to their wives? Isn't that why the world is filled with mistresses that everyone curses? I have never been the most important person for anyone and I know I won't be for you. I understand it, but our marriage would be a lie, even though everyone would have to believe otherwise. They would pity me, knowing that I have become a vessel for your seed." She muttered in a trembling voice, feeling tear after tear begin to run down her face, her throat clenched as if she was choking.

She heard him draw in a loud breath and sigh, his chest quivering all over – she lifted her gaze to him and froze, seeing that his jaw was shaking.

"If I wanted to have a mistress, I would marry Floris Baratheon and took you to my bed." He muttered at last, trying to remain calm, his eye large and filled with suffering fixed far ahead of him. "I wish for you to fall asleep and wake up beside me. For us to roam the skies together. For you to dine with me, read with me, speak with me. For you to always support me. For our children, if born, to be the result of our closeness. I will never dishonor you."

He said and looked at her, his hand stroking through her hair as if she were a small child.

"Marry me. I will care for you, and your place will always be by my side. I will protect you."

She felt her lips tremble, her eyebrows arching in pain as she heard those familiar words, what he had said to her then, as they lay under the stars.

If you tame a dragon, I will treat you like my little sister.

She understood what he was trying to tell her.

Had he lied then?

Had he let her down?

Had he abandoned her?

No.

"Yes." She whispered.

He swallowed hard, taking a deep breath, licking his lower lip.

"Yes, what?" He asked in a trembling voice.

"Kesan dīnagon ao, lēkia (I will marry you, big brother)." She whispered.

He pressed her body to his chest and sank his face into the crook of her neck, twitching all over with emotion.

She smiled, embracing him tenderly, thinking with amusement that she had already forgotten that his soft manhood was still deep inside her.

For some reason, the fact that they were one flesh seemed natural to her.

Her cousin announced their betrothal during supper later that evening, and although everyone at the table lowered their gazes, no one dared to contradict him.

He threw her a satisfied, piercing look as he sat at the head of the table in his brother's place, grinning broadly, and she sighed quietly and smiled, thinking that she might have been trying to lie to herself, but it was no use.

Her destiny was tied to this dark, violent, unpredictable man.

She spent that night in his chamber, for the first time feeling light-hearted with the fact that she was lying bare in his arms, in his pleasant, tender embrace, in which she felt safe – there was something wonderful about the way his fingers roamed lazily over her back, forming different shapes, while they lay in silence.

A silence full of understanding and contentment.

Her cousin wanted to use the time while his brother was unconscious, so he pushed for a quick nuptials – she didn't mind and agreed that he would organise everything as he saw fit, much to his delight.

"I haven't had time to congratulate you, my Lady. You are about to become the Prince's wife." Said Gwayne Hightower, Queen Alicent's older brother, raising his eyebrows in what she would call a mixture of amusement and mockery – he approached her with his hands folded behind his back as she practised archery in the courtyard.

She smiled under her breath as she drew her bowstring and took aim, releasing it, her arrow again hitting the centre of the target.

"Thank you, my Lord, for your kind words." She said lightly, not even bestowing a single glance on him, reaching into her quiver behind her back for an arrow, intending to take another shot.

She heard him snort under his breath, combing the sand beneath his feet with his boot.

"You could use tracks to shoot from a greater distance. You won't learn anything else here." He said softly, and she sighed, amused, pressing the bowstring to her cheek.

"On the contrary. I'm learning patience." She hummed, taking another accurate shot, looking up at him finally.

Indeed, Queen Alicent and her brother resembled each other, however, his eyes and hair were paler – she thought he looked like a confident and mischievous man, who was none too pleased that she was to join their family despite the fact that he himself owed his position to his sister.

The Court breathed hypocrisy.

"Surely your patience will come in handy with my nephew." He sneered, looking at her with a smile full of curiosity.

Did he really think she would let him provoke her, that she would tell him something about her cousin that he could then use against her?

"Prince Aemond doesn't like it when people speak about him behind his back. He generally doesn't like to be spoken about. He would not be pleased if he found out that you wished to discuss his affairs with me." She said, lowering her bow, coming closer to him, making his eyebrows raise.

He licked his lower lip, looking at her cheekily, as if he recognised that he had accepted the challenge.

"So he is oversensitive about himself. Like any Targaryen." He stated.

"He just doesn't like gossip. It's a trait of his character that I value in him." She replied.

Ser Gwayne cocked his head, taking a step towards her, standing, in her mind, too close to her – but she did not pull away, recognising that she would not be the one to pay the price.

"Are you carrying his child yet?" He asked, and she lifted her chin higher, understanding that with this innocent question he wished to humiliate her, reminding her that she was lying in bed with a man who was not her husband.

In his mind, she had simply seduced his nephew, whom he considered weak and vulnerable to manipulation.

"Possibly. I, unlike our Dowager Queen, don't make sure every time that my actions won't have consequences. I am prepared to pay them." She said calmly and smiled when she noticed that his gaze grew grimmer, his eyebrows straightened, his jaw clenched in fury.

He opened his mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by another voice.

"Hāedar."

She turned towards her cousin and smiled at him reassuringly, seeing his tense figure walking towards them, his gaze once on her, once on his uncle.

He stopped beside them and licked his lower lip, impatient.

"Skorion massitas (what happened)?" He asked coolly, staring at her expectantly.

She sighed quietly and threw him a soft, calm look.

"Aōha kēpus jaelagon naejot gīmigon lo nyke gryves aōha riña iemnȳ nyke (your uncle wants to know if I am carrying your child). Nyke udlitan zirȳla bona gaoman gīmigon daor (I answered him that I do not know)." She said and saw that he closed his eyelid and turned his head away, furious, swallowing hard the rage that surged in his body.

"Henujagon īlva, hāedar (leave us, little sister). Jikagon naejot ñuha tistālion (go to my chamber)." He said matter-of-factly.

She nodded and moved ahead without bestowing a single glance on Ser Gwayne Hightower.

She smiled under her breath, guessing that her betrothed would teach him a lesson in humility.

She sighed quietly as she went into her quarters for a moment, wanting to change and take a quick bath before heading to his bed, all hot and tired after the physical exertion. She put her bow, a gift she had received from her Prince on the occasion of their betrothal, into one of her trunks and stood up, undoing the buckles of her leather tunic one by one.

She froze when she noticed a small roll of parchment lying on the table by the window.

Was it possible?

She walked over there and reached her hand for the letter, feeling her heart pounding like mad, a cold sweat running down her back at the thought that her father and his third wife's spies were still in the Red Keep.

She knew it was him.

It had to be him.

She unrolled the parchment and swallowed hard, feeling her heart jump to her throat as she read what was written in it.

Congratulations on your betrothal Kepa

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moonlight-joy · 25 days ago

Text

The Rogue’s Claim

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You are a noblewoman from a powerful Valyrian house that rivals the Targaryens. Your betrothal to another man doesn’t sit well with Daemon, who has desired you for years. On the eve of your wedding, Daemon sneaks into your chambers with an outrageous proposal.

Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen

The grand halls of your family’s estate shimmered with opulence. Gilded candelabras lined the walls, casting a golden glow over the silk tapestries that depicted the glory of your Valyrian lineage. Tomorrow, the estate would host a wedding—your wedding. Yet as the eve of your union approached, you felt no joy, no anticipation. Only dread.

You sat by the window of your chambers, the soft light of the moon spilling over your silver hair, a trait that marked your Valyrian heritage. The weight of your betrothal hung heavy on your heart. It was a strategic match, one that would secure your family’s power and elevate their standing even further. But it was not a match of your choosing.

And it was not with him.

Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince. The man who had haunted your thoughts and your dreams for years. His presence had always been magnetic, his charm as dangerous as the fire that ran through his veins. You had known from the start that he was trouble. Yet, no matter how much you tried to bury your feelings, Daemon had ignited a flame within you that refused to die.

Tonight, that flame would consume you.

The soft creak of the door startled you from your thoughts. You turned sharply, your heart pounding as a shadow slipped into the room. The firelight caught on silver hair and violet eyes, and you knew instantly who it was.

“Daemon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “What are you doing here?”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth curling in that infuriatingly confident way. “You didn’t think I’d let you go so easily, did you?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, though your words lacked conviction. “If my family finds you…”

“Let them find me,” he interrupted, stepping closer. His voice was low, dangerous, filled with the kind of promise that made your pulse race. “If I can’t have you, no one will.”

You stood, your hands clutching the fabric of your gown as if it could anchor you. “Daemon, please. Tomorrow, I—”

“Tomorrow, you’ll bind yourself to a man you don’t love,” he growled, his eyes blazing with anger and desperation. “A man who doesn’t deserve you. Do you think I’ll stand by and watch that happen?”

Tears stung your eyes as his words cut through you. “And what would you have me do?” you asked, your voice breaking. “If I leave with you, I lose everything.”

Daemon reached for you, his hands warm and steady as they cupped your face. “No,” he said, his tone softening. “You gain everything. You gain freedom. You gain love. You gain me.”

Your breath hitched as his words settled over you. For years, you had dreamed of this moment, of him choosing you, fighting for you. Yet the weight of duty and family loyalty bore down on you like chains.

“They’ll never forgive me,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “My family… the realm…��

“Let them burn,” Daemon said fiercely. “You are fire itself. You don’t belong to them. You belong to me, as I belong to you.”

The intensity in his gaze, the raw vulnerability beneath his defiance, broke something inside you. Tears slipped down your cheeks, and Daemon’s thumb gently wiped them away. “Say the word, and we’ll leave tonight,” he urged. “We’ll run far away from all of this.”

“And where would we go?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

“Anywhere,” he replied. “Everywhere. As long as we’re together.”

Your heart warred with your mind. The life you had been raised to embrace, the expectations placed upon you—they all paled in comparison to the man standing before you, offering you his heart and his freedom.

Finally, you whispered, “Take me away from here.”

The night air was crisp as you and Daemon slipped through the shadows of your family’s estate. Without dragons to carry you, the journey ahead would be long and treacherous. But Daemon had planned for this. Two horses waited just beyond the gates, their breaths misting in the cold night air.

Daemon helped you mount, his hands lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay close to me,” he said, his voice firm. “No matter what happens.”

“I will,” you promised, your heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

The two of you rode through the night, the sound of hooves echoing against the silence. The world seemed to blur around you, the weight of your decision pressing against your chest. Yet, for the first time in years, you felt alive.

As the journey stretched on, you found solace in Daemon’s presence. Around campfires under starlit skies, he spoke of a future where no one could dictate your fate. His words painted a vision of freedom, of a life where you could simply be together without the weight of expectation.

“We’ll make a new life,” Daemon said as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon. “One where no one can tell us who to be or how to love.”

For the first time in years, you felt hope bloom in your chest. The path ahead was uncertain, but with Daemon by your side, you knew you could face anything.

“I’m yours,” you said, turning to look at him. “And you are mine.”

Daemon’s smile was soft, his eyes filled with a love that burned brighter than dragon fire. “Always,” he vowed.

Days turned into weeks as the two of you made your way farther from the reach of your family. Each village and town you passed through seemed to blur into the next, but the freedom you felt was intoxicating. For the first time in your life, you weren’t just surviving—you were living.

One evening, as the two of you rested near a quiet stream, Daemon handed you a small, carved trinket—a dragon made of polished obsidian. “I saw this in the last town,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “It reminded me of you.”

You turned the small figure over in your hands, touched by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “Because I’m as stubborn as a dragon?” you teased, smiling.

“No,” he said, his gaze locking with yours. “Because you’re as fierce and beautiful as one.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. “And you’re impossible,” you whispered against his mouth. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Despite the joy you found in each other, the shadow of your family’s reach loomed ever-present. One fateful day, as you and Daemon rested at an inn far from the capital, a rider arrived bearing your family’s sigil. You spotted him through the window, the sight sending a chill down your spine.

“They’ve found us,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Daemon was at your side in an instant, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Let them come,” he said, his voice a low growl. “They’ll regret it.”

You placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. “We can’t fight them, Daemon. Not here. Innocent people will get hurt.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Then we’ll leave. Again.”

And so, the two of you vanished once more into the night, leaving behind the life you had started to build. But even as the road stretched endlessly before you, one thing remained constant: the love you and Daemon shared. It was a fire that refused to be extinguished, no matter how many forces tried to snuff it out.

As the sun set on another day, you turned to Daemon and said, “Thank you. For choosing me. For fighting for me.”

He pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ll always choose you,” he said. “No matter what it takes.”

And in that moment, you knew that as long as you had Daemon, you had everything you needed.

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ivypos-writes · 9 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 · 8 months ago

Note

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 · 10 months ago

Text

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 · 4 months ago

Text

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.

- Pairing: 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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goodeapple · 2 months ago

Text

blue snowflakes (modern hotd, xmas edition ... daddy!aemond x oc)

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC) but there's no overt incest in this one, you're welcome, normies

warnings : MDNI. ngl, this one is fluffy and tender as FUCK (too much christmas cheer me thinks). however, unprotected sex, sexual use of the word "daddy", Aemond's usual breeding kink, and way too many bad dad jokes lie ahead.

word count : 6,000+

note : merry christmas and happy holidays to all you lovely people. ty for such an amazing year. here's a little thank you from me to you. xx

7:10. He finishes up a report that isn't expected until the first, the tap of his fingers anxiously loud on the keyboard. 7:15. He stokes the wood in the fireplace, warming his hands in front of the flames, his leg bouncing with restless energy. 7:28. He drains his whiskey glass and the burn licks down his throat before raging into his belly.

They should be here by now. Aemond does not freak out. That's not who he is- the grip he holds on his emotions never waivers. But as the time ticks and tocks on and he remains alone in his flat, his nerves start to sizzle until they singe.

At 7:48, a frenzied knock on the door has Aemond moving across the floor in four long strides.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, the roads were God awful, took us an hour to get down Main." Ysilla stands shivering as he rips it open. She stomps her Uggs for almost dramatic effect, the ice sticking to the boots melting in the warmth of the hallway. Aemond releases a slow and steady breath, the tight fist of anxiety in his chest loosening. The little thing holding strong to Ysilla's gloved hand is a marshmallow puff of bubblegum pink goosefeather down, her jacket done up to her muff covered ears.

"Daddy, Daddy!" Dany shrieks, uncaring of the obvious chill that polishes the apples of her cheeks and the tip of her nose into a cherry red glow. She releases her mother's hand, dashing forward before almost immediately tumbling over her own feet and eating it in the foyer.

Aemond catches his daughter without blinking, hauling her onto his hip and pressing a strong kiss into her temple. "Hello, my little dragon." A piece of him notches into place and suddenly, his eyes are brighter and his posture less stiff, his head clear and heart beating fonder. His beautiful Daenerys.

He gestures Ysilla in and she nods her thanks, unravelling her spun scarf from her neck and toeing off her soaked shoes. Her own cheeks are burnt from the cold, her fine, fawn skin accepting the rosiness like an expensive blush.

"You drove?" He asks his ex, his tone sharper than he wishes but he still means it. It's fucking gnarly outside and she decided tonight of all nights was the one to take a joyride?

Ysilla rolls her eyes, moving down the hall to the front room, speaking to him over her shoulder. "Yes, Aemond, we drove. I know how to do that."

He thought he fucked that attitude out of her a long time ago, but they haven't been together in awhile. Things change.

"Where the hell is Erryk?" He sets Dany onto her feet, half listening and humming as his daughter rattles off every thought that pops into her head, leaving behind her a trail of winter wear she peels off that is every color of the pastel rainbow.

Ysilla sniffs, her eyes roaming critically over his decorations. His assistant picked them out, and it's like she can smell it.

"It's Christmas, Aemond, I gave him the week off."

Aemond doesn't growl but it's quite close. "I don't pay him to take a week off, Ysilla, I pay him to make sure my girls get to where they need to be safely."

The glare she pins him with is colder than the wind howling outside. Aemond winces. He knows better than to let that shit slip. Ysilla will take a chunk out of him for saying things like that in front of Daenerys. It gives her false hope that Mummy and Daddy are getting back together, Aemond. She'd said. That had fucking stung. That was right after they separated, the echo of her loss (in their bed, in their flat, in his life) still disorienting him. His days blurred into one long line of droll goings until he at last got to see Dany again.

"What's done is done, Aemond. I apologized for being late. Now drop it."

She uses her mum tone and it's effective as all hell. Aemond bites his tongue and waves his metaphorical white flag, rubbing at the back of his neck briskly. Ysilla exhales deeply and lets the defensive line of her shoulders drop. She rummages through her bag, a Birkin he bought her for their first anniversary, and pulls out a long white envelope.

"She wrote a note to Santa that neither you or I are to read, alright? We're supposed to leave it by the fireplace, next to Santa's cookies, and not peek. Right, Dany love?" Ysilla recites, tossing the sealed note onto the kitchen counter. Dany nods, bobblehead like, and smiles her big missmatched grin, baby teeth missing like blacked out windows in a building. Aemond chuckles, nodding seriously when his daughter shoots him a barbed look.

"Daddy, it's important! We can't forget, okay?!"

"Of course, Princess, don't fret. Daddy will make sure all goes well." Aemond ducks down to lock gazes with his daughter, wanting to ensure that she knows her feelings are heard. Ysilla laughs, so softly he almost misses it. She claps her hands once and father and daughter's eyes lock onto her intently.

"Okay my love, are you all set? You have Frostfire and your letter is safe. Your Angelina Ballerina jammies are in your pack and so is blankie. Are we missing anything?" Ysilla picks at nonexistent lint at the cuff of her cashmere sweater, her fingers twitching along the fine fabric. Aemond gets it- this part is the worst, without fail.

"Mumma, stay." Dany whispers, moving forward to clutch at Ysilla's sleeve with tiny, pleading fingers. His ex sighs and the sound rattles from her throat as it moves past the dense ball of emotion there.

"Baby girl, come now, I'll see you next week. We'll go to Nana and Grandpa's and ring in the new year together. All of your cousins will be there too. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

Dany keeps quiet, her chin drooping down to her chest, her midnight sprigs of bouncing curls curtaining her face from her parents. Ysilla settles on her knees, shrinking down in order to keep her daughter's focus.

"And you're spending Christmas with Daddy. And Auntie Helaena told me she'll be here with you tomorrow. And so will- oh rūs, don't cry, it's okay." She coos, swiping away her daughter's tears with gentle thumbs.

Aemond swallows thickly, squatting behind Dany and shrugging her out of her Bluey backpack. He bought it for her last month, going against the agreement he'd made with Silla to not buy her any presents so close to the holiday but shit, he couldn't help himself. She's his only baby- and it's not like he's expecting to have another with anyone any time soon.

Dany sniffles, her voice gentler than a baby bird's chirp. "But but Mummy, you'll be alone."

Between Ysilla's eyebrows crease and she blinks rapidly, the whites of her eyes illuminating with tears. Aemond wants to reach out, squeeze her hand, her knee, cup her cheek… but he doesn't do any of that. He isn't allowed to anymore.

"I'll be okay, sweet pea. Mummy promises." Ysilla presses their foreheads together, dusting butterfly kisses all over her girl's face. Within seconds, Dany's weeping turns to giggles, to full belly laughter after Ysilla starts to press obnoxious wet smooches anywhere she can reach. The sunshine smile that bursts over Ysilla's face steals Aemond's breath away.

"Bye baby."

"Bye baby." Dany parrots back, smothering herself into her mother's neck, her tiny arms lassoing around her tightly. Ysilla squeezes her back just as fiercely, refusing to be the first to break away. Dany finally relents, fists rubbing at her eyes, before shuffling to the couch to sit. Ysilla's legs shake as she stands and Aemond ghosts a hand over the small of her back in a quiet comfort.

The parents take their cue to give their daughter some space and start to work their way out of the room.

"You know I don't mind if you stay. Not going to be doing much but lounging around and eating too much sugary shit. You can have your old bedroom back. I'll even clear out a drawer for you." He can be funny when he wants to be, all earlier unpleasantries forgiven and forgotten. Ysilla lets him lift her spirits, her wobbly grin the best Christmas gift he could ask for.

"The sock drawer was never the issue, Aem… it was the hair care drawer." He snorts as she giggles, tickled pink by her own joke. They reach the front door and he imagines the feeling he gets here is similar to greeting the edge of the plank.

"Anyways, I have a hot date with a bubble bath and a bottle of Myrish rum- I can't cancel that again." It's not the best excuse, especially because her eyes are still glassy with emotion, but Aemond won't take a mile from his given inch.

Ysilla turns to face him after throwing one last look down the hall. An eyelash has drifted to freckle her cheekbone, the bat of her lashes no doubt stirring it loose and Aemond doesn't think before he cradles her cheek, his thumb sweeping it away. He drops his hand as quickly as he'd raised it, the warmth flowing from her skin too enticing to trust himself with.

She hesitates then, for a moment, before tiptoeing up and planting a soft kiss on his cheek. She braces her palm on the curve of his bicep and she squeezes at the muscle, and he presses into her as close as she'll allow. Her voice is softer than snowfall at his ear. "Merry Christmas, Aemond."

He turns his head just so, and he brushes his lips at her temple, the same way he'd greeted Dany. His words from before echo like the groaning ghost of Christmas past. His girls. "Merry Christmas, Sill."

He holds the door for her, watching her walk out of his life yet again and definitely doesn't get an eyeful of her ass as she goes.

He shuts and bolts it, and how pathetic is it that he has to dig his nails into the doorframe to stop from chasing after her and giving his best Love, Actually airport reunion kiss in the elevator. He thumps his forehead against the wood. He wonders if he'll stop loving her sometime soon, because three years apart has done fuck all for healing his broken heart and it sucks. Aemond stops feeling sorry for himself long enough to look back into the flat. Dany stands alone at the end of the hallway, Frostfire, her ratty stuffed dragon she's had since birth, clutched by the wing in her fist and swinging by her side. Her giant ice blue eyes pierce through him, and the sad small frown on her lips matches his. God, this never gets any easier.

"Come on, baby girl." His daughter tucks her hand into his as he leads them to the sterling white marble kitchen.

He makes it good, special he hopes. They press shapes into the sugar cookie dough, and then frost the somewhat recognizable snowflakes once they've baked and cooled. He makes her cocoa, begrudgingly adding more marshmallows after being suckered by her pouting face, but he doesn't truly mind. There's not one memory he has of doing any of this with his dad, and he'll be damned if Daenerys ever thinks for even one moment that he wouldn't want to be anywhere rather than right here, with her. He'd give her a cereal bowl of marshmallows if he didn't know that she'd puke them back up after her sugar rush would fizzle out.

They crash onto the couch eventually, the sun long since set, the view from this high up making all of the far and distant lights twinkle like gleaming stars.

They're watching a movie, the one with the bratty kid who gets left behind by his family when they leave for Paris. It makes Aemond's mind hit the snooze button but Dany giggles every time one of the Wet Bandits gets hurt, so he relents and just enjoys having her here with him.

A tepid knock at the door is nearly lost to him, a particularly gusty wind shaking the triple pane windows something awful, but it sounds again and Aemond frowns. He's not expecting anyone, certainly not on Christmas Eve. He wraps the throw blanket tighter around Dany as he leaves their nest, and jogs down the hall.

"Yeah yeah, I'm coming." He says, loud enough to quiet the knocker from sounding again. He doesn't bother with the peephole, unlatching the deadbolt and pulling the door open with more than a little annoyance.

Ysilla stands stockstill, doing her best to place first in a snowman lookalike contest, so many white specks of snow littering her dark strands that she nearly matches Aemond's icy coloring.

"I tried, there's no way I can drive back home in that. Had to leave my car on the street, snow's too thick to get through."

"Jesus, Sill, you're like a fuckin' ice cube." Aemond all but yanks her inside, wincing at the freezing sting of her skin.

"Want me to call you an Uber?" That's the last fucking thing he wants, but he'd move mountains for her, even if it's in the direction opposite of him.

Ysilla shakes her head in the negative, her teeth chattering so hard that the clinking sounds like it hurts. "I tried- nothing's available. Not even with surge pricing, fuck's sake."

Aemond falls silent, grabbing a towel from the linen closet and pressing it into her trembling hands. She gives him an appreciative look and starts to dry her damp hair.

"Mummy stay?" Tink tink tink, like a bell, Daenerys' voice floats down the hall, her head hanging over the edge of the couch to stare at her parents with a marvelously mischievous smile.

Ysilla glances up at him, apprehension bright in her lavender eyes. He's still so close, he can smell the jasmine misted over her skin. Their sheets used to be soaked in it, a calling card she'd leave him with anytime she had to travel. He misses her so much, it makes his teeth ache, so who is he to question a Christmas miracle?

"Mummy stay." Aemond declares, stepping behind Ysilla to tug her coat off. He's selfish in his chivalry and he lets his thumbs trail down her arms as he undresses her, and he'd pay good money to know if her shiver is from the cold or his touch.

Dany jumps to her feet, bouncing on the couch and screaming at the top of her lungs, "Yay! Mummy stays, Mummy stays!"

Aemond pulls the glass doors shut on the fireplace, watching drowsily as the glowing embers snuff out to a chilly charcoal grey. It's late, close to midnight, time lost somewhere between Elf and The Polar Express. He stands, wincing as his knees crack and pop and goes to sit on the arm of the couch.

Enjoying the quiet, he gazes upon his girls. Wrapped up in each other, Ysilla and Dany are passed out and have been for at least an hour. After he'd gotten some food in Sill, he'd all but tucked the girls in together, listening to Dany happy chitter until she finally knocked out, sprawled on her mother's chest and nestled into her father's side.

Not wanting to wake her but knowing her back will thank him for it later, Aemond shakes Ysilla's ankle gently. She stirs, blinking slow and heavy before she spots him, and Aemond has to swallow past the lump in his throat. That look had gotten them into trouble many times before- in the back of a limo on the way to an art gala, on a beach lounger while they holidayed on the Orange Shore, when they first toured this flat and he decided they should christen the kitchen island. Good times.

Let's put her to bed. He mouths, not ready to break the stillness of the moment. Ysilla nods, flexing her arms around their sleeping child and starts to untangle their legs.

Aemond rises, hovering over them and tucking his hands into Dany's armpits to lift her into his chest. She's getting too big. She's got to stop growing before Aemond has a mental breakdown over dating and prom dresses while she's still in nursery school.

"Mumma, Daddy…" She's still asleep, her lashes fanning over her rosy cheeks and hair a moppy mess. Aemond rubs her back and Ysilla trails along next to him, brushing their daughter's curls out of her face.

"Sleep now, my angel. It's almost Christmas. And when you wake up, Santa will have visited and left you something special."

"And read my letter?"

"And read your letter." Ysilla promises, pressing a lovely kiss to her forehead. She stays behind in the doorway, letting Aemond clear the pink frilly bed of a million stuffed animals before sliding Dany beneath the sheets. He clicks on her firefly nightlight and tucks Frostfire in beside her.

"Sweet dreams, dōna hāedar." He's not a crier but he feels the salty sting in his nose. She's his one constant, his daughter, his heir. He'll never be more thankful for Ysilla than when she ignored her lawyer's advice and decided to split 50/50 custody. Losing her nearly killed him, if his daughter would've been lost to him too? Aemond's not sure he could've survived. He departs after a few more peaceful moments, clicking her door shut softly behind him.

He stretches, a pleased groan escaping him as he heads back to the living room. The couch is empty and in a brief moment of dumbstruck panic, he wonders if Ysilla seized her opportunity and left. He knows she's happy to be here with Dany, but he also accepts that she's not happy to be here with him.

The faucet flipping on in the kitchen snuffs out his dread and he follows the sound like it's a siren song. Ysilla washes their mugs methodically, her too long sleeves rolled up to her elbows. He'd given her one of his hoodies to dethaw in, and the emerald tone against her complexion makes him hungry. She finishes, turning the cups upside down on the drying rack before she towels off her hands. The smile she wears when she catches sight of him may be small, but it's genuine.

"Hey."

Aemond grins, a puppy given attention, his metaphorical tail wagging wildly. "Hey. Sad you missed out on your rum soaked bubble bath?"

Ysilla snorts, rolling her eyes at him good naturedly. "No, not at all. This was… nice. This was all very nice." She swallows hard, rolling down her sleeves so that they dip past her fingers again. "I enjoyed every second of it."

"So did I. It was like old times."

Ysilla grins, leaning her elbows on the counter. The only light in the whole flat is from the Christmas tree, the soft gold gleam painting the room alive with merriment.

"We practically lived on that couch when Dany was born, you remember?"

Aemond smirks, relishing in the memory. He treads into the kitchen, closing the distance between them as naturally as he can.

"It was closer to the food. And more spacious than the bedroom. It was an easy choice."

Ysilla laughs at his recollection, an easy laugh that he always celebrated getting out of her. He hopes Dany will laugh like her, be joyous like her. Aemond doesn't have much of that gene to pass on.

"You look good, Aemond." She gives him an up/down, and there's not enough light in here to tell if she's blushing. He gives her one back, taking his time on her legs and the curve of her thighs before the rest of her frame is swallowed up by his clothes.

"You do too, Sill."

She huffs, pinning him with a faux annoyed glare. "Are you going to agree with everything I say?"

"Oh absolutely." Aemond deadpans, leaning in closer before giving her his cheekiest grin.

Ysilla cranes her head back so she can keep their eyes connected, but she ends up breaking first, staring at something above him with a somewhat startled look.

"Mistletoe…" She trails off, almost too quiet to catch. Aemond looks above him and sighs.

"New assistant decorated. She has a thing for the doorman that lets her in here. Maybe she was trying to get lucky."

He dismisses the hovering green foliage as quick as he'd noticed it but when he looks back to Ysilla, she's still staring. Transfixed, eyes twinkling.

"Isn't it bad luck? To not…" He wonders if she can't bring herself to voice it aloud. To not kiss? Before tonight, they've barely been in the same room for more than thirty minutes in the last three years. Slipping each other the tongue is most likely a step way past their invisible boundary.

Aemond steps closer and they're toe to toe. Ysilla's eyes snap to his and the gulp she takes is damn near audible. He wraps a stray curl behind her ear, hand drifting over to cup the soft edge of her cheek. He presses his thumb under her chin, making her raise her lips to nearly brush against his. He stares into her eyes, the drip of the faucet thunderous, and bends down. He kisses her forehead, eyes closed and his nose burrowing into her fringe, committing her floral pheromone to his memory. He stays there, listening to the labored breaths rise and fall in her chest, and soaks in the moment.

He has to leave because if he doesn't, he'll start something he's not sure Ysilla will be able to stomach in the bright light of day. Like pulling teeth, he steps back, purposefully (shamefully) avoiding her beseeching eyes. He mumbles a goodnight, lips burning and craving another taste as he turns to exit.

He's spun back around by a firm hand twisting him by his sweater. Ysilla yanks him down to her level, his back pressing into the counter, and she slides her lips over his. A puppet on a string for her and her alone, Aemond's arms circle round her waist and he crushes her to him. It's as good as their first- no, better. He knows every spot that makes her sigh, she can find each nerve to set him off. It's as easy as breathing, when they're together and he lets himself enjoy it all.

Ysilla breaks away and she's breathing much harder than she was before. "Now that's a proper kiss." She whispers and he feels her lips perk up in a silly little grin that he doesn't see, because his mouth finds hers again and he loses himself in her.

He lifts her and she goes gracefully into his arms, winding her legs around his waist. He needs to get them somewhere they could go horizontal, wishful thinking and all that. He guides them to the couch, throwing himself down on it and pulling her in as close as space will permit. She settles on his lap, her leggings and his joggers doing nothing to conceal the massive hard-on that spells out her name.

"And what do you want for Christmas this year, little girl?" Swiss, gouda, cheddar. The line is so cheesy but Aemond feels inspired by the holiday fair. That, and he's been bricked since she put on his clothes. He wants to get her naked as soon as possible and if he can fast track that by way of a stupid joke that's right up her alley, he can live with that.

She nibbles at his earlobe before slithering her tongue up the shell of his ear. Her lips tickle the cartilage as she whispers and it makes him shiver. "I really want to make a joke about Santa's sack right now."

"Christ, Ysilla." Aemond groans, letting an exasperated laugh bubble out of his chest. This is so his fault.

"You know I'm funny." She cradles his face, angling his head to the side so that she can lick and bite at his neck.

"Maybe. But what I do know for sure… is that you're the most stunning woman I've ever been blessed to see. And you are a magnificent mother to our daughter. And you were a phenomenal partner to me…" Aemond braces himself, a glutton for punishment. "And I fucked that up royally, didn't I?"

He feels Ysilla frown and she straightens, sliding back to sit on his knees rather than on his dick. "Aemond, you know that's not what happened."

He hmms noncommittally, mourning the route that they both steered away from. Sex over feelings is usually a no brainer for any man but this is a conversation that he needs to have. And from the way Ysilla's eyes dim down to a sad hue, it's one she needs to have too.

"We're not together right now because I couldn't, how did you phrase it? 'Get my head out of my ass and straighten out my priorities'? Yeah, you hit the nail on the head there, baby. It was my fault."

"That wasn't fair to you. I could've tried harder. I was so stressed after Dany was born, I didn't feel like myself. Didn't start feeling like myself again until nearly a year ago." She picks up his hand and she cradles it between both of her own, stroking at the rough rise of his knuckles.

"If you're feeling like yourself again, does that mean you're seeing someone?"

Ysilla looks like she wants to hit him and Aemond thinks he should let her.

"Of course not, why would you even ask that?"

"You seem happier as of late- or, at least that's what Dany says. Couldn't help but think it might be because of someone new." The thought makes him want to chew glass but he has to ask. He's got to prepare himself for another year of the only girl in his life being a pint-sized princess that demands he plays pony anytime they go to the park.

"We're separated, Aem. Not divorced." She rolls her eyes and the expression she aims at him spells out duh.

"You're a catch, Sill. Any fucker would be lucky to have you. Plus, it's been three years. I wouldn't be angry if you explored something new." Liar, liar.

"Yeah, three years where I was focusing on what was best for me and Dany. And that certainly wasn't a new lover."

Aemond wants to dance a fucking jig in absolute glee but he suppresses it. "So… no one?"

"No one." Ysilla looks at him like she's afraid to ask the next question. "You?"

"There's no one but you. Never has been." The words flow out of him as if they'd lived on the tip of his tongue his whole life.

She exhales, a long, heavy breath of relief before the most brilliant smile blooms on her mouth. Aemond feels lighter than a fucking feather, his own smile pulling tightly at his lips before they find their way back to one another, licking and lapping into each others' mouths.

He rolls his hips up, selfish in his desire, and rubs his entire shaft up the hot line of her clothed snatch.

Ysilla tsks, biting his lip and wagging her finger in his face. "Un-uh, wrap it up, big boy."

"Thought you liked it when I go raw." He squeezes her hips, his thumbs tugging at the edge of her waistband. He dips below the elastic, stroking the hot, smooth skin over her hip bones. She rocks forward, a gasp slipping from her mouth as her covered center brushes at his tented cock. "You always came harder when I didn't wear a rubber."

She doesn't deny it, winding her arms around his neck and pulling him back to her mouth. Between kisses, she whispers, "Proof of that is dreaming of sugar plum fairies as we speak."

Aemond hums around her tongue, pulling away to kiss across her jaw. "Y'know, only children always end up weird."

Ysilla scoffs, leaning away and raising a fine dark brow at him.

"I'm kidding." Aemond smiles, brash and bright, pressing an apologetic peck to her chin.

"No you're not." She groans, widening her thighs as he starts to pull her leggings down. His heart is beating so fast, he can feel his pulse jumping in his neck. His hands worship the skin he bares, stroking her fine, supple softness. He gets her pants past her knees before he loses his patience and decides that's good enough.

He shoves past his waistband, palming at his stiff shaft before pulling himself free. His cock springs up, weeping head finding her silk covered hole like a dart to a bullseye. His clever fingers hook around the crotch of her panties, pulling them to the side, his knuckles dragging across her wet lips like a ghost of a kiss. He will be eating out at some point tonight, lord willing.

"You're right, I'm not… I want a boy." He slips the tip inside of her, just enough to get a taste of the warmth of her pussy.

Their eyes lock and they don't break as Ysilla sinks down onto every rigid inch of his prick. Aemond's jaw drops, stupid to the pleasure of her steaming, slick cunt wrapping around him in such an embrace. It takes her a minute, wincing and whimpering as she goes until finally they're flush, thigh to thigh.

"That's my girl, takin' it all." Aemond croons, palm finding the back of her neck and thumb stroking just under her hairline. That lights her fire, Ysilla gyrating in smooth figure eights, finding a rhythm that has both of them biting their lips to keep from shouting.

"Fucckkkk, I missed this." Ysilla pants, head thrown back in absolute ecstasy. She doesn't skip a beat, riding his cock like she'd never left it. "I missed you. You feel so good, holy hell."

Aemond spreads his knees further apart, letting her spread herself out, reaching deeper in her than before as a result. Ysilla bounces in his lap, the lights on the tree behind her haloing her into something festively angelic. She's some divine dream and Aemond will kill any man who dares to wake him.

A sharp, high whine brays from Ysilla's throat and Aemond's hand slaps over her mouth roughly.

"Easy sweetheart, you can't wake Dany up."

Ysilla moves her head back, Aemond's hand slipping away until she ducks forward and swallows two of his fingers. The wet, wiggly muscle of her tongue slides over his digits sloppily, soaking them in her saliva and reminding him exactly how she used to win every fight they would have. She sucks once more, letting him feel the strong flex of her mouth before she pulls off.

"Then put something in my mouth to shut me up."

He kisses her, long and hard, before retreating and whispering at her swelling lips. "I'm not pulling out of this pussy, Silli girl."

Ysilla's breath stutters, hips hitching as he shifts just right, her channel fluttering around him in tempo with her heartbeat.

"Mmmmm, then shove my face into a pillow so I can scream for you."

The way Aemond maneuvers her without pulling out is honestly impressive. Face down, ass up, he manages to rid her of her leggings and knickers, baring all of her silky skin for him to gaze upon. She's got a phenomenal ass, backshots with her used to drive him mad.

Taking full advantage of their new position, he sets a brutal pace, sliding in harsh and deep, his grip on her hips unyielding. When he pulls out, he lets himself miss the mark, gliding his cock between her puffy folds, his slit slithering up to kiss her clit.

Ysilla gasps for air, pushing away the pillow she'd been smothering herself with. "That's it, that's it, yeah. Pound my pussy, Daddy."

It's been a long time since they've played this game but without fail, Aemond's cock jerks in interest and his mouth floods with saliva. He's famished, he's fucking starving, and they only thing that can satiate him is the woman he made a mother.

"Mmmm, this all for daddy? Makin' a mess on my lap, leavin' a puddle on my couch?" His voice has dropped, the rumble of it pulsing from his chest. His thrusts hit harder, punishing in a way that's similar to a spank on the rear.

"Yes, fuck, I've been wet since I put your hoodie on." Speaking of, she's still wearing it, the Oldtown High logo on the back faded and peeling. Aemond pushes it up to her shoulders until it bunches at the back of her neck. His big hands span the curve of her ribs until he finds himself a handful of her tits and kneads the heavy flesh.

He can't fuck her like he wants to when their baby is sleeping in the next room, but he gets as close as he can.

"Your body wants me, love. Couldn't pull out even if I fuckin' wanted to." He strokes at her belly, caressing the place she'd grown their girl. "I think she wants one more." He plants a kiss between her shoulder blades, her skin fucking blistering with heat.

"Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck!" She throws her ass back on him, fucking him in earnest until she can't abuse that spongy spot inside of her any longer. She freezes, muscles trembling and fists clenching, the poor throw pillow being shredded by her teeth, until her body goes lax, and the vice grip around Aemond's cock loosens.

His balls draw up, the edge of his spine burning in need, and he curses with gritted teeth. "Christ, Sill, tell me to pull out. Tell me baby, make me." She's the only one that gets to see him like this- unraveled at the seams and flying apart, unable to control himself when presented with the object of all of his fantasies.

"Mmmm no, so warm," she slurs, her cheek smushed against the couch cushion. She wiggles back against him, a sinful invitation to grab hold and let go. "Fill me up, Aem. Give me your load, come on."

"Fuck yesss." He hisses, obeying as commanded, pistoning in and out of her pretty cunt before he's a goner, grunting as he cums deep in her greedy womb.

He slouches on top of her bonelessly, the aftershocks stinging through his entire lower half, his breaths choppy and uneven until the wave retreats, and the feeling comes back to his toes. He slumps to his side, rolling off of her, yanking up his joggers and tossing a throw over Ysilla's alluring backside.

His wife props her head up on her hand, staring at him with a sated, sleepy expression.

"Santa came early this year."

Aemond doesn't react except to say, "If that's a cum joke, I'm kicking you out."

She breathes out a laugh, shoving at his shoulder. "No you perv, I meant my Christmas wish. It came true."

Aemond smiles, every bit of him happy to sink into the couch while watching her talk.

"Care to share?"

Ysilla blushes, as if she didn't just get creampied.

"I wished for a really good orgasm, preferably with my baby daddy." She plays footsie with him, looping her ankle around his calf and ushering him closer. "Also, I wished for multiple. As many as he's willing to give me. Just so you know."

He kisses her because he can and because he missed doing so. He lurches forward until she's underneath him, their hands going to the other's shirts and ridding them of the suffocating material.

"Ho ho ho, baby mama."

They both keep their word and don't read the letter, tossing it into the lit fire the next morning before Dany stumbles out and screeches Happy Christmas! to her poor, sleep deprived parents.

The flames eat the careful, crooked scrawl in seconds but the words seem to have manifested to life as Dany watches her mother and father blush every time they bump into one another.

Dear Mr. Claus,

I know I wrote you a letter last week but I have changed my mind. Please tell your elves to forget the dolly. What I truly want is for my Mummy and Daddy to be back together. They smile more when they're together, and I do too. This is my one Christmas wish and I will be very very very sad if it does not come true, so please try real hard, okay? Okay. Thanks alot alot. I wish you the best of luck with everything!

PS: If you happen to have a spare dolly in your bag, I won't say no to it.

Love,

Daenerys Aemma Targaryen

rūs . baby

dōna hāedar . sweet girl

#hotd #house of the dragon #modern hotd #aemond targaryen #modern aemond #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen smut #daddy aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #ysilla targaryen #hotd holidays

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starogeorgina · 3 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐢𝐧

Warnings: Incest, smut, swearing, violence, masterbating

Pairing: Cregan Stark × reader, Aemond Targaryen × reader

1.06

“It’s time to sleep, my sweet.”

Maitland switches from side to side on your large bed. “Why are we sleeping in here?”

“This is my new bedchamber, and I’ve missed you so much that I want you with me for the next few nights.” While you were in Winterfell, Aegon had your belongings moved to a larger room; the gesture was kind, but you liked your old one better. These chambers felt empty and somehow colder. And it was odd seeing your house banner hanging on the walls in the colours of Sunfyre rather than the traditional red and black.

Exhausted, you kick off your shoes and flop backwards onto the bed. Maitland was becoming more restless than normal, but that was to be expected; he was a child, not a fool. He could see how different everyone was around his father; he just didn’t understand why.

You returned to the Red Keep just over a day ago, and it felt foreign. Like you were an unwanted guest in someone else’s home. Aemond hadn’t even glanced in your direction, and you couldn’t stop thinking how different things could have been if you had never gone north. Would Lucerys still be dead? So many questions repeating themselves.

Should you have gone straight to Dragonstone and begged Rhaenyra for mercy?

Should you have taken Maitland and flown north on your dragon?

Should you have left the moment Rhaenyra was usurped?

Should you write to Jacaerys? You had grown rather fond of your nephew; however, nothing you could say could make up for what Aemond has done.

In the back of your mind, you knew there would be repercussions for Lucerys's death. You're pulled from your thoughts when Maitland yawns and starts to close his eyes. You take the opportunity to tuck the sheets in around him so he doesn’t get cold.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my love?”

He opens his heavy eyes and stares up at you, “Can we go and say goodnight to Father?”

—

As the door leading into Aemond’s royal apartment comes into view, you feel a coldness creeping up behind you, sending a chill down your spine.

“Father?” Maitland tries to run ahead, but you take his hand and keep him by your side.

“Aemond?” You turn to your sworn shield and, in a low voice, ask. “He did return just after sundown?”

“Yes, princess, I saw him returning to keep on horseback myself.”

You begin to tremble, the cold finally setting in and catching up with you. A chill so cold you even feel it in your bones. Hearing what sounds like a curtain moving, you step forward. “Aemond?”

He doesn’t answer, but something clatters nearby. Ser Arryk grips hold of the handle of his sword. “Go to the prince's bedchamber, princess. I shall return shortly.”

There were no words to explain the sinking feeling in your stomach; you felt a pull… something telling you to run. You pick Maitland up and rush towards the bedchamber. You almost jump back startled when you’re greeted with an enormous tapestry of Balerion burning Harren and his sons. It was beautifully made, but very disturbing.

You feel the coldness creeping up on you again.

“Maitland,” you whisper. “Get under your father's bed and do not come out unless I or Ser Arryk tell you so. Do not make a sound.”

When you let him down, he does as you told him.

Dragonriders and knights had done just about everything they could to ensure that the castle was safe, but it still didn't feel like enough. The room is dark aside from the burning fire; it’s only when you focus on it that you realise it’s been newly lit. Eyes fixated on the flames in the fireplace, you walk towards it but nearly trip forward when your foot catches on something.

“Ser Arryk!”

Tears of terror roll down your cheeks as you look down at the body of one of the servants. A hand suddenly covers your mouth, muffling your screams.

“Do not make a sound.”

Feeling the pinch of his blade pressing against your neck, you sob, “Who are you?”

“A debt collector. An eye for an eye, a son for a son.”

“Please, I don’t know where Aemond is.”

“I’m here for the kinslayer's boy!” The man turns you so you’re facing him; he is much taller and heavier than you expected. “His son’s life for the life of Prince Lucerys.”

“No, no! Take me, kill me! I am Prince Aemond’s sister-wife.”

“A wife’s not a son,” he says, gripping hold of your arm tightly. “It has to be the boy. Take me to him.”

“No.”

He throws you against the wall so hard you’re stunned for a second, pain radiating from your elbow hitting against the stone wall. You scream when the man swings his arm down, and his blade comes into contact with your palm.

“Take me to the boy!”

“He’s in his nursery,” you cry. “Whatever you want is yours; just spare my boy!”

“Lying bitch,” he slaps you hard across the face.

The door to the room bursts open, and several knights burst through the door. Ser Arryk points his sword underneath the man’s chin. “Keep him alive, brothers. Take him to the cells for questioning.”

—

You slam your unharmed hand against the table in the council room. An emergency meeting had been held. Before saving you and Maitland, Ser Arryk followed a trail of blood and found a bag with the head of your nephew Jaehaerys inside it. The brute’s not only tried to kill your son but had already put Helaena and her children through absolute misery.

“Aemond, where the fuck have you been?”

“I had another matter that needed attending.”

“Another matter?” You leap from your chair and storm towards him; Ser Criston puts himself between the two of you. “Jaehaerys is dead. Our son was almost killed, and that’s all you have to say?”

“Princess,” Criston starts to gently guide you backwards. “The trauma of what you’ve just—“

“This is all your fault, Aemond!”

“What would you have me do?” He snarls. “I could not have foreseen what was going to happen in my absence.”

Lord Jasper Wylde chimes in, “It seems some of the fault may lay with Ser Arryk, as he was the knight tasked with protecting Prince Aemond’s wife and son.”

“And without Ser Arryk we would both be dead.” You brush by Ser Criston and smack your hand against Aemond’s chest, not hard enough to hurt him but enough to gain his full attention. “You killed a child over something that happened years ago, yet you do nothing while one of the men who tried to take your son's head breathes. Do you only act when your ego is wounded?”

—

The view from the staircase overlooking King's Landing, located on the balcony of your husband's royal apartments, was quite spectacular. He now had the second largest room in the keep, after the king's.

“Where is he?” You knew from the heaviness of the footsteps that Aemond came back alone.

“Maitland is with the dowager queen; he is safe. Ser Arryk told me you were waiting in my apartment when we returned.”

Aemond had taken your son to the dragonpit to see Silverwing after the council meeting. You didn’t doubt for a second that the Kingsguard who had gone with them would do everything they could to keep Prince Aemond's son, his only heir, safe. Or the last thing they would see is Vhagar. In truth, you went to Aemond's apartment because the loneliness felt too consuming. Helaena wasn't talking to anyone, Aegon was drowning his sorrows away, and your mother could barely look at you. Her eyes would start to glisten with tears whenever she did.

“Are you afraid of me?” For the first time in years, you hear genuine emotion in his voice.

“I fear… that our story will end soon.”

He steps closer to you, so close that his breath is warm on the back of your neck. Aemond leans down slightly so he can whisper in your ear, “We have the most dangerous dragons on our side. We will use them to protect what is ours.”

“I don’t care about the keep or who sits on the throne. Helaena is suffering.”

“As are you, but you are strong—“

“Am I?” You spin fast to face him. “If our Visenya had lived, I do not think I’d be able to make such a decision as she did; no mother should ever be made to decide which child to save.”

“We will get revenge for our sister.”

Tears glisten in your eyes. Both Helaena and Aegon were beyond distraught, and Rhaenyra would be dealing with the same heartbreak over Luke. You were the luckiest out of all of them because you still had your son.

“Otto wanted you to join Helaena and the queen dowager for the funeral, but I told him no.”

“Thank you. Playing the role grandsire has assigned for the women in this family is the furthest from my mind, especially when we have enemies everywhere. I doubt the assassins needed much convincing.”

“It sounds like you're frightened, my love.”

“I am afraid; I don’t want any part in a war in which so many innocents are killed.”

“But we must. We will do things to protect our son.” Aemond says, placing a slow, deep kiss on your neck. “To protect each other…”

He was right, and that’s what scares you the most.

“We should not be at odds with each other,” Aemond kisses your neck again. “You are my wife; we should be one.”

It felt strange being so close to him; for years you had only performed a duty together, but now you needed Aemond; you needed him to make you feel safe.

Closing your eyes, you make a choice and meet his lips with your own. Although Aemond has kissed your neck, he does seem surprised. The kiss becomes more heated when your back is pressed against the stone wall. Aemond pries your legs open with his and presses his knee against your core, causing a moan to slip from your mouth.

“Won’t someone see?”

He smirks, “From where? Only the gods can see us so high up.”

Aemond moves his knee back far enough to slip his hand beneath your skirts. You bury your face in the crook of his neck to muffle your moans.

Your head was spinning; everything was confusing. Aemond was with his whore when you were attacked, yet you desperately plead for his touch like when you first married, and you were somehow convinced he truly loved you, and you him. Perhaps what you had was a twisted love only Targaryens could share, but at least the pain of it reminds you you’re still alive.

“Oh gods!” Your legs start to squeeze shut around Aemond’s hand as your orgasm grows near. He tilts your head back and goes to kiss you again but suddenly stops; his eye lingers on something. “What?”

Using his free hand, he brushes hair behind your ear, his intense glare burning into you. “Come, wife, we shall continue this inside.”

He withdraws his hand from your skirts and goes back inside, leaving you feeling confused and exposed.

—

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion; it takes you a moment to remember you are in Aemond’s apartments, wrapped up in his bedsheets. The sun has disappeared, meaning you’ve been asleep for some time. Nothing continued when you followed Aemond inside; instead, you just lay beside him on the bed in silence until the lack of sleep caught up with you, and your dream was… well, a dream. One that would probably reveal more than you like if you dug a little deeper.

Hearing hushed voices, you get out of the bed quietly and slip on your shoes, straightening out your dress.

“We will burn the stone—” Aemond stops talking when he notices you are awake. He and Ser Criston are sitting at a table with a map of the seven kingdoms on it; they are placing markers on the different houses to show who supports Rhaenyra and Aegon.

“Stone doesn’t burn, but men do.”

Aemond swallows thickly and looks back down at the map.

“I will see you at the King’s Counsel meeting in the morrow. Goodnight.”

Ser Criston looks between the two of you, as if he’s waiting for the prince to say something as well. Sighing, he gets up from his seat and points at your bandaged hand. “Princess, may I?”

You hold your hand up, and he inspects the bandages and frowns, seeing there’s damp blood on it. “One of the king's guards standing outside the prince's apartment will accompany you back to your room. I shall send for the maester to come and clean your wound.”

“Oh, thanks.”

See Criston stares at you for a moment; he looks as if he wants to say something else but holds back.

—

𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺, 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘤𝘬, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳— 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱. 𝘏𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘶𝘱.

𝘐𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵, “𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦.”

𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮; 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥. 𝘚𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵. “𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘥. 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.”

“𝘞𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮?”

“𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘴 𝘝𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺.”

𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘺. “𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵?”

“𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘮𝘺 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.”

—

𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘙𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘯𝘺𝘳𝘢; 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘯'𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯, 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.

“𝘐𝘧 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘛𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯!”

𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘣𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘮. 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘛𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺𝘦𝘯; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺. “𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘍𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

“𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵'𝘴 𝘞𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥.

—

Sheaf after sheaf of parchments was scattered across the desk as Aegon quickly read them for himself and then tossed them away. The council meeting was tense as both Aegon and Aemond seemed to struggle with the concept that not everyone was on your family’s side of this war. They had been so certain that after the events of the past week, it would have been enough to persuade the houses backing Rhaenyra’s claim to change their allegiance.

“Grand Maester,” your mother stands when he enters the room. “Have any ravens arrived from OldTown?”

“No, your grace.”

Your mother sits back down looking disappointed. Daeron, your younger brother hadn’t replied to any of her letters since Aegon had become king, yet he has replied to any you sent. Discreetly you squeeze her hand under the table, and she gives you a small smile.

Looking at you, Maester Orwyl clears his throat and holds up a scroll. “A letter just arrived from Winterfell; it’s addressed to you, princess.”

He leans over and hands it to you. All eyes are on you as you nervously start to unroll it; the thought of opening a letter from Cregan makes your stomach twist.

You missed him.

“Perhaps the north has decided to back the rightful king,” your grandsire says.

Frowning, your eyes scan over the parchment multiple times; it was blank. Strangely, it makes you think of the dream you had when you fell asleep in Aemond’s bed. A wolf stalking a bird in a forest, but each time it’s about to pounce on the bird, it flies away.

“What does it say?” Aemond asks, snatching it from your grasp.

“Nothing, it says nothing.”

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #Aemond Targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x targaryen!reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfiction #Aemond Targaryen/reader #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark smut #cregan stark/reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark fanfiction #cregan stark x reader #the beauty of sin #house of the dragon smut

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sylusjinwoon · 10 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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adragonprinceswhore · 4 months ago

Text

Romancer I Teaser

Aemond Targaryen x Wife

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

A/N: A Halloween fic for all my horror lovers! 🖤