#otto wood x you

[shotsofsalvation]

the best type of idkparx crumbs

[digitalcarcrash]

hey fellas is it gay to look right into your boy best friend's eyes while singing the lyrics "with the blinds drawn and the lights off, could've picked your body in a lineup" and spend the rest of the song kind of ignoring the audience you're supposed to be singing to in favor of making lots and lots of eye contact with said boy best friend?

[hildergard]

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. 

[tamayakii]

a son for a son.

notes: I changed a thing or two of what happened in the show, basically putting Maelor in cause i still cant believe they didnt put him in it (same thing with Daeron) this can be read as a stand-alone fic or paired with the Their Angel series. pairings: Otto x reader (romantic), Helaena x reader (can be viewed as one sided or platonic) warnings: Otto & reader have a son, SPOILERS FOR HOTD S2;E1!!!

The candle light illuminates the room, flickering against the stone walls of your and Helaena’s chambers. You had moved into her living spaces the night that Aemond had come back from the Stormlands, a sick smirk upon his face as he waltz into the small council room.  

And when your husband had shown no remorse for your brother's actions, no sympathy for your dead nephew? You couldn’t stand to look at him, matter of fact, you couldn’t bear to look at anyone. The grief toppled upon the hatred you had towards everyone who had played a part in usurping your sister’s throne. 

The twins and Maelor were already asleep within their beds, and your own son blinks his big owl-ish eyes at you. He looked so much like his father, even at two years old, a little wisp of white tangled within his brown locks- almost emulating Otto’s salt and pepper hair.

“Why can’t I..?” Alerion fumbled over his words, tiny hands curling over the cotton blanket, trying to fight his heavy eyelids as they dropped low. Chuckling lightly as you brushed his hair aside, he was quite stubborn. Especially as bedtime neared and sleep hovered over him. “Because I said so, besides; don’t you want to play with your cousins on the morrow?” Your reasoning seemed to reach him, Alerion’s brown eyes slowly shutting as he murmured. Sighing, reaching around your back to unclasp your heavy necklaces, you couldn’t help but smile as your son unconsciously pulled the blanket closer. 

The recent days weighed heavily on you; the war was impending. With no word from Rhaenrya, Rhaenys and Meleys helping guard the gullet with the hundreds of Velaryon ships, war was going to burst like a bloated goat. 

Perhaps if you were more active in the small council, you would’ve stopped the rats that sat in those seats. Staring at the necklace as you set it down, dark jade glimmering in the light. Helaena’s soft reflection reflected in the deep sea of green. It hits the table with a soft thud.

As you hear steps incoming, you simply assumed it was Helaena. She always had a sense for when you were upset, coming to you like a doe, with her big purple eyes and soft face filled with worry. 

Or perhaps she came to take you to bed. Since your move, Helaena was delighted to have you close, and near-ordered that you sleep in the same bed, just as you did when she was a little girl. “Quiet! Quiet!” The voice made you turn around, and your gasp died in your throat. Fear laced through your veins like a snake coils around its prey, freezing your body like the north. 

A strange man holds a dagger to Helaena’s throat, her blood dripping over the steel. Her eyes were wide with fear. The man's eyes flicker over to you. “Move and I'll cut her throat.” He spits, slowly dragging the blade, causing more blood to leak. Nodding as the tears well in your eyes, heart beating against your rib cage. The blood roars in your ears like a thousand horses stampeding. 

Another man comes in, a bigger and scarier man, and your heart stops. 

“A son for a son.” His words were all muddled until he said those five words, a son for a son. Helaena offered her necklace to the men, trying to convince them to run off with its worth, but the bigger man snatched it from her. “It’s not a son.” He turns around and looks at the twins in their beds, sleeping ever so peacefully. Gently, you reached back for Alerion’s crib. Shaking hands gripping the wood with a grip tighter than death and yet you were too weak to fight these men off, in the past week and a half, you’ve neglected your meals within your grief and even if you didn’t, you’d sooner be dead on the stone floors of the Red Keep with your sons fate unknown. 

The men came to the realization that they did not know which twin was the boy, and for a brief moment you felt elated that perhaps they would give up their mission, but all hope vanished when Helaena pointed at Jaehaerys.

“Helaena..” You whisper, lips trembling and you can't help but feel bile come up your throat as the men storm to Jaehaerys, the bigger one covering his mouth, covering his scream. Helaena shakes as she makes a move to her daughter and youngest son, and you do the same.

As you hear the splatter of blood, a sob escapes your throat, your hands trembling as you hurriedly and carefully retrieve Alerion from his crib. Helaena runs out first, holding her children close to her and you’re not too long after her. 

Whilst Helaena makes a mad dash down the stairs, you run onward. Climbing up the other pair of stairs, Alerion stirs in your jumbling hold. Whining at the rude awakening and you try to shush him over your crying, 

“Shh.. shh.. Alerion,” The halls rushed past you as you ran, the skirt of your night-dress threatening to trip you. Only thoughts of protecting your own son ran through your frightened mind, fearing that perhaps he would be targeted too. 

The doors to Otto’s chambers slam open and a flurry of fabric and hair falls to the floor in sobs. The man looks at the sight bewildered, but soon he realizes it is you, his wife, that refused to look him in the eye. Surely, you had come to beg for forgiveness, having come to your senses. 

But as you look up at him, your son in your arms, cradling him like he was about to shatter- he knew something was wrong.

“They killed him.. They kill the boy!” 

[tomriddleslovergirl]

The Cannibal Prince

Pairing: Vampire!Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader

Includes: nipple play, kissing, non-consensual vampire turning (Including a kiss), biting, side character death

Word count: 2.3k

Summary: You marry Prince Aemond, and he reveals another Targaryen wedding tradition that many aren't privy to.

It was fortunately windy at Dragonstone — a delightful contrast to that of King’s Landing.

You wore one of your Dornish gowns, showing off quite a bit of your skin. You hadn’t really gotten into the fashion at King’s Landing. It was so terribly hot there and your gowns from back home gave you a delightful reprieve.

You stood outside. You had first come out to watch the waves lick at the big rocks, but your thoughts soon drifted off to Aemond Targaryen — Your betrothed.

You had brief interactions with the man. Once, when you first arrived at King’s Landing. You had eaten dinner with Prince Aemond, along with the rest of his family. It had been a tense first meeting for you. Queen Alicent was the one carrying the conversation, with Otto asking questions about Dorne here and there.

Though you were not Dornish royalty like the Martell’s, your house is a great one.

You had noticed Queen Alicent lowering her gaze to your dress a few times over dinner before looking back at you with a fake smile. You think she didn’t like your dress.

Aegon, though, scared you. He would not take his eyes off of you during the feast and would speak of how you were too pretty for his cripple brother. You noticed that Prince Aemond had tensed at that, his fingers tightening around his cutlery. You hadn’t spoken out in defense of Aemond — just gave Aegon a faux smile, hoping he didn’t notice how uncomfortable you were. You think he did.

You had heard rumors about the Targaryens. Of how their serving girls were disappearing at an alarming rate, about Prince Aegon’s sexual debauchery, that your betrothed was not missing an eye at all, and that when he had his eye cut out, it had come back! That you did not believe, it simply wasn’t possible.

You shivered from the cold Dragonstone air, and like he knew you were thinking of him, a voice spoke out from behind you. “Cold, My Lady?”

You turned around, your golden dress moving with you. There stood Aemond Targaryen, a few feet away from you. His hands were clasped behind his back and his long white hair looked slightly unkempt because of the winds.

You bowed, before looking back up at him. “Nothing I can’t handle, My Prince.”

You were proven wrong as the wind beat at you, forcing you to squint.

Aemond wrinkled his nose, like he had smelt something he didn’t like before getting his expression under control and clenching his jaw.

��It is getting quite late, betrothed. Would you allow me the honor of walking you back to your chambers?” Aemond asked.

Your eyes widen slightly at the request, but you nod anyway. “Of course, My Prince.”

You both walked back into the Castle, a quiet overtaking you both. You had hoped Aemond would have offered you his arm, but he hadn’t, and this was the longest time you two had spent together, so you contented yourself with that.

Your eyes gazed at all the dragon furniture and you were reminded of Princess Rhaenyra.

You had been surprised when you found out that you’d be marrying Aemond here, as you had heard that Rhaenyra had left for Dragonstone because she couldn’t stand the Hightowers and their children anymore. Perhaps she had a change of mind.

You and Aemond reached your chamber door. There were dragons carved into the wood, their long, lithe bodies stretched out on it.

You opened the door and stepped in, turning to look at Aemond. “Would you like to come in, My Prince?” It was a courtesy, of course. If you and your betrothed were both caught alone together, it would be quite the scandal.

Aemond looked at you, scrutinizing your body as his eyes traveled down the length of your body. He stared at the exposed area of your neck before forcing himself to look back at you, his jaw ticking.

“Perhaps after our marriage ceremony.” With that, Aemond gave a curt bow, mumbling “My Lady,” before turning around and leaving — presumably to his own chambers.

You felt your cheeks heat up at his words and shut the door. You hadn’t expected Aemond to say such a thing — maybe his brother, but not him!

Your handmaidens helped you get dressed for bed and you couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth in your stomach.

As you lay in bed, listening to the sound of the sea — you had insisted to keep the shutters of the window nearest your bed open and one of your handmaidens reluctantly did so, lecturing you about how it would be a terrible thing if you got sick the night before your wedding — your thoughts drifted back to Aemond. You wish he had come into your chambers.

The next morning, you had awoken to terrible news. One of your handmaidens — Aimya — was dead. Her corpse was found in one of the halls. Your handmaidens said that Otto Hightower claimed that given the girl’s pale skin, she must have picked up a sickness. They weren’t allowed to see the body and had no confirmation that this was true.

You had hoped the marriage ceremony would be canceled because of this, but of course, nobody cared for the death of a random dornish girl. Nobody except for you and the other handmaidens.

Over the years, you had all become very close to each other, and her death was like a ship wrecking when it was close to land. The night before your wedding! If you didn’t know any better, you would have taken her death as a warning.

Your handmaiden — Brise, a woman a few years older than you with a sharp face — leads you to your vanity and has you strip out of your nightgown. Your other handmaiden — Miana, a young girl with rosy cheeks — untangling your hair with a shaky hand as you sat atop your vanity stool, naked and shivering.

Brise shut the window before grabbing your wedding robes. After Miana was done, you stood up, facing the older woman. She held the traditional Targaryen wedding robes.

How disappointing. You had always thought your wedding would be an extravagant thing, but it seems not.

“Aimya seemed fine. I-I didn’t think…” Miana broke out into a sob.

Brise shook her head as she helped you into your clothing. “I don’t trust these Targaryens,” she said the name with such disdain that you couldn’t help but look at her surprised.

“That is my betrothed’s family you are speaking about,” you say as Brise finishes tying the front of the robe.

Miana grabbed the headpiece, but was shaking so much that Brise grabbed it out of the young girl's hands and placed it atop your head instead.

“My apologies, My Lady.” But you knew Brise, and you knew she wasn’t sorry at all. You decide not to dwell on it and begin your trip out of the castle.

You stand face to face with Aemond, your expression one of pain as he cuts into your palm. You bite into your covered bottom lip to silence any sound of pain that would try to leave you.

Aemond’s own hand is bloody, as you had cut into it first and you can feel it on your palm as you press it against his. The blood doesn’t do much to hide the lack of warmth in his body, but you brush it off to it just being a reaction to the cold of the Island that is Dragonstone.

An older man wraps a cloth around your hands and you watch as your blood — now mixed with Aemond’s — drips into the cup. You hear the man say some words in Valyrian, but you don’t understand any of it.

Soon, you are drinking out of the chalice. You take a small sip, the heavy taste of copper now on your tongue. You hand it over to Aemond, and he holds your gaze as he drinks the rest of your shared blood.

Then, you both kiss. It’s a quick thing, and you are aware of the eyes of Aemond’s family watching you.

Hours later, you are in Aemond’s chambers. You suppose you’ll be returning to King's Landing very soon.

You sit on the edge of his bed, anxiously fiddling with your fingers as Aemond walks over to you.

Gently, he takes off your headpiece and places it on the side table. Using one cold finger, Aemond places it under your chin, forcing you to look into his purple eye.

You’re captivated. You are sure you will never in your lifetime see anyone that looks like Aemond. Sure, they others have purple eyes, and white hair. But Aemond is unique, with his sharp features, and one eye.

“There is no need to be nervous,” Aemond reassured you. His fingers trail down your neck, to your pulse, gently pressing them there. “Wife.”

You watch as Aemond takes in a sharp breath at the feeling of you, and he quickly pulls his hand away.

Your husband sits down on the bed next to you.

“We need not do this tonight if you don’t wish for it,” he says, surprising you.

You shake your head, feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you speak, “No.. I want to, Husband.”

Aemond lets out a harsh breath out of his nose and nods. “Very well.”

Gently, Aemond reached out, cupping your cheek and forcing you to look at him. He presses his lips to yours, and for some reason he still tastes of copper.

His hands find their way to the ties of your robe and undo them. He pulls away from your lips and pushes down your clothing, leaving it on the floor.

Aemond looks down at you, and you feel your nipples harden very quickly.

Gently, Aemond pushes you down on the bed, so that you are laying with your back flat against it, your head resting on one of the soft pillows.

He rests one of his hands on your hips, and the other — the scarred one — trails down to your breasts. Aemond presses his palm atop the left side of your chest, almost like he’s trying to feel your heartbeat. When he’s satisfied, Aemond brings his fingers to your nipples. He tugs on your nub and you let out a soft gasp.

His attention is instantly brought back to your mouth and he presses his lips to yours. It’s very different from your first kiss when you were getting married. This one is rough, like he’s trying to consume you.

His fingers dig into your breast — so much so that it’s starting to hurt. You let out a small mewl, and Aemond instantly lets go of your lips and breast.

Slowly, Aemond kisses down your chest, and stomach, until he is at your hips.

Aemond undos the ties of his own robes, and drops the garment onto the floor.

He spreads your legs and presses a small kiss to your inner thigh, “So pretty.”

You let out a small, pleased, sigh. “Husband..”

Aemond brings his lips back to your thighs, and brushes his lips against them. Using his cold hands, Aemond holds onto your hips, pressing them down to the mattress. You shiver at his touch, and when he licks at your thigh, you feel small tingles spread through your body.

Your eyes flutter shut, and that’s when you feel it. Something sharp presses into you and your eyes shoot open. You wriggle in Aemond’s grip, but feel his pale hands pin you down. All you can see is the white of his head as you look down at him.

You let out a small cry, confused. “A-Aemond.. What are you…!”

Aemond’s lips finally release the hold they had on your thigh, and when he looks up at you, your eyes land on his bloody mouth.

Before you can even do anything, Aemond lets go of your hips and instead crawls over you, his lithe frame atop of you. Using one hand, Aemond grabs ahold of your wrists and pins them over your head. His other hand grabs your jaw and pushes it to the side, revealing your neck.

Aemond presses his nose to your neck, taking in your scent. His eyes flutter shut and you hiss in pain as he bites into your flesh.

Your legs kick at Aemond, but it doesn’t deter him.

Soon enough, you run out of energy and cease your struggling. You quiver under Aemond, and tears run down your cheeks.

Just when you’re on the brink of death, Aemond pulls away, pressing a wet kiss to the area he just bit.

Aemond lets go of your wrists, but still holds onto your jaw, though his grip has loosened.

Your eyes flutter open, your vision blurry.

Aemond bites into his own wrist, sucking up a considerable amount of blood, before pulling away.

Aemond presses his lips to yours, and forces you to drink in the mix of your’s and Aemond’s blood. Some blood escapes you and Aemond’s mouth and trickles down your cheeks.

Aemond pulls away after what feels like an eternity. You take in big gulps of air, your lungs burning.

A warmth runs through your body before being replaced with a coldness. It feels like you're freezing. Aemond kisses at your tears before pressing his lips to your bloody cheeks. He coos against them, feeling their warmth turn cool, “I know this is now what you were expecting, wife, but that was not the end. Perhaps…” he trails off.  Aemond pulls away, letting go of your wrists. His eye looks down at your naked body, and despite it all, you feel a heat spreading through you. “After our marriage ceremony.”

a/n: Wrote this in celebration for season 2 of hotd, though this was written a few days before it came out! divider creds: @saradika

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

My Fair Lady's Maid (Regency!Aemond x Lady's Maid!Reader)

Part 2: An Ordinary Man

Frustrated with his grandsire's tedious and thorough process of choosing him a "suitable" bride, Aemond makes a declaration that a lady's maid could be indistinguishable from a true noblewoman so long as she was sufficiently dressed and educated in embroidery, conversation, and the like. Otto takes this as a challenge, and gives Aemond four months to turn one of Helaena's lady's maids into a noblewoman.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: none

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: We're only with Aemond this chapter, but Miss Doolittle will return in the next!

An Ordinary Man

Aemond stepped out of the carriage first, extending a hand to help Helaena climb out. He knew his sister well, so he knew her legs would already be sore from dancing all night and did not want her to stumble on the loose gravel drive.

“Did you see the fireflies?” she asked as she climbed out. Her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyelids had begun to droop. “They were insistent, were they not?”

In truth, Aemond hardly remembered there being fireflies in the garden of their host’s estate. He had not ventured outside – the ladies were outside, and he had no intentions of being dragged onto the dancefloor. Still, he smiled at his sister and nodded.

Daeron clambered out of the carriage behind her. His cravat was rumpled, and his hair ruffled, as he always seemed to be after an evening out. “They were! I swear the same one was following me all night. I simply couldn’t shoo him away for longer than a minute.”

“It was all the sweets on the table outside,” their grandfather, Lord Otto Hightower, added as he stepped onto the drive. “I wouldn’t eat a bite. Who knows what other manner of vermin lurked about.”

Helaena flounced through the open doors, smiling brightly at the footman. “Fireflies aren’t vermin, grandfather! They’re beautiful.”

“Forgive me,” Otto said, gently grabbing her elbow so he could kiss her brow. “Of course they are.”

From a distance, Aemond wanted to say, but he wanted to keep his sister happy more, so he remained silent as they all gathered in the parlor. He removed his gloves, dropping them on the surface of the sideboard before withdrawing a bottle of his favorite port, much needed after such a long night.

“Are you going straight to bed?” Daeron asked as Helaena moved toward the stairs. “You don’t want to talk to us?”

“I need my rest!” she called over her shoulder. “My new lady’s maid will arrive tomorrow, and I want to give a good first impression.”

All three men smiled to themselves, waiting until her footsteps faded to speak.

“What use is there in making a good first impression on a servant?” Aemond wondered.

Daeron sighed, rolling his eyes as he stepped up to the sideboard, grabbing a glass and a bottle of sherry before reclining dramatically on the chaise. “Servant or no, the new girl will be her closest companion. Better the relationship be friendly, no?”

He uncorked the port and poured a generous amount into his glass. “I suppose. And it is in her nature.”

“Did any of the young ladies catch your interest, Aemond?”

His hand froze, hovering over the stem of his half-full glass. He swore that if his grandfather brought up the question of a woman one more time, he’d banish the old man to the shabby cottage deep in the woods, where he’d never have to hear that damnable question again.

He had sworn the same the last time. And the time before that. And the time before that.

One day, he may actually follow through on it.

That night, though, he simply seized the bottle of port again, filled his glass to the brim, and downed it all in one gulp. The burn in his throat was far more tolerable than any of the simpering women at the ball.

The Tully girl with the lifeless eyes of a dead fish and equivalent intellect. The Lannister could do little else but bat her eyelashes and assault the ears around her with her tittering laugh. The four Baratheon girls, each utterly vexing in her own unique way. And many, many more besides.

“Aemond?” Otto asked again. The false joviality vanished from his voice.

Damn, he’d waited too long to answer. Perhaps he could still pass it off as being consumed in thought?

“Why even ask?” Daeron half-laughed as he swirled his sherry. He always had to swirl it around for several minutes before he deemed it acceptable to drink but gave no reason for it. “He only ever looks at them long enough to notice their flaws.”

Aemond filled his glass again – only halfway this time. “If their flaws weren’t so noticeable, I may have looked longer.”

“Every young lady there was well-bred and well-accomplished. Several of them were even charming, by my estimation. Any one of them would have made a perfectly suitable wife.” His grandfather leaned forward in his chair, steepling his hands together. It was what he always did when trying to use reason to get his way. Oftentimes, it worked.

But not with this.

“I have neither the need nor the desire to find a wife, as I have made quite plain.”

“Every man of our station is in want of a wife, grandson.”

Aemond huffed. “I have no true station. I am nothing but an ‘ordinary man.’”

The words were not his own. It was only an echo of his uncle’s cruel words after the House of Lords had passed the judgment that left Aemond with no more than what his elder sister had deemed acceptable consolation for losing the lands and title that should have been his.

Now, all he had to his name was an old hunting lodge for an estate and a courtesy title. Rhaenyra had not even granted him a pocket borough to allow him into Parliament – that was given to her fool of a son who only rarely attended his duties.

“Even without the title, you are still an important man in the county. Kingswood is a large and profitable estate, and you command great respect from all.”

The empathy in Otto’s voice grated at Aemond. He, too, was a second son who stood to inherit only what his elder sibling would give him. But he could not truly understand; their situations were far too different. Otto had never come nearly as close as Aemond did to the title. It had been so close he could still feel its phantom presence upon his shoulder.

He stared at his reflection in his glass, elongated and deformed by the curved glass. “I still fail to see what benefits a wife would bring me.”

“A proper wife, a wife of good breeding, would enhance your reputation, grant you new allies, and perhaps even expand your holdings.” His grandfather hesitated before continuing, the only indication of his nerves the tightness in his raised brow. “The right match may even bring a title for your children to inherit.”

Aemond set his glass down with such force that it shattered under his hand, shards digging into his palm. It was a welcome distraction. “Nothing I cannot obtain myself.” Save, perhaps, the title. But he knew better to hope for what was impossible.

Otto was silent a while, sipping on his drink. Daeron did not dare disturb the silence. He’d been witness to this fight before. Aemond knew that in only a few more moments, his younger brother would awkwardly raise a different topic, and they could finally move past this particular subject.

But it was not Daeron who broke the silence. It was Otto.

“If you will not accept a wife for advantage, perhaps you will consider the personal benefits?” He looked at his grandson with an affection Aemond had not seen in years. “This estate is in desperate need of a lady’s presence.”

“We have Helaena,” Daeron whispered.

“Yes, but she lives in her own world, and I have no desire to force her into a role she does not want.” He turned back to Aemond, who steadfastly ignored him in favor of picking bits of glass out of his palm. “But we would all benefit from that role being filled.”

Aemond wrapped his handkerchief around his hand, tying it tight enough to stem the bleeding.

“I am not asking you to love the girl, Aemond. Love in marriage is rare, after all.” Otto’s voice faltered. He had experienced love in his marriage, though he rarely talked about their late grandmother. It was better that way, Aemond told himself. Hearing those love stories made his stomach roil. “But would it not be pleasant to have someone by your side? To help manage the estate and ease the burden on your shoulders? She could read to you, sing for you, play that pianoforte that has been collecting dust for years. She could decorate the house, maybe even with her own art. The ladies we met tonight were exceptionally accomplished. They could do all that and more.”

Wishing he had not smashed his glass for want of more alcohol, Aemond finally faced his grandfather. “Is that supposed to impress me? That they have grown proficient in what they have been trained in their entire lives?” He smiled wickedly. “Even the most foolish girl could be trained to do the same.”

“Even that girl we met in Rosby today?”

With his question, Daeron had shattered the argument as if it were a plate of thin glass.

Otto stared at his youngest grandson, then at Aemond, then back again. “What in God’s name were you doing in Rosby?”

“That creature was more beast than girl.” Aemond clenched his fists as he recalled the pitiful thing sprawled on the dirty road, the horrible noises she made, and…

“She was scared, Aemond.” He had never heard Daeron sound angry, yet here it was. “You frightened her.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that.” Aemond dug a finger into the largest cuts on his palm, almost immediately feeling blood soak through the handkerchief. He remembered very well the way the girl had stared at him – at his ruined eye and horrible scar. It was as if she could not believe he was real. Like he was some terrifying monster that had escaped from a book of faerie tales.

Daeron set down his glass, still full, and crossed his arms. “Then you insulted her.”

“I made observations.” He doubted the girl would even perceive his comments as insults, that she had the necessary intellect to do so.

“You called her a wretch and a goose.”

Aemond clenched his jaw in frustration. Why should Daeron care about what he said to some varlet? “I never said she was a goose. I said she sounded like one.”

“A ‘strangled goose,’ if I remember correctly.”

“Semantics.”

“Cruelty.”

Otto slammed his hand into the arm of his chair and stood, his face red with anger and eyes wide with confusion. “Will one of you kindly explain what manner of creature you met in Rosby of all places? And what she or it has to do with Aemond needing a wife?”

“It was nothing,” Aemond insisted. “An unfortunate encounter that has absolutely no bearing on this conversation. Or any conversation.”

“At the market today, Aemond quite literally ran into a poor girl in Rosby who was selling flowers. She was thrown to the ground, her flowers were destroyed, and she was distraught, and Aemond did nothing but dismiss and insult her. He wasn’t even going to reimburse her for the cost of her lost wares.” Daeron stood from the chaise and approached his brother, arms still crossed and eyes hard. “You just declared that ‘even the most foolish girl’ could be trained to act like a well-bred lady.” “Why shouldn’t that be true for that flower girl?”

Aemond snarled, the left corner of his lips twitching upward into a sneer. “I never said it wasn’t. But as I said, she had nothing to do with – ”

“Prove it.”

Both young men snapped their attention to their grandfather, their own argument forgotten.

“What?” Aemond asked. His anger was quickly morphing into something like dread.

Otto approached. There was no longer a trace of anger or confusion on his face, only a delighted smugness that Aemond knew well to fear. “You say any girl can be taught to be a lady. I am asking you to prove it – with that girl from Rosby.”

Daeron barked out a laugh, returning to his sherry and raising it in a toast. “A brilliant idea, grandfather!”

“I can see no reason why I should do such a thing,” Aemond insisted. He was fighting to control his anger and indignation. His jaw was clenched to the point of pain. Perhaps it would shatter like his glass had.

“If it is a reason you are looking for, grandson, I will give it to you.” Though he had no need to, Otto tilted his head back to look down his nose at Aemond. “If you prove that even this pitiful girl you’ve described can indeed be trained to be a proper lady, then I shall never broach the topic of your marriage again. You shall be free to marry whomever you wish or to not marry at all. But only if this wretch from Rosby becomes a passable lady – and not only by our estimation. She must prove herself publicly. The Embassy Ball would be ideal, don’t you think?”

He stepped even closer, forcing his grandson to retreat a step. “But if you cannot, and the poor girl makes a fool of herself, you will marry. I will arrange a match with one of the many fine ladies we saw tonight, and you will marry her within the year. Without protest.”

It was too great a risk, Aemond knew. It was more than likely that he would end up married to a woman he did not love who would upend his perfectly peaceful life.

But there was a chance…

A chance to leave all the countless arguments over his marriage in the past, to never have to hear his grandfather’s nagging again. He could live his life precisely as he wanted, without having to sire heirs he did not want or worry about inheritance. Daeron would be his heir, and his children after him.

Otto knew it, too. He knew he was dangling a feast before a starving man only to lure him into a trap. It was that knowledge, along with the self-satisfied smirk his grandfather wore, that made Aemond’s decision for him.

 “Very well, I accept.” He extended a hand to seal the wager.

As his grandfather shook his hand, Aemond could not help but feel as though he had made the worst decision of his life.

[bonniebird]

Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

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Your hands shook as the flame lept to the paper and consumed it. Eyes watering as you pulled back and stared into the fire. The flames that danced over the small chunks of chopped wood did little to warm the cold hearth of Aemond’s room. The letter had been troubling at best.

Aemond had demanded that you write to your parents and have them swear fealty to Aegon. Instead of an oath of fealty, they had replied with pleas to have you home and away from war. As their only child and heir, they would pay whatever they had to, to have you return. After a few attempts to find an excuse to return to your parents, it quickly became clear that Aemond would never allow it, that Alicent and Otto relied on you to make Aemond Malleable to what they wanted and that Aegon, who cared little if you came or went, would bend to the whims of his family so that even he was keeping you from going home. 

It had been years since you’d been home. Over the years your parents visited but in truth you hadn’t been back to your family’s keep since you were young. As the king had grown sicker, your parents decided to leave King’s Landing. They had begged you to return with them but you had been young and foolishly sure that you would be fine. You were beginning to wish that you had returned with them despite not being able to admit it to yourself. When you had been a child you’d been so excited to see the King’s family and the dragons. Your father had been weary when you asked to attend a name day celebration for Aegon. His tenth name day though in truth you were so excited about being allowed to attend that you couldn’t really recall how old he’d been.

You’d been young and excitable then and Aemond seemed to like you immediately. You both enjoyed reading and history, both found yourself shyly on the outskirts of the royal family. It wasn’t hard for you to quickly bond with Aemond who appeared quite enamoured with you. Your mother encouraged your friendship, he was a prince after all, what better option could your parents find for their daughter? Though as he got older your mother began to encourage you to distance yourself. In your youthful arrogance, you ignored the warnings until it was too late.

“My lady?” One of your maids said as she stopped at the door. You turned to her and smiled as you got to your feet.

“Has Aemond returned?” You asked quickly. She looked down at the floor and shook her head.

“No, my lady. The dowager queen asks for you.” The girl said quickly. She was a new maid. One that was found to have no ties to Rhaenyra and the maids before Viserys passed. She was quite skittish but to your good fortune. Gullible.

“Send my apologies. I do not feel well. Ask her if it can wait till morning. I would not wish to make her or the queen sick at a time such as this.” You said quickly and threw in a dramatic sigh and a clutching of your belly for good measure. The maid nodded and curtsied clumsily as she hurried from the room. As soon as the door closed you darted around the room. Everyone would expect you to return to your rooms and rest so with quick hands you grabbed at the scattered gold coins that Aemond left tossed around on tables and chairs. Hiding the coins in the skirts of your dress while trying to look sickly you shuffled to your room. There were few guards and when you did pass one on patrol you gave a heavy cough and a sigh. It did the trick as the nervous-looking man eyed you dubiously and decided to rush past instead of stopping you. As soon as you reached your rooms you rushed to the wall beside your bed. Digging your fingertips into the wall you pulled at a large loose stone to reveal a small bag of supplies that you had been gathering. Some dried fruit and meat, coin, a map and a change of clothes. You quickly changed as best you could without the help of a maid and hurried to find your cloak. It was a dark heavy fabric and the hood fell over your face enough to obscure it but still allow you to see clearly. Looking in the large mirror opposite your bed you smiled. You barely recognised yourself. You looked like a peasant, anyone from Fleabottom, nameless and forgettable. You certainly didn’t look like a lady of the Reach who held the favour of one of the princes of the realm. With a deep breath you turned and grabbed at the bag before pushing between the mirror and the stone statue attached to the wall. Pushing against the wall a small opening slid into sight and you shoved yourself through, making sure to shut the hidden door behind you. Your heart pounded in your chest as you made your way through the unlit corridors. As you moved about the walls of the Keep you could hear people talking to each other. It felt as if they might hear you and catch you at any second. The feeling of anxiety didn’t stop as you finally reached the last door. It was heavy, the old wood cracked and complained as you heaved the door open enough to push through. Hurrying as fast as you could without calling attention to yourself you made your way down into the belly of the city. As you reached the city walls you spotted a man loading up a cart and arguing with someone, a boy clambering into the cart was trying to help him. You recognised the banner attached to the cart. To your good fortune, you wouldn’t have to trek your way home if he would take you.

“A wasted trip!” The man snapped. You smiled at the boy who spotted you and you dug into the coin purse you’d attached to your waist.

“Excuse me, sir.”Your voice stopped the men from arguing and you rolled the coins in your hand so they made a tinkling, scraping sound. The man's eyes darted to your hand and his tongue flicked over his lips. “How far are you travelling?”

“Goldengrove. I go no further.” The man grunted. You opened your hand to reveal the small clutch of gold.

“Would this be enough for me to ride with you?” You asked and watched him carefully. The man took one of the coins and bit it. Then after a moment, he nodded.

“Won't be able to feed you.” He said back in the same gruff way.

“I have my own coin for that. Thank you.” You answered quickly and the man helped you onto the cart next to the boy who was sitting on a small bench-like chest that was attached to the wagon.

***********************

Aemond swung his cloak off his shoulder and stopped. Looking around he inspected the room for your shape. Surely you had fallen asleep waiting for him to return on Vhagar and the candles had died down. You always waited for him to return. One of his mother’s maids came in with food and set it down on the table before turning to leave.

“Where is (Y/N)?” He asked and she paused.

“Lady (Y/N) was unwell. She was invited to eat with the Dowager queen but felt too ill to join her and decided to rest until morning. A maester has been asked to check on Lady (Y/N) in the morning.” The maid explained. Aemond nodded and waved a careless hand her way deciding that he would leave you until morning. 

Aemond made sure to head to your rooms once he had eaten breakfast only to have Cole hurry to him and insist that Aemond follow him to the council room. When Aemond finally made his way to your chambers it was late in the afternoon. Panic stuck in his throat when he found your bed untouched. Storming from the room he hurried to find his mother.

“I have been to (Y/N)’s rooms.” Aemond said Alicent looked as if she were happy to have her talk with Otto interrupted and gave a slight smile as if little in the world still gave her joy but you were one of those things.

“Is she well? I have been unable to visit with her yet and the Maester has not been able to update me…” Alicent frowned when Aemond gave her a stern look.

“So she is not with you?” He barked out and turned. “What do you mean? She was unwell and went to bed.” Alicent insisted. Aemond ignored her but could hear the way she rushed after him. 

“I will go and speak with the maester.” Otto said. He’d never liked you. You’d always been to fascinated with the realm one day having a queen, with dragons and had admired wives of the conqueror far too much for his liking.

It was late evening when everyone gathered. Otto was first to put forward betrayal but Aemond wouldn’t hear of it. Alicent returned last, having gone to the Sept hoping you were there. With both Alicent and Aemond convinced that you were loyal, Aegon gave his blessing for the city to be searched. That night King’s Landing did not rest. Aemond’s wroth over an imagined thief taking his companion fuelled his fury. After two days of searching all Aemond could find was a man who swore that you paid gold to leave the city and a slip of paper burned in his fireplace with the words home in delicate writing. No one could stop Aemond from abandoning his post as the city’s protector and flying to the Reach. 

***************

With exhaustion, you ate the last of your supplies. There was no enthusiasm at staving off your hunger and you found yourself grateful that you only had a few more miles to walk. The man with the cart had been as good as his word and taken you to Goldengrove. You expected him to turf you off his cart and go about his business but he and his boy seemed to have taken a shine to you as you travelled and he had sent the boy to a friend to see if they were travelling any nearer your family’s keep. To your good fortune, he was and you were more than grateful to find that you would only have to walk half the night and through the day before you would reach home. You informed the man that he and his friend would be owed a favour by your father before climbing onto the second cart. You had to sit with several farm animals that eyed you dubiously as you squashed yourself into the back of the cart. But when the man had helped you down and pointed out a shortcut that would take you through the familiar village that belonged to your father you had felt a sense of relief. Suddenly the sky above you shook and echoed with a bone-chilling screech. Your first reaction was to duck down only to panic more when a strong gust began miles above your head. Through your panic the urge to dive off the dirt road you were following and out of sight among the trees took over. Once hidden among the trees you looked up and saw the great shadowed shape of Vhagar. Despite the fact that there was no way anyone could hear you over the furious beast, your trembling hand pressed over your mouth to stifle a shaky tearful breath that ripped at your throat. It had been days. You were so close to home. Had he found you? Was he planning to land nearby and rip his way through the woods to find you? Your knees buckled and you collapsed down onto them with a grunt, leaning against a tree which you gripped with your free arm as if it were the only thing in the world that could keep you steady. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. But when you found yourself able to stand the sky was darkening and the sounds of the dragon had finally drifted away. It began to rain as you continued the last part of your journey. Half expecting to come upon your family’s land burned and ruined, Aemond waiting for you to ply him with begging and tears. To your surprise, no one seemed bothered by the dragon’s presence. Your cloak was pulled over your face so even the few familiar villagers that you passed by as you finally reached the village didn’t recognise you. Though you wondered if they would recognise you now. You’d been away so long. A group of villagers were carrying large bundles up to the keep and you found it easy to slip in among the group.

“Who knows what the Lord will do.” A voice cut through the crowd. You turned your attention to him and the heavily pregnant woman who carried a basket and hurried alongside him.

“I would be furious. If the royal house lost my child. How do you lose a girl in such a place.” The woman tutted and rested her hand on the swell of her belly.

“That prince did look rather fierce. Thinks she’s been stolen.” The man said back. You stopped listening then, not wanting to hear anymore. Through the rain, the great looming shape of your family’s keep came into view. Letting out a shaky sigh of relief you allowed yourself to look up at the beautiful building and take it in, causing your cloak to fall back a little.

******************

“I know she is here!” Aemond shouted. His hand slammed down on the table and the Lord’s wife glanced at her husband.

“I assure you. She is not here. If my daughter was in my own keep I would know it.” Your father said firmly. He was giving Aemond little information and it infuriated the prince to now end.

“Then where is she?” He demanded.

“We entrusted her to your mother’s care. She assured us that (Y/N) would be safe. If she is gone, that is not our…” The words your mother spat out were cut off by Aemond whipping his attention to her and your father standing to hide your mother behind him to break the prince’s stare.

“Perhaps you should return to King’s Landing. She may have returned.” Your father said through gritted teeth. Aemond grumbled under his breath and stormed out of the hall. He jogged down the large steps that led to the entrance of the keep and shoved past a man carrying a load.

“Careful my prince!” A pregnant woman said. From the corner of Aemond’s eye, he saw a hooded figure who had been looking up at the ugly old building snap their head towards him and then scramble to cover their face with their hood. Aemond glanced at them but saw only a familiar-looking peasant. As he walked away and the group headed inside he froze, frowned as he poured over the reasons a peasant would be familiar and turned back to the keep. The doors were being shut as if to send a firm signal that he wasn’t wanted. Staring at the door he was more than certain that he knew exactly who the peasant was. He returned to Vhagar, taking supplies from her saddle and setting up a makeshift camp among the thicker growth of trees near the keep. 

He waited until the later hours of the evening before returning. Watching carefully he found a way into the keep thanks to a few careless men who had gathered outside near a side door that they left unlocked and unguarded. Aemond made quick work of finding his way through the keep. He was cautious and quick. Despite Vhagar still being nearby there was a lack of guards that made the journey easy.

************

“I do not care what your father says. I am overjoyed to have you home.” Your mother said as you walked together to your room. 

“He is right though. The way I left… he will have no choice but to side with Aegon.” You muttered and she sighed as you reached the door to your room. It gave you a heart-warming comfort. You had been so fond of the room before you left for King’s Landing. You hadn’t truly realised how much you had missed home.

“You cannot worry now. Besides, You are your father’s heir. You will be the lady of this keep and no matter what you do, he loves you.” Your mother said and gripped your hand. She smiled and kissed your temple before letting you retreat to your room. The maids you hadn’t seen since you were young had clearly been in the room. I had been carefully prepared for you. Someone had even fetched a bundle of your favourite flowers and set them in a vase. You felt a pang of guilt when you realised that you couldn’t recall all their names. They had laid out a nightgown as well as a bowl of warm water and a cloth for you. The large bed had been made for you and your aching body screamed at you to lay down for a moment. Before you changed or washed you did just that, throwing yourself face down onto the soft bed and letting your body sink into the mattress as your eyes fell shut. 

There was a prickling at the back of your neck that you couldn’t place. It tingled down your spine and you shivered a little as if trying to shake off the feeling. A heavy warm hand settled on your back as the mattress dipped causing your body to freeze up.

“Did you think I would not notice your absence?” Aemond said. He spoke in his gentle way that was a warning, like an angry dog showing their teeth before they snapped. “You humiliated my family by running away as if we held you captive.”

Turning your head without getting up you slowly opened your eyes. Aemond wasn’t looking at you, instead staring across the room as if he were uninterested. You took a deep shaky breath and pushed yourself up. The movement drew Aemond’s attention to you and his hand grabbed at your arm to stop you from pulling away.

“I… I had to come home.” You said slowly and avoided looking at Aemond.

“You ran! Because you and your family are traitors!” Aemond hissed out suddenly and yanked you towards him as he stood you put a hand out to slow yourself as you collided with him. 

“I… I needed to come home and you would have never let me. You would have insisted that I stay.” You offered as an excuse. You couldn’t very well admit that your father wished to refuse to take a side and that if he were to pick one, it wouldn’t be Aegon that he sided with. 

“Because your father sides with Rhaenyra. You should stay with me!” Aemond raised his voice and there was a sound in the hall as if someone was rushing to the door and stopping just outside.

“I will not stand by and watch you all make war and I certainly will not be part of it.” You insisted and tried to pull yourself from his grip. It tightened, his hand squeezing your arm painfully. There was a distant shout and rattling of people getting weapons out in the courtyard. 

“You will return with me or I will burn this keep to the ground!” Aemond seethed. You had never seen him so angry before. At least this kind of rage had never been aimed at you. Shaking your head you felt tears well in your eyes as his fingers dug deeper into your arm.

“No! I am heir to this keep and… I must stay for my parents.” You insisted. Aemond looked at you coldly before letting you go, taking a step back. 

“Then you will burn with your family.” He spoke as if the years you spent together meant nothing. As if you hadn’t been his one and only friend for almost all of your lives. He left the room, making it clear he had an escape plan, as tears began to spill down your cheeks. Sitting on the side of your bed you took in a shaky breath and realised that when the King died everything had changed, not just who was sitting the throne.

You told your mother what had happened the next morning. Neither of you dared tell your father who was fool enough to defend both of you against a dragon. 

“What will you do?” Your mother asked as you sat together in the great hall of the keep. Before you could answer her your father entered the room looking worried, holding a letter in one hand.

“I do not think I have a choice.” You answered with a slow sigh. She nodded and reached for your hand gripping it tightly. “Father?”

“I… I.” He stuttered and held the paper out for your mother. You swallowed a lump of anxiety that rose when you saw the green seal. “If we do not give you to him… He…”

“Will burn down the keep.” You finished for him. You watched your father sink down into his seat with a heavy groan.

“We do not have enough men to take up arms with those Daemon had summoned for Rhaenyra. Certainly, we can’t hold our own against that great beast out there in our woods.” Your father admitted. He stared down at the table that had held the meals of generations of your family over the years and slowly closed his eyes as he realised how dire the situation was.

“Maybe going back with him will lessen his rage.” You said slowly. Your mother shook her head immediately and began to disagree but your father simply stared down at the table as if he hadn’t heard you.

“Say something!” Your mother begged when nothing she said could change your mind.

“Well! Without taking all of our people and fleeing to Dragonstone and begging for the queen's mercy I can’t see what we can do! We can risk our lives all we like but we have people that need to be tended to.” Your father shouted back. It was rare for him to raise his voice and your mother looked as equally surprised as you felt.

“Our only child!” She said quietly and he stood from the table so abruptly that the chair fell back.

“You think I don’t know! You think this sits well with me? You think I would not change it if I could? He will be here shortly to hear our decision. We need to sneak out a message asking for help… perhaps if we go along with what he wants we will have a chance.” Your father said desperately. Your father walked around the table to your mother to embrace her. She fought him at first but fell into him as they held each other.

“That is what we will do then. I will go. You will flee to Dragonstone if you can.” You said quietly and looked down at your hands as you leaned back in your seat.

“(Y/N).” Your mother said in a quiet sob against your father who held her tightly.

“Will you send my things to King’s Landing? I… will try to send letters when I can.” You were trying to be brave and unwavering but your voice trembled as you stood and looked at your frightened parents. Almost throwing herself from your father’s arms your mother tangled herself around you and whispered comforts.

Your father gathered some of his most loyal men and instructed them of his plans while your mother clung onto you as if she thought she would never see you again despite insisting otherwise. All too soon the sound of Vhagar rumbled overhead like a dreadful thunderstorm, shaking the ground as she landed.

[suhnandmoon]

stupid for you

chapter twelve: otto danielle wood.

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

summary: college radio show host, park sunghoon, and his friends are struggling to get callers for their weekly advice segment on hybe radio. what happens when jake tells the girl that sunghoon is interested in to call and anonymously ask for relationship advice (that just so happens to be about sunghoon himself)?

genre: radio show host au, unserious, pining, fluff

notes: this has to be one of my favorite chapters of s4u. but when i tell u these tiktok screenshots take forever to make.

prev / masterlist / next

taglist: (open) @isabellah29 @sweetiejaeyun @onlyhyunjin @i03jae @hoteldelyoona

@charlizefaye @isa942572 @heegyuwrld @junnysbae @getoxo

@sumzysworld @ppeachyttae @sol3chu @ladyartemesia @stormy1408

@bee-the-loser @norihoyeon @conwunder @jiiyen @mimismenu

@doublebunv

[annwrites]

⸻ one in the same. part two.

· pairing: otto hightower x bastardtargfem!reader · type: part of a series · summary: otto comes to the library for a bit of solitude, but finds you there instead. · word count: 2,185

You jump when you hear the heavy doors to the library firmly shut. Solid footsteps then echo across the marble floor.

You remain quiet, silently stepping, then peering around the corner of a large bookshelf, greeted by the sight of Ser Otto lying his palms flat atop a cherry-wood table, sighing, closing his eyes, shoulders slumping forward slightly, as if out of exhaustion.

You've been thankful more times than you can count for your lack of involvement in politics. Rhaenyra can have the throne—she is most welcome to it. You, meanwhile, are more than content in your books and embroidery, long walks and peacefully wading through the clear waters of the Blackwater beneath the Keep, accompanied by none other than yourself.

Let the men have at it, you say.

You clutch your book close to your chest, heart pounding, as you realize this is the first time you've ever spied on the older man.

He has seemed rather busy—perhaps even distracted, as of late—since Rhaenyra's appointment as your father's heir, and Daemon's fleeing to Dragonstone.

You had not been sad to see your half-uncle go, however. He had always made you uncomfortable with his lingering gazes and double-edged jests that you'd always pretended to be too ignorant to understand, so you would not have to acknowledge the things he was really saying.

Otto lifts his head then, and you quickly step back around the corner, carefully sliding your book back into place upon the shelf before you, listening as he comes closer.

You don't know why you feel the need to hide, but there's something exciting about it—you being aware of him, but not him of you.

You wonder how many times it has been the other way around. What all it is, exactly, that he knows about you.

You silently slide another book from the shelf, watching him through the empty space as he peruses the expansive selection of literature before him. He turns, so you quickly duck as he finds the tome he had come for, heading back to the table. He then retrieves a map, unrolling it, settling weights upon each corner, and your lip twitches.

What you're doing feels so...forbidden. Gazing upon him like this. All alone.

Just the two of you.

Your eyes trail along his lean frame—his black cloak, lined with fur, his green tunic, the sword at his side. You briefly wonder how adept he is at using it. Or, at the very least, once was. You try to imagine it: him with a weapon in-hand, cutting down a foe, but struggle to conjure such an image within your mind's eye.

You bite back a smirk when you consider trying to scare him. It would be all-too easy. You don't think he would take too kindly to that, however. You still have yet to learn where it is, exactly, that the two of you stand.

After that day in the Sept, when he had offered you consolation, you'd thought of him...rather often. And with a newfound warmth, which unsettled you. For years you had loathed him, had felt nothing but such sentiments toward him, and had never believed you would feel anything other than. Until you did.

You'd hardly spoken since, however. You'd passed one another in the halls—nothing remarkable to speak of ever occurring between the two of you, though. You did not so much as acknowledge the other when you did. But once or twice, his hand had brushed against yours, and when you glanced over your shoulder, watching him go, his steps never faltered; his own head did not turn.

But, once, his hand had flexed down at his side—long fingers stretching—before forming a fist as he disappeared round a corner, leaving you staring after him.

You roll your eyes, quickly tiring of watching him do nothing but read and plot, and grab a random book and a small step-stool before settling the object before a window, climbing up, seating yourself, and leaning back against the colored pane.

Otto's head jerks up and in your direction, only now realizing that he is not alone.

"My Lady," his low voice drawls.

You glance up to him from your novel with a raised brow. "Ser Otto," you reply before looking back down.

You feel his eyes remaining upon you, but pretend to ignore it as you flip the page, not even aware of whatever it is that you're reading, unable to concentrate on much else but the sensation of him watching you.

He slowly walks toward you, hands behind his back. "You did not make me aware of your presence."

"Should I have?" You ask, turning another page. "I was here first, after all."

He shakes his head. "Were you?"

You look up to him. And then you catch onto his sarcasm and your lip twitches. "I suppose you have been here for a very long time."

He glances down to the book in your lap, not taking the bait. "May I?"

You shrug, offering it to him and he takes it, holding it between his hands. "Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood. An accounting of the fall of Sarnor, if I recall. A particular interest of yours?" He looks to you from under his lashes with a raised brow.

You flush. You should've bothered looking at the spine before just grabbing the first book you saw.

He hands it back to you. "I see the septa's teachings have become more encompassing."

You close the book, looking toward his makeshift-desk for the afternoon. "And what are you working on, I wonder?"

You hop down, walking over, leaving your book behind.

He folds his arms behind his back, standing straight, watching as you analyze the map spread across the tabletop.

"Do you know how to read a map, My Lady?"

You roll your eyes at his doubtful tone. "Yes," you lie.

He hums. "Show me where we are currently located, then."

Great.

You stare dumbly at the colored drawings of green and blue and brown and white, refusing to admit that you have no idea where to even guess at being.

"Do you need a hint?" He asks, stepping closer.

You frown. "So, I'm not versed in geography. I wouldn't need to be anyway, considering I've never been outside of King's Landing." Or the Red Keep, really.

He points to a place on the left side of the map, toward the bottom of a large splotch of green. "Here."

"Where is Oldtown?" You ask.

You don't see the small smile that graces his lips when he indicates its position next.

You nod, glancing to the heavy, dusty tome to your left. You then turn, looking up at Otto as you lean back against the table. "Maps and plotting. Do I need to be worried?"

He pulls out a chair, seating himself.

It's when he leans back, folding his hands over his abdomen—the sunlight from the window casting shadows across his face—that you realize just how exhausted he looks. It seemed to be his permanent expression now.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with, My Lady. Things will...eventually be well in-hand in time, I'm sure."

You sigh. "You don't have to refer to me by my title each time we converse. Just so you are aware."

He looks up at you. "What would you prefer?"

You clasp your hands before you. "My given name is just as well."

He considers your request for a moment. "Only when we are alone, then."

You nod. "And you?"

"Otto is fine."

You look over your shoulder toward the map. "Will you not tell me, Otto?"

It feels so incredibly strange to not preface his name with 'Ser'.

He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. "What I speak of to you remains between us."

Who else would you have to tell? "Of course."

He looks to the map. "The continent where we are located, do you see—at the bottom—the broken pieces of land leading east?"

You turn, planting your palms atop the table. "Yes."

He stands then, closely, his side pressed against your own as he gestures to them. "They are known as the Stepstones. There is a triarchy of free cities—Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh," he points to each, "that have invaded the area. Initially, we had thought they'd brought an end to a problem for many. Corsairs and outlaws—a troublesome danger—have impacted trade and travel between us and Essos for many a year now, which they took swift and sudden action against some time ago.

"But they have, slowly, become what they set out to destroy, however: yet another foe toward those who are meant to be their allies. They've imposed taxes and tariffs that have risen to unthinkable levels. I fear war is afoot if an agreement can not be settled upon in due time."

You don't like the sound of that: war.

"Will...will they come here, if fighting does commence?"

He shakes his head. "I doubt it. They would be ignorant to try."

You chew your lip. "What do you plan to do?"

He places his hand against the small of your back. "Let us speak no more of this. I do not wish for you to trouble yourself with political matters. Things will be handled duly, I am sure of it."

You agree easily. "Where is Highgarden?"

He indicates with his index finger a place not terribly far from Oldtown. "Why do you ask, Y/N?"

You shrug. "I've wondered about many places, since I have seen none," you reply quietly.

He faces you. "Where would you go, then, if you had the choice? Anywhere in the Known World." He pauses. "Highgarden?"

You smile, nodding gently. "I think it would be my first destination, yes."

"And why is that?"

You look up at him. He may mock you for your response. If so, you'll take your leave.

"I only know what I have read; seen in paintings. It seems something from a fairytale."

"I dare say it is."

His hand brushes against yours. "Is that all?"

You shrug. "I know women are not allowed, but I find the Citadel to be fascinating. All those books and scrolls..."

You then glance to the small pendant of the Hightower that is pinned to his chest. "Do you think I would like it there?" You ask, looking up to him.

He raises a brow.

You nod toward his pin.

He gives a small smile. "You can see clear across the Sunset Sea the closer you are to the top of the structure. So I dare say, yes, you would."

You walk to a bookshelf, browsing. "Do you miss it?"

"My brother at times, perhaps. I am thankful for my high room here, however. It reminds me of home."

You smile to yourself at that. "Were you frightened when King Jaehaerys summoned you as his new Hand?"

"No. Not in the least. Honored the more fitting sentiment for my reaction to such an appointment."

You reach up, standing on tip-toes for a book on a high shelf, then huff when you do not even come close to reaching it.

Otto rounds the table, then watches with a frown as you jump in a poor attempt at retrieving it, your long curls bouncing.

He presses himself to your back as he grabs it with ease, lowering it to you. "Is it truly so difficult to ask for aid, My—" He pauses. "Y/N."

You turn around, your chest pressed to his as you stare up, into hues of green. "I could say the same to you."

He settles his arms behind his back. "And how might that be?"

"You don't have to carry it alone: everything that weighs upon you. You needn't place all the Realm upon your shoulders—"

"Because you—or I, for that fact—are so adept at...sharing ourselves. Our innermost thoughts. Turmoil."

You blink up at him. "I did—that day in the Sept. I believe you did as well, when we discussed matters of faith, or lack thereof."

He steps away. "Hard truths are not often easy to share. Particularly with those we are still yet...unfamiliar with."

You raise a brow. "I hardly can be expected to believe that I am unfamiliar to you."

He looks down to the map once again, placing figures upon it, then rearranging. "I do not know what it is that you mean to imply."

You snort lightly, which causes him to look at you.

"You have never had me spied upon, then? I remember some years ago, when I bloomed into...womanhood, a sudden change in my servants. Each and every one. It has only been mere speculation on my part, but I always suspected you had a hand in it."

He shrugs. "Mere conjecture."

Gods, he's so frustrating.

He speaks again. "And now you have spied upon me, hiding between rows of books. Mayhaps we are even?"

You smirk, stepping up to the other side of the table, across from him. "Not even close, Ser."

[gwaynewantstofuckcriston]

I owe you - Criston Cole x Gwayne Hightower

Explicit, mlm, oral sex, angst, set after 2x03, enemies to lovers, fast burn, open ending.

Criston yanked off his armor, the squire attending him. He was pissed. Beyond pissed. Alicent had sent him her uppity green boy of a brother to babysit him. It wounded him, down deep. He was already stressed beyond relief, and Aegon impulsively appointed Criston as hand. Just the icing on the lemon cake. He sent his squire off with an aggravated hand.

Gwayne was quiet since they’d hidden in the woods, their encampment having to hide under the cover of night, almost getting burnt by Daemon’s spawn on a dragon. The fool was going to a fucking inn. An inn for fucks sake, was he daft or just that self-absorbed?

The beleaguered man couldn’t bring himself to be that angry at Alicent, her control was slipping more and more every day. He thumbed her favor, inhaling it before tucking it away. Criston’s dark eyes cast to his sullied cloak, lips turning down. His thoughts were dark, swirling, and hard to define. It made him angry, full of rage.

Must he be so weak of heart all the time? Failing his duties yet getting promoted to a position he couldn’t possibly execute, but he took it, Criston always took it from the crown he served. His leg was tapping restlessly, hands clenching and unclenching.

Perhaps Alicent was right. They were cursed and doomed. What even was honor or duty these days? He took off his undershirt and pants, washing himself with the small basin of water they collected. No amount of water or scrubbing would scrape the filth from his body.

Common, half-dornish, impulsive, lustful filth.

A ruffling of his tent flaps alarmed him, glaring at the sound, brows furrowed. He called out, “Who the fuck is it? I’m not on watch yet.”

A voice replied, the irritating lofty accent of the Hightower fucker. “I’m merely trying to talk, may I enter?” Criston tugged on his breeches, frowning heavily. He growled, “Come in then.”

Gwayne’s light reddish hair entered, his haughty blue eyes gazing at Criston. He looked like Otto in a way, smug looks and smirks. The Marcher grimaced, demanding, “What? I’m trying to get some rest.”

The lordling gave him a look, eyes looking through him, that same smile he bestowed back in King’s Landing. Like he wanted to eat Criston alive…before flipping on a coin to lob insults. He demanded again, voice lowering, “I asked you a question, Ser. What do you need?”

Gwayne’s smirk faltered, his eyes turning downwards. He murmured, “I came to thank you. For saving my ass. I’d seen my nephew's dragon, but never one trying to kill me.” Criston scoffed, “Be prepared for more.” He paused, leveling the younger knight with a look, “You’re quite green aren’t you? Never seen a battle, flouncing around tourneys. Left alone from your father.”

Gwayne’s fairer skin blushed as he protested, “I’m finely trained, I just didn’t expect that. I’m trying to thank you, not argue!” He frowned, eyes gaining that piercing nature of Alicent. Criston stepped forward, sizing up the slim frame of the man.

Hightower as they come, willowy and graceful. Criston could easily take him down.

He laughed bitterly, “You know nothing of spilling blood. I’ve fought in battles before you touched live steel. Fighting off the Dornish.” Gwayne was a little shorter than Criston, swallowing audibly, blue eyes flickering. He couldn’t focus, eyes darting to the older man’s face and bare chest.

“Where’s my apology then, Hightower? So far you’ve come in and stammered, Alicent has more gall than you.”

Gwayne frowned, eyes narrowing as he slowly stated, “I apologize for suggesting such a foolish thing, leaving us exposed. I owe you a debt, Lord Commander.” Criston gripped his shoulder, smirking, “You’d be best to listen if you wish to keep your pretty face.”

The redhead inhaled sharply, pupils expanding. He breathed, “I see how you’ve bewitched my sister.” Criston raised a brow, gripping harder, “Mind yourself.” Gwayne shivered, mouth falling open, his pink lips wet.

Why did he want to force this pretty boy down? Criston was depraved enough. He shoved down his guilt over Alicent, did she even care? He didn’t know.

His breath deepened, studying the lordling. Gwayne stammered, “I can repay the debt some more, let me, you’re so damn tense.” Cole cocked his head, voice darkening, “How will you do that, Hightower? Rub my shoulders? You’re starting to make me think you frequented those pillow houses for men in Oldtown.”

Gwayne inhaled sharply, placing a calloused hand on Criston’s chest, thumbing his gold necklace, cheeks darkening by the second. He made a soft sound as a tan hand slid to the side of his pulsing throat, thumb swiping up and down his rapid pulse point.

“I- I’ll show you things I know sister dearest doesn’t allow. Keeps you on a tight leash doesn’t she,” Gwayne rasped, desperation lacing his voice. He was panting, licking his lips.

“Don’t speak of her grace, she’s not depraved. Fine, show your skills.”

Criston yanked Gwayne by his silly doublet, shoving his lips against the lordling. He growled into the kiss, seeking that dominance he’d been denied. The redhead moaned, sweeter than he’d expected, arching into Criston’s touch.

It felt different, soft lips and tongues, lacking the plushness of the woman Criston had kissed. Gwayne was eager- hands running through Criston’s chest hair and firm pecs. He let Criston lap and bruisingly kiss him, making more soft moans.

He pulled back to ask, “Do you always moan like a whore?”

“Do you always kiss men like you’re starving for it?”

Criston jerked Gwayne’s head back by his hair, biting and kissing at pale, smooth skin. The lordling whined, hands digging into Criston’s waist. He panted, “Want to suck your cock, let me, let me, when’s the last time you had that? You act like you need to fucking cum.”

Criston smirked at the desperate begging, steady hands unbuttoning that doublet, commenting, “You wore this to a battle. Mayhaps you’d be better as my slut in the tent.” He rumbled with dark laughter as Gwayne gasped, heaving with arousal. His pretty pale chest and slim hips were revealed, flushed too.

Gwayne shrugged it off, falling to his knees as Criston backed onto his cot, thickened thighs spread wide, his swollen cock protruding through the pale fabric. Criston watched him with a pensive expression, eyes lingering on swollen lips and the pretty boy’s deft hands, long elegant fingers undoing his pants.

Gwayne mumbled, “Fuck- can’t believe I’m doing this. You’re inside my damn sister on the daily. But she’s not here is she?” Criston felt guilt, growling, “Get to it, I’d rather not dwell on that.” His hand thumbed at Gwayne’s lips, sliding a thick thumb across his wet lips.

Criston hissed as he was eased out of his breeches, throbbing prick thick and heavy. He knew he was a mouthful, long ago before he was bedding prim nobles. Gwayne wanted it, drooling spit on the tip of Criston’s dark cock.

He spat into his lithe hand, wrapping it around the girth, lashes fluttering as he blabbed, “You’re a thick one.” Criston breathed through his nose, shuddering when a hot, wet mouth enveloped his recently neglected prick. He let his head fall back, moaning lowly, hand gripping reddish waves.

The younger Hightower was eager, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing eagerly, hand moving in tandem as he sloppily drooled more. Criston shivered again, tightening his grip, moaning again. Fuck this was delicious. Bastard had a mouth on him.

Gwayne slipped his other hand down to the cup and squeezed gently at his sack, a thumb sliding across the seam, Criston gasping in surprise. The lordling smirked, flicking his tongue playfully, pulling the skin back as he lathered attention on the cockhead.

“Ahh- fuck- you’re wicked,” Criston breathed, pathetically trying to control his voice, finding it to pitch up as his ecstasy increased. His thighs were twitching, belly tight. Gwayne merely moaned like a slut, the vibrations sending the older knight reeling again. Gwayne’s blue eyes watched him, teary and pretty, lashes wet and clumped.

He swallowed down more of Criston’s cock, slick, slick drool sliding down to coat his sensitive balls. Gwayne merely thumbed and rubbed gently, Criston losing his edge, scrunching his face closed, mouth wide open.

He leaned back, overwhelmed, elbows feebly keeping the marcher upright as his current nuisance was eagerly shoving cock down his throat and whining like he was going to come. Criston’s back was arching as he panted, moans slipping from his wet lips.

He wanted to kiss more and was already thinking of fucking the pretty slip between his thighs into the ground.

“I- I’m close, Gwayne I’m close,” he warned, voice tight and eyes watering, hand pulling some.

The redhead eyed him again, eyes conveying for Criston to shut up. He sped his movement up, the noises obscene. Choked whimpering spilled from Gwayne’s stretched lips. His throat was wet and tight, flexing and swallowing. The lithe hand caressing Criston’s balls shifted, two of his long fingers sliding back.

The marcher looked at him wildly, Gwayne shaking his head, raising a brow. That little fox was NOT getting his hand near his ass. Maybe. Criston eased back, huffing again as his body was trembling, muscles drawing tight as ecstasy flowed through his tired body.

Curious fingers pressed upwards, into the soft spot behind his sack. Criston seized with a grunt, biting his lip as he swallowed down a pathetic noise, tiny whines leaving his lips. It was emasculating at how he was reduced to feminine trembling and spread thighs, the orgasm forcing him into submission. He pumped his thick load down the man’s throat, Gwayne swallowing eagerly, greedy with it.

He lathered attention until the marcher gasped, “Ah, no more, you’ve paid your debt, gods.”

Gwayne pulled off with a wet pop, grinning with swollen wet lips, lapping some spit from the corner of his mouth. He moaned, “Cat’s out the bag I guess, I like sucking cock. I like sucking yours, Lord Commander.” He patted Criston’s thigh, smug with his talented efforts.

The Lord Commander was exhausted, eyes lidded as he regarded Gwayne. He yawned, “Quite the cocksucker, with and without one in your mouth. What was that shite you pulled on me at the end?”

Gwayne leaned forward placing his arms on the older man’s legs. He smirked, haughtily humming, “Such a pity. Stuck to doing whatever your master tells you. It’s a good spot in your ass, makes a man twice your size squeal like a maiden.”

“Now, does Otto know your predilections?”

Gwayne shrugged, “He was away, focused on my sister getting on the rotted King’s lap. I grew up without stress or constant eyes, doing as I pleased. You’d benefit. Already more relaxed out here. Besides dragons and a war.”

Criston felt his chest tighten at the hard truth. The Red Keep was a prison, coated in gleaming paint. He grumbled, “You come?” Criston felt lethargic, lazily beckoning the knight.

“No, was pretty close,” he breathlessly laughed.

Gwayne crawled upwards, Criston watching him with a strange expression as the younger sat atop his thighs. Gwayne remained silent for once, blue meeting black. His hand slowly pulled at the strings on his breeches, waiting for a rebuttal.

“Don’t come on me. Take care of yourself, too pretty not to watch.”

Gwayne retorted, “Pull my cock or finger myself, my lord?” He grinned at the aghast look on Criston’s face, eyes wide, brows firmly set in surprise. He stammered, “I- just do what you want, make it quick.”

The lordling searched around, looking for some sort of grease or oil. He found a small jar of scented oil, raising a brow, teasing, “Did you nick this off my sister?” Criston smacked his thigh, frowning.

Gwayne poured a bit into his hand, setting the little jar back down. He slathered his pink cock, already ruddy and flushed from arousal, lips lax at the pleasure. Criston nipped his lip, taking in the sight. He growled, “Be a bit quieter, will you?”

Gwayne nodded, fisting himself rapidly, breath coming fast and hard. He whimpered softly, squirming as his hand teased the underside of the tip. The Hightower lad’s other hand slid back, massaging that spot he spoke of, lashes fluttering as he moaned helplessly, sweating.

The marcher couldn’t help but be enamored. Those damn siblings would kill him. Kill him. If the war didn’t first. He placed a hand on Gwayne’s slim thigh, gripping the meager flesh on the inside.

“Fuck- please- good,” Hightower panted.

Criston gripped his slim hip, eyes boring into blue, murmuring, “You’re shameless.”

Gwayne frantically looked for his tunic, grabbing it as he whimpered and shook, riding his fingers instead of working his cock before covering his prick with green. Criston smirked, the knight falling apart, thin chest heaving as he whimpered, shaking from head to toe as he emptied into the tunic.

The younger fell to his side, panting as he rolled on his back, Criston smirking, pleased with the submissive nature of Gwayne. He looked over, rumbling, “Consider this debt nonsense over. I’m expecting I’ll save your ass soon.”

Gwayne laughed breathlessly, eyes warm. He replied, “Eh, you’ll be seeking me out. Let me gather myself for a moment, don’t want to look too much of a mess.” He snorted, eyes on his soiled tunic.

Criston felt too tired to kick out the lad, eyes closing. He hummed, “Sure. Let me sleep and be gone in the morn, we have more to travel before sunrise.” He shoved the smaller man aside, rolling onto his side. The redhead smirked, moving over, stretching in satisfaction.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Eyes Black Like an Animal

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, smut, choking, degradation, rough sex. Word count: ~1.6k

Summary: When Daemon returns covered in blood from his duties as Commander of the City Watch, his wife requests that he uses her to ease his anger. Based on this request.

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The steam from the bath she has had the chambermaid prepare curls upwards from the water, dampening the bare skin of her neck as she leans over it to pour in the scented oils, the precise ones she knows Daemon likes.

This is their nightly routine. He will be back from his duties as commander of the City Watch soon and, ever the dutiful wife, she always has a bath awaiting him, so that he can wash away the grime of the city.

The heavy wood of the door to their chambers slams loudly against the stone wall, the noise echoing off of the vaulted ceilings, causing her to startle. Her head snaps up, eyes widening as she takes in the sight of her husband.

He stalks through their apartments, his expression a glower, ichor splattered across his face. His hands are bloodied and there is a darkened stain across the breastplate of his armour. His golden cloak seems to be the only thing that has escaped the gore that decorates him.

Rushing to him, she takes his face in her hands, only to be gently pushed away as quickly as she touches him.

“Leave me,” he says sullenly, unclasping Dark Sister from his sword belt and leaning it against the wall.

“You are hurt,” she protests as her arms drop slowly back to her sides, her brow furrowing in concern.

“It is not my blood,” he snaps, dropping his helmet down onto the settee with a clatter, before striding over to the bathtub and rinsing his hands and face.

She watches the blood float through the water like tendrils of silk, her mind racing with thoughts of the terrible fate someone has likely met at the hands of her husband this evening. When Daemon straightens again his face is clean, but his dark and angry demeanour remains.

“What happened?” She asks gently, eager to reach for him but knowing her touch is the very last thing he wants when he is in this mood.

“I executed justice,” he tells her, drying his face and hands, “but that is not the problem. My brother gave me an army of two thousand men to command, yet his cunt of a Hand feels it is his right to dictate the punishments I see fit to serve.”

There it is; Otto. Daemon’s rivalry with the Hand of the King had been a bitter one ever since Otto had convinced Viserys to remove Daemon from office when he was Master of Coin, and again when he was appointed as Master of Laws.

Daemon has flourished in his new position as commander of the City Watch since being awarded it, yet he is at constant odds with Otto regarding the harsh punishments he exacts on the criminals of King’s Landing.

“He had the audacity to compare me to Maegor the Cruel,” he continues, and she can see the anger within him rising once more as his gaze darkens and his nostrils flare.

She takes a tentative step forward, eager to calm him down, not wanting him to ruin their evening with his foul temper. “My love, you know his words are untrue. Pay him no mind and allow me to help you out of your armour.”

He shakes his head, turning away from her. “You are better off leaving me alone tonight. I have no kindness to offer you.”

Taking another step towards him, she speaks quietly. “What if it is not your kindness that I seek?”

His head lifts, half looking over his shoulder at her as his eyebrow raises in curiosity. “And what is it you do seek?”

She swallows thickly, her pulse racing with a mixture of fear and excitement. “I want your anger, your frustration, all of it. Take it out on me.”

Daemon turns fully, closing the gap between them slowly, a predatory glint in his eye as he looks down at her, leaning in so close that his nose brushes against hers. “Are you fully aware of what it is that you are asking for?” He whispers, his breath fanning hotly against her face.

Her core throbs in anticipation, thoughts of how roughly Daemon manhandles her in the throes of passion swirl in her mind, making her feel lightheaded with lust. “Yes,” is all she is able to utter.

“Very well then.” His hand reaches around the back of her head, grabbing a fistful of her hair and tugging gently so that she is forced to meet his eyes. “And what is it you say should you wish to stop?”

“K–kelītīs,” she stammers, arousal making it feel as though there is fire in her veins.

“Good girl.” He gives her hair another gentle tug, before grasping the back of her neck and pushing her towards the bed. “Lay down. On your back.”

She does exactly as she is told, her chest rising and falling rapidly with the accelerated breaths of her excitement.

Daemon grabs hold of her by the ankles dragging her until her backside just barely rests on the edge of the mattress. Still fully clad in his armour and golden cloak, he reaches for the dagger that remains sheathed upon his sword belt. Her breath hitches as he withdraws it, a shiver running through her body, whether it is from fright or anticipation she is unsure. The Valyrian steel shines in the dull light of the bedchamber and when he brings it down upon the neckline of her nightgown it moves through the material like fingers through spiderwebs.

The dagger rattles with a metallic clink against the flagstone floor as Daemon drops it, pulling open the now two-slashed halves of her cotton shift to reveal her nakedness. A low noise of approval rumbles in his throat, the sound shooting straight between her thighs as she feels wetness gather there.

Daemon’s pupils are blown wide with lust, in the low lighting they appear almost black as he stares hungrily down at her. He leans over her, the coldness of his armour against her bare skin making her gasp. Her nipples pebble at the chilly sensation and, as though fully in tune with her body’s response to him, two of Daemon’s calloused fingers tweak harshly at one of them. It is a pleasurable hurt, one that makes her mewl piteously and arch against him.

“Wanton little thing,” Daemon rasps, “I bet you’re wet already.”

His other hand finds its way between her legs, cupping roughly at her mound before his digits spread through the slickness of her folds. Her hips buck, chasing his touch until he swats between her legs, causing her to yelp, the sensation sending waves of warmth throughout her lower belly.

“Don’t be greedy,” he hisses, pulling away to unfasten his trousers and push down his breeches, freeing his erection. He runs his hand up and down the length of it, eyeing her with an animalistic hunger, the slightest of smirks tugging at his lips as she instinctively parts her legs wider for him.

As he guides himself to her entrance she barely has a moment to adjust before he is pressing forcefully inside, pushing apart her inner walls and stretching her brutally, causing her to cry out.

“Fucking take it!” He spits out, wrapping a hand around her throat, while the other grasps her hip, tugging her violently against him to meet each of his hard thrusts.

She is struck by the imbalance of power; she is bare beneath him, utterly vulnerable, while Daemon remains not just fully clothed, but clad in armour, free to do as he pleases to her. She clenches at the idea, causing him to grunt.

“Such a slut,” he pants, the smack of his thighs against hers becoming more insistent as he quickens his pace, his fingers applying more pressure to the sides of her throat.

She feels lightheaded, the only thing that seems as though it is stopping her from floating away entirely are the harsh, sharp thrusts that meet the end of her, causing her to wail, tears forming in her eyes, before trickling down her cheeks.

As Daemon’s hips begins to falter in their movements, the hand grasping her hip snakes between their bodies, his fingers expertly circling her pearl, causing heat to lick at her lower spine. He presses down more firmly, making faster, tighter movements against her bud and she jolts, sudden warmth crashing over her in waves as she cries out, tightening around him.

With a groan, he stills, leaning over her, pulsating as he spills deep inside of her. For a few moments he does not move, simply hovering over her, careful not to crush her with the weight of his armour.

She feels boneless, weightless, wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and drift into a peaceful, satisfied sleep. But that is not what Daemon has in mind.

As his breathing slows, he lifts himself to look at her, tenderly gripping her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her face towards him so that he can take in the sight of her tear stained cheeks, glassy eyes, and parted lips. The softness is a dissonant juxtaposition from the brutality he displayed just moments ago.

For the first time that evening, his lips find hers and he kisses her, slowly and sensually. She sighs happily into it, enjoying his closeness.

“Thank you”, he murmurs when he eventually pulls away. “Allow me to remove my armour and I will have another bath drawn. This evening we shall bathe together.”

As inviting as sleep seems at this moment, she knows that the offer from her husband is far more appealing.

[louventcavaliersx]

𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐎.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Reader

You've caught the attention of the Rogue Prince. His jealousy burns brightly as he watches you dance with another man who isn't him during the banquet.

fanfiction; short | House of the Dragon

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The night lingered in its youthful embrace, a sumptuous banquet unfolding in jubilation of Aegon's birth, though he held little regard for the babe cradled in Alicent's arms. Numerous esteemed lords and graceful ladies had been summoned to partake in the resplendent revelry. Viserys bore a smile upon his lips, heedless of his lady-wife's veiled unease. How frail Viserys appeared, he pondered silently, before casting his gaze upon the gathered assembly.

And there you stood, elegantly enfolded in a dance with a lord, perchance of House Lannister. You were his lady-wife, bound to him after enduring trials and tribulations. Your father, Otto Hightower, had strived in vain to keep him at bay, yet he remained steadfast in his resolve to reclaim what was rightfully his.

His intense gaze bore into your back, lingering on the sight of you swaying in the arms of another, a figure that was not his own. The spectacle ignited a tempest of jealousy within him, the flames of envy burning bright like a roaring fire in his soul. Oh, how he yearned to sever the lord's hand when it dared to graze your delicate waist.

Daemon simply fixed his unwavering gaze on you, locked in a dance with the lord, pondering in silent contemplation how you could twirl with another while he, your husband, stood before you. His grip on the chair tightened, the wood groaning beneath his fingers, while his enigmatic smirk concealed the seething discontent smoldering in his eyes.

Viserys attempted to engage him in conversation, yet his words fell upon deaf ears as the lord sought to deepen his hold on your waist, a gesture that kindled a fierce determination within Daemon. In that poignant moment, amidst the swirling dance and the murmurs of the crowd, he knew with unwavering certainty that he would reclaim you once more, for you were and always would be his.

[humanpurposes]

It Will Come Back

Chapter 3, Broken Bonds

Two sides of a family fight for their own claims to the Targaryen inheritance. Amongst the endless infighting, forced pleasantries and PR scandals, Jaya Velaryon finds herself face to face with a demon of her past, namely Aemond Targaryen. Love and hate are not emotions easily unlearned.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Jaya Velaryon (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, dark elements, targcest (uncle x niece relationship) toxic family dynamics, angst, mentions of violence and trauma

Words: 7.4k

A/n: Also available to read on AO3, if you're that way inclined.

Now…

The heat is relentless this summer. Light bleeds through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep in beams of red, green, blue and gold, only to be lost to the dark wood floors, furniture and panelled walls. It is Aemond’s least favourite time of year, when the weather makes him irritable and the harsh light gives him a headache, when business tends to be busy and everyone is preoccupied with holidays and garden parties. He’s less inclined to distract himself with frivolity. 

His sleeves are rolled up, his long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, sweat starting to pool underneath the eyepatch over the left side of his face. He’s leaning over Aegon, one hand on the back of his chair, staring down at a laptop screen as they check over some details for next week’s event.

It’s not often Aemond finds himself in his brother’s office. Technically Aegon is his superior, ‘deputy operations manager’ according to the golden plaque on the door. This is more of a courtesy title because he couldn’t get a respectable job anywhere else, and it would be far worse for their father’s image to have a layabout son.

That’s the funny thing about the family business. It’s no secret that Viserys Targaryen didn’t want his sons involved in Dragon Bank, but his influence is not as all encompassing as he would like to believe, not since the Hightowers got a foot in the door thirty or so years ago… then another… then another. Viserys can make his demands and shout when he’s angry enough, but there is one truth he cannot deny; he needs them. He needs Otto. He needs Alicent. He needs Helaena and Daeron to stay perfect. He needs Aegon to not be a fuck up and that’s enough. And he needs Aemond because he’s good at his job. No one has an eye for detail like him, no one can make sense out of figures or persuade clients and investors like he can.

Why their grandfather wants him to look over PR and marketing nonsense is understandable, but irritating nonetheless.

Their father has been planning this event for years, Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary gala, with all the pomp and grandeur of a bygone era, held at their ancestral seat of Dragonstone Castle, just outside the city. Five hundred years since one of their ancestors forged a throne for himself in King’s Landing, building an empire that still has most of the country under their family’s thumb. Viserys intends to use the occasion as a reminder to the rest of Westeros that they cannot compare to the might of the Targaryens. So there can be no oversights. Everything has to be perfect.

Aemond’s eye scans over the diagram on the screen, circles surrounded boxes with names; the seating plan for the main ballroom.

Then a name catches his eye and it makes his heart stop. He doesn’t want to believe what he sees but there it is on the screen, in Times New fucking Roman: Jaya Velaryon.

He’s hardly heard that name, read it, or heard it in six years. He can already feel a dull ache creeping into his skull, which he knows will catch like kindling and soon become a burning, blinding pain behind the space where his eye should be.

Aegon, completely oblivious, huffs a little laugh to himself. “Shit, yeah, I meant to say there was an update with the seating. So this could turn out to be quite interesting– fuck, are you alright?” 

“Fine!” Aemond snaps, staggering back from the chair. His head feels like it’s been run through with a knife and his fingers fumble to get his eyepatch off. “Fine– fuck! I’m fine.”

“Sit,” Aegon orders, quickly standing and guiding Aemond over to one of the leather sofas on the other side of the room, where the sunlight isn’t so direct.

The pain is often like this, striking suddenly, spreading quickly like a forest fire, eating away at him like a disease. He has no choice but to endure it.

He feels the eyepatch slip from his face before something cold presses against the worst of his scar. He reaches up to clasp his hands around it. A glass water bottle, one Aegon is holding. His brother is useless most of the time but he does have his moments.

“Fuck it’s all red,” Aegon mutters. “Have you got meds with you?”

When Aemond opens his mouth to speak his jaw is trembling. “Office,” he says, gritting his teeth together, trying to control his breath and the extent of the pain. “It’s in my office.” He can see where the packet is in the first draw under his desk.

“I can go and get you some–”

“No,” Aemond says, grabbing Aegon’s arm so he won’t move. 

He can handle this. Every time this kind of pain flares up he thinks of how much it hurt that night, how terrified he was as he felt the blood gushing from the gash in his eye, slipping through his fingers. The pain had been so great he thought it might kill him. If he can get through that night, the first few hours in the hospital, the months of recovery or the years since, then he can get through a fucking headache. 

He closes his eye and breathes in counts of three. In through the nose, hold, and out. Between that and the bottle against his face, the pain starts to feel a little duller and the room doesn’t feel so close.

“Is it… you know,”

Did seeing Jaya’s name shock him so severely that his body went into meltdown? Is his heart still pounding in his chest at the thought of reading her name and the possibility of seeing her again? 

Aemond exhales irritably against the back of his throat, defeated, but always stubborn.

“I thought you knew,” Aegon says. “Mum said she was going to talk to you.”

“Evidently that conversation is yet to happen.” Maybe it was meant to happen tonight. It’s a Friday which means Aemond will go to his mother’s apartments in the Keep for dinner after work.

It’s a struggle but he breathes through the worst of it, and blinks a tear from his eye. The pain hasn’t quite faded but something else burns hotter through his blood. He clenches his jaw and his fists. “How long have you known?”

Aegon makes a startled stuttering noise. “I– well–”

Aemond glares at him.

“A few days. The note came from Rhaenyra’s office on Monday or Tuesday, I can’t really remember–”

“Grandfather knew,” Aemond says, a question, but he can guess the answer. If it involves Dragon Bank or a member of the Targaryen family, Otto Hightower will know.

“Of course he knew. He said it was a last minute decision, one that Viserys was insisting we all bend over backwards to accommodate.”

Of course he would, anything for the precious daughter of his favourite child, the girl who slashed Aemond’s eye out with a broken bottle. 

He hates her for it. He hates every burst of pain, like an echo of that moment pulsing through his head. He hates every person he catches staring at him, he hates the way his reflection looks with her cruelty carved into his flesh. Most of all he hates that it reminds him of her. In a way he is grateful too. Time helped to heal the wound and eventually he realised how he had been changed by that night, how it made him the person he is now. 

But for the first time in a long time he does not find any pride in it, cowering in his brother’s office like a child at the mere mention of her name. 

“I can’t go,” Aemond says, hating how quiet his own voice is.

“That’s alright,” Aegon says, “you can sit here for as long as you need.”

“I meant the party.”

“Oh right, sorry.”

“I can’t go, not if she’s going to be there.”

There’s a long silence, filled only by the hum of the AC and the distant sounds of the city far below the keep, car horns, engines, sirens, the occasional cry of a seagull.

“Why don’t you talk it through with mum?”

“Aegon,”

“She’ll want you to go. She’ll be upset if you don’t.”

“I can’t,”

“I know you two were close, but, you know, I’m sure you both regret how things happened,” 

“Aegon, for fuck’s sake,”

“She cut out your eye, you said you’d cut out hers if you ever saw her again, we were all caught up in the moment.”

Aemond pushes up from the sofa and tosses the water bottle at Aegon’s head, not stopping to see if he caught it or not, before he’s yanking open the door and marching into the hallway.

The Red Keep is older than Dragon Bank itself, a red brick holdfast that has loomed proudly over King’s Landing for centuries, even as the skyline of the city has come to meet over time. It’s easy to get lost here, with its grand hallways, winding staircases and hidden passages, if old rumours are to be believed. He knows this place like he knows his own mind. He walks to his office through empty stairwells and forgotten corridors.

When he finally makes it to his own office he closes the door and lets his back fall against it.

He takes a slow breath, holds it, pouts his lips and exhales steadily. 

Who else knows? Viserys would have sent the invitation, Rhaenyra and the rest of her little runts will know. Otto knows, clearly his mother and Aegon both know, and he couldn’t have kept that secret, he would have told Helaena or Daeron, most likely both.

Everyone knows. Jaya is coming back home to King’s Landing, and everyone knows but him.

His mother told him everything when she thought he was ready to hear it. The bandages had been removed from his face and the cannula had been taken out of his hand. The doctors wanted him to stay in the hospital for a few more days so all the drugs could wear off and he could start getting used to the disorientation of losing half his vision. Alicent wanted him home, in his own bed. So he left the dry air and the white overhead lights of his room in the hospital, back to Dragonstone.

She told him that while he’d been on his knees with his hand over his face, trying to stop the blood and the remains of his eye from spilling onto the ground, Viserys had barked out his orders. He didn’t want ambulances or sirens because it would cause a scene in front of the guests. The shame, the damage it would do to the family’s image. Otto had persuaded him away from such a nonsensical idea and convinced Viserys to get the guests inside the house so Aemond and Jace’s injuries could be seen to.

He remembered shouting and sirens, blue lights and his mother’s hand clinging onto his before he blacked out. He had gone in for surgery almost immediately and woken the following evening surrounded by white walls, his mother and Criston Cole at his side.

Aegon, Helaena and Daeron all stayed at Dragonstone while he was there. They said once he and Jace had been taken away, Viserys had gathered the entire family inside the house. With their faces all still red from crying and Jaya’s pretty white dress still coated in blood, he demanded to know the truth. 

They all knew what the truth was. Jace didn’t know his limits and Aegon didn’t care about his.

He could see it all happening in his head, walking towards the orchard with Jaya and Baela, catching Jaya when she tripped over a stone, her tipsy smile as she looked up at him, the pearl and the sapphire pendant settled against her chest.

Who knows what started the argument between Jace and Aegon, but suddenly Aemond had found himself between them.

“There he is,” Jace had sneered, but his voice quickly raised into a shout, “‘perfect’ Aemond Targaryen, fucking mummy’s boy, thinking he’s some kind of fucking diplomat!”

Aegon tried to shout back, “more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Aemond couldn’t make out everything through the way his voice slurred.

“Not so fucking perfect though, are you? You’re no worse than Aegon– no! You’re so much worse, aren’t you? Aren’t you!?

He’d watched Jace’s expression darken, his lips sneering into a sickening smile.

“You’ve got my sister wrapped around your fucking finger, fucking creep.”

He told himself Jace was just drunk. It didn’t matter what he thought… only it did. Jace could tell Rhaenyra or Viserys. Worse, he could talk to Jaya. She had always been devoted to her twin. She had picked Jace over Aemond before, in petty arguments when they were children. 

“You want her, don’t you? Don’t you!? She’s too good for you though, and you know it. You want her but you’ll never fucking have her!”

When Aemond’s fist collided with Jace’s jaw it was on pure instinct. He was sober enough to stop himself but he didn’t. He just kept going.

According to Aegon, when Viserys came to Jaya, she said that it was Aemond who had started the argument. Jace was in the orchard with the others, when Aemond had come from nowhere and threw the first punch. She had seen it, so had Baela, so had Luke and Joffrey. It was their word against Aegon and Daeron’s.

The official story was that it had been a tragic accident, one in which Rhaenyra’s children were certainly blameless.

She called him the night he got to Dragonstone but he let the phone ring. A week later she appeared in the doorway to his bedroom. She was hazy, or he was still delirious from sleep, his mother hovering over her shoulder, reluctant to leave them alone together.

He doesn’t remember most of the conversation now. He doesn’t want to remember it. He knows it ended with tears streaming down her cheeks, but her face was completely still. She didn’t flinch, didn’t distort her face, scrunch her nose or make an ugly shape with her mouth. She looked utterly beautiful and cried effortlessly. It wasn’t fair when he still had stitches sewn into his flesh to keep the left half of his face in place.

At one point she approached the bed and tried to touch his hand. He snatched it out of her grasp. When she tried again he pushed her away.

“Why did you do it?” she said. “You attacked Jace, why? Why? Why? Why?”

Because Jace could have taken away the one thing he thought was his, by right, by love. Instead he gave some bullshit excuse– Jace had threatened Aegon, insulted Daeron, insulted him. And what did it matter anyway? Viserys believed her. 

He needed her. He needed her and she pushed him away and cradled her coward of a brother in her arms. He needed her and she’d thrown it all back in his face with a slash of a broken bottle. He needed her, but she had made her decision.

“Liar,” he hissed. “You’re a fucking liar.”

He saw it in her face then, her desire to fight melting away. To Aemond that had always meant that she knew he was right.

“Show up here again, utter so much as a word to me again, and I’ll tear yours out as payment for mine.”

Some weeks later Aegon mentioned that she had abandoned her plans to go to KLU and instead found a place at the University of Pentos. She never tried to call after that and neither did he.

A layer of sweat clings to his skin and makes him shiver. He shrugs it off as he sits down at his desk, and spots a handwritten note sitting beside the keyboard of his laptop. Investment figures for Seasnake Shipping back to me by 7pm at the latest. Knowing Otto Hightower, that means an hour before the specified time.

In for three, hold for three, out for three. It always amazes him how well that trick works, he thinks as he takes out a packet from the top drawer of his desk and pushes out two tablets, the one good thing he’d gotten out of his year of therapy. He swallows the medication dry, suddenly regretting throwing away the bottle of water.

It’s nearly 6pm when Aemond has everything his grandfather wants, the names of Seasnake’s investors, the other companies they’re attached to, numbers and details he’s found buried in endless spreadsheets and pages of paperwork. He shouldn’t be able to see most of them but he has his ways. The Velaryons have been in business with the Targaryens for centuries and there are always trails to follow. 

A few familiar names appear, Rhaenyra Tagrayren, Daemon Targayren, married to each of Corlys’ children. Aemond was only a year old when his sister married Laenor, but he’s always known how sceptical his mother and grandfather were of the match. It wasn’t something Rhaenyra had to do. She wasn’t going to inherit Seasnake, that had been promised to Laena, the elder sibling, and she was already Viserys’ chosen heir, so what did she think she was going to get out of it? Not a loving husband, surely.

Other investors and partners include the names Stark and Arryn, both wealthy and well established families. He also sees the names Celtigar, Massey, Bar Emmon, old names, though not as respected as they once were.

He leaves a note for his grandfather at the top of the document: Seasnake is being directed by a man who built his wealth to match his own pride, supported by opportunists with more money than sense.

With that task done he opens a new email to inform his father’s office that he’ll be absent from the event. He types it quickly and reads over it once before he can talk himself out of pressing send. He doesn’t give a reason why; Viserys should know why.

This leaves him just enough time to pack up and get ready for dinner.

The Red Keep has a series of apartments separated from the offices, where Aemond spent most of his childhood. The building is known as the Holdfast, with its own gatehouse leading into the city and gardens surrounded by high red brick walls. Historically it was built to house the extensive members of House Targaryen, but it is mostly empty now. His mother has had her own apartment for a few years, since Daeron moved out. The only one of his siblings to still live here now is Aegon, at Alicent’s insistence. 

Walking from his office to the Holdfast brings him through courtyards and underneath old battlements, until he comes to a facade with towers, tall windows and an unsuspecting wooden door, save for the armed guards standing either side of it. His mother’s apartments are on the first floor, along a gallery and up the grand staircase, past portraits and tapestries. The hallways get smaller the further in you go and soon he comes to the private rooms.

Alicent often dismisses the staff on quiet Friday evenings. The minute he’s in the door he is met with the sound of one of her 80s playlists, the scent of spices and her favourite lemon and lavender candles. He finds her in the kitchen, dark blue jeans, a white shirt, black pumps and her auburn curls pulled into a bun to show off her pearl earrings, stirring two pots on the stove. 

“Criston���s got me learning another one of his recipes,” she says, only looking at him for a moment, “I’ve got rice on too, so I hope you’re hungry.”

Aemond approaches her to kiss her on the cheek and takes a look inside the pots, one filled with chickpeas, the other with black lentils. “Is Aegon here?” he says.

“He’s in the lounge, tell him to set the table.”

Aemond watches her, entirely absorbed in the notebook on the counter next to the stove, with handwritten instructions. Nothing seems to be especially bothering her, even though the centenary event has had her on edge for over a month. She looks no different from the last time he saw her, before he knew about Jaya, when she was supposed to talk to him, supposedly.

“I want a drink first,” he says, whisky with no ice. He pours it for himself slowly while his mother hums along to Tears for Fears. “Do you know why grandfather wanted that information on Seasnake’s investors?” 

“Hmm? Oh he’s probably doing one of his checks, you know what he’s like. Good to keep an eye on everyone,” she says. She has a glass of red wine next to the notebook, though by the looks of it she’s hardly touched it. “He said something interesting about Rickon Stark recently, his son Cregan is in King’s Landing.”

Aemond pulls his glass away from his lips, the sweet sting of alcohol slipping down his throat. “Shouldn’t be too unusual, they’re attending next week.” Staying at Dragonstone no less, some of Viserys’ most honoured guests.

“He’s staying at Queen’s Lodge.”

That takes him by surprise. “Hmm,” he says, bringing the glass to his lips again.

“He and Jacaerys are quite close, Aegon tells me.”

The Starks had visited Dragonstone once or twice as summer guests, back when they were all kids. Cregan was always talkative and effortlessly charming, but it was obvious to Aemond that his warmth was far more calculated than anyone else believed. He made sure Jaya kept her distance, but Jace followed him around like a lost puppy for the weeks he’d stay with their family.

They would have studied together at White Harbour, though Cregan was a few years older than Jace. They could have met again and reconnected. Aemond doesn’t interact with his nephew outside of necessity.

“And what would Aegon know about it?” he says.

“More than you,” a voice calls from the doorway. Aegon has ditched his suit for brown cargos and a comically baggy sports shirt, leaning against the frame. “Ran into them last weekend,” he says, grinning coldly and running his tongue over his teeth. “The Starks are making some close personal connections with our sister’s family.”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Alicent sighs.

Aegon scoffs and makes a dismissive gesture. While their mother is still distracted, he looks at Aemond and raises his eyebrows. 

“Set the table, Aegon,” Aemond grumbles.

His brother does as he’s told. Aemond helps Alicent bring the dishes in. She sits at the head of the table, Aemond to her right, Aegon opposite him, to her left. She says a quick prayer to the Seven, as she always does. She asks the Mother to protect her children and asks the Crone for wisdom, for a light in dark and uncertain times. 

“Speaking of close personal connections,” Aegon says, already having wolfed down half of his plate. Aemond already hates the tone of this conversation. “We’ll finally get to meet Daeron’s new bit,”

“Do you have to say it like that?” Aemond says.

Aegon ignores him. “Are you excited to meet Nettles, mother?”

Daeron talks about her constantly. They met in Oldtwon while they were both studying. Now he’s working for the Citadel Institute, she’s some kind of journalist, and they live together in a perfect little flat that looks out over the Honeywine river. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

“That can’t actually be her name, surely?” Alicent says.

“Perhaps it’s short for something,” Aemond says, prodding his food now to find himself with no appetite. He thinks about the drive he’ll have to make through the city, back to the empty house waiting for him on Silverwing Square.

“Nettles,” Aegon says, eyes on the ceiling like he’s trying to decipher a hidden meaning. “Nettles, like stinging nettles?”

“Oh, Aemond,” Alicent says, looking down at the uneaten food on his plate, “what happened with Maris Baratheon, why is she not on the final guest list?”

Aegon smiles, folding his elbows on the table and leaning forward, eager to hear an explanation like he hasn’t already coaxed it out of Aemond over too many bottles of wine at a steak restaurant on Conquest Street.

“Things didn’t work out with Maris,” Aemond says shortly. An understatement. The thought of their last conversation makes him nauseous.

“Aemond, sometimes I feel like you don’t love me.”

“I don’t think I do,” which felt untruthful, because he knew from the start that he never would. There were lots of things he liked about Maris. He liked that she was interested in him, he liked that she was blunt and unrelentingly honest, he liked that she had dark hair, and that she liked being fucked from behind and would let him press her face down into the pillow to muffle her moans. Soon the things he liked about her only felt like another reminder.

“Maris is old news, mother,” Aegon says.

“What a shame,” Alicent says, reaching for her wine again. “Oh well, I don’t think Viserys particularly likes her father anyway.”

“Well you know Aemond, always striving for perfection.”

Aemond’s eye meets Aegon’s over the table. His brother is trying not to grin, violet eyes bright from the light of the candelabra between them. Shadows catch on the hollow parts of his face, it makes him look tired but vicious. 

Then he looks to his mother. She eats slowly with small mouthfuls, not making eye contact with either of her sons. It’s not often he finds himself upset or angry with his mother, not since he was old enough to understand just how hard she has worked, or know what she’s had to put up with as the wife of Viserys Targaryen. Aemond knows she trusts him in a way that does not always extend to his siblings. 

But now all he can think is that she knows about Jaya. She knows, and she won’t even look at him.

Jaya could be in King’s Landing this very moment, lounging around Queen’s Lodge, looking out over the orchard she watered with Aemond’s blood while her mother fawns over her only daughter’s return.

He just needs to say it. He won’t go to Dragonstone if Jaya is there, he won’t stand to be in the same room as her, or breathe the same air as her. The thought already sends a feeling like flames licking up his spine that makes him restless with rage, with hurt and betrayal.

Aegon is still watching him and gives him a small nod. 

Aemond takes a soft breath through parted lips–

Until a sound comes from the hallway that makes them all freeze, the sound of the front door unlocking, opening, then slamming with an ear splitting bang!

Aemond feels his face harden, brows straining with every footstep that marches against the hardwood floors towards the dining room. 

Viserys appears in the threshold, dressed in one of his red and black suits, his face one of stone cold fury. He doesn’t look at Alicent, or Aegon, his eyes are fixed on Aemond.

He steps slowly into the room, placing one hand on the back of the chair closest to him at the head of the table, miles away from the rest of his family. His voice is quiet and clear through the stunned silence. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

Alicent makes a stuttering, scoffing noise. “Viserys–”

He holds up a finger to silence her, his eyes widening in warning. “Aemond,” he says, “you will answer me.”

Aemond keeps his jaw clenched at first. He can feel his teeth wanting to chatter, anger aching in every part of his body. He cannot afford to show any sign of weakness or remorse, not in front of his father. But why does it feel so difficult to speak? He swallows through a dry feeling in his throat. “I thought I’d worded it all very simply–”

“Look at me when I speak to you, boy.”

He hadn’t realised his gaze had fallen to the table. He looks up with an expression that is as passive as he can manage. “I would have thought it would be obvious why I can’t go, with the recent addition to the guestlist.”

His head is turned completely so that Viserys is in his line of vision, but he hears his mother make a small sighing sound. “Aemond, I was going to–”

“ALICENT!” Viserys roars.

Aemond feels himself flinch but his gaze is unwavering. Why does he think he has any right to barge in here, to ask anything of them? 

If Aemond were to stand he’d be taller than his father, but he finds himself unable to move.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Viserys says to him. “This could be the single most important night for the family for centuries and you’re still holding onto childish grudges?”

Childish grudges. He was mutilated and forced to carry the blame because of a lie, but of course his father expects him to let go, to forgive and forget. 

He feels the leather of the eyepatch digging uncomfortably into his forehead and wishes more than anything he could just tear it off.

There are some things Aemond can argue with Viserys about, but they tend to be logical arguments, work related. The longer he looks at his father the more he remembers that no amount of sense could ever compare to the blind devotion Viserys has for his eldest child. There’s nothing Aemond can appeal to, not love or loyalty, not even sympathy.

“This is not about you, Aemond. This is about the bank, this is about the Targaryen name, our legacy, does that all mean nothing to you?”

“Of course it does,” Aemond says. He’s worked for nothing else his whole life, Dragon Bank, his heritage as a Targaryen, what is he without all of that? 

Viserys’ face softens a little, as if he thinks he’s made some kind of progress. “I’ve never known you to be selfish, it’s not in your nature.”

“Well then you clearly know nothing about me,” Aemond says, glaring up at him.

Viserys frowns. “You will be there, and I want to hear no more of it. You will be polite. You will grin and fucking bear it because that’s what the rest of us have to do.”

He’s delusional, he’s fucking delusional.

Aemond looks to his brother, slumped in his chair, his eyes even darker now. He has his hand around the stem of a wine glass. He’s been staring at the crimson liquid since their father walked in. He might have been expecting to be the target of Viserys’ anger tonight; he usually is. 

Aegon looks across at him, furious, exhausted, eager for this exchange to be over. He tilts his head in a questioning motion, though his lips stay firmly sealed.

All the years he spent trying to be the best that he could, how hard he pushed himself to get through that final year at KLU while recovering from his injury, all the hours he’s devoted to the family business, all the times he’s kept his mouth shut and his head held high, is this the hill Aemond is going to die on?

He won’t try to look at his mother, but he can guess she would have a similar reasoning. 

A fearsome wind from the Narrow Sea howls against the windows of Aemond’s black Jag. The road to Dragonstone is a desolate one, leading through a forest that might as well be nothingness in the dark. The headlights beam against the tarmac which turns and rises and falls, so he can never see what’s ahead of him.

There’s a burst of light as he approaches the gates. He hasn’t seen the gatehouse for years and remembers that he used to be scared of the stone dragon heads that stand open mouthed and teeth bared on either side, at the base of the turrets. Some hired security guard comes to his window, his demeanour changing completely when Aemond glares at him through a single eye. 

Cars line the acres of grass before the house, the driveway lined with lanterns and more statuettes of dragons. Dragonstone lies ahead in its full glory, lights on in every window, moonlight shining upon its ancient walls so the castle looms in shadows and silver. 

He must be one of the last people to arrive, the last of the important people, slotting the Jag next to a golden Dodge Charger he recognises as Aegon’s. The rest of the Targaryens all drive black cars.

He checks his reflection in the rearview mirror for as long as he can stand to look at himself, glaring at the blunt edges of the sapphire in his left socket, dull and dark in the low light. The flesh around his eyelids are twisted and red, the scar itself deep but clean. His mother had suggested they could get it looked at, to make his eye seem less severe, but that’s what the eyepatch is for, to cover up the worst of his injury, for the comfort of others and not his.

He slips the leather patch over his head and secures it in place, careful not to mess up his hair in the process. 

One day he’ll make her look at it, the sapphire and the scar, maybe then she’ll understand what she put him through. Not tonight, no, tonight he intends to play it safe.

He effortlessly exits the car, checking his cuffs as he walks up to the front doors. A server offers him a glass of champagne when he steps into the entrance hall which he takes a small sip from, parched after his drive from King’s Landing. He knows his way through the opulent halls that have stayed the same for as long as he can remember, towards the hum of at least a hundred voices. 

The ballroom glimmers with reflected light, mirrors, gold accents, crystal chandeliers, champagne glasses. The guests are all in their finery, tuxedos and floor length gowns, either in black or the colours of their houses. Some have started to take their seats around the circular tables, but many are still mingling.

Any head of silver hair stands out rather obviously, and the first he sees is his father standing in the centre of the ballroom, a smile on his face and his arm around his wife’s waist. Alicent is radiant in a gold gown that catches the warmth of the candles dotted about the room. She looks less than pleased being made to talk to Rhaenyra and Laenor– now there’s a surprise, he doesn’t usually make a habit of appearing at family events. Rhaenyra is in black, as is her husband, with a waistcoat embroidered with swirling gold patterns, like waves on the sea.

His eye continues to scour the room. He sees Helaena and Daeron with the girl he assumes is Nettles. He sees Aegon getting friendly with the Martell siblings. He sees Corlys and Rhaenys with Laena and Daemon. He sees Jacaerys standing with the Starks, closer than is friendly to Cregan. He sees those with the surnames Tyrell, Tully, Lannister, Arryn, all the others, and keeps searching.

She’s not where she’s meant to be, at the table closest to the high table where Viserys will sit with the board members. She’s not with her parents, she’s not at the bar, she’s not at the doors to the gardens. Each moment he does not find her fuels some kind of fire within him, adrenaline pumping through his blood, like he’s chasing something just out of his reach. 

A flash of loose, dark hair steals his attention. He doesn’t see her face at first but he notices when she nudges his shoulder as she passes him on his blind side, very nearly ending up with champagne down her silky, off white gown or spilled across the string of pearls sitting on her bare collar.

He apologises on instinct, reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket that has only ever been intended as decorative.

“No harm done,” the woman insists. “It’s good stuff, I would have been mortified to waste any of it.”

He recognises her face, the slanted nose, the sharpness of her cheeks, her bright green eyes and unsettlingly perfect smile. He’s seen her at press events, some kind of relation to the Strongs, but not close enough that she’d ever be invited to any personal occasions.

“Alys Rivers,” she says, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Deputy editor for Seven.” He’s heard of it, a high society gossip magazine, they often run stories about his family, Daemon and Aegon mostly, the rest of them clearly aren’t newsworthy.

“You used to work for the Harrenhal Observer, didn’t you?” he says.

“I did,” she says, “between you and me though, I think cousin Larys felt a little threatened.”

“Threatened?” Aemond says, noticing a pair of girls who are oddly familiar to him. He can’t place their names but he thinks they might be old friend’s of Jaya’s. They approach Jace, turning their heads around frequently like they’re looking for something. “How so?”

“He thought I was too opinionated,” Alys says, keeping her eyes on his.

“I didn’t think there could be such a thing,” Aemond says, though now he thinks he recognises the girls from one of the parties at Maegor’s Square, from years ago. One of them meets his gaze and quickly looks away. 

“The Observer is supposedly a neutral publication after all, I had a few things to say about the working conditions at the Casterly Rock mines which caused quite a stir.”

That’s where he recognises her name from. Viserys wasn’t happy with the article given their ties to the Lannisters and their gold. It sets off a silent alarm in his head, suddenly her gaze is a little too scrutinising for his liking and he’s aware of every breath he takes, shallow or deep, soft or sharp, she could use anything against him.

“I heard a rumour you weren’t going to be attending tonight’s event,” she says.

“It’s Dragon Bank’s fifth centenary,” he says, “I’m incredibly proud of all the work my family has put into the last five hundred years.”

“You say that like you’re expecting this conversation to go to print.”

“That’s why you approached me, is it not?”

She hums a gentle laugh to herself as her gaze roams over his suit, black, simple and perfectly fitted. She looks back to his face, he sees the way her eyes flicker to his left side. She smiles lazily in a way that makes him wonder if she’s trying to flirt, and places a hand on his shoulder, leaning in closer until he can smell the classic, musky scent of her perfume. He lets her do it, lets her lips get closer to his ear.

“I only wanted to see if you had something interesting to say,” Alys whispers over the noise of the party.

He glances up, towards the grand fireplace at the end of the room. Gold plated engravings of dragons intertwine and spread their wings, framing the fire that burns within.

She’s standing there, a glass of champagne in one hand, in an emerald green dress suited for summer, loose fabric, exposing her arms, her hair pulled up into a style that’s effortlessly elegant.

Their eyes meet. It’s like electricity strikes his heart.

Six years fades into oblivion, she looks different and exactly the same. He can almost believe he’s never known a life without her, but she’s always been there, hasn’t she? An unspoken secret, living in the lightest and the darkest parts of his mind. 

He can see the moment of recognition, when her expression goes from passive and proud to alert, eyes widening, lips falling, her hand lowering the glass to the nearest surface.

It’s dangerous how quickly he can already feel himself start to slip. He’s had seven days to prepare and part of him is still in disbelief that Jaya is a living, breathing person and not just a memory. Another part of him is calm and unsurprised, like he’s always known she was going to come back. To King’s Landing, to the family business, to him.

He doesn’t feel any pain, not in his head or his chest, but he feels empty, starved to the point of ravenous. 

Jaya starts to move through the crowd, towards the glass doors that lead to an outlook over the gardens and the sea. It only sparks excitement for Aemond, imagining all the thoughts that could be swimming through her head, anger, pride, fear. By the Seven he hopes one of those is fear.

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

“What?” he says, looking back to Alys.

“I thought I’d refresh my memory a little before I came here tonight. It’s been six years since Jaya Velaryon was in King’s Landing. The two of you were close, weren’t you?”

Close. 

Close like the way Jaya used to hug him when they were children. She’d wrap her little arms so tightly around his chest or his neck that he could hardly breathe. He’d tell her to stop, shove her away, but then she’d only cry, and he could never say no to her after that. 

Close like their minds worked in the same way, when they only needed to look at each other a certain way to know what they were both thinking.

Close like the air of his bedroom the first night they kissed, feeling the shared warmth, her body against his, the softness of her skin, when she tasted like wine and smelled like smoke.

Close was never close enough, but what difference did it make?

“Then there was that accident at Queen’s Lodge. The press release was so vague, it only said you and Jacaerys were recovering from minor injuries…”

Aemond glares at her, the same look that would usually silence Aegon, but Alys Rivers is not afraid of his warning.

She makes a gesture to his eye. “I mean, clearly one injury was more severe than the other. Curious that Jaya left for Pentos so soon after that when she was due to start at KLU that year. Why did she leave, do you know?”

Aemond pushes past her without another word, towards the glass doors that only Jaya has passed through in the last minute or so. The other guests are starting to take their places at the tables now. He sees Rhaenyra and Laenor looking around the room, having gathered their other three brats. His own mother tries to capture his attention but his mind can only think of one thing. He walks towards the doors as calmly as he can, even though it feels as if his life depends on reaching them, on reaching her.

The doors lead out to a patio, seemingly empty right up to the balustrade. He walks to the edge, the noise of the party lost to the roar of the wind and the waves in his ears, no doubt his hair will be blown into a mess but he doesn’t care.

Everything below him is black, out of reach from the lights of the castle. Then he spots something, a flicker of flame far below him, down a series of steps, out of view, down at an outlook over the sea. She shields it with her hand, lighting a cigarette by the look of it, until the end glows with a red ember.

He walks slowly, savouring the sound of every step his shoes make against the paving stones. He keeps his hands in his pockets, single eye fixated on the shape of her shoulders, the curve of her spine and her waist through the dress.

He tries to guess the moment she realises when she’s not alone. She angles her head slightly as he reaches the bottom of the steps, still a good distance away from her. He watches her take one drag from the cigarette before she lowers it, resting her hand against the stone balcony.

He comes close enough to realise she’s shaking, jaw clenched, looking almost determinedly out across the sea. The wind cuts across his cheeks like it’s burning his skin, so how she can stand to be out here with nothing to protect herself from the cold is almost admirable. It is also foolish of her.

Goosebumps bloom over her skin, skin he could reach out and touch if he wanted to.

And she won’t look at him.

She won’t look at him.

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Series taglist: @aemondsbabygirl @persephonerinyes @sirenangelroyal @qyburnsghost @adragonprinceswhore @boundlessfantasy @asumofwords @summerposie @thedamewithabook @ammo23 @valyrianflower @jiminie-08 @magnificentdelusionr @hiddencurator

[helaelaemond]

Before The Storm - Aemond x sister!reader

Pairing: Aemond x sister!reader

Word count: 3.6k

this was the second winner in this poll / osferth fic that also won the poll

Summary: Alicent and Otto have decided that Aemond will be used to broker an alliance with House Baratheon. As the only unwed adult child of Viserys, First of His Name, a betrothal with Aemond One-Eye is a commodity bound to secure alliances for the wars to come. Fuck the wars to come, though.

Aegon might be your husband and king, but it is Aemond that belongs to you.

Oral sex (male receiving, female receiving), penetrative sex, elements of possessiveness, jealousy, canon-typical incest, slightly nasty sex, little brother isn't so little anymore

Content warning(s): mentions of child marriage/rape (very brief), brief mentions of Lucerys' death

Rating: E

Tag list: @sylasthegrim / @arcielee / @myfandomprompts / sorry I forget who might want to be included

You keep your head down as the Small Council leaves the meeting chamber. Past you walks Lannister and Wylde and Orwyle. Beesbury is dead. Cole killed him, everyone knows it, but Mother protects him. And he protects you, you know. When Meleys had erupted from the depths of the dragonpit, he had shielded you with his body and had been ready to sacrifice his life for yours. He can be a cruel man, but he loves you. Just like Grandfather.

Just like Aemond.

The men in your life are not good. But they love you. Selfish though it is, that's enough for now.

You enter the chamber and find your brothers there, your mother and grandfather, too. Ser Criston keeps his place behind the queen. The dowager queen, that is.

"My dear, sit down," Grandfather says quietly. You take Orwyle's seat opposite Mother. It's strange to see Aegon at the head of the table now. At least he doesn't wear the crown now - it had looked so strange on him.

Aegon and Mother are talking. "... matter which, so long as it's one of them. Let him choose."

Alicent frowns. "It should be the eldest, as is tradition."

Aegon smirks. "And what if the youngest is prettiest?"

"The youngest is but thirteen-"

"Plenty of girls are ready for marriage at thirteen."

"Don't be obscene."

Aegon laughs, and shrugs. "My own wife was not much older."

Aemond taps his finger slowly on the wood of the table. You look at his long hand, his elegant digits, and it gives you butterflies. He hasn't touched you since the coronation, but he's looked. Gods, he's looked.

You slip into the seat next to Grandfather as he watches them talk. Opposite you, Aemond avoids your gaze.

"It should be the eldest," Grandfather agrees. You don't look at anyone but your younger brother, but you listen closely.

"But what if he doesn't like her face?"

"Her face is of no consequence; it's her father's forces we want, as you well know, Your Grace." The sarcasm with which Otto spoke the last phrase is lost on no one at the table. Aegon's expression sours.

"I suppose he can always fuck her from behind if she's ugly," he says spitefully.

Alicent looks down at her lap in despair. "Gods, Aegon."

You stare at Aemond. Understanding what they're talking about makes you want to shrink into nothing, to disappear between the cracks in the floor. Aemond is to have a wife. A wife.

"When do you wish for me to go?" Aemond speaks at last. He looks at Aegon with his own good eye, his expression blank.

"Tomorrow will do." Some of the bravado leaves the king when he shares a gaze with his little brother. "Take Vhagar, not a ship. She speaks louder than any of us."

Aemond nods stiffly. He looks between Grandfather and Mother. "Aegon will have Storm's End, and I will have this girl."

The smile that your brother gives Aemond is more genuine now. When he is truly happy, Aegon is quite pretty. It's a shame he refuses to find happiness, then, for the most part. Perhaps his Flea Bottom girls get to see that smile more than you. "Thank you, Aemond. Truly."

He's punishing you, you think. Your spiteful, inattentive husband is punishing you for finding your own happiness.

No one in the chamber has paid you any mind yet, but when you stand up and the chair loudly scrapes against the stone, all gazes are on you. The pressure of it makes your cheeks flush. Say something. Anything.

"Congratulations, brother," you say stiffly. Not that. "I wish you luck in the wars to come."

You sweep out of the council chamber as quickly as you arrived. Only Grandfather calls your name, but you ignore him. Panic swells in your chest. Only when you arrive back in your chambers od you allow yourself to cry.

"Sister?"

There is a secret passage that connects your rooms to the maze of corridors hidden in Maegor's Holdfast, and over the years, you and Aemond have learned it well. Through a concealed door behind a bookcase, he peeks now.

You sit cross-legged in your windowseat as you look across the city beyond the castle walls. A hundred thousand lights flicker under the night sky, orange against the ink of night. Atop the Hill of Rhaenys, the dragonpit looms mighty and foreboding. Your dragon is in there with Aegon's. Vhagar makes her lair on the coast, or in the Kingswood. She comes and goes as she pleases without restraint.

Aemond walks closer to you.

You wonder where Vhagar is tonight.

"You cannot ignore me forever."

"Why not?" you ask quietly. Don't look at him. Don't cave. "You're to have a wife soon. She will give you all I cannot."

Aemond's long strides bring him to your side in an instant, and he kneels before you. Taking the patch off his eye, sapphire and purple bear into you, you can feel it. It makes your skin prickle. "You give me everything."

"Not everything. I do not give you my hand. I do not give you children."

"We don't know that," he murmurs. "The babe in the cradle may be mine, we do not know."

You sigh. "That's the first time you've admitted that in so many words."

"Perhaps tonight is a time for firsts."

You snort. "Like proposals?"

"I begged Mother, the day she betrothed you to Aegon, to let it be me." He squeezes your hand. "I begged her, and Father, to let us wait until I was older so that I could marry you. You know this."

"You didn't try hard enough."

He kisses the back of your hand, your fingers. "I know. I know. Forgive me, sister. Please, please."

You pull your hand out of his and stand up, flitting over to another window and out of his grasp. He rises to his feet and watches you. He licks his lips and glances down in shame.

"Everything will change, Aemond."

"No. No, it won't."

You hug your arms around yourself. "It will. You'll have a wife." Anger suddenly boils in you. "A fucking wife! And what will I be then? You'll set me aside for some Westerosi bride who will give you trueborn heirs and her father's army and-"

Long strides bring him back to you and he takes your face into his hands. He forces you to look at him. The sapphire glints in the light of the fire. Shadows make his scar even deeper, rawer. "Look at me, sister."

All air has gone from you. You're powerless under him. Your eyes meet his.

"I'm yours, and you're mine. I will never love another as I love you."

"You don't know that, Aemond."

"Only a Targaryen can love a Targaryen." His voice is rich and warm, heat simmering beneath the surface. "That I know."

"For now."

He wraps his arms around you possessively and pins your body to his. He is tall and lean and strong against the softness of your curves. He has his place against you. "Forever.'

"You will swear yourself to a stranger and you will bed her, too. I will have to share you."

"As I share you now," he practically growls.

"That's not fair," you protest. But then his hand is in your hair and pulling it to turn your head to the side. His lips press against the slope of your neck and you bite back a sigh.

"No, it's not fair. Our brother gets to bed you and hold you and kiss you without worry."

"And I hate him for it."

Aemond gently bites over your pulse. "As do I."

"Perhaps when you bring your bride here, you can give her to him as a distraction while you have me."

He moves his lips to your ear and darts his tongue inside to make your knees weak. "You want that? Your husband to give my wife his bastards while I give you mine?"

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. He won't have you that easily. "Is that all I am to you? Some mare in heat for you to breed?"

When Aemond pushes you against the stone wall, you grip his sharp jaw and press until his lips open. When you spit into his mouth, he swallows gratefully. "You're everything to me," he groans. "Do that again."

"Aemond."

"Yes, sweet sister?"

"When you marry her, and when you fuck her, think of me."

His jaw is slack when your hand moves to his throat. "No."

You tighten your fingers slightly. "No?"

"I won't debase you like that."

A small noise comes from your nose that is close to a moan. You fumble with the buckles on his leather jerkin while he pushes your heavy dressing gown off. Underneath, you wear only a linen shift, thin enough for him to see your nipples peak. Since your children have come, your body has been much softer, wider and suppler, than before. You wondered, once, if he would desire you less now there is more of you. But it was nothing to worry about; as the years have gone by, Aemond's need for you has grown more and more desperate.

An addiction.

Before you can even push the leather off him, his hands are clutching you. He runs them up and down your back as he kisses you. His lips and tongue are wet and needy, coating yours with his taste. The pressure of his tongue against yours always makes you dizzy, and when it fills your mouth, you cling onto his waist.

"No one compares to you," Aemond whispers against your mouth. You swallow his moans gratefully.

"I want you to fuck me even when you're married."

The words are mumbled against his kisses, but he hears enough to understand. Letting you go only for a moment, he turns you to press your front to the stone wall, and he traps you against it with his body. Strong hands find yours, and he covers them as he pins them either side of your head. Trapped, all you can do is drop your head back against his shoulder.

"I'll never stop," he promises against your ear. Sharp teeth bite it, and familiar lips press below it. "I can't."

"Good."

"Keep your hands there," he tells you.

You're tempted to disobey him, but you don't want him to stop. His touches are firm down your sides, and when you lean back against him, he presses his hands between your chest and the wall. Aemond grasps your breasts and squeezes them, rolling them in his hands. Between his fingers, your nipples are caught, and the stimulation sends bolts of pleasure between your thighs.

"This is mine," he whispers. His long nose runs up the side of your neck and into your hair. It's so like his, almost silver. The blood of the dragon runs thick. It's in you, and it's in him.

Baratheon blood will not come between you.

"And what is mine?" you ask breathlessly.

Aemond groans softly. He slips so easily into High Valyrian, and the words roll off his tongue naturally. "Mirre yno, mandia. Qogralbar, mirre yno." All of me, sister. Fucking all of me.

"Pār ivestragī nyke emagon jemome, lēkia." Then let me have all of you, brother.

Hearing you speak the tongue of your ancestors always makes him hard. When you were younger and in the same lessons, it had made him blush, and sometimes he had to excuse himself when you practised - especially when you got fluent. How few things change. Except this time, he doesn't leave. This time, he moans out loud.

You turn around and force him against the wall this time. His jacket hangs open, and you fumble with the laces of his breeches. Inside, you find his familiar warmth. "Issi ao qopsa syt nyke?" Are you hard for me?

Aemond drops his chin, pleasure washing over his face. "You don't have to do that."

"Let me," you plead. "You never let me."

"You're worth more than this."

"Jaelan naejot sylutegon ao, ñuha jorrāelagon. Kostilus?" I want to taste you, my love. Please?

"Qrugh." Shit.

And then Aemond's hand is in your hair, and he's guiding your head closer, and you sink to your knees worshipfully. His cock is so pretty, you think. Pink and flushed, a thick vein running up the underside. You trace it with your tongue, a feather-light touch that has him tilting his head to the side. He doesn't let you suck his cock often. Sometimes, you practice on the wooden cock he gave you on your nineteenth nameday. It has a sapphire buried in the hilt.

"Ah, mandia." Ah, sister.

You wrap your hand around the base of him to hold him steady, and your lips seal around the tip. You swirl your tongue around his head; it's impossible to hold back the moan at the back of your throat when you taste the salt of his skin, smell the musk of his body. Tomorrow, a stranger will have claim to this part of Aemond. But for tonight, he's all yours. You suckle on the head and it earns you praise from your little brother.

Not so little anymore.

The taste of him fills your mouth. Your hand strokes his length and you remove your mouth only to gently pull back his foreskin. The tip of his cock is flushed and shining. Looking up at him, you press the flat of your tongue against his slit. His one good eye rolls back.

"Gods, sister."

"Gaomagon ao hae bona, Aemond?" you ask coyly. Do you like that? You kiss down his length, and press him against your cheek in careful slaps. His cock jumps in your hand, and you smile.

When your mouth takes in his balls, he groans and his head drops back against the wall. You stroke him as you suck him, setting a rhythm that he ends up matching with his hips. It's beautiful, the way Aemond lets go with you, how he trusts you. In his most intimate moments, it's you he needs.

"Sister, stop, stop, I'm-"

You release his balls from your mouth, heavy and wet, and look up at him with shining eyes. Gripping the base of his cock, you watch him as he pants and his face constricts. "Come on my face," you tell him with a heavy gaze. "Show me you own me."

He shakes his head. "I can't."

He thinks it's dirty and debasing, he's told you before. But you want his filth tonight. "Please," you beg shamelessly. "I want it, brother. Please, give me your seed."

His cock twitches in your hand. His body wants it so bad, you can tell. The muscles in his stomach are so tense, and his breathing is laboured. He's fighting it.

"I want it so bad," you whimper. You kiss his flushed head, and you lick the seed that has already leaked there. "Please. Please?"

"Sister," he groans.

You're wet between your legs just from sucking him. It's such a treat to be allowed this that you don't know how to be sensible anymore. Suddenly, you kneel up and pull off your shift. You spit on his cock, and with one hand you hold his base hard to stop him from finishing, and with your other you coat him. He's wet, now, when you press him between your bare breasts. Your fingers catch your nipples as you hold yourself, and you open your mouth to lick his tip.

"Oh, gods," he swears. "Fuck, I'm- I'm-! Sister, I'm-!"

He gives you what you want. As he fucks your breasts, he comes with a strangled cry of your name. Seed shoots from him in hot spurts and it splatters across your chin and nose and chest, some sticking to your hair. He paints you, and it makes you feel drunk on love, on power. This is magic of the old freehold, the blood of the empire. He's your god, and you're his queen.

Aemond is still shaking from his orgasm when he falls to his knees and claims your lips in a deep kiss. His seed is passed between your lips and tongues, rubbed into your noses and cheeks. He tastes slightly sweet under the salt, warm and familiar. You fucking love it.

His trousers are still around his knees when he lies on the flagstone floor and pulls you atop him. Now this is a treat that is often indulged - where he is hesitant to let you use your mouth, he is desperate to use his own. He wastes no time in pulling you to sit astride his face. Your knees are either side of his ears, and your thighs are his crown. Whilst his mouth takes care of your cunt, his hands never remain still. When he kneads your breasts, you lean back and brace your hands back on his thighs. He moans so prettily between your legs. You like it best when he licks and sucks on your wet folds but holds his head still enough for you to find a rhythm on his nose.

His perfect nose.

Aemond can barely breathe under you. It's his heaven. You grind down as his lips carefully pull on your folds and his tongue swipes between them, devouring you. His nose catches your clit with well-practiced movements. Long fingers play with your nipples, and it makes you crash around him. Your whole body shakes as you come, the silence of your open mouth scarcely hiding from Aemond how hard he's had you.

After, you undress him and push him onto the bed you've shared with him countless nights before. He fucks you hard. He starts behind you, pounding into you relentlessly, but it's not enough. Aemond likes to watch your face. So then, he pulls your legs to the end of the bed while he stands and fucks you with a hand around your throat. His seed is still on your face and in your hair. In a moment of depravity, he catches flakes of it dried on your skin between his teeth and lets them dissolve on his tongue.

But tonight is about you, too. About reminding him that his wife be damned, he's yours. Aemond Targaryen is your love, your property. And so you pull him on his back and settle on top of him.

"You belong to me," you tell him in a low voice. His cock is red and pulsing as you grind it between your cunt lips. His fingers dig into your sides. "You'll always be mine."

"I swear it. Yours. Please, sister. Be good to me."

When you grind up his stomach and reach behind to hold him in place, he groans again. You hold each other's gaze as you guide him back inside you.

Your heart leaps every time he slots into you like this. It's the one true place that is home. "I'll always be good to you, Aemond."

And then you fuck him, hard. He pulls on your hair and you slap his face, and he drags his nails down your back and you suck on his neck until bruises flower. Proof of your ownership. Proof he's yours.

His high collar will hide it tomorrow, until he undresses. Then his Baratheon wife will see. Perhaps she won't understand, though, if she's a maiden with her virtue. She'll learn soon enough, though.

Only a Targaryen can love a Targaryen.

Neither of you even think about stopping to let Aemond pull out. When he quietly whines your name and his stomach tightens and his chest turns red, you encourage him and chase him into oblivion. He finishes inside you, and you feel his spend fill you. With his cock in you and his fingers pressing hard against your clit, you follow quickly.

You see stars, you see fire, you see storms. You see him.

You collapse onto his chest and sink into a state of nothingness.

After a while. the feeling of him returns. He's soft inside you now, keeping himself warm in the depths of you. His hands are stroking patterns on your back, and his cheek is against yours. You can feel his spend leaking from you. No, you think. Stay inside me, give me his child.

"Stay," you murmur quietly. "I command it."

"I will stay until dawn, if you'll have me." Aemond kisses your cheek.

You nod. With a wince, you carefully lift your hips and he slips out with a wet noise. When you roll off him, his strong arms stop you from going too far, and he hugs you close to him.

"Nothing will change," he whispers after a moment of peaceful quiet. He rests your foreheads together. This close, it's impossible for you to see him properly. All you can really see is the blurry glitter of the sapphire.

"Everything will change, Aemond."

"No," he insists. Sleep is coming for him "I would sooner have a dead wife than one who stops me from loving you."

"Do not jest."

He kisses you sweetly. "It's no jest. You are my priority, always. I will take a wife, yes, but she will never come close to you."

"That does not mean you should joke about killing her."

"It is no joke, sister. If she tries to come between us, she will die."

When Aemond leaves the next morning, Aegon is proud, and Grandfather is hopeful. Even Mother smiles. Only you watch with a blank stare.

When he returns, it is not news of a dead wife he brings you. No wife at all, actually, but a dead nephew.

You have to hide your smile. It is a fair exchange.

[flowersbane]

a scenario with a baker!reader gifting Joshua a little cake… which he happily eats (it’s carrot cake and he has no clue lol)

Idk but I wanted to share my silly little thought because I enjoyed your writing :’3

pls, this idea is so freaking cute!!! i'm so glad i finally got to write it, thank you so much for your request and patience, i hope you enjoy

(=´∀｀)人(´∀｀=)

The Trojan Cake

Joshua Rosfield x Reader

I might write another, shorter version of this where the reader bakes him a carrot cake without knowing about his carrot aversion, but, idk, let me know if anyone wants to see that. It would have to be a bit further in the future because I have some other things I'm working on that you can learn about here.

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 1.5k

Tags: Baker!Reader, Finally Getting Joshua To Eat Some Gosh Darn Vegetables, Fluff, Teasing, Unedited, Lots Of Appearances From Other Characters, Fun, Cutesy, Joshua Is Just A Big Golden Retriever

A new shipment of baking supplies was due to arrive today. You sway on your feet as you wait. Water laps at the wood beneath you, but you pay it no mind. Cursebreakers and laborers work on moving boxes off the ship and onto the Hideaway’s Pier.

“Carrots? Again?” Gav’s voice sounds from nearby. “And what are we supposed to do with all of these? We still haven’t gotten through the last shipment of them. There’s only so much carrot bisque a man can stomach. Soon enough, half the Hideaway’ll have orange hair and orange skin.”

Otto sighs. “Food’s food, Gav. We’ll find some use for them.”

Gav’s disgruntled expression doesn’t fade. “Unbelievable.”

Your attention is caught by someone calling your name. Mid waves you over from the ship’s deck. “You’ve got to come and see this! You’ll be grinning from ear to ear when you see how much stuff they’ve sent for you!”

You’re already grinning from ear to ear by the time you reach her side. Crates of flour, sugar, and yeast are tied down to the deck with sturdy rope. “And this is all for me?” you ask.

“You’re the one best suited for it,” Mid points out. “Now, I don’t mean to rush you but I’m pretty sure everyone at the Hideaway can already smell all the fresh baked sweets!”

“Oh, certainly,” Cole agrees as he and a handful of other Cursebreakers approach. “We’ll get these supplies to the Ale Hall,” he assures you.

“What are you going to make?” asks Mid.

You miss a beat before answering, “it’s a surprise.” In truth, you have no idea. You know the people of the Hideaway would be happy with anything you baked, but you didn’t want to fall into a boring routine. You wanted to try something new, even if you didn’t need to.

Mid only makes an excited sound from behind sealed lips. “The suspense is killing me!”

You laugh, but you know how she feels. The frustration of not knowing what you’ll bake weighs on you as well. “Well, best get to it.”

You descend from the boat and make your way back up to the main floor of the Hideaway. There are plenty of boxes that still need to be moved, so the lift is somewhat crowded. You wait for a path to be cleared before darting out.

“Have you tried chopping them up and hiding them in a stew?” Tarja’s voice catches your ear. She and Jote are crossing the Boarding Deck, clearly on their way to the Infirmary.

“If he sees them, he’ll claim he’s not hungry and refuse to eat,” Jote replies. “Not to mention, I can’t say I feel very comfortable trying to deceive His Grace.”

“They’re just carrots, Jote. I’m sure your decree says nothing against ensuring the Phoenix eats well.”

“If it were up to His Grace, I’m sure there would be.”

You continue your way into the main hall. It’s not uncommon to hear Tarja complaining about Joshua’s bad habits. You suppose this time it’s his aversion to vegetables. Especially carrots. Unfortunate, given that seems to be what the Hideaway has most of these days.

You’re halfway across the Main Deck when someone else calls your name, their voice sounding from your left. Speak of the devil. Joshua approaches with an easy skip to his step. The smile on his face tells you that he’s heard about your new arrival of supplies, but not that of the carrots’ reinforcements. Well, he might’ve and is simply choosing to ignore it. In fact, that is more likely to be the reality of things.

“I heard about the shipment of goods. Will you get to baking soon?”

If he were a dog, his tail would be wagging uncontrollably despite his cool disposition. You nod, your own smile creeping onto your face as an idea begins to form. “And you’ll be the first to get a taste.”

“Really? I will?”

You nod again. He’s always terribly eager to sample your new recipes.

He’ll have no idea. “Ah, my love, you’re brilliant.” He places a hand on either side of your head and plants a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“You should.” You certainly are.

As he disappears on to the Boarding Deck, you dart over to the bar. 

“Psst. Cole.” You wave the cursebreaker over.

“What is it?”

“Could you acquire me a crate of those carrots that just arrived? I have plans for them. Oh, but don’t let Joshua know. Keep this between us.”

He gives you a curious look, but does as you ask without question. You ask another of the cursebreakers to keep Joshua distracted for the time being. Your plans would be ruined if he were to walk in midway through.

“What, exactly, are you planning?” someone asks from behind you.

Jill runs her finger over the wooden boxes on the counter. You can’t help the little, proud gleam in your eye. “I’m going to get Joshua to eat carrots and like them,” you declare.

“Oh?”

“A carrot cake! He won’t even know they’re there.”

“I’m not sure if eating carrots in a cake counts as Joshua getting a proper intake of vegetables,” she points out.

You shrug. “Gotta start somewhere.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Lots.” 

You, Jill, and a handful of other helpers get to work immediately. With no time to waste, the work is made lighter with more hands to share in its labor. The only thing you can’t speed up is the time of actual baking.

“Do you truly believe this will work?” Jill asks.

“I do. Although, it would be a little funny if he could tell anyway. Like some sort of carrot-sniffing bloodhound. A carrot-hound.”

“Who’s a carrot-hound?” Clive stops at Jill’s side.

“Depending on the results of this experiment, Joshua.”

Clive gives you an almost pained look. “Please do not tell me you’re planning on experimenting on my brother.”

“I promise it won’t become a regular occurrence. Probably. Most likely.”

Clive only sighs and shakes his head.

The cakes finish baking and the air is filled with the scent of freshly baked sweets. You and your assistants–now including Clive–are just finishing spreading the frosting when Joshua arrives, eyes alight with excitement. He says your name with a boyish eagerness that makes your heart squeeze. He truly has no idea. “I hope no one has prevented you from keeping your promise to me.”

You do your best not to roll your eyes. He can still be so childish at times, despite himself. “No, of course not. In fact, you’re just on time. I was about to cut the first slice.”

He smiles. “Excellent.”

He doesn’t even seem to notice how everyone pauses to watch as he takes the first bite. He closes his eyes to savor it. You press your lips together to keep your mischief from showing. “This is delicious, my love, as always.” Your heart soars. You’ve done it. And he’s none the wiser.

You exchange a knowing glance with Jill and Clive. Jill looks mildly impressed while Clive simply seems to be marveling at his brother’s obliviousness. “Alright, everyone,” you announce, “you’re all free to dig in!”

- 

Gav arrives about a half an hour after everyone has already begun eating. He and Otto approach, standing on the other side of Clive, who has taken a seat at the bar beside Joshua.

Gav takes note of the remaining cakes. “Ooo, carrot cake, one of Otto’s favorites.”

You, Clive, and Jill freeze, eyes darting to Joshua. You practically see the life drain from his face. He turns a betrayed expression on you, like a pup who’s found his medicine at the center of his treat. By now, he’s already finished two large slices and is halfway through his third. You can’t help, you begin your apologies but the laughter in your voice steals any sincerity from them.

He practically whines your name, saying, “how could you?”

“But you liked it, didn’t you? Before you knew what it was?”

You can practically see his invisible tail and ears drooping. You’ve never seen him look so unlike the Phoenix before. It only makes you giggle more.

“I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know how I’ll recover from this.”

“Alright, my love, no need to be so overdramatic.”

He pouts. He actually pouts. “You’ll have to find a way to make this up to me.”

“Up to you? I did all of this for you.”

“You did all of this for yourself. I hope you’ve had your fun.”

You lean over the counter, smug as one could be. “Oh, I have.”

“Mhm.” He leans forward and places a soft kiss on your lips. You can still taste the frosting. “You better have. Otherwise, I will have eaten this for nothing.”

“You would have, at the very least, learned that you can stomach carrots. Isn’t that something?”

He laughs. “No, absolutely not. Just promise you won’t do something like this again.”

“I promise,” you draw out the word, “that it won’t become a regular occurrence.”

He rolls his eyes, but a smile toys at the corners of his mouth. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

“Something really good, I imagine.”

His smile grows. “Must have been.”

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (8)

The Beach

After overhearing a conversation between Prince Daemon and Corlys Velaryon at dinner, Aemond recruits Arianwyn to help him achieve a lifelong dream.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Author's Note: Me? Struggle with one scene for almost an entire month before deciding I hated it and just scrapping it? It's more likely than you think...

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The dining room at High Tide seemed warmer that evening, more inviting.

Before, Arianwyn had only noticed the imposing pointed spires of the chairs and how the ashy wood of the table seemed to enhance the cold stone of the walls – a coldness reflected in her father’s eyes.

Now, as Arianwyn entered the room along with the queen and Helaena, warm yellow candlelight filled the room, along with the voices of the gathered crowd. Having spent their tears at the funeral and subsequent reception earlier in the day, the family had moved on to cautious nostalgia. They still held each other for comfort – whether through embraces, joined hands, or arms around shoulders – but rather than sharing their woes, they instead told stories of joy.

As she moved through the crowd, Arianwyn heard tale after tale of Lady Laena. Of her prowess as a dragonrider, claiming Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world, when she was only thirteen. Of how she had skillfully maneuvered the massive beast in careful dances with Caraxes, awing the royalty and nobility of Pentos. She heard of Laena’s warmth and grace, how she charmed everyone she met within mere moments. She heard of her deep love for her daughters and how, in her final days, she had begged Daemon to let them return to Westeros to raise the girls – and their unborn child – in their true home, amongst their family.

How such a woman not only married but seemingly truly loved Daemon was beyond Arianwyn’s understanding.  

Still, Arianwyn listened with great interest to the stories of her late stepmother until the party was finally called to eat. Thankfully, Arianwyn was placed on the opposite end of the table as her father. The entire Velaryon family – including Princess Rhaenyra and her children – took the seats surrounding the head of the table, where Lord Corlys himself sat. For any other lord, the consequences would have been severe for setting the king and his family so far down the table, but Viserys had always given the Sea Snake an unusual amount of grace.

Arianwyn was comfortably seated at the opposite end of the table, among those she considered her own: the king and queen, Aemond and Helaena, and even Aegon and Otto Hightower. If she focused enough on the conversation surrounding her, she could almost forget anyone else was there.

Nevertheless, whenever she slipped into that sense of security and belonging, she was inevitably torn back to reality by Daemon laughing at the other end of the table. Arianwyn quickly decided that it was her least favorite sound in the world.

After one particularly infuriating bout of laughter from Daemon toward the end of the meal, as someone at his end of the table was telling a gruesome war story, Aemond reached out to place his hand on Arianwyn’s wrist.

Aemond had not seen her since the reception that afternoon. Nor had his mother told him anything about the meeting with Daemon, but from the hardened look on Aria’s face and the slight tinge of red around the rims of her eyes, he knew it had not gone well.

She froze at his touch, turning to look at him for the first time that evening.

He offered her a weak smile, but when she did not return it, his smile fell, and his stomach dropped. “What did he say to you, Aria?”

“Not much,” she grimaced through her answer, dragging her fork through what remained of the pale pink frosting that had covered her dessert. “Nothing kind.”

Aemond dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say. His own father had not shown much interest in his younger children since the birth of Rhaenyra’s sons, but at least Viserys acknowledged them – to a small degree – and he was never cruel to them. Aemond could not imagine living without a father for so long, only to have him be unkind when he finally showed his face.

He looked down at his dessert, a small cake flavored with rich butter and vanilla and shaped to resemble a sea star. He had already eaten one of the five “legs” but now felt himself losing his appetite. So Aemond reached across Aria’s plate to grab her fork and carefully transferred the cake from his plate to hers with both hands.

“Here,” he said. “You really liked yours, so finish mine.”

She did smile back at him then – she had never been so sad that cake could not cheer her. As she ate, Aemond found himself staring at her. She looked different tonight. There was a hard set to her eyes that had not been there before. It made her look older, stronger, and even more beautiful.

When had Aria become beautiful?

Before he could answer the question, his attention was drawn to a discussion at the far end of the table, as if some invisible force had turned his head.

“How long do you think Vhagar will remain on my beach, Daemon?” Corlys asked. “Her presence here has started to unsettle my men. Especially with no rider to control her.”

Vhagar. Laena’s dragon – the oldest and largest in the world – was still here?

“I imagine she’ll depart with us tomorrow,” Daemon answered. “She followed us from Essos, so I imagine she’ll fly with us wherever we head next.” He smiled proudly as he lifted his cup towards his youngest daughter. “Our hope is that Rhaena will claim her, once she’s had some time to recover from the loss of Laena.”

Aemond’s pulse quickened. Not only was the most fearsome dragon in the world here, on Driftmark, but she remained unclaimed. Excitement raced through his veins, but he forced his face to remain passive – as if he hadn’t just heard the answer to years of prayer. It truly must have been the gods who nudged him to listen to Lord Corlys.

He spent the remainder of dessert formulating a careful plan. When, at last, their host stood from the table and began to invite his guests to the library for drinks, Aemond grasped Arianwyn’s hand with all his might.

“What is it?” she asked.

Aemond looked deep into her silver eyes, hoping that his voice carried enough weight in his voice to show her how serious he was. “After we’re sent to our rooms, wait half an hour, then sneak out and meet me in the hall, the alcove where that giant shark is hung on the wall. There’s something I must do, but I need your help. Promise?”

For a few heart-pounding moments, she just stared at him, bewildered. But then she turned her head, examining him as if seeing his face for the first time. With a mischievous smile, she nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Aemond thanked all the gods – old and new – that Aegon was finally old enough to join the adults for the post-dinner festivities. He could not have stood his brother’s prodding and teasing as he tore through the books on the Velaryons and Driftmark he had brought to pass the time on the ship. Nor did he trust that Aegon would have stood by while he snuck out of their shared quarters. If he were lucky, his brother would be so drunk that he would not find his way back until morning.

He only had to wait a few moments in the shark’s alcove before Aria appeared, flashing a wide smile. She wore the heavy black cloak from her riding leathers, the thick material sweeping along the floor as she approached Aemond.

“You snuck past Ser Sterlan?” Aemond asked as he took her arm and led her to a more secluded corridor.

“No, but I told him we were sneaking down to the kitchens to try and find more of those starfish cakes,” she whispered.  “He said it was fine, so long as I brought him one, too. So, I guess we’ll have to actually find one at some point. Where are we going?”

Aemond unrolled a piece of parchment he had tucked in his belt. On it was a crudely drawn map of Driftmark, with a large “X” marked just south of the castle. He held the map out, indicating the marked area with his thumb.

“There are only a few beaches large enough for Vhagar,” he said, excitement ringing in his voice. “I thought that since –”

“Vhagar?” Aria exclaimed, looking up from the map to stare at him incredulously. “Why would you want to find…?”

Realization dawned on her face, followed immediately by an overwhelming dread. “Aemond, you cannot possibly mean to claim her!”

He sighed, lowering the map. His desperation ran so deep that it hurt. “There are no more dragons in the world that have not already rejected me, Aria. If I cannot claim her, I shall never be a dragonrider.”

“But you don’t know that for sure! Syrax and Dreamfyre could lay new eggs. And there are dozens of reports of wild dragons every year!” She pulled her cloak tightly around her.

Aemond scoffed. “Rhaenyra will keep Syrax’s eggs for her own family. And any eggs from Dreamfyre will be set aside for Aegon and Helaena’s heirs.” He stepped toward Arianwyn, forcing her attention to his face. “Besides, do you really think I have a better chance of finding and taming a wild dragon than I do of claiming Vhagar? She has been ridden by a Targaryen for nearly two hundred years. This is my last chance, Aria.”

Arianwyn could not deny Aemond’s logic nor the determination on his face. She had never seen him so sure of anything. But she had seen the aftermath of his failed attempts at claiming other dragons – weaker dragons. She could not bear to see what Vhagar might do should she reject him.

“What about Rhaena?” she asked. “Vhagar was her mother’s. What if she hopes to claim her?”

Aemond blinked as something like regret passed over his face, but it soon vanished, replaced by a resolute fire that set his violet eyes ablaze. His voice was calm and steady as he spoke, “If Rhaena is meant to be Vhagar’s rider, then she will not accept me.”

That was precisely Arianwyn’s fear. She had seen the aftermath of his attempts to claim dragons that did not accept him. But as he held her gaze, unwavering, she knew there was nothing she could say to dissuade him. “If I refuse you and remain here, you will still go?”

“I don’t want to,” he said, “but yes. I need to do this. I have no other choice.”

Arianwyn nodded, attempting to calm her nerves. “Very well. Then you will not be alone.”

Aemond, in the little time he had to prepare, had made an excellent plan, though Arianwyn was loathe to admit it.

His map, which he had copied from the navigator aboard the King’s ship, showed that only a few beaches on the island would fit a beast as large as Vhagar. Only one was close to the castle. And, as Aemond reasoned, if the she-dragon was loyal enough to the memory of Lady Laena to follow her family across the Narrow Sea, she would want to stay close to them at High Tide.

So, Aemond and Arianwyn ventured through the dark corridors of the castle. They moved in complete silence, relying only on the tilt of a head or the subtle movement of their eyes to signal their route. Keeping to the shadows Aemond knew so well to avoid detection, they made their way to the Sea Gate, a covert escape route explicitly built for the Velaryon family in case of invasion.

The path led to a narrow stairway descending a steep cliff. Arianwyn’s first instinct was to call for Emrys to fly them down. But sensing her intentions, Aemond took her hand and squeezed to stop her from whistling. It took her a moment to realize that doing so would alert all in the castle that something was awry. If the king, queen, or any other adult knew what he was trying to do, they would stop him.

Walking hand in hand for balance, the two slowly made their way down the stairs to the uneven rocks of the beach below. Though they were no longer at risk of falling, Aemond still held Arianwyn’s hand in his own. Curiously amused by his newfound confidence, she did not move to let go. Instead, she allowed him to take the lead, pulling her behind him as they crossed the beach.

Rock gave way to loose sand the further they strode from the castle, slowing their progress. Tall, dry grasses and large patches of scrub were their only relief from the rugged terrain. With no sun in the sky, it was hard to tell exactly how long they walked.

Whether it was mere minutes or long hours, Arianwyn did not care. Though her heart pounded, anticipating the worn bronze scales of Vhagar over every dune they climbed, this was still the most peace she had since arriving on this gods-forsaken island. She had only begun contemplating why she didn’t feel as afraid as she should when Aemond gave another sharp squeeze to her hand, pulling them both down to crouch beneath the crest of a large dune. Arianwyn shivered when he released her hand, pointing just ahead of them.

Vhagar.

Though she had long heard stories of the three great dragons that her ancestors had used to claim Westeros, nothing could have prepared her for the sheer size of the ancient she-dragon. Seven hells, she had nearly mistaken her for a hill!

If Emrys was large enough to carry two riders, Vhagar could hold an entire army. Her skull alone was larger than most of the dragons Arianwyn had seen, and just one of her massive, leathery wings – even folded in as she slept – was longer than Emrys’ wingspan twice over.

As she beheld the beast, Arianwyn couldn’t help but wonder why Aegon and his sisters had stopped with the Seven Kingdoms. With dragons like this, they could have conquered the entire world.

She was broken from her thoughts when Aemond began to raise himself from the ground, his fists clenched. On instinct, she reached out to grab his ankle. He turned, looking down at her with a questioning gaze.

Though her heart was nearly bursting with things she wanted to say, all she managed to choke out was, “Please.”

That one simple word meant so many things.

Please. Do not fail, for I long to see you fly.

Please. Be careful, for I do not want to see you hurt.

Please. Do not die, for I cannot bear to live without you.

She could only hope that he understood it all before releasing his leg. Aemond smiled down at her. Then, he was gone.

Arianwyn watched as he approached the sleeping beast. Her heart thundered in her chest, drowning out the sounds of the wind and sea.

Aemond approached slowly, though his steps were heavy in the coarse sand. Still, Vhagar did not wake. Even when the birds resting on her back flew away as he drew ever closer, the great dragon remained asleep.

He stopped at her side to gaze at her saddle. It was made of well-aged brown leather and held on by countless ropes around the dragon’s chest, woven to form a ladder up her massive side. His hands and feet itched to climb it – to mount the fearsome beast.

His blood was burning with the urge to throw off his fear and sense to seize his destiny at last.

But he remembered his lessons with the Dragonkeepers well. Without a dragon of his own to distract him, for years, he had little to focus on but the words of the acolytes and elders. He would not mount her yet. Not until she was his, and only his.

Resuming his approach, he reached out his arm, his fingers tingling in anticipation. He slipped past one of the massive ropes, at last laying his hand on her. Her scales were not as smooth as Emrys’, each one rough and weathered – though whether by age or battle, Aemond did not know.

SNAP!

Aemond looked over to see a pair of massive orange eyes staring at him. He stepped back as the dragon lifted her head, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. Those golden eyes narrowed as she assessed him.

Aemond knew she was relying on a sense he could not detect himself. It was one of the first things the Dragonkeepers taught young riders – the dragons had the mysterious ability to peer into a person’s soul, judging them for who they truly were in the deepest parts of their being. It was through this sense that a dragon judged an aspiring rider – whether they were worthy enough to claim or a stain to be burned from the earth.

Look at me, Aemond thought. See me for all that I am. I am the second-born son of Viserys Targaryen and a Prince of the Realm. I am the descendant of your first rider, Visenya Targaryen, with whom you conquered this land. I am kin to Laena Velaryon, whom you so recently lost. I am the Blood of the Dragon, and I am here to claim you.

With a single, slow blink, Vhagar turned away.

Taking the gesture as an invitation, Aemond reached once more for the ladder.

But Vhagar whipped her head back to him and released a low, rumbling roar. Distantly, he heard Arianwyn begin to pray aloud as the she-dragon opened her jaws, and the night was illuminated by the fire churning in the back of her throat.

“Dohaerās!” Aemond shouted, raising a hand as he refused to shrink back. “Dohaerās, Vhagar! Lykirī! Lykirī!” Obey. Obey me and stay calm.

Though her fire still burned, Vhagar let it cool slightly as she again looked down at the boy in front of her.

His breath shaking, Aemond again reached out with his thoughts for the she-dragon, this time admitting to her the truth he had never given voice to before.

Look at me. See me for all that I am. I am a second son; I will never ascend a throne, and I will never wear a crown. I shall never claim glory as Visenya did, nor be as fierce and well-loved as Baelon or Laena. Though I may ride you into battle, I will never conquer a land as you did with Balerion and Meraxes. When your legend is told, I shall be counted least among those who were blessed to ride you. I am fearful, and I am unsure. But I am the Blood of the Dragon. I am a true-born Targaryen Prince.

I am Aemond Targaryen, and I mean to claim you.

Her rumbling roar faded, along with her fire. She brought her snout closer to the young Prince’s outstretched hand until her warm scales rested against his palm.

As the contact was made, a surge ran throughout Aemond’s blood, warming him to his very bones. As the pupils narrowed in Vhagar’s orange eyes, he could almost hear a low voice in the back of his mind.

I see you, Aemond Targaryen. And I claim you.

Arianwyn let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding as she watched Aemond at last grasp the ropes that hung on Vhagar’s side and climb into the saddle. She felt his joy reflected in her face as he held the reins and commanded the Queen of Dragons herself.

“Sōvēs!” He shouted. Fly. “Dohaerās, Vhagar! Sōvēs!”

The ground itself seemed to shake as the dragon pulled herself up from where she had rested. She let out a mighty roar, nearly throwing Aemond as she shook the sand from her hide.

Arianwyn stood, lurching forward with an arm outstretched as if she could catch him from the crest of her dune. But he hung on, gripping the horns of the saddle with all his might as he was at last carried into the skies.

Vhagar roared again, the sound almost like laughter as she climbed higher and higher in the air until she was so far above her that to Arianwyn, she seemed the size of a hatchling.

Then, she dove.

Arianwyn was too enthralled by the sight of Aemond riding his dragon that she did not realize that Vhagar was diving directly towards her until there was no time left for her to run.

“Daor, Vagus!” Aemond’s scream was muffled by the beating of Vhagar’s wings and the blood rushing in Arianwyn’s ears. “Sīmonās! Ziry ōdrās daor!” No, Vhagar. Rise! Do not hurt her!”

The dragon roared – whether in protest or reluctant acquiescence, Arianwyn could not tell. All she knew was that after Aemond’s command, Vhagar surged up with an agility that far outmatched her size. As Vhagar passed her, Arianwyn only suffered a light spray of sand as the end of her tail brushed over the next dune.

Arianwyn watched the great dragon soar above her, graceful and terrifying all at once. Her heart soared as she heard Aemond’s screams of fear transform into whooping shouts of victory that echoed throughout the cliffs and waters of Driftmark. She had not felt joy like this since her first flight on Emrys.

Vhagar continued out over the sea, an amused shriek escaping as she maneuvered through a flock of gulls. She dipped slightly, flying close to the surface of the water and tilting to dip the tip of each wing under the surface before pulling up, a rain of her own creation falling from her back as she once more climbed toward the stars.

After a few more heart-pounding moments that seemed to Aemond to last both heartbeats and an eternity, he finally landed Vhagar back on the beach where they had left Aria. He dismounted and walked to her head, running a hand over her snout as he whispered his gratitude. She let out a puff of hot air, warming him from the chill of the sky and mussing his already windblown hair. While affectionate, it was a gesture of dismissal. Vhagar was ready to resume her rest.

So Aemond patted her scales once more before running back up the dunes to meet Aria. She stood atop the hill, hands clasped in front of her, entirely unprepared for the tight embrace he claimed her in, lifting her up and spinning her around in circles before tripping in the sand, sending them both tumbling down the dune.

“Did you see, Aria?” he asked, undeniable joy in his voice. “Did you see her? Did you see me?”

Laughing, Aria scrambled to rise to her feet. “I saw! I saw it, Aemond! It was simply amazing.”

His cheeks flushed as she offered her hand to help him stand. It was only when he was again facing her that he realized she was shivering. Curious, the night air was cool, but not cold. Perhaps it was simply thanks to Vhagar that he was still perfectly warm.  

“Here, take my cloak, too.” He did not allow her to protest as he draped it over her shoulders and fastened it around her neck. “There.”

Her smile had become strange – smaller, but no less happy – and her cheeks were rosy. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Let’s hurry back to the castle,” he said as he retook her hand. This time, he realized that she was cool to the touch. “I want to tell Mother straight away!”

He squeezed her hand, his only warning before he ran back across the beach as fast as he could, dragging her along with him. They laughed the entire way, Aemond recounting his flight with all the dramatic flair he could muster, as if Aria had not witnessed the whole thing. She humored him, reacting to his words with enough enthusiasm that even he could believe she was hearing it for the first time.

They did not quiet until they were back in the tunnel of the Sea Gate and saw four figures running toward them.

“What are they doing here?” Aria whispered, her grip on Aemond’s hand tightening.

It was their cousins – Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena. They all stared at Aemond with a measure of surprise and fury. He dropped Aria’s hand and pushed her behind him, protecting her from the threat he saw in the gaze of his half-sister’s bastards and the daughters of Daemon.

“It’s him,” Baela spat.

Yes, she was Daemon’s daughter indeed.

It did not matter.  He was a dragonrider now – the claimant to the largest dragon in the world. Say what they may, his cousins could harm him no longer.

With all the confidence of the world, he replied, “It’s me.”