#the part of the point of her time in harrenhal

[death-of-cats]

Reek III ADWD

it still sticks in my craw that the show writers took this dialogue, bastardized it, and gave it to Arya and Tywin instead of Theon and Roose, thereby completely missing the point of the scene.

(i mean, i get it. charles dance is a good actor and they wanted to use him, and this is a memorable bit of dialogue. but it went to show that even in season 2 the show runners were prioritizing snappy moments over character development)

To spell it out - in this scene Roose has just seen how his bastard son has transformed Theon, not just physically but mentally as well. Roose knew Theon from before when he was Reek, so he knows how much a change Ramsay has wrought. In this scene Roose is both probing the extant of the damage as well as seeing if he can similarly get Theon to transform himself for him. The point: do not be fooled by the soft voice and quiet demeanor. Roose takes as much pleasure in toying with people and subjugating them as Ramsay does. There’s also a hint of competitiveness with Ramsay as well - Roose finds Ramsay’s methods too crude, too obvious. He’s showing he can do the same thing without any open brutality.

[barbieaemond]

Religion

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: mild angst, misogyny, banter, pregnancy, childbirth, oral sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, dry humping, overstimulation, brief lactation kink, breeding kink, manipulation (to get some), some good ol' tying up, slandering of the Gods lol

Author's note: this is the third and final part following And I dream of a grave and A curse for a curse but can be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that Aemond did not cheat on his wife while in Harrenhal. He used Alys only for her visions.

Word count: 13k. Ye have to suffer for your smut darlin'

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language.

taglist: @multyfangirl @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @darylandbethfanforever9 @zaldritzosrose @alphard-hydraes-blog

Her mother had come to King’s Landing three days after she gave birth. Peering through the door, the Princess didn’t know if the woman was more surprised to finally see a baby safely tucked between her daughter’s arms or to witness that she was still breathing. She had chosen to believe both.

Since she was a little girl, she had been instructed in what was coming, for her and all the girls like her: how to serve men, how to serve the Realm. She knew pregnancy could be a time of great distress, physical and otherwise, and for her, it turned out to be nothing more than that.

She spent the first moons plagued by sickness, glaring at the Maesters who told her that morning sickness was perfectly normal. It would've been, if only it had lasted the hours the sun was at its highest. Instead, she couldn’t keep down her breakfast, just like her lunch, or dinner. She had lost weight, she couldn’t stand any kind of smell with the risk of rushing to her pot and empty her stomach.

Then, on one fine morning, while she was walking the gardens with two of her maids, she had suddenly bent over, hissing with pain while clutching her maid’s arm, dreading the trickle running down her thighs.

The Maesters said occasional bleedings might happen, that she only needed to rest and take some tonic to strenghten her body. But that day signaled the end of her peace and the beginning of her confinement.

Because clearly, at the first sign of something going wrong, slipping out of his control, Aemond would panic, albeit showing none of it, standing as tall and stoic as ever and somehow more than he’d ever done now that the Conqueror’s Crown weighted on his head. But she knew better. She knew how to look through all his walls. She knew he was scared—for her, for the baby, for his sister, for his whole family. It was simply too much for a single person to carry all of that on their shoulders. And it was precisely for that reason that she didn’t object to any of his orders. After all, she couldn’t. He was the King now, even if he didn’t choose to style himself as such.

Thus, her chambers became her prison.

Cobwebs didn’t have time to grow because she was quick enough to point them out to the servants. She was aware of the slight drop in the stone tiles just behind the terrace, as of the strategic point where to linger to gain some cool breeze from the sea. She knew the baby liked to sleep upside down in the early afternoon, occasionally kicking hard as he, or she, settled comfortably in her womb.

Aemond had picked some books for her, mostly about history, having her yawning at the third page. She had tried needle work, putting all her good will into it for the sake of doing something, and she had deliberately chosen to believe she was undeniably good at it. But that was a very generous lie. 

“What is that supposed to be exactly?” Aemond asked one day, peeking over her shoulder as he reached her on the terrace.

She didn’t look up, keeping her eyes fixed on her embroidery tambour, working the needle in and out. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He leaned down until she felt the long silver strands tickling her head and even without turning, she could feel him grimacing. “A bird?”

At that, she had raised her head, reading all the disbelief on his face. “It is a dragon. For the cradle.”

Aemond had simply furrowed his brow, unable for the life of him to consider what he saw as something even remotely resembling a dragon. But he thought better than to anger his pregnant wife, given her late sour spirit, but especially in light of how fiercely she had started to stick the needle in, likely picturing to stick it into him instead. He had built the most fake pleasant smile he could master and said “Very well. Excellent work, my love.”

“Thank you, husband.”

The trouble was that, as time went by, she only became sourer. She grew more and more uncomfortable, too tight in her own skin. Her back hurt, her breasts hurt, and she was starting to believe she was carrying a real dragon, with fangs and all; she had no other explanation for how hot she constantly felt, forced to lie in a thin white chemise all the time, despite the winds carrying the winter.

But maybe there was another reason why her spirits were so low and sour. She had come to learn that pregnancy affected every aspect of her life, including the most pleasant one.

She would grow wet for a kiss. She would close her legs and rub them together upon seeing him rise from the bathtub. She would moan into his mouth if he so much as grazed her nipples with his knuckles. But as she grew bigger and bigger, along with the discomfort, kisses and some intimate brushing were all she would get from him. Aemond had grown distant, not only with his presence, due to all the duties he had to fulfill wearing the Crown, but even when he was there, in their chambers, sleeping next to her, she felt him leagues and leagues away.

“Pregnancy is a very hard time for a woman.” The Dowager Queen had said to her “It is overwhelming to think that you are never alone and yet...somehow you are.”

She’d never understood what her good mother meant until she was confined to her chambers, alone with her thoughts and her fears. She didn’t expect Aemond to do something, this was women’s business. And she knew his reluctance to lie with her rested solely on concern and love for her.

No matter how much he craved to take her, he had decided to put his husband’s rights away for the delicate final moons until the baby was born. He still felt guilty, for Harrenhal, for the witch, for forsaking her only to get drunk on visions and prophecies. Yet, those visions turned out to be true. He had shut that voice in his head and tried to make amends. But they didn’t have the time to mend themselves together, to knit all the distrust and suspicions into something good; the baby was coming, and it seemed he or she did nothing but grow them more apart. 

He saw how tired she was, how some days she couldn’t even get out of bed. And how useless he felt when he would catch her crying, like that night when he found her all alone on the terrace at the hour of the owl.

She was sitting on her chaise filled with cushions when Aemond walked around her. Given the state of his white shirt and hair, he had likely just awakened and hadn’t found her beside him.

“What are you doing out here? You will catch a cold.”

“I cannot sleep.” she had kept her eyes far, on the Black Water Bay, far from him. But he saw them anyway, her reddened eyes.

“You cannot stay here in your condition.” He said almost tiredly, but when she didn’t even blink at his words, he called her name, with the tone he used in the Throne Room.

“Aemond, please.” She whispered, turning her head. “I—” she bit her tongue, unwilling to put this on him, but she knew he wouldn’t let go until she was safely back in bed. So, she said “I don’t want to hear her.”

It took him less than a moment to understand what she meant. Helaena. Helaena who lost a child, who saw her flesh and blood horribly murdered before her eyes. Helaena who couldn’t stop wailing in the dead of night.

She had looked at him, seeing that torn thing, broken and raw like a split wound; shame and guilt and rage all at once. Then, he lowered himself onto his knees until he took her cold hands and squeezed them tight. His mouth opened, but she was faster. “Don’t say it.”

You cannot keep such a promise, you cannot keep us safe. No matter how many times you say it. But she wouldn’t take that solace away from him, not that plainly. The more he said it, the more he seemed to believe it. So be it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and there was a beautiful, heartbreaking desperation in his hushed voice. “Tell me what to do.”

She had built a convincing smile, running her hand through his loose hair and pushing some strands back. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

Her spirits during the day would slightly improve. And between the Council and some hearings in the Throne Room, he always saved some time to go visit her in their chambers. She didn’t seem to enjoy being watched like a toddler, but deep down she cherished his concern. She cherished the way his hands would gently hold her own, or caress her hair, her belly. She found it hard to believe those hands could bestow such reverence and violence at the same time. And even in his absence, he managed to ensure she always had anything she needed. Even blackberries in early autumn.

“Myra, where have you been?” She asked in a late afternoon, when one of her most loyal maids entered her chambers after disappearing for the whole day.

The young girl had an awful look. She seemed exhausted, as if she had walked the entirety of Flea Bottom, twice. “Apologies, my Princess. It took me quite a while to find blackberries.”

“Seven Hells, it is only a craving. You did not have to go all the way through King’s Landing to find me blackberries.”

"No, I-I ought to.”

The Princess paused, frowning at the young girl. “Did someone else tell you that you ought to?”

“Well…yes…” the maid said, sinking her gaze to the floor “The King—uhm Prince Regent.”

She sighed deeply, and with heavy steps, she walked towards the terrace; her maid was immediately at her side to help her. “What did he tell you?” the Princess asked as they reached the chair outside.

The girl waited for her to sit, slowly and awkwardly given her big belly; then, a little timidly, she said “He…ordered me to go look for blackberries and not to…bother coming back if I didn’t find them.”

The Princess rolled her eyes in quite an unlady-like manner, “How in the name of Seven did he know about it?” She asked, grimacing as she desperately tried to find a comfortable position. “I have barely seen him this morning.”

The young maid helped her, fixing some cushions behind her back and whispered “The White Cloak at the door…I suspect he reports everything to his Grace.”

The notion didn’t seem to strike her that much, or maybe she was too tired, too uncomfortable and too hot to comment on the matter, or even scoff at it.

She grabbed a fan from her maid’s hands and unceremoniously shook her shoes off, placing her swollen feet on the cool tiles. Closing her eyes, she basked in that small relief; the floor was cold, the sun was about to set, and the baby was sleeping.

According to the Maesters, her time was close. She was eager to meet this little person but in truth, she just wanted it to end. She hated having no control over her body, her spirits, her marriage. She missed being a wife and being treated as such, not just as the mother of his child. She had come to think that, deep down, any woman felt that way, but they were forced to hide everything behind a joyful smile while sinking to their knees to thank the Mother. Wasn’t that the sole purpose of any girl in the world? To bleed on a birthing bed? Wasn’t that the way men measured women’s value?

She swallowed hard as the question spun in her head. Am I finally worthy of you, Aemond?

She wouldn’t dare ask him. 

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

She was too lost in her thoughts to even hear his footsteps on the terrace. As her gaze flew up, she read the deep concern on his face, all lumped in the steep furrow between his eyebrows. He must’ve seen her grimacing, thinking she was in some pain. She was, but she was too much of a coward to tell him.

She resumed her fanning, averting her gaze and stretching her legs out further on the floor. “I feel like I’m boiling.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He deadpanned, raking his eye over her disheveled state; sprawled on that chair with her legs slightly open, her white chemise all crumpled and unbuttoned, and a bead of sweat on the forehead, in the crevice of her swollen breasts. He thought the times when a mere look at this woman would make him hard were gone once the novelty of having a wife, someone rightly and thoroughly his, had dissipated. He was wrong.

“I’m well aware of my lack of decency.” She replied, seeing how he was staring, the little inquiring curve in his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I care very little about decency at this moment. Blame it on your son.”

His lips curled up, watching her gather her loose hair with one hand while she kept fanning herself quickly with the other.

“Are you still inclined to believe for certain that it’s a boy?”

“I know it’s a boy. Only men can be this insufferable.”

That little smile on his lips lingered, deepened, and then he moved, going to stand behind her. “Let me.” He said, and took her hair between his hands. She couldn’t see what he was doing but got the gist as she felt his deft fingers moving and her neck free to get some air. When he walked around the chaise to sit beside her, she saw that his hair was loose. He had tied her hair with the black lace he always wore to prevent the silver strands from ending up in front of his eye.

She loved to see him like this: hair loose, eyepatch lost somewhere in a drawer, sitting next to her, even without saying a word. The sapphire seemed to match his eye, glowing a soft violet under the setting sun. She felt that familiar lump in her throat, as she stared at him, a restless thing flowing through her whole body, demanding to be released only to be trapped under her teeth, biting down her lower lip, starved and yearning.

“A little bird told me you put a hound on my trail.” she said at one point, shutting her little fan.

Aemond didn’t look surprised to acknowledge that she knew. He had actually ventured with himself about how long it would have taken her to realise he was spying on her every move.

“You are well aware of my duties now.” He said, turning his head to look at her. But not quite. His eye seemed to linger everywhere at once, fleeting, snatching a look here and there, her legs, her sweated neck, her belly…his own testament, as if she wasn’t one already.

You left your mark on her just as she did on you. Those were Alys’ words, at which he had ugly sneered. And she had laughed at the sight, eerily, as someone who owned the truth. I’m your spoil of war and yet, you speak to me ten paces away. What are you afraid of, Kinslayer? That your skin would burn like brimstone if you touched another woman?

“Besides,” he resumes “any lady would be flattered by her husband’s genuine concern.”

“You could flatter me in different ways.” was her prompt answer and she moved incredibly fast, given her impediment, getting close to him until she filled his nostrils. She smelled different since she was pregnant. A thick smell, musky. She tasted differently. Sweeter and somehow sourer. He swallowed at the mere memory. “We have talked about this.”

“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”

His head spun around, forcing her to stifle a smile at his ever strictly reserved nature.

“They said there’s nothing wrong, or remotely dangerous, if we…engage in our conjugal duties.”

He tried to ignore her hand, her fingers traveling up his arm like a spider’s legs. “Did you need the Maesters to learn that?”

“No, but you do. You hang on their lips…I wish you hung on mine.”

Aemond heard her voice dropping a tone, and dropped his chin down, looking at her hand roving on his chest, shamelessly slipping beneath his dark green doublet, skin to skin. She glided on his planes slowly, making sure to trap one of his nipples in the little hollow between her index and middle.

“I don’t need them to know about my private matters.” He said mindlessly, trying to hold a grip on his thoughts.

“Seven Hells. It baffles me to witness how prudish you desperately want to appear while I perfectly know how debauched you really are, to the bone.”

“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”

“Oh, is it? What about that time on our way to the Grand Sept?” She tilted her head, so she was talking almost in his ear. “Do you remember?”

Her hand on his chest was burning, or was it his own skin? His own flesh simmering wherever she touched him.

“Don’t do that.” She whispered when she saw his long legs cross. “Let me see. You have condemned me to do nothing else.”

His eye chased her hand as she grabbed his knee and pushed to uncross his legs, so that she could see, the outline of his cock through the breeches, see how he ached for her. “Do you remember what you did in the wheelhouse?” She asked again, looking at him; the sapphire was the only thing flashing violet now. His eye was pitch black.

“You put your hand beneath my gowns…” she said and her hand slid up against his thigh “you grabbed me, harshly.” And she did the same, forcing his mouth open and a shallow breath out of his throat. “And you grinned…because my garments were soaked.” he closed his eye for a moment, perhaps recalling, or maybe because her hand was moving, palming all his length through the breeches.

“And then you slipped your fingers underneath…” and again, she did just so, unbuckling his belt and sinking her hand in. He opened his eye, and basked in what he saw: that sort of silent, desperate plea in the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, in her heaving chest, in the way she was rubbing her legs together.

Thus, just when she was about to grab him, he grabbed her wrist instead and crashed his mouth against hers with a low growling sound. She could do nothing but moan, giving him open room to slip his tongue in and taste every corner, driving his body closer and closer, but not too much as to crush her.

She, on the other hand, felt free, finally, to roam, to rummage. Her hands grabbed and pulled everywhere, at his doublet, the collar, the buttons, the thin white shirt underneath it all, until everything was loose, and she was free to touch him, all the while making the sweetest wanton sounds, close to desperate whines. “Please, Aemond…” she begged freely, holding his face “just this once…please…”

He shushed her with another harsh kiss and with a free hand, he clutched her white nightgown into his fist, pulling up, enough to stick his arm between her legs. She spread them for him, panting with anticipation, and stopped breathing altogether when he cupped her core with the large palm of his hand. Aemond trapped her lower lip with his teeth, biting softly upon feeling how wet she was, dripping on his fingers, so much that he wished to fall on his knees and wipe it clean with his tongue.

“Please…” she breathed, barely rocking her hips to urge him to touch her.

“Hush.” he said, and curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips against her centre, gaining a delicious wince from her. “Tell me of the wheelhouse.”

She smiled breathlessly, her eyes hungry and heavy, full of lust. “It was the first time I wore green.” she started to tell. “We were still betrothed. I wanted to impress you.”

“Hmm. You certainly did.” He remarked, watching her closely while rubbing his index pad against her entrance, teasingly, making her squirm. “Go on.”

She felt like burning, her face hot for the sun, the baby, the ache in her lower belly, stirring and coiling. “You told the White Cloak to take another round…” she said, breathing with her mouth open. “You grabbed my waist and forced me on your lap.”

“And you pushed me away. Twice.” he’d laughed, flashing a grin that made her willing to shove him away, to pull him closer. “What a farse you put on.” he continued, leaving a chaste kiss on her neck that resulted in her writhing some more, pushing her pelvis against his hand. “I had to cover your mouth for your mewling. You were so fucking loud.”

It was then that he finally granted her some mercy, slipping one finger inside her drenched lips, spilling a long gasp from her.

“No. Not quite.” He observed cruelly and slid another finger, this time gaining a proper loud moan. “That’s more like it.”

His two fingers started to pump slowly, and yet she was making the lewdest sounds he’d ever spilled from her, arching her back as far as she could, scrunching her face almost in pain and pulling at his collar, twisting, as if he were torturing her instead of giving her pleasure. She made his cock stir painfully, his teeth grind for the ache, for the fact that she was coating his whole hand. “Easy now…” he warned her, his tone all husky. “You don’t want to come already, do you? ‘Tis the only thing you’ll get from me, sweetling…you better make it last.” 

She whined in annoyance, forcing another grin on his ruthless lips, and with that same ruthlessness, he slowed his ministrations, only to cup one of her breasts with his free hand, squeezing softly until the thin, silky fabric slipped down, revealing her pink, swollen nipple. “I must say…I’m relieved you will summon a wet nurse…so these will be all mine.”

She had to stifle a breathless laugh at that. “Being jealous of your child is a bit too much, even for you…”

“Oh, my love” he crooned, freeing the other breast “I am jealous of the clothes on your skin.”

Wasting no time, he wrapped his lips around her nipple, causing her to arch against him once more, one hand flying down his shoulder, fisting his doublet, twisting it as he swirled his tongue and hummed with delight dripping from his tone, as if he were tasting honey, and the sweetest ever made.

His fingers resumed their frantic rhythm, sinking deep inside and stretching, hitting that special spot that made her sight go black, reduced to a mess of sweat coating every inch of her skin and a string of moans growing hoarse and high-pitched.

“Are you close? Hmm?” he rasped “How about another? Can you take another for me?”

He slipped a third finger in, causing her to wince and cling to his shoulders with her mouth open in a silent scream. “Good girl.” He praised at the sight. He wished he could savor it for a little longer, he wished to keep doing that again and again, until the sun went down and rose again, until there was nothing but ruin around them.

But she was so close now, he could feel it in her tensed arms around his shoulders, in her clenching walls around his hand, and quite frankly, the ache in his breeches was unbearable, twitching at every moan and squelching sound of his fingers inside her flesh. 

She came loudly, curling her ankles on the ground and writhing in his hold as if in a delirium. He kept her still, his hand buried inside her, feeling the quick pulsing that rivaled the one in her heart. And he watched her, gasping for air and throwing her head back, utterly spent, hair all sticked to her forehead. In his eye she had never looked this beautiful.

He pulled his fingers out, making her wince slightly, and brought them to her mouth, smearing her spent desire on her own lips, like the final touch to a painting. And then he kissed her, humming at her bittersweet taste. He held her face gently, grabbing her jaw and angling her head to taste her better, eliciting a blissful sigh from the back of her throat that made his hardness throb. As if she had felt that, her hand had slipped between them with purpose, sinking past all his layers and taking hold of him.

She rejoiced in the little whimper he gave her, and started to work her hand up and down, making it impossible for him to kiss her any further, if not for a sloppy and panting mess of spit and teeth. 

Given the unbearable pressure building past his navel, he knew he wouldn’t last long. And she knew that too. But she didn’t want to have him this way. Awkwardly, she stood up and spread his legs to make herself some room, but as soon as Aemond, despite the lack of blood in his mind, caught her intentions, he stopped her, grabbing her arms firmly.

“No…” he croaked. “Not on your knees.”

She couldn’t help the little surprise on her face. Aemond had never been this considerate, especially in bed. He could be gentle in his own way, subtly. Little hidden things in the way he would run his fingers through her hair once she had reached her peak, the way he would regain air once he’d spilled inside her, breathing into her neck and running his lips lazily against her skin. But most of the times, he was very diligent, all focused in giving her and himself the pleasure they both craved; he was somehow harsh, ruthless, a mirror of who he was outside the bedroom, possessed by some kind of urgency that would break her in the most beautiful and cruel way and put her back together at once.

But then again, she imagined the promise of his heir living inside her was affecting even one of the most ruthless of men.

She sat down again and watched him stand up, his breath labored and open-mouthed as he looked down at her, working the few laces of his breeches still tied. She didn’t need an invitation, an order, a mere tilt of his chin to sit upright and put her hands alongside his snatched waist.

She looked up, and he found himself swallowing hard, cursing silently at the sight of her looking straight into his eye with his cock a breath away from her, all hard and glistening on the tip. Shamefully, he thought that would have done it for him.

A coarse grunt left his lips as soon as she wrapped her mouth around it, teasingly swirling her tongue on the slit without ever averting her gaze from him. He hissed painfully when her lips started to travel along his length, trying with all his might to hold back and not spill into her mouth so soon.

She, on the other hand, seemed eager to watch him come undone, just as he had done to her a few moments earlier. She started to suck him eagerly, like a starved creature, because on all those nights and days when he had taken her apart, learning every inch of her and how to bend it to his will, she had done just the same.

She knew how to make him wince and moan openly, while on her knees on their bedroom floor or on a fucking terrace during a late afternoon, with likely anyone to walk on them at any moment. With the Gods watching.

She didn't care. The Gods didn't care for them anyway. Let them see to whom she fell to her knees.

He couldn’t stop looking, how pretty she was like this, swallowing him whole, up to the hilt, hitting her throat with a gagging sound. So lecherous, so holy.

He was so close he had to bite his lip to restrain himself, letting out a string of curses until he felt the pressure growing stronger, and then, he thought, he might as well have it his way.

“Stop…” he croaked, grabbing her cheek but delicately, slipping out of her mouth and running his thumb over her sore jaw. She closed her slicked mouth, a drop of spit running down her chin and she looked at him, with such devotion he thought he had nothing to envy the Gods.

“Let me…” he pleaded, wiping her chin clean with his finger. “Let me fuck your mouth, sweetling. Would you?”

A question that needed no answer. Indeed, he wasted no time and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it slightly up for a better angle. He sheathed himself all the way in, gasping deeply at feeling the hot walls of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

His fingers curled into her hair, but never in a hurtful way, enough to keep her still as he started to move his hips against her face back and forth, his open mouth quivering as the pleasure began to build where it left off.

“Fuck—” he cursed once, and then twice, fucking her mouth faster to chase his peak, pulling ever so slightly at her scalp until he went still altogether, pushed his waist hard against her, and grunted loudly, in a pretty uncharacteristic way, as his cock twitched and spilled down her throat until the last drop.

Panting harshly, he pulled himself out and watched her close her mouth, eyes fixed on him, working her cheeks and making no mystery of the white essence on her tongue before swallowing it, thoroughly.

Aemond let himself fall on that chaise and she watched, she drank that sight: his hair all disheveled and damp with sweat, a shade of pink on his cutting cheekbones as he slowly pulled himself together, breathing through his open mouth while buckling his belt and breeches.

“I think I’m going to take a bath.” She said at one point, clumsily standing up. He had mumbled something in return, still caught in the throes of what they had done, but before she got back inside, she turned and said “Oh, just so you know…all of this was a ploy.”

She smiled cunningly at his frowning. “I never had any cravings. And I knew about the White Cloak at the door since the first day you put him there. You are not as subtle as you think you are, my love.”

A man of few words, but loud actions.

Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.

In haste, nursemaids began their frantic rounds in and out of the Princess’ rooms like soldiers, carrying hot water and boiled rags. The Dowager Queen abandoned her perch beside Queen Helaena, or what was left of her, and went to assist the Princess. Having borne four children, she had quite a bit of advice to dispense, things she had learned on her own skin, things that any Master would never have told her because oblivious and convinced they knew what happened to a woman's body at such a delicate time based on how deep they had buried their nose in an old dusty tome.

Alicent helped the Princess rise from the bed, clutched her arm firmly and helped her walk. She said it was vital to walk, that it would ease her pain and help the baby come sooner. She told her to squat when the pain hit. She rubbed her back and wiped the sweat off her face as if she were her own daughter. It felt like that. Even though the Princess seemed to face it all with a stiff lip, Alicent could see that she was scared and in terrible pain, that she probably wished for her mother to be there. She had wished the same, no matter how many times she had faced it.

“Your Grace?” The Princess asked after another wave of pain had come and gone.

“Yes, child?”

“Do you think your son would forgive me If I said this one is both the first and the last?”

The Queen had smiled at that. “If the Gods bless you with more children, it will be easier, I can assure you. The first time is always rough. But it shouldn’t be long now.”

Well, her good mother turned out to be wrong. Because the pain plagued her for a full night, giving her no peace. At the hour of the nightingale, the nursemaids forced her to bed, and she gladly went. She was exhausted, she could no longer walk without hissing at every step, and by that time she was so used to the pain she no longer whined or anything, only scrunched her face and ground her teeth.

The servants stripped her bare and replaced her sweat-soaked nightgown with a fresh one. They dabbed her face with a wet cloth, but she could barely register anything, floating into unconsciousness only to be brought back to the present as another pain choked her breath.

“Perhaps some Milk of the Poppy?” One of the nurses said at one point.

“No.” the Maester said. “She may need to start pushing any moment now. We need her vigil.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes opened, wandering helplessly around the room. Useless research, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. She didn’t expect him to be. The birthing bed was no place for men, save for the Maesters, although she was starting to doubt their real usefulness when all they could do was pull her nightgown up, take a close look and shake their heads. They might as well let Aemond be there.

She imagined he must’ve been waiting outside, or in the Council, and yet she ached to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for him in her mind, clutching the sheets in her fist as if she could clutch his hand instead. And then she felt someone’s hand closing around her own, loosening her grip. Alicent, smiling down at her, and holding her hand tight.

It was holding her good mother’s hand that, at the first light of dawn, she gave birth to her child. A boy, healthy and all screeching as soon as he was out of her womb, clad in blood and grease.

Aemond had decided to name the child Aenar, if it was a boy, after the first Targaryen Lord, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes or force her tears back when he was finally admitted to their chambers and took their son in his arms for the first time. 

Alicent was beaming at the sight, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, my son.”

But Aemond didn’t seem to even register her mother’s words, or presence, utterly enraptured by his little creature. He cast a look at his wife, a secret little look that told her how proud he was of her, how relieving it was for both to have come this far after all that happened, to have this little thing, this little ounce of peace amidst all the chaos of war.

What she didn’t know at that time was that Aenar was not exactly a peaceful child.

She had believed there had finally come the time when she could be herself again. But from the earliest days, Aenar proved not to be an easy child to deal with. The newborn cried and cried for hours, plagued by belly aches, and seemingly able to calm down only when in his mother’s arms. They had obviously called on a wet nurse; highborn ladies did not feed their children themselves, let alone a Princess. But Aenar had categorically refused to latch onto his wet nurse’s breasts. Alicent had proposed to summon another one, but as they dawdled and wavered, the Princess felt her heart break into pieces each time she held her little baby in her arms, all red in the face, hungry and in pain, turning his head towards her cleavage, desperate for her milk. Thus, she had put aside ceremonial court and all of that and chose to feed him herself.

But it was a strenuous task. The Maesters had warned her it would be tiring, sleep depriving, but she really had no choice. She had to do it every three hours, sometimes less, because being latched onto her breast seemed the only thing that would prevent the baby from screaming at the top of his lungs all day long. The nursemaid had recommended fennel and chamomile for belly aches. And, instantly, Aemond had ordered an astounding amount of both to be delivered to the Red Keep’s kitchens.

Queen Alicent taught her to hold the baby on his stomach, to rock him, but not too fast. They told her to take several breaks during breastfeeding, to make the baby belch often and prevent air from his belly. In the first week after Aenar was born, her mind was all but a vessel of do this, do that. No, not this way. Don’t ever wake the baby when he’s sleeping. Try to sleep when he does. Don’t eat spicy dishes.

In the midst of all of this, Aemond turned more and more suffocating in all his well-hidden, self-consuming concern. A handful of white cloaks, the most trusted by Ser Criston, were constantly guarding the door, day and night. He had a secret passageway that led to his rooms walled up, and she could swear he slept with his dagger beneath the pillow. Evidently not at peace with such extreme measures, he had the cradle moved to his side of the bed, within his reach, so that every time she had to wake up because the baby was wailing, she had to walk around the bed and pray that she would not tumble to the floor in the dark.

However, she was at least grateful to have Aemond’s support, for the little he could do. If he wasn’t occupied with warfare or hearings, he spent all the time he had with her and their child. And in those moments, no matter how exhausted she was, she would always find the strength to smile at the view when he held their baby, tracing his long fingers over the velvety grizzled skin of Aenar’s small hands; even when he’d speak to him in Valyrian, at which she had frowned at first.

“You do realise he’s one week old?”

“”Tis never too soon.”

“Mh. What’s next? Bring him to the skies on dragonback?”

“I’ll have you know Vhagar is perfectly safe to—“

“Over my dead body.” 

He had smiled and stood up, going to place the baby in her arms. Aenar immediately began to fuss, whining and turning his head against her chest. She had started to unbutton her chemise but then stopped, looking up, where Aemond stood still like a sentry, and watching.

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I putting up a show?”

“Usually, you do.” He drawled. “Am I not allowed to watch? It seems my son and I already share a few interests.”

She looked away, smiling, and then she freed her left breast, watching as the baby immediately latched onto it. A moment later, Aemond took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He stared at her, and she saw that familiar glint his eye.

He trailed his thumb over her lip, barely breaching inside. “Soon?” was all he asked.

“Soon.” Was all she answered.

The soreness and the bleeding were reducing, and she was back in her tight flesh.

But the Gods must have cursed them some more, because that “soon” never seemed to become “now”.

The sickness didn’t seem willing to leave the poor child alone, along with his parents and the entirety of the Red Keep who had to suffer through his heartbreaking cries day and night.

The Princess had started to feel hopeless and guilty, no matter how many times the nursemaids, and even Queen Alicent, told her it was not her fault, that it was natural. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were right. Her heart broke any time the baby cried, wriggling desperately in her arms, in Aemond’s, in the cradle. She would end up crying too as she tried to soothe him, caressing his back with her cheek resting on his timidly silver-haired head.

She was working herself up to exhaustion, often falling asleep with the baby still latched onto her breast. It was Aemond who would take the baby to the cradle, it was Aemond who would button her chemise and pull up the blankets.

She hit rock bottom two weeks after Aenar’s birth, when she realised she hadn’t bathed in four days. Even Aemond, she could swear, was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. You don’t want to be King and take decisions in the middle of a war only to come back to a screaming infant at night.

But then, like a curse lifting, the sickness stopped. Amidst all those days she had stopped counting or even being aware of which was which, Aenar stopped crying. She was ashamed to admit that the first night he slept peacefully in his cradle, she had gone to check on him five times, to see if he was still breathing. 

She began to gradually return to her former self, able to enjoy motherhood with a more rested mind, at least. Physically, she still felt worn out, given how much time she spent breastfeeding or rocking the baby to sleep. But now she was strong enough to take the baby out, walking the gardens with her maids and smiling proudly as the court ladies stopped to congratulate themselves and say how beautiful her baby was.

By doing this, though, she also became aware that she had lived in a bubble for so long that she had almost forgotten there was a war raging, there were battles being fought across the realm.

Reality hits her one day when Alicent goes to visit her and her grandson, bringing the news of a very important victory near the Honeywine, a large river flowing in the Reach, thanks to Prince Daeron Targaryen who had arrived all victorious on that very morning, riding his blue scaled dragon, Tessarion.

The news stuns her for a moment. She had no idea of it, partly because she had been too caught up with Aenar, but also because Aemond had not told her. Yet her family came from the Reach, they lived there, not very far from the Honeywine; her older brother fought for the Green Army. Still, not a word from Aemond.

Taking advantage of Aenar sleeping and the fact that Alicent offered to watch him, she leaves her chambers and heads for the Council. There’s a bustle of lords coming out of the door when she gets there, barely paying her any attention as they hastily babble about armies and supplies and men; always more men to be sent to slaughter.

She stops at the door, widening her eyes at the silver head crossing the threshold, one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Prince Daeron.”

The youngest son of Queen Alicent and late King Viserys was nothing but a boy. But war had taken its toll on him too. He stood like a man, a Prince, and more than anything, a skilled dragon rider.

“Princess.” He says, tilting his chin down.

She curtsies and sees an immediate gentle smile softening his Valyrian features. “I believe some congratulations are in order.”

“Well, in all fairness, you shall be the most celebrated, my Prince. I’ve just heard of your recent victory.”

His gentle smile lingers, but loses its sparkle. “I must say I much prefer to celebrate life…rather than…the death of innocent men and women.”

There can’t be objections to such a statement; she just nods and casts a distracted glance inside the Council.

“Please…” the Prince says then, making room to let her pass “I won’t keep you away from my brother.”

She turns her head and smiles, tightly. “I’m afraid it is your brother who keeps himself away from me.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”

“Indeed.”

The Prince bows to her and leaves.

Closing the door behind her, she glances at Aemond sitting at the head of the table, in the King’s chair, with such effortlessness that he seems to have been born exclusively for that purpose.

“I thought I heard you.” he says absent-mindedly, scribbling down a small piece of parchment. She slowly walks to the windows, casting a single furtive glance down, but she can’t possibly make out what he’s writing, or to whom.

“How’s—"

“Aenar is fine.” She cuts him off. “He’s with your mother, sleeping.”

He stops scribbling, glancing up for a moment. Her voice is tight, cutting. He knows that tone. It’s the same one she used in Harrenhal, as if he should have fallen to his knees and be grateful for the mere fact that she was speaking to him. But he doesn’t have time today to circle around her like a coiling snake, so he goes straight to the point. “Is something the matter?”

“You didn’t tell me of the Honeywine.” She says after a moment, gazing at the Bay.

Aemond sighes, a sign that he was expecting such a question. “You were looking after our son.”

“And?” she’s quick to rebut, quick to reach him at the table and stare down at him. “You didn’t deem it appropriate to inform me of a battle raging in my family lands?”

“I am your family.” He says, stoically, as if common law, and she has to stifle a bitter laugh. The nerve of him. “That is a very lovely concept. Strange how it got lost on you in Harrenhal.”

“Enough!” he barks, and the sudden harshness makes the quill pierce through parchment. “I thought I’d made myself clear.” He warns. “I don’t want to hear another word about the witch. Ever.”

She obediently looks down, regretting having said that, but not entirely. Perhaps she has spent so much time beside him that she, too, can’t let go of her grudges.

“I did not tell you, for I did not want to upset you.” He says, resuming his collected tone. “You were worn out by the baby, I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders.”

She knows he’s sincere. Still, her nod is stiff as she looks away, biting her cheek. She is just so sick of it all. Of being regarded as a cunt to be bred at first and now a weakling nailed to a cradle with an infant sucking the life out of her. She knows she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last.

Aemond leaves the quill and stands up, circling until he’s close to her. “Your family is fine.” He tells her, lingering behind her. “Daeron spoke to your brother this morning.”

She keeps nodding, keeping her gaze down on the table, all scattered with maps and little dragon-shaped tokens, some black, some green. She frowns, letting warfare soothe her petty spirits. “What is this?”

“Our next move. A defense plan…which happens to be an attack plan too.”

“A pincher?”

She turns just in time to see the little surprise on his face. “My brother talked of nothing else when we were children. He slept with warfare books as pillows.”

“Hmm.” He muses, and takes a step closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his chin on her collarbone. “Show me.”

She shudders at his sudden proximity, at his breath blowing on her neck. She shudders at anything these days. A hand on her back, his legs fumbling beneath the covers and casually brushing against hers. She’s tight as a fiddle string.

“A pincher is nothing else but a decoy.” She explains. “You let your enemy believe they have you trapped…” and in saying this, she grabs his hand and moves it across the map. “And then…at the right moment…” she makes him hold a green token between his fingers and brings it near a little division of black ones “you strike on both flanks.” And with a swift flick of her wrist, his hand scatters all the black tokens across the table. To do so, she must lean over the table, accidentally brushing her lower back against his bulge. He’s not hard, yet, but it thrills her to feel the lightning quick effect she has on him.

“Hmm. Good. Very good.” He praises next to her ear as she withdraws her hand; his voice is so low it makes her spine shiver. But she keeps herself grounded and asks “When will this happen?”

“Soon.” he whispers, placing his hand flat on her stomach. “There’s another Small Council shortly but Aegon wanted to be present. They went to fetch him.”

“Well, then I shall retire to my chambers. I feel a bit lightheaded from all the thinking.”

He ignores her jab and keeps her still by the arm when she tries to move. There’s a little sly smirk pulling at his lips. “I have some time to spare.”

“And how do you propose we spend it?”

“Enough with your pantomimes. I can feel your legs squirming.”

Curse him.

He slips the other hand straight into her corset, cupping her breast and humming with delight at how full she is, how it fills his large hand entirely. “Are you wet for me, my love?”

His teeth sink down her lobe, and at the same time, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and index, forcing an indecorous whine out of her. “My, my…” he laughs darkly, torturing her sensitive skin until he feels something wet on his fingertips, probably milk. “I could make you come just by doing this.”

Powerless, she yields, leaning completely against him, rubbing her lower back for some friction. “What if someone enters?”

“We’ll make it quick.”

“But I don’t want it to be quick.” She pants, grabbing his hand on her breast and squeezing; the other crawls behind her back to try to feel him through his breeches. 

Hissing, when she starts to palm him, he says “Then we let them watch. They get to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers, or my cock. Which should it be?”

“Both. Anything.” She answers hastily, pulling at his collar to bring him close enough to kiss him. He hums contentedly when she does, twirling his tongue around hers. It soon gets messy, each of them fighting for dominance, winning and losing in turn, until he spins her around, so he can look at her and with both his hands, he seizes her gowns and pulls up, furiously rummaging through them.

“How many fucking layers have you on?”

“I’m not pregnant anymore.” she points out, unbuckling his belt.

“Pity. Perhaps I should fuck another one into you to keep you in your skimpy robes.”

“Don’t you dare, Aemond—” 

“Gods be good, brother! That eager to make another one?”

They both startle like little children caught doing something naughty, turning their heads towards the door, where two servants are carrying King Aegon on a chair. Aemond sighs annoyingly, letting go of her gowns as she does with his belt, trying to compose herself.

“My King.” She says, greeting her good brother with a tight little smile.

Aegon’s appearance has improved since Rook’s Rest, just as the burnings, but he carries with him the smell of Milk of the Poppy and rotting skin everywhere he goes. 

“Good-sister. What are you doing here? Apart from being ravished by my brother... should you not be breastfeeding?”

Aemond gives him a level stare and then looks at her, hoping she will not take the bait. Aegon and his wife never got along well, to say the least. Things had only escalated with time, to the point that whenever they found themselves in the same room, one of them would wisely leave, his wife most of the times, lest they start to hiss at each other like two cats fighting for territory.

“What if I intend to stay and attend the council?”

Aegon giggles, as the servants put down the chair, and after a quick glance below her neck he says “I’m afraid you would be a little distracting. And my brother is not one for sharing.”

Before she can ask what in the Seven he is blabbing about, Aemond takes her arm and makes her turn, shielding her from his brother and the Lords coming through the door.

“You should retire.” He curtly says.

“Are you taking his side again?” she asks, wriggling her arm to free herself from his hold.

“You’re leaking.” He informs her, flatly. 

At that, she frowns and dips her chin down, watching the front of her dress practically soaked in milk. “Oh.”

“I shall join you when I’m done here.” He tells her, and lets her out through the side doors.

Aemond did not join her.

The council lasted until the evening, a recurring thing when Aegon attended. Aemond was stern and concise in his decisions. Aegon liked to laze around, enjoying the wine in his cup, rattling his younger brother’s nerves. Deep down, she was convinced that Aegon did not really want to attend the Council because really interested in what to do, but only to remind his brother that he was still breathing and that the Conqueror's Crown on Aemond's head was a temporary measure.

But it didn’t matter. She would join him for the banquet in honor of Prince Daeron.

She was thrilled to go. It was not a proper feast. Since Helaena had fallen into grief, the atmosphere within the walls of the Keep had become rather austere. But a banquet still meant an occasion for conviviality, and after weeks and weeks spent locked up within four walls, the Princess was eager to spend some time outside her chambers. She had felt like a terrible mother at the mere thought. She loved Aenar, how could she not? But she also loved herself, her family, her marriage, Aemond. Especially Aemond.

Once she had put the baby to sleep, she had ordered her maid to prepare one of her favorite dresses, a green one, and to tie her hair in an elegant braided bun. When she had looked in the mirror, she had almost grunted. The scarce and troubled hours of sleep were all evident in the dark circles under her eyes, but it was nothing a little egg-white couldn't temper.

When she arrived at the banquet, Aemond was already there, standing in his usual soldierly stance, intent on talking to his mother. She approached them from the side, Aemond's blind side precisely, so that when she announced herself, he had to turn his shoulder to look at her. He cast a glance at her hair, ran his eye over her entire figure. She wasn’t expecting any kind of sappy words, and certainly not in front of his mother, nor did she desire them. She could feast on that look alone.

Queen Alicent excused herself to give order about the banquet, and they were left alone, while some musicians gathered in a corner of the hall.

“You said you would join me. I thought they abducted you.”

“More or less.”

“Ah. Yes, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you to listen to the lords snapping like little soldiers at your command.”

“It pains me to acknowledge how little you know me, when you think I'd rather talk war with those wimps who can't even hold a sword than fuck my wife till dawn.”

“That was your plan?”

“We have some unfinished business, don’t we? And don’t play dumb. You’re wearing green. You’re not as subtle as you think you are either.”

“Good. I’m sick of subtleties. So, are you going to ask me to dance?”

Aemond rolled his eye and gave her a stare that told her he’d preferred to walk barefoot on lava.

“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”

Prince Daeron suddenly appeared between them, with his cheerful manner and his head of silver curls, dressed in dark green just like his older brother. “Strange. You were the only one listening to the lessons when we were children.”

“Yes, because you and Aegon acted as court jesters the whole time.”

“I’ll have you know, brother, I have refined my dancing skills in Oldtown. So…may I dance with my good sister?”

Aemond gave him a simple nod, and Daeron bowed to her gallantly, raising his palm up.

She kindly accepted the invitation and placed her hand on his. “Don’t sulk too much.” She whispered to her husband before following his brother.

Aemond watched closely as they started to dance, stealing all the attention, and despite that little primitive tug at the sight of his woman dancing with another man, even though that was his brother and there was absolutely nothing malicious in his or her intentions, he was glad to see her like this, spinning and twisting around instead of lying still in the cold with dread eating her alive.

When the dance ended, Daeron escorted the Princess back to Aemond and took his leave. “Remind me again,” she asked as she watched the young Prince leave “How is it that your brother is still unmarried?”

Aemond sighed deeply and took her arm to escort her to the table. “I’d give you one week before you’d get bored of him.”

While they waited for dinner, the lords and ladies of the court were obviously very eager to hear Prince Daeron. Alicent in the first place, after so much despair, and after being separated from her youngest son for years, seemed to smile with her eyes every time she heard him speak.

“Hear, hear!” one of the lords cheered after listening to Prince Daeron’s retelling of the Battle of the Honeywine. “A brave soldier and a brave dragon rider! I propose a toast.”

At once, everybody stood up, raising their glasses. “To Prince Daeron, to House Targaryen!”

“And to House Hightower.” The Prince proudly stated, raising his glass towards his mother.

As they sat back, the Queen ordered the servants to serve the dinner. The table was gradually filled with a great variety of dishes, many of them Prince Daeron's favourites, specifically ordered by his mother to make him feel at home. It had been weeks and weeks since such a banquet had been seen at King's Landing. Prince Daeron seemed very pleased and grateful, as did all those present who watched the rich dishes crowd the table, and lastly, the huge tray of fresh fruit that a servant laid in the middle.

“I can’t quite believe my eyes. Blackberries? This far in the season?” said Lady Bracken.

“I’m afraid that is entirely my fault.” The Princess chirped, catching Aemond’s attention from across the table.

“I had a sudden craving, while I was carrying Aenar.”

“I had one too with my first.” Lady Redwyne joined in. “Plums, specifically.”

“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”

“Oh, very much indeed.” She stated, casting an innocent glance around, but lingering for just a moment longer on her husband. “I devoured so many…I still feel the taste on my tongue.”

Devious woman, he thought, fighting back his cursed smirk. He had half a mind to excuse themselves and retire to their chambers, if he managed to endure it all the way and not take her in the middle of a hallway.

She seemed able to read his mind, judging by the way she was looking at him, unfurling a napkin on her lap. He knew her well enough to foresee when she was in a teasing spirit, and he was all in for it.

But then, just when they were about to start eating, her trusted maid came in, going straight to the Princess. “Apologies your Grace.” she said to her ear “but the Princeling is awake.”

Aemond saw the concern instantly widening her eyes and then a shadow passing over her face. “Yes…” she said, and stood up talking to all the present. “My apologies. I must retire.”

“See?” said Lady Bracken as Aemond watched his wife leave the hall. “This is why I refused to breastfeed. No matter how my second would scream…”

By the time she had done breastfeeding, her chest hurt so much that the maid had to place some rags soaked in cold water directly on her nipples; the instant relief had made the Princess close her eyes and almost moan. She had planned to go back to the banquet as soon as Aenar had had his fill but as she gained relief by pressing those wet rags to her breasts, she realised her son wouldn’t let her get away that easily.

As soon as the maid had taken him, trying to put him to sleep, he had begun to fuss and wriggle, whining in what she knew would soon turn into a high-pitched, deaf inducing crying.

Perhaps he’s cursed too. She had thought exhaustingly, promptly kissing his silver little head.

She gave up on her plan to go back to the banquet and rocked the baby herself, pacing before the windows while whispering sweet soothing words.

As soon as he had dozed off, she put him in his crib and absent-mindedly grabbed a book from Aemond's desk, lazily leafing through it while rocking the cradle with the other hand.

Aemond finds her like this when he opens the door on his way back from the banquet. She looks up from the page and sees him striding purposefully towards her, snatching the little book in her hands and throwing it on the bed.

She’s shocked, to say the least. One might say he treats books far better than his subjects.

“What—“ she tries to say but he takes her hand and pulls, forcing her to stand up and follow his steady gait.

“Aemond?” she asks down the corridor, a girlish grin climbing on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t bother to answer but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out. They stop before a door down the corridor opposite to their chambers, Aemond pushes her inside without so much grace and shuts the door behind them. 

She looks around briefly; the room is warm, the fire in the hearth is lit, as the candles scattered all around. This is all familiar. “These are my old chambers…” she says with a little frown, turning to him.

“Quite the observer, wife.” He drawls, and takes a few steps. His stride is different now. Slow, contemplating, as his gaze raking over her, as if he in the first place doesn’t know why he brought her here and he’s assessing what to do. A war map, and he knows where all the faults lie.

“I thought we could spend some time together” he starts, walking past her to go sit near the fire “Alone.” he adds once he leisurely sits down, crossing his long legs and resting his hands on the armrests. “What better place than a vacant room? No one will come looking for us here.”

She tries as hard as she can to stop the little smirk at the corner of her lips; she walks closer, stopping right in front of him, staring down. “They might hear.” 

“Hmm. And that is much of a trouble for you, isn’t it?” he asks with the most fake genuine tone, taking a cup from the nearby table, and then “You sucked my cock on a terrace and begged me to fuck you in the Small Council…I thought I told you to quit your act.”

She smiles openly now, watching the wine pouring in the cup, his eye fixed on the liquid as his eyebrow shots up. “Besides, I know exactly what to do to muffle your noises.”

“You should be proud of my noises.”

“I am.” He says, taking a sip of wine, his eye piercing through her above the cup’s brim. “But for once, Aegon is right. I’m not one for sharing.”

His arm moves to put the wine aside but she takes it, only to feel his hand pulling the cup away from her. “You cannot drink.”

“Fine.” She concedes, leaning on him. “I’ll have it my way.”

She holds his face and with her left hand she glides her fingers on the left side of his face, delicately but with purpose, pushing the eyepatch off. And then she kisses him, eagerly, licking his lips and then breaching inside to taste the wine on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth.

She sighs deeply when he locks his tongue with hers, and feels his lips curling.

“Did you hear it?” He says breaking the kiss, breathing into her mouth. “That one is my favorite.”

“Your favorite what?” She asks mindlessly, chasing his lips but to no use, because he tilts his head back, his cursed smirk ghosting.

“Noise. It’s a little thing…” he tells her, locking one hand around her neck “in the back of your throat, close to a sigh but not quite…” his fingers trails against her throat, chasing her swallowing “It tells me you’re dying to.”

“To do what?”

“Fall on your knees for me. Be a supplicant.”

She grabs the back of his neck, driving his head close and looks down at his arched mouth “You cannot live without God, can you?” She looks up, her mouth open to breathe “Seven of them seem to have cursed me. I had to find my own.”

His eye widens at that. He looks straight into her eyes, so devoted, so raw. She’s right. The Gods would curse her some more if they saw she looks at him the way she should look at the Gods.

“Then do it.”

“What?”

“Flatteries don’t work on me, sweetling. You should know that.” With his hand on her neck, he slightly pushes her away, making some distance between them. “You will have to show me.”

“What would you have me do?”

His hands let go of her completely, resting on the armchair. The gemstone glints blue, and yet it’s nowhere near the bright cursed thing in his eye. “Get on your knees for me. Now.”

She should be ashamed of the pull in her bones, the muscles willing to move on their own accord and fall to the ground. But why, why does it have to be sin? Why can it not be religion?

When her knees hit the ground, she sees his chest rise, his long fingers spreading flat on the armchair. But her eyes fly back to his face as soon as he speaks, as soon as he commands. “Take off your dress.”

His eye sinks down, watching her hands work the corset, steadily. It’s the only sound in the room, this tugging, at the dress. But she tugs at his cock too. She tugs between her own legs.

When the dress is nothing but a pool of green on the ground, she goes to pull down her white chemise, but she suddenly stops. Aemond uncrosses his legs and the air hitches in her throat as his hands go straight to his belt, unbuckling it.

He revels in the little lump in her throat. Perhaps later he will let her have what she’s craving, but not so soon. “Give me your wrists.”

“My—”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

Swallowing, she keeps her eyes on him and raises her hands, like an offering. Aemond takes off his belt and leans forward, enough to take her hands and cross her wrists. She shudders at the sharp tug when he wraps the leather around, tying them tight.

“On your feet.”

And up she goes, testing her hands briefly but finding soon that she cannot move them, at all.

“Come.”

It takes one swift movement of his leg, bending the knee while the other rests loosely on the ground, for her to get the gist and walk closer, sitting on his knee, sideways.

“No. Like this.” Quite harshly, he grabs her hips and turns her so that she’s straddling his thigh. He can hear her little gasp when he pushes his thigh firmly against her core. He can feel her warmth through the fabric, stirring his cock. But he pays it no mind, for now.

“What now?” She asks, poised precariously on his thigh. 

Aemond tilts his head, and he just looks at her. In the spur of a moment, a boyish one that doesn’t sit well with how he’s built, he thinks he might be quite contented by merely looking at her. Because she’s beautiful and mine, mine, mine.

But his hands are burning, they might fray and wither if he doesn’t touch her. He unties her hair, running his fingers through them as they fall around her shoulders. The Maiden. The Mother. And yet something better, something worse. Because her eyes are hungry, her mouth is starving for air, for his flesh.

“You must toil to find God.” He says, and then he grins. A savage thing, full of promise. “Bring yourself to come.”

A flash of thrill lights up her face, darkens her eyes and Aemond tilts his head again, biding all the time in the world, for he knows she will.

Tentatively, she pushes her body down, against his thigh, feeling a timid shot of pleasure traveling up from her core, ending in a short, labored breath.

That noise, that might be his second favorite.

Soon, her hips start to move back and forth, each time trying to push herself down as hard as she can, making little breathless cries each time she fails to give herself the friction she needs. She has little balance due to her tied wrists, so she rests her palms on his chest to gain some leverage. And that seems to do the trick.

She tilts her head back, moving faster, doing little jumps on his thigh, panting harshly as sweat lumps on her forehead and pleasure coils in her belly.

Aemond hikes up her chemise, watches her cunt brushing back and forth against his leg, leaving a trail of wetness on the fabric of his breeches. He has to choke down a growl. “Gods, you’re soaking me…”

She looks down at him, her cheeks pink, her lips open in a little o. He can’t help himself. He sticks two fingers inside and how relishing it is that she waits for no invitation or order. She laps, twirls her tongue around his fingertips, sucks them.

“Look at you…” he croons, taking his fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva down her chin. “But you can’t, can you? Perhaps I should fuck you before a mirror, so you see. You see how pretty you are when you’re desperate for me.”

His hand travels down her neck, tossing her hair back and then grasping the strap of her chemise, pulling it down, revealing her swollen, turgid breast. He leans forward immediately, cupping it in his hand, and takes the nipple into his mouth, crooning contentedly and then some more when he feels her wince and cry out loud.

Her tied wrists writhe in their merciless hold and he stops her, gripping both her hands with one of his own, keeping her still, lapping and sucking at her nipple until he feels something wet and saccharine on his tongue, humming all the better. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, and she cries out again, bucking violently against him, turning sloppy and frenzy as she feels the fall close.

He feels it too, feels her thighs trembling around him, and that’s when he takes her hips in a tight hold and forces her to stop altogether.

“Did you think I would make it so easy?” he asks spitefully, seeing her dazed expression. Wasting no time, he holds her firmly close to him and stands up. It takes him only two of his long steps to reach the bed and place her above. In a moment of illusive freedom, her tied wrists fly to his breeches, to his evident hardness, but he’s quick to stop her, bringing her arms above her head, keeping them there with a firm hold. “Stay still.”

“Aemond—“ she pleads.

“Hush. Spread your legs.”

She obliges, eager for him to do something, anything to stop the aching. Aemond wets his fingers on his tongue and brings them down, breaching inside her with two of them, watching her gasp, arch her back and twist her wrists in his hold, uselessly. “Easy…” he cruelly laughs “I have just started.”

But she hasn’t. She’s a few steps away from the precipice of her previous denied peak, it would take him so little to push her over the edge. Instead, his torture is so slow that the whole coiling in her belly falls apart and she must climb her peak again.

His two fingers slip in and out ever so easily, their wet sounds echoing through the room, mixed with her panted breaths and his own. He aches for her to touch him, he aches so much that his cock is pulsing, painfully, but this is just too thrilling. Now he knows exactly how she felt in Harrenhal, when she had him chained up to a chaise.

Her hips rock frantically against his hand, trying to speed him, to get there faster. Mumbling nonsense, her legs tense like iron, her cunt clenches and sucks his fingers in like a vice. “Yes…yes, please…Aemond…please don’t stop—‘m so close…”

And just like that, he slips his fingers out; a dark pleasure dances on his candle-lit features as she writhes and whines for the loss of his fingers, swinging her lower back and forth, desperate for the barest friction that would end her misery.

“Aemond, please…” she says, and even with only one eye, he can’t mistake the tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes.

“What, my love?”

“Plea—” she’s cut off by his hand, pushing his sticky fingers inside to make her clean up her mess.

“We said enough with subtleties, did we not? Speak. Tell me…what you need me to do?”

“Let me come please…please…”

At that, he finally lets her wrists go, and she almost winces in pain, for the time she had them tensed above her head. He stalls for a moment, unsure, running his eye over her whole body, sweating and feverish, and so beautifully plump because of motherhood. He unbuttons his doublet, and then his shirt, his breeches. He bares himself completely, catching her eyes following his deft hands everywhere, breathing heavily.

He kneels between her legs, spreading them. And it’s embarrassing, really, the way she tumbles as soon as he puts his tongue flat against her drenched folds. If only she cared.

It takes only a couple of twirls of his tongue around her lips, and she comes undone, shaking all over, canting her slit against his face. He helps her ride out her climax, by not stopping at all. Instead, he doubles his efforts like a man possessed, pushing his mouth open against her cunt as if he wished to devour it, sucking harshly until she whimpers hard, choking on a loud sob. “Aemond—wait—I can’t—”

She cannot take more so soon. But he’s utterly deaf to her complaints.

He feasts on her, lapping and dipping his tongue in, parting her folds to go as deep as he can, humming while drinking all of her; his voice reverberates through her flesh, it makes her bones rattle.

His long nose rubs against her bud and he looks up: she trashes about the sheets, cutting herself as the belt leather scratches her skin. She tries to push him away with her tied wrists, to no use. She clamps her legs around his head, in a desperate attempt to chase him away, sobbing for the unbearable stimulation. And yet…and yet her hips move on their own whim, bucking with sharp jolts until the wave starts to rise, higher and higher, and she drowns in it, letting go a high-pitched cry, clutching his scalp with both her tied hands, scraping, pushing him against her as she rides her peak against his face.  

He swallows everything, licking her clean, moaning softly at feeling her pulsing on his tongue.

“Enough…I—Aemond you have to stop…” she rasps breathlessly.  

“Why?” he asks, finally rising from where he had perched himself; he climbs on her, until he speaks to her face. “I am only making up to you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

She can smell herself on him, she can see herself, glistening on his mouth, chin, even his cheekbones.

“Answer me.” His hand grips her jaw “You said you wanted everything.”

She chokes down a whimper when he leans completely on her, feeling his cock against her cooling flesh, while he’s hot and hard and heavy.

“I will give you more.” He says, brushing a strand of her sweat-soaked hair from her temple. “I will give you another child. Keep you all aching and wet for me while you swell with my child. Do you think I don’t know? How you ached for me? D’you think I didn’t?” he presses himself down, so she can feel it thoroughly, furrowing her brow as her body already answers to his call.

 “I can feel you in our bed…” he keeps rasping “rubbing your legs together. And you know how much that bothers me. Your pleasure is mine to take…and to give.”

Her lips part, gasping roughly. She was so hung on his lips that she hadn’t even registered that he had taken hold of himself, bending her knee on his left hip, and guided himself in.

She arches against him while he slowly sheathes himself all the way in, moaning with long-awaited relief. He stays still for a moment, adjusting, but also because he takes her wrists and sets her hands free.

Thrilling as it was, he wants her hands on him, he craves her touch.

He wants her to cling to his shoulders as she always does, digging her nails down.

He wants her to clamp her fingers on the back of his neck, scraping and pulling his hair to keep him close enough to moan into his mouth.

He wants her hands on his back, sliding down, to push him even deeper while rutting inside her.

And she does all of that. She finds God.

[illyrianbrat]

Prisoner (Part 1)

Set: Middle of season 1 to beginning of season 2

Pairing: (kind of) Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon female!reader, (platonic) overprotective!Jacaerys Velaryon x Velaryon female!reader

Warnings: typical westori violence, curse words/spoilers for both seasons but especially season 2, everyone being absolutely stupid, conversations about characters that were 💀, major character death, talks of arranged marriage, being made prisoner, bruises, scrapes, minor talk about weight and not eating

Plot: One of Viserys Targaryen’s final wishes was to see them married. To please him, Rhaenyra allowed her daughter to stay in the Red Keep alone, not knowing it would be a terrible mistake.

"Luke, what's wrong?" You asked, a sense of dread washing over your body.

Your brother sat there, looking panicked, twiddling his fingers. "Vaemond Velaryon has questioned my legitimacy… Mother said we're going to King’s Landing."

"It’ll be alright," you assured him, lightly squeezing his hands. "This matter will be settled in front of the court and nothing will come of it."

Lucerys did not believe your words. All his insecurities about his parentage resurfaced. He had tried to suppress them because his siblings never treated it like an issue; on the contrary, you seemed proud.

"What are you two doing?" Jace walked into the sitting area and plopped down beside his sister.

You scoffed, playfully pushing him away. "There are other places to sit, Jace."

"It all seems occupied to me," he laughed, but it quickly died down when he sensed the tension in the room. "What is it?"

Luke stared at the ground, not wanting to repeat it. You glanced at Jace with a frown and gave a short nod, making him sigh.

Sniffles could be heard across the room.

Rhaenyra stood in the middle of her chambers, holding a piece of parchment that had arrived by raven. Her eyes, reddened and swollen, stared at the floor, tears slowly falling down her cheeks.

You and Jace wept silently, while Luke sat on the floor, trying to process the news.

Harwin Strong had died. Their father was gone.

Rhaenyra had revealed the truth after Harwin and Lionel left for Harrenhal. You and your siblings had suspicions but were never brave enough to ask her directly. Jacaerys was the one who finally did it after they left the Red Keep.

In hindsight, it all made sense: the way Harwin visited them as often as he could, all the gifts and flowers, the affection he showered on them, even the training sessions. Even joining them to get a dragon egg for Joffrey…

… It was also clear to them that Laenor knew and agreed with the situation.

The three of them understood how dangerous this secret was. If others found out that Laenor was not their father, they would be branded as bastards, and their mother's claim to the Iron Throne would vanish.

After Laena’s funeral and Laenor’s death, you and Jace had a conversation about everything.

Viserys had protected them that night. He could have easily told everyone the truth, but he did not. Instead, he chose to threaten anyone who would dare question their parentage, including his wife and his sons.

You vowed to protect each other and your family. You knew that someday, someone would challenge their claim to Driftmark. Corlys always wanted Luke to be Lord of the Tides, but Luke did not want it. He declined the offer multiple times, content to remain a prince if it meant his family was still alive.

---

The Red Keep felt strange, unfamiliar.

Seven-pointed stars hung on the walls, while the House Targaryen symbols and tapestries had disappeared. You could tell that Daemon and your mother were not happy about these changes.

As Daemon and Rhaenyra went to see the King, you and Luke followed Jace to the courtyard. He was reminiscing about childhood antics.

"Everything will go in our favor," you promised Luke, noticing his worried expression. "Mother will not let Vaemond get away with this."

"No one would question me being heir to Driftmark if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong."

"Lucerys!" You softly reprimanded him.

"It doesn't matter what they think," Jace added.

You were about to speak when gasps and applause erupted nearby. As you walked together towards the commotion, Jace held your hand, prepared for anything.

It was Ser Criston Cole and their uncle Aemond. They had not seen them in six years, since the incident at Driftmark. Lucerys tensed, noticing Aemond's eyepatch.

"Nephews, niece… have you come to train?" Aemond asked.

"I have," you announced, stepping forward. Jace's eyes widened as he watched you pick up a sword.

Aemond, his face a mask of confidence, addressed you with a slight smirk. "Ready to learn, niece?"

You replied defiantly, "Let's see what you can teach me, uncle."

Their swords clashed, the sound ringing out across the courtyard. Aemond's initial strikes were powerful and precise, but you met them with equal force and skill.

Jace, tense and protective, clenched his fists. "She shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, stepping forward as if to intervene. Luke quickly grabbed his wrist, holding him back.

"She can handle herself," Luke insisted, though his eyes never left the duel, also scared for his sister.

You and Aemond moved with speed and precision. The intensity of the fight increased, and the crowd's murmurs grew louder. It was no longer a mere training session, Aemond wanted you to suffer.

His smirk faded, replaced by a look of concentration and annoyance. Your determination was shining through, every move demonstrating your skill and strength. As you continued, it became clear that neither had the advantage.

Finally, Criston Cole had enough and carefully stepped in the middle to stop it. You both stepped back, breathing heavily. The courtyard fell silent.

Aemond nodded, lowering his sword. "Well fought, niece."

You, equally breathless, feeling proud of yourself and the outcome. "Thank you, uncle."

Jace, still held back by Luke, relaxed and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"See? She's alright," Luke whispered.

Jace scoffed, growing angrier by the second. You were grinning as you received praise from the crowd, but your smile faded when you turned to see your brothers. Jace held your gaze, silently letting you know of his displeasure.

As everyone left the courtyard to head towards the Throne Room, you approached them. "What did you think?" you wondered shyly, even though you knew what the answer would be.

"It was brilliant," Luke admitted. "I knew Daemon was overseeing your training, but I didn't expect this."

"And you?" You asked Jace directly. He clenched his jaw.

"I thought it was foolish, exposing yourself that way and with him, of all people." You lowered her head, while Luke sighed. "Let's go. Mother is probably waiting for us."

---

You stood between Daemon and Jace in the Throne Room. Jace had briefly told Daemon what had happened outside. Although proud that you could hold her own against Aemond, Daemon did not want to let you out of his sight for fear you would do something like that again.

"You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides," Vaemond Velaryon ranted. "And gods be damned, I will not see it ended on the account of this..."

"Say it," Daemon dared.

Vaemond smirked. "Her children are bastards! And she and her daughter are whores."

"I… will have your tongue for that," King Viserys said, standing up from the Iron Throne.

Jacaerys quickly wrapped his arms around you, holding your face against his chest so you wouldn't witness what was about to happen.

In the blink of an eye, Daemon stood behind him and sliced his head in half. The court gasped at the sight. "He can keep his tongue."

"Disarm him!" Otto Hightower ordered.

"No need," Daemon said, returning to his family's side. You were shaking. Even though you hadn't seen it, the noise alone would haunt your dreams. On the other side of the room, Aemond’s attention was on you. On how your bastard brother held you close, to protect you from the bloody sight.

Part 2

[stheresya]

"I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight […]" (Sansa III, AGOT) “Wed?” Sansa was stunned. “You and my aunt?” “The Lord of Harrenhal and the Lady of the Eyrie.” You said it was my mother you loved. But of course Lady Catelyn was dead, so even if she had loved Petyr secretly and given him her maidenhood, it made no matter now. (Sansa VI, ASOS)

I find that these little passages reveal something interesting about sansa's personality. specially when you juxtapose how she's characterized in the text and her worldviews here, and how at first glance they may seem contradictory. but first, let's take two things into account:

the patriarchal society of westeros is very strict on women's sexuality. which means that not only is female virginity held in great value, but also female adultery is very firmly condemned by everyone, unlike men who are allowed to maintain public mistresses and flaunt their bastards everywhere.

sansa is characterized as the conformist, the one who internalizes her society's rules. she's very religious, she's a proper lady in every sense of the word and she often says and does exactly what she's told.

and yet, in these passages we can see that sansa does not care much about societal rules when it comes to intimate feelings. she often hails aemon and naerys' (supposed) forbidden love without a single care that queen naerys was bound by duty to a husband and aemon was meant to be loyal to his king. but most astonishing of all is her nonchalant response to petyr's (false) information that her mother was not a virgin when she married. on one hand it may speak on sansa's views towards women's sexuality, since her current friends (mya and randa) are girls who engage in sex out of wedlock, and she never judges them, just like she doesn't judge her mother for apparently doing the same, and catelyn continues to be the person she admires the most. sansa also doesn't view her parents' relationship any differently because of this, the marriage between ned and cat is still as happy as she remembers, because all that matters to her is that there was love in the home she grew up in. the thing about sansa's character is that she plays by the rules up until a certain point, but on the inside she always prioritizes emotion over societal norms, and that's why she looks more upset at petyr for marrying someone while claiming to love another, because in her mind he's being unfaithful to his heart by marrying out of practicality. we have examples that showcase sansa's prioritizing feelings in AGOT when she, the good daughter, disobeys her father for the first time because she thought she was in love with joffrey, and in ASOS where she never thinks she owes tyrion anything just because he's her husband. so it comes as no surprise that she's so infatuated with the love story of an adulterous and incestuous relationship like aemon and naerys'. one of the main themes in this series is that feelings don't care about honor. and if love is the death of duty then sansa seems more than happy to see duty killed for the sake of love.

of course this doesn't mean she'll stay that way, specially when she's already lost her so much of her innocence and is now tangled in petyr's schemes where she must set her own feelings aside in order to act on his plans. and despite her silent judgement of petyr marrying someone he didn't love, her current betrothal with harry is an entirely practical union on her part since she feels nothing for him and only sees him as a means to an end. there have been many instances since book 1 where she was able to turn off her feelings in order to withstand certain situations. so... what even is sansa's mind? an interesting universe on its own for sure.

I just think sansa's romanticism is one of her most interesting traits (for better and for worse), something that truly contributes to the distinctiveness of her character, and I really hope petyr or anyone else are unable to completely kill that in her.

[flowerandblood]

Object of Desire (Epilogue)

[ dark • Aemond x Arryn • widow female ]

[ warnings: sex content, breastfeeding kink, smut, angst, domination, swearing, mention of postpartum depression ]

[ description: After a difficult childbirth and finding out what kind of man her late husband was, Aemond finally finds the strength to truly understand his wife. Their life becomes peaceful and successful until Aegon is seriously injured in battle and he is proclaimed Prince Regent. The female character has a specific eye and hair color. ]

Part 1 − Object of Desire Part 2 − Object of Despair Part 3 − Object of Delight

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

My other works: Masterlist

_____

For as long as he could remember, the image of himself with Aegon the Conqueror's crown placed on his head had flashed through his mind. He had never thought of depriving his elder brother of the throne, but they both knew that he was better suited to the role.

However, now, as his King lay in his chamber, with burns that caused him so much pain that they made it impossible for him to move, let alone rule the kingdom, when he was proclaimed Prince Regent, the weight of the steel pressing down on his forehead and temples seemed to overwhelm him.

His wife stood beside him, seated on the Iron Throne − she was showing her allegiance to him by wearing on her neck and fingers the sapphire jewels, necklaces and rings he had given her, her gown as usual in the colours of her lineage, blue.

He knew that she did not desire rich, shiny gifts, and his presents were not intended to satisfy her vanity − never able to express his feelings and thoughts aloud, he preferred to show his respect and affection towards her in this way, and she accepted it with calmness and gratitude.

She paid tribute to him as the last person to stand in front of his throne − she bowed and wanted to kneel, but he stopped her with a gesture of his hand, ordering her to stand up.

He did not stop her when she approached him, when her hand grasped his, when she lifted it to her lips and kissed it reverently, closing her eyes.

He swallowed loudly, stroking her smooth skin with his thumb, feeling like just grabbing her around the waist and placing her on his lap, the way he would if they were alone in his chamber.

She moved away from him, looking at him with peace − a certainty, a pride that made him feel a warm contentment, something in her violet eyes that always reassured him.

She was his ally.

Not his grandfather's, his mother's, or his brother's.

His.

The mother of his heir.

His wife.

After the ceremony, a council was gathered, led by him, to determine what to do about the situation in Harrenhal, besieged for some time by Daemon. He did not allow his wife to leave the chamber, pointing with his hand to the seat on his right hand that would normally be occupied by his mother. His sire accepted this with humility, allowing his wife to take the seat next to him, herself sitting down next to Ser Criston.

Silence fell.

"How long do we have to tolerate Daemon flying around the kingdom threatening to take the crown from my brother? He laughs in our faces, occupying a stronghold so close to the Eyrie." He said coolly, his voice deep and defiant, certain. He heard his wife draw in a deep breath upon hearing the name of her ancestral fortress, lowering her gaze to her fingers.

His grandfather grunted loudly, twisting in his seat with a quiet creak of wood, looking at the faces of those gathered with a raised eyebrow.

"In my opinion, Prince Daemon wants to provoke you, Your Grace. It is obvious that his target is King's Landing. In my opinion, Harrenhal is a small price to pay to keep the capital, let him hold this fortress if he so desires."

"Harrenhal is the bridge between the North and the South. Daemon will burn Lord Arryn's army if he chooses to come to our call." He replied impatiently, Criston Cole grunted loudly, eager to make his point.

"There is only one King. Prince Daemon must be reminded of that." He said coldly, looking at him intensely, ready to rally their entire army at one sign of his. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his wife, who was looking at him with a gaze he knew well.

As always, she was letting him decide if he wanted to hear what she had to say.

He nodded at her, allowing her to speak.

"You are the rider of the greatest dragon in the kingdom, my king. You must remain in King's Landing. The Red Keep, unlike the Eyrie, can be conquered. Prince Daemon is just waiting for this. I'm certain that when he hears that you are heading in his direction with his army he will join his wife and they will march here together. Blockade of my uncle's army will still be a lesser loss." She said calmly, looking at her hands, his grandfather nodded, his face expressing surprise and some kind of admiration.

"Your wife speaks with great wisdom, Your Grace, and I agree with her completely." He said, and he looked away, hitting the side of his cheek with the tip of his tongue, thinking intensely about what she had said.

What if he does indeed move on Harrenhal, and finds only an empty fortress with children, old men and women?

What if Daemon humiliates him, tricks him like a little child hoping he'll swallow his bait, and attacks the Red Keep along with his half-sister knowing he won't make it back in time?

"Forgive me, my Lady, however, idleness is the domain of women, not men." Criston Cole hissed, but fell silent, swallowing hard, his lips pressed together as he met his warning gaze.

"You mistake idleness for wisdom and caution, my Lord. Like many men before you." His wife replied, and he clenched his fingers on the base of his nose and closed his eyes, sighing impatiently.

"Enough." He ordered, a tense silence fell around him, his wife looked away − he could see the vein pulsing fast on her slender, long neck, her cheeks red, betraying her annoyance.

"Mother." He turned to her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, as he always did, reckoning with her opinion. He saw her swallow hard, picking at the cuticles around her fingernails in a nervous gesture, her big brown eyes filled with fear, uncertainty and dread.

"I think it's a trap, Aemond. Daemon is clever, he lives to mock others. He's always been this way."

He sighed quietly, feeling that despite his deep desire to lead his army to victory, there was much right in the doubts of his wife, grandfather and mother − when his anger and desire to prove himself began to give way to common sense he recognised that indeed if he left the Red Keep, his half-sister would take the opportunity.

"Let our spies continue to watch him and report his doings to us. We should think about luring him out of there somehow. Is there any news from the Iron Islands?" He asked, Lord Lannister nodded and grunted loudly.

"Yes. They agree to a set sum. They will stand against the Velaryon fleet at our call. However, they demand that their independence from the crown be upheld." He said quickly, nervously, adding the last sentence as if on the fly, clearly afraid of his reaction. He sighed heavily and merely nodded.

Their discussion continued for a few more hours, touching on the army, its supplies and the state of the soldiers' morale, their attitudes, whether an agreement could be reached with Lord Baratheon to remain neutral in exchange for the seat on the Small Council that his grandfather had offered in place of his own, knowing that it was his decision that had caused the betrothal to his daughters to be broken off.

When he had heard all he wished he closed the council by dismissing everyone but his wife.

She looked at him with her characteristic composure, watching as he removed Aegon the Conqueror's crown from his head and placed it with reverence on the top of the stone table in front of him. He gazed at its steel surface thoughtfully, tapping the tip of his finger against it, each time causing it to make a quiet clink.

"All my life I have thought about this moment. But it's not how I imagined it." He said finally, his voice impassive and tired. He heard her sigh quietly with understanding, looking down at his hands.

"I know."

They were silent for a moment, hearing only the sounds coming from outside the windows, the loud conversations of guards and servants shouting in the courtyard.

"They'll think I'm a craven." He hissed through clenched teeth, feeling uncertainty and frustration rising in his chest − he sensed that she looked at him, her hand tightening on his, as if she wanted to give him the courage to do the right thing.

"He knows this is what you fear most. He'll laugh and mock that you're afraid to face him, but we both know he'll do it because he hopes it will break you. Don't let him dictate to you the terms of when and where you will face each other. It's humiliating." She said with a certainty from which he felt a squeeze in his throat and closed his eyes for a moment, his thumb running over her soft skin.

"I'm expecting your child."

He shuddered, looking at her with his lips parted in disbelief, his heart began to pound hard at the thought that just a month after she'd given birth to his son, despite their shared promises, he'd come deep inside her when he'd made love to her, unable to stop himself, her hands clenched tightly on his bare buttocks, her sweet moans begging for his seed.

How could he deny her?

"Forgive me." He whispered in a trembling voice, thinking of the nightmare she'd endured, of how long she'd been unable to recover from it, how close she'd come to leaving this world. He heard her hum under her breath as she smiled softly, shaking her head.

"No. It is a good omen. A sign from the gods that they favour you." She replied, looking at him as if she was the one who wanted to comfort him, his fingers intertwined with hers. "I think this time will be different. I already know what to expect and that I can count on your support, my King."

He nodded, lifting her hand to his lips, placing a loud, lingering kiss on her smooth skin.

"They have taken pity on me, sending me you as my wife. My Queen." He muttered, drawing her close to him, gripping her waist, seating her comfortably on his lap, leaning against the back of his chair with a quiet sigh, gazing at her familiar, pleasant figure with tenderness.

She smiled warmly at his words, taking his face in her hands, stroking it with her thumbs. He closed his eyes, letting his body loosen, feeling sleepy and tired even though his manhood clearly expressed its pleasure at her closeness, swelling in his breeches.

"I will order a meal to be prepared for you and brought to your chamber. You have hardly eaten or slept for days."

"Mmm." He hummed, satisfied, as always, that she was watching him, that she knew what he needed without asking him unnecessary questions.

While this would surely have caused his frustration with another woman, her initiative didn't bother him; on the contrary, it made his daily life a lot easier, giving him the feeling that he didn't have to think of everything himself.

She was the one who decided what attire he should wear for what occasion, what they would eat for their morning meal, knowing what he liked most. To his satisfaction, she also found herself in the role of mother, establishing a close bond with their son, Jace's attachment to her and how joyfully he reacted to the sight of her made her eager to hold him in her embrace, letting him watch her feed him in the evenings.

His greatest weakness, as he found out, proved to be not the lack of his eye or control over his fiery temper, but the taste of her milk melting across his palate as his son slept peacefully at night with his belly filled with her food.

He clamped his mouth over her swollen, puffy nipples, sucking on them greedily as his fat cock thrust impatiently into her slick interior, teasing with its tip the spot inside her that made her moan shamelessly with pleasure.

"− my King −" She sobbed sweetly with her thighs spread wide, letting him pound into her with deep, fast pushes, purring with pleasure into the skin of her breasts, swallowing loudly her wonderful nectar. His sound vibrated through her entire body making her walls clench against him greedily, squeezing him, his thumb teasing and trailing around her pearl, making her fingers dig helplessly into his naked, sweaty back.

"− this is a meal worthy of the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, don't you think? − my wife's sweet, warm milk −" He murmured, running the tip of his nose over her nipple only to move his face to her other breast, repeating the same process, justifying his behaviour by the fact that he knew the excess milk was causing her pain and discomfort, and he couldn't imagine it going to waste.

"− yes − it's all yours − f-fuck −" She muttered, tilting her head back, her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders with his low groan as he felt her core begin to pulse around his manhood in orgasm, squeezing his seed out of him.

He didn't have the strength to resist and just filled her with himself, sighing in relief, licking her nipple with the tip of his tongue, as oversensitive as the rest of her body − she whimpered, trying to push him away but he wouldn't let her, busy with sucking her milk until she calmed down.

"− Aemond, please − oh gods −" She mumbled softly, completely absorbed in her fulfilment, panting heavily. He remained deep inside her, leaning on his elbow, not wanting to crush her with his body, remembering in the back of his mind about the baby in her womb.

"− what is it? − my wife is overwhelmed? − impossible −" He sneered with a grin of satisfaction − since it appeared that his attention to her breasts aroused not only him, she was soaking wet for him, her fulfilment approaching quickly and violently, making her body completely vulnerable and limp, as if she herself was shocked by how intense the sensation was.

"− I didn't even notice when you filled me again, my King − I'm inclined to think you're drawing satisfaction from my pleasure −" She cooed with a sweet smile, from which he chuckled under his breath, leaning towards her − her hand pulled him closer as their lips joined in a hot, sticky, soft kiss, her swollen breasts pressed against his chest.

He ran the tip of his nose over hers, looking into her eyes, a violet he adored − the shade of her irises slightly darker than his, warmer, shimmering wonderfully in the moonlight illuminating their bed.

He wanted to confess to her the many things that did not slip through his throat, the affection that filled his heart with heat, yet he remained silent, looking at her with a gaze she knew well. She always reacted the same way, her soft hand stroking his jaw as only two words came out of her mouth, spoken in a whisper.

"I know."

[the-fiction-witch]

I Like Him

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Oscar Tully Couple - Oscar X Reader Reader - (OC) Jaerra Targaryen [Daughter of Daemon Targaryen & Rhea Royce] Rating - 12 Word Count - 1121

Requested -

Hello Miss Witch! Can I request an Oscar Tully story in your “Boys Yet To Have Books” please? The reader is a Targaryen (probably just the same age as him and named Jaerra) and has a he-dragon, she flew to Harrenhal to accompany Daemon and then met Oscar and just some cute interactions between them that grew into something. It’s up to how you will write it and can have lots of parts too because I will love it either way. I hope you read this request. Thank you! <33

The dark echos of Harrenhal seem to sicken Daemon the longer he remains, food seems to turn to ashes in his mouth, wine soured, his mind a mess of his own failings and falls.

“I’m surrounded, by witches, and idiots.” He sighed to himself,

Suddenly a familiar sound echoes through Harrenhal’s half-melted halls, the sound of a dragon's triumphant cry. Which caused Daemon to perk up and move quickly for the first time in months. He headed out to the courtyard part of him hopeful to see Syrax across the sky, or perhaps even MoonDancer.

But a deep blue dragon with shimmering white scales fluttered down onto the grass,

“Iēdar lilagon…” he sighed, He approached the dragon glaring down at its rider, “Why did she send you?”

“Because you're causing chaos on your own,” Jaerra answered as she climbed down from her dragon, wearing her tall boots and grey washed-out leather trousers, a deep blue jacket with a high low skirt and dragon clasps down her chest, her long Targaryen blonde hair with a single dark brown streak by her face knotted up into a tight braid.

“I already have enough to deal with,” He sighed,

“Hence why I’m here.” She said pulling off her leather gloves and walking past him, “You’ve been causing enough problems around here, so she thought I’d be best to come. Plus everyone else is far too busy to be your babysitter.”

“Busy!” He said as he followed her,

“Her grace is busy, planning wars and alliances,”

“And what does she think I’ve been doing!”

She rolled her eyes and continued, “Jacaerys is defending his claim at her side -”

“Baela and Rheana?”

“Baela is beside her betrothal, as she should be. Rheana is with Aegon and Viserys in the Vale.”

He sighed, “I’d have taken Corlys before you.”

“He is of far to high priority.” She glared, “You get me. If you’d have been more careful I wouldn’t be needed and I could be patrolling.”

“So that’s what she’s got you doing? Patrolling?”

“Ravens are slow, men even slower. Dragonback is the best way to get sights of our lands and the movements on them.” She explained, “Speaking of which, the riverlords are here.”

“They haven’t-”

“They haven’t arrived yet but they will in an hour, I flew over them.” She answered before she went inside,

“...Fucking-” He sighed following her, “We have an hour, time to change into a gown for the Riverland lords.”

“Alright,” She shrugged, “Off you go, to get dressed.” She glared,

“I meant you.”

“Seems a waste of my time.” she sighed, “We are at war, gowns seem pointless at this point,”

“You are … so much of your mother,” He barked,

She chuckled, “Is that meant to insult me?” She smiled, “I’d rather be a spitting image of my mother… than anything like you.” she spat, “Now let's get this sorted out before we all end up on spikes in Kings Landing.”

Daemon sat at the head of the table in Harrenhalls Grand chamber, Jaerra to his side with two seats between them, as in walked the Lord of the river lands. Jaerra raised an eyebrow given this was not the man from the many lords she saw from Dragonback whom she expected to be the lord. Lord Oscar Tully made his way in dressed in his fine amour, curls messy from his helmet. He simply nodded as a greeting to Daemon and his eyes flicked to Jaerra, he did a double take but focused his eyes forward.

“My condolences on the passing of your grandser.” Daemon spoke, “But the crown congratulates you on your ascension to the head of your house. And Lord Paramount of the Riverlands” He explained, “Truly Glorious well done,”

“I did nothing,” Oscar answered,

“Nevertheless, you are here which is the important thing.” Daemon nodded,

“You were quick enough to dismiss me before.”

“You were of no significance to me then.”

Jaerra sighed, rolling her eyes a little.

“Now. I shall have my great host you have a decision to make.” Daemon stood from his chair mostly to avoid the eyes of Jaerra, “Presume it is clear to you which is the right one.”

“You will forgive me, your grace… I am green. In this sort of matter. As you so kindly point out, but it does seem to me that you’ve made rather a mess here.” Oscar explained making sure to meet Daemon's eyes as he walked around him, “Countenancing barbarities in the queen's name.”

Jaerra choked back a small laugh but made no secret of her smile, as she rested her feet on the table,

“Who’s side are you on?” Daemon glared the boy down,

“... The river lands are held together by oaths.” Oscar nodded, “House Tully swore on oath to King Viserys Targaryen, We recognize the authority of the named heir Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen… And your own as her king consort.”

“Good.” Daemon nodded, “Then we should go to face your vassals and you shall call your banners to war,”

“That might be difficult my king,”

“Well… I was told they would come to heal When house tully declared it’s allegiance.”

“That… may be the case,” Oscar nodded, “But it is yet to be seen that they will heed my authority, as young as it is.”

“You are no older than my daughter.” Daemon chuckled as his eyes met Jaerra,

“... I’d further follow her than you.”

“Power and control don’t have an age. Merely a mindset.” Jaerra smiled,

Oscar nodded to her, “And there is another problem… they all hate you.” he turned back to Daemon,

“Everyone hates him.” Jaerra spoke up again, “Never stopped him before.”

“I don’t need their love, I need their swords.” Daemon glared,

The two in a deep moment of staring before the door opened,

“You’re grace, My lord, the river lords await. I fear we cannot delay them any longer.”

“Of course,” Daemon nodded, “Come along lord Oscar,”

Oscar nodded and walked out hand on his sword,

“You too.” He demanded to Jaerra,

She sighed setting her feet down on the stone floor and made her way out the door, but turned around as she passed Daemon walking backwards out the door, “I like him.”

“You would.” he glared, forcing her out with him.  

[bellarkeselection]

His Compass of Harrenhal - part 2

Part 1

part 3

Tag list - @only4thefics @superintenseart @universallyrascaldreamercookie @uniquecroissant @vavafaure1994

Tossing the covers off of my body as quickly as I could I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. Daemon had a strong arm draped over my waist until I shoved his arms off of me. Stumbling out of the bed I flew to the chamber pot puking whatever was in my stomach from the dinner we ate the night before. “Y/n, what’s made you ill?” Daemon had awoken from his sleep running over to hold my hair out of my face..

“I’m not quite sure.” I croaked out once I had finally emptied the contents of my stomach and sat with my back against his chest.

Daemon rested his chin on top of my head, keeping his arms wrapped around my waist. “I’ll go find a Maester right away-“

“I’ll come with you. If this is some illness I don’t wish to pass out onto the floor while you’re away.” I snatched his wrist, halting him from going further. Together we made our way through the castle until the closest person we came upon was none other than Alice Rivers.

“You’re new wife becomes sick this morning I hear.”

Daemon grumbled still not trusting the woman before us. “I don’t have time for your words, witch. Just tell me what is wrong with my wife. You are apparently this haunted castle’s only maester.”

“Lay her on the table.” She rushed quickly clearing off her workspace before Daemon laid me down on my back and she rubbed her hand all over my stomach and lifted up my nightgown before asking me. “When did you last bleed, lady fish?”

Running a hand through my hair I couldn’t exactly recall the last time. “I don’t entirely know. Possibly two moons ago. Why?”

“If you haven’t bled recently then you’re pregnant with his wee bear growing inside your belly.” Alice points her hand at Daemon who tried to show no emotion around her.

Rolling over onto my side I grinned back at the dragon prince. “We’re gonna have a baby.”

Daemon crossed the room not saying anything before he grabbed my face and kissed me deeply until we needed air. “You will be a very excellent mother to our little dragon.” I wrapped my arms around his neck drawing him back in for another kiss until someone interrupted the kiss.

“Your grace, oh - uh forgive me.” The caretaker of the castle named Simon came into the room seeing us sharing a moment.

Daemon didn’t look at the man when he grumbled his next words. “What is it?”

“The lord of Riverrun has arrived.”

I jumped down from the table running as fast as my legs could carry me, not bothering to wait on the men behind me. I hadn’t seen a member of my family since my father had shipped me off to this place so long ago. Pushing the doors open I expected to see my very ill father but I was greeted by a young boy with curly brown hair standing in front of the large round table. “Who might you be?”

“My name is Oscar. My grandsire is Grover Tully. Praise the gods Aunt Y/n is that you?” Oscar began formally speaking until he recognized the eyes staring back at him.

I let out a half chuckle crossing the room moving closer to the boy. “Ha! So my father did mention me after he shipped me off. Anyhow, Oscar look how big you’ve grown. I remember how small you were on your first nameday. Can I get a hug, little nephew?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to meet you.” He flung his arms around my neck and I wrapped my arms around his neck bringing him in closer with us both laughing in enjoyment. “I’ve heard tales of the Tully daughter who decided to wield a sword despite what everyone else thinks about it.”

“Well isn’t this a happy family reunion?” Daemon sent me a smile resting one hand on the handle of his sword that he carried on his hip.

“My - my - my prince. Uh my grace - your grace.” Oscar nervously tried to address him once we had broken our hug seeing Daemon and Simon Strong enter the room.

Daemon glanced back at the Strong man. “Lord Grover is looking more hair than healthy than I expected.”

“This is Oscar Tully. Grandson to Grover Tully. He is heir to Riverun and the future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. His grace, the king concoct Daemon Targaryen and his Lady Wife I suppose Y/n of - um forgive me my lady.”

I sent the older man a gentle smile. “He’s my nephew, Simon Strong. I’m formerly of House Tully.”

“It is an honor, your grace.” Oscar said watching the dragon remove his sword, laying it on the table and sitting down before him and only then did the nervous lad sit down too.

Daemon nodded his head in my direction. “Indeed. Lady wife, come sit with us.”

“Oh okay.” I sat beside Daemon in the next chair over.

Daemon turned his attention to the young lad. “How fair’s your grandsire?”

“Sadly he remains incapacitated. He lies in a kind of waking sleep. Unable to do much more than eat or take a drink. It is barely enough to sustain him.”

Daemon tapped his fingers on the table. “So he’s alive?”

“Yes, gods be good.” Oscar brightly smiled.

Daemon leaned forward closer to the young boys face whispering a sentence that caught us both off guard for certain. “Well my time here is short and I’m in need of an army. Perhaps you place a feather pillow over his face and speed along your inheritance - fuck Y/n!”

“What the hell is the matter with you. You’re asking him to kill a member of my family when he’s only the age of ten and five.” I smacked my husband upside the back of the head sharply.

Daemon rubbed the back of his head glancing over at me. “If he’s an old man. Why let him suffer in pain. A quick death would be better for him and his grandson.”

“I - I love my grandsire. Like a father. My own Lord father died himself a young man. Lord Grover raised me in his stead.” Young Oscar explained nervously not thinking this conversation would resort to violence.

Daemon lowered his hand from the sore backside of his head bringing the topic of war back to the table. I knew he didn't like having to wait on anything, especially when it came to fighting battles. “All very touching are you here to speak with your grandsire's voice of House Tully in the Riverlands?”

“While he still lives?” Oscar raised a brow offended at the idea. “That is not our way.”

Daemon growled in the boy's face, picking up his sword and leaving the room. “Then you're of no use to me. I can see why the Blackwoods and Brackens did not fear to start a war beneath the nose of their ledge lords. House Tully is a fish with no head.”

“Daemon.” I called his name while getting up from my chair.

He placed his sword back onto his hip only sparing me a glance before he left the room. “Summon the Blackwoods here. I require men of action to lead my host of Rivermen.”

“Daemon! Daemon, wait a minute.” I chased after the prince grabbing the back of his tunic yanking hi, backwards before he could get any further from me. “I know you don’t like to hear that you’ll have to wait but-“

He spun around on his feet getting in my face. “I hate waiting. When you’re fighting a war there’s rarely time to wait for anyone else’s help.”

“Let me get my words out before you bite my head off. Like I was saying, give my lord Father time to pass on his own time and then you might have an edge of me talking with my nephew so that he and his bannermen will follow your queen Rhaenyra. Can you do that for me hmm. Can you take a pause before you run when something doesn’t go your way?”

He grabbed my face in his hands resting his forehead down against mine releasing a breath I didn’t know he was holding in. “I suppose I’ll have to wait for our little dragon to come into the world. So this should be no different.”

“Thank you, Daemon.” Draping my arms around his neck we embraced the other in a long hug.

[maidragoste]

Bastard

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Daughter of Rhaenyra) 

Summary: Aelor finds out that you are not his biological mother.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

part of the universe of "the queen and her husbands" but can be read independently

Masterlist Serie

It was no secret that Aemond had days when he felt uncomfortable seeing Aelor because he reminded him of Alys Rivers. Still, he always tried to be a good father, one better than Viserys. That's why when he just saw his son enter his chambers with a red face and full of tears he was already ready to cut off the head of whoever he had hurt his son. But that had to wait because now he had to deal with reassuring his child.

"Come here"

Another time Aelor would stay where he was and try to calm himself down. He wanted to show his father that he was already a big boy, but right now all he wanted was to be in his arms and be comforted so he ran to Aemond and let him sit on his lap.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" Aemond asked as he stroked the boy's back in circles.

"Baelon called me a bastard" replied his son, still crying but at least he didn't seem as agitated as before.

Well, he forgets the murder part because Aemond can't kill his other son but he would definitely punish him for bothering his brother. Though he could already imagine Baelon telling him that he couldn't punish him for telling the truth. It didn't matter that you and Aegon legitimized the boy to the rest of the world, he would always be a bastard.

It was not your intention to lie to Aelor. They never told him that you were his mother, but you didn't deny it when he first called you Muña. He was just copying his siblings and you didn't feel the need to correct him because for you he was another son.

"He also said that Muña is not my mother," he said with a trembling voice "Is it true?" Aelor asked devastated because deep down he already knew the answer. Baelon was right to point out that he didn't look like any of his family. All of his siblings had platinum or blonde hair while he had brown curls. Aemon wanted to make him feel better by telling him that their grandmother, Alicent, also had dark hair but Aelor wasn't a fool. His hair was nothing like their grandmother's.

"Your brother is wrong" Aemond replied instantly. It felt disrespectful for someone to say that because even though you didn't give birth to Aelor, you were the one who took him in first, you were the one who, upon learning of his illness, flew to Harrenhal and took care of him as if he were another one of your children, you were the one who convinced him to bring the child to live with you, you raised him as if he were yours so you were his mother "You were born of another woman" when he saw that his son was about to interrupt him he continued speaking "But your Muña will always be your muña. She loves you more than anything just like she loves your brothers. It doesn't matter that you were not born to her, you are as much her son as your brothers are"

"Your kepa is right," you said from the door, drawing the attention of both. You had found out what happened because Aemon went looking for you worried because he couldn't find Aelor. You were furious when you heard that Baelon had called his brother a bastard, you wanted to question him and find out where he had heard that word from and why he said it to his brother, but you were too worried about Aelor's reaction. You had always feared that once he learned the truth of his parentage, he would hate Aemond, Aegon, and you for killing his birth mother. "You weren't born of me" you started walking towards them "But that doesn't make me love you less than your brothers. You will always be my son" you affirmed as you gently caressed his face.

"You promise?" the boy asked, still not sure. Yesterday Baelon had no problem playing with him and today he seemed to hate him. Grandma had days when she seemed to love him and others when she barely tolerated him. The same with his uncle Egg from him, he sometimes stared at him with deep sadness. What if one day they tell you something and make you stop loving it?

"I promise" you kissed his forehead "How could I stop loving you when you're one of the best huggers around?" you said managing to make Aelor smile. You snatched it from your husband's lap and started tickling him causing the room to fill with the boy's outrageous laughter. You were sure anyone could hear it in the hallways but you didn't care. You just wanted your son to forget about the bad moment that happened.

Aemond looked at them with a smile. He would never stop being grateful to the gods for letting him survive the battle at Eyes God and he would never get tired of seeing you with their children. No matter what the interaction, you could be singing to them, reading to them, playing with them, or, like now, comforting your child. Every time he witnessed the bond between you and the children he always warmed his heart.

"Kepa, help," Aelor asked between laughs.

"I'm sorry, son. But I have a council meeting," Aemond said, drawing your attention.

"Wait, do we have a council meeting?" you stopped tickling your son and put him down instantly, worried that you had forgotten your duty "Aemond!" your husband had taken advantage of your moment of distraction to start tickling you and your son soon joined the attack "You liar" you complain between laughs.

"I'm sorry, my dear wife. But I couldn't let you continue torturing our son."

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[twelvemonkeyswere]

Brienne and Femininity (and Masculinity)

I’ve been musing how one of the most important topics in Brienne's storyline is femininity, and even though her story isn't finished, we can fairly see what some of her major themes are around this—particularly, how performing or failing at performing femininity affects her both internally and externally.

Often I see people pointing out that, in spite of all of Brienne’s traditionally masculine ways—her clothes, her skill set, her body shape, to name a few—she does not fully reject femininity. That she likes little cute animals and fairy tales and wears dresses, and is shy and blushes frequently. This is an important point because, very often, fantasy settings made the assumption that a woman can only be taken seriously if she goes beyond “her womanhood” and acts and thinks “like a man,” as opposed to other girls who are too busy mending or wanting romance. Brienne challenges those tendencies that GRRM saw in his contemporaries. Things have changed a lot since (hello The Locked Tomb, for example), but you can still see where he is working from, and how many of the aspects of Brienne's story still resonate with more modern audiences because, well, sexism hasn't stopped existing. It's also important because the larger asoiaf and got fandoms often refuse to see this side of her, reducing her to a walking sword or a cardboard cut out of a pushover.

Now, my main issue here is that I feel several interpretations of Brienne have now gone on the other direction, and focus so much on Brienne PERFORMING traditional femininity—wearing luxurious dresses, using make up, accepting lavishing gifts, or wondering if she can be desired, for example—that we've gone sometimes on the opposite direction. I feel like many times we’re afraid or do not know how to approach characterizing her as someone who rejects aspects of femininity without making her into another “not like other girls” stereotype.

My two cents on the matter is that if we focus too much in what Brienne can't but "wants" to perform, we forget that she is, in fact, gladly rejecting some common impositions of femininity in her society.

Beginning with swordplay at a young age, for example, she was very glad to ditch a more traditional education in order to learn how to fight the way we know men are taught in asoiaf/got. She is also explicitly more comfortable in men's clothes. We all like the scene where Jaime makes an effort to give her a dress and she appreciates it, but we don't even find out what happened to the dress, because, presumably, the dress itself is not THAT important, at least not as much as the fact Jaime gave her gifts as a form of appreciation. Dresses have been used in Brienne's past to mock her (the event with the bear being the most recent one), and the important part is that Jaime is the only one who has given her one without that ulterior motive. The point of the scene is that where everyone undermines and underestimates her, he is acting the opposite way. We’re seeing how the relationship between them has evolved and that he is doing his best to mend what has happened and what he has done. She is given a dress and a sword as symbols that someone else in the story is beginning to appreciate her for all she is.

Beyond that, we even get details on the old shield Brienne got at Harrenhal, but not a word about the dress. Brienne explicitly doesn't really like being in dresses, she prefers mail and breeches, and feels more at ease in them than anything else. This is not her hating dresses because she is above them. I can’t remember well but as far as we know it’s just her preference: I don’t recall her saying she hates dresses, just that she prefers trousers. She must have been wearing dresses her whole life! It’s not likely she is unused to them. But we do know the act of being given a dress is important in Brienne’s story. The problem is not that they can’t make dresses for her, the problem is that everyone who forces her to wear a dress wants to signal how lacking she is as a woman, trying to fit her in a box too small for her real shape and then mocking her because she doesn’t meet their standard. The problem is they want to make her uncomfortable and they want to humiliate her, because she dares to exist in a way that doesn’t conform to patriarchal ideals. And the problem is that she likes to wear trousers and mail. She likes to wear masculine clothes, and they want her to be very aware of how much they disapprove.

And we also hear a great deal about marrying and having children out of duty. There's a certain loss she feels there because she believes that, at that point, all those missed opportunities will never present themselves again. All her life, she grew up with a dichotomy that dictated that the chance of having a family or children was through duty or none at all, because she is her father’s heir and—they kept telling her—nobody would want an ugly, masculine, temperamental girl as a wife. They could only want her for the money she brought. The point of the story is that, once again, failing the standards of femininity has forced her into a mentality where she thinks she can’t be loved because nobody would like who and what she is. But even then, even with that thorn in her mind, she still feels relieved she didn't have to perform these particular duties. The only thing she’s sad about is that she thinks she's missed any chance at having a family at all and will never know what that might be like. She doesn’t actively want babies or even to be married. She is still young, and at least to me, she seems to view these things in hypothetical rather than explicit goals or wants. She thinks that, at 20, there is no opportunity for her to experience these things because of how her society works. It’s the lack of choice that she mourns, down the line. But she rejects that particularly role that femininity imposes on her now. She didn’t want it, and she is happy it didn’t go through. She literally fought an old man to prove how much she didn’t want those impositions.

All this is interesting to me because Brienne also sort of thinks of herself as her father's son as well as her father's daughter. It almost slips her mouth once or twice. She is aware, I think, that many times the differences between a son and a daughter boil down not really to gender but to the sort of duty they perform. And she wants to do the sorts of things sons do, too. Men regularly learned to fight and wore the clothes she liked best and used hard-earned skills in a way she wanted to use them. There are layers to this (we’ll get to that in a bit) but she is, I think, very aware of her masculinity, and, if left to her own devices, she seems comfortable in it. The problem is she is NOT left to her own devices.

Most of Brienne's self doubt comes from outside forces. As a woman, they underestimate her. As a woman, they think she is stupid. As a gender non-conforming woman, every jape uttered goes directly to her womanhood. As a woman, if she looks the way she does and dresses the way she does and fights the way she does, when she expresses any vulnerable emotion, any shred of “femininity,” she is mocked for it. She likes dancing and beautiful things and pretty boys but a woman as masculine as she is is not the sort of person who gets to express those preferences without judgment from those around her.

The point is Brienne’s world wants her miserable either way: being unable to be a woman the way they demand of her, because she is too much “like a man” for it, or being unable to be a man, because she is too much a woman for that. The point is she can’t win regardless of what she does. Because that’s how sexism works.

But Brienne’s story is, I think, one about choices. The thing is that the world makes it harder for her, but she shouldn't have to be one thing or the other. She shouldn’t have to be defined by one or the other. If she wants to fight in the mud and smell roses and wear chain-mail and talk to charming men, she should be able to choose all of those things. I think it’s easy to focus too much in what aspects of femininity Brienne likes or dislikes instead of looking at what the story is proposing, which is to look at what Brienne,as a person, likes or dislikes. What she wants. Her parallel story to Jaime is about how the world will always try to put folks in boxes, especially those who, for some reason or another, do not easily fit in those boxes. The question is not “what feminine/masculine parts of Brienne is she happy performing” but rather “what does Brienne want, and why does she feel like she cannot get it and doesn't dare ask.”

This is also what drives her to servitude. There’s a phrase out there that says that if you don’t think you can be liked, you try to become useful, so at least there’s a reason to keep you around. It’s heartbreaking to see how Brienne’s vision of herself has been so skewed by the emotional abuse, parental neglect, and bullying she’s experienced since a young age. She doesn’t think anyone will grow close to her, so at least she can be close to people by serving them. She wants to put her skills to use, she wants to find a place where she fits, where she can be more herself, but she isn’t sure what that looks like or how to find it. She’s still searching, and learning many things on the way.

And Brienne is still very young. We can see her confidence growing and her worldview challenged and she is beginning to see the realities of herself and of the world around her through various trials by fire. Misogyny makes her feel incomplete, but we know the things she trusts about herself while simultaneously seeing the way she constantly doubts others. How she can't never express all of herself without constant judgment or mockery.

I feel like yes, the fact Brienne doesn't reject all traditional femininity is really important to her themes, but by extension, it's as important that shedoes reject some of those traditional expressions of femininity. What she is truly rejecting is imposition, not femininity. What she truly needs to embrace is freedom, not masculinity. She's making her own vows, breaking her own promises, going through her own mistakes. She is learning the hard way. Agency in a world of limited choices is one of Brienne's main themes too. There are moral issues that go deep within her story as well as examinations of the effects of war and the struggle to find authenticity and connection in a community that refuses to acknowledge yours, a community drenched in pretense and lost in performance.

And I think it’s easy to get too caught up in her wanting to be a girlfriend or a mother or wearing a dress that we bypass the whole conversation around why that matters at all. I feel like Brienne's success isn't going to come from her fully embracing all her feminine traits or fully accepting all her masculine traits but from being able, down the line, to be exactly who she is.

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

GAYLE RANKIN TALKING ABOUT ALYS RIVERS IN EPISODE 4 OF 'HOUSE OF THE DRAGON' S2.

DID YOU READ THE ALYS RIVERS PORTIONS OF FIRE AND BLOOD?

"The first audition, I did not know who I was auditioning to play."

"I was auditioning to play 'AR.' And then I was kind of told who it was, and I was able to go into the book and read the portions, which are really fascinating."

"There’s so much hearsay and back and forth about Alys from so many different perspectives — mostly male perspectives, too — about who she is, what she is, where she comes from, what she’s going to do, and what she’s not going to do."

"It made me so excited."

BEYOND THE TEXT, DID YOU FIND INSPIRATION FROM ANYWHERE TO HELP CREATE YOUR VERSION OF ALYS?

"Absolutely. I’m from Scotland originally, so I really felt strongly that I wanted her to be Celtic, like Scottish, where I’m from generally."

"I found that to be really interesting because it was like this pagan aspect with that."

"The other option would be for her to be English, and there’s not that many Scottish characters."

"Beesbury was Scottish, but no one in the House Strong is Scottish, so what are we saying about her relationship to Harrenhal and being a member of the Strong household?"

"I enjoyed adding that part of my own heritage to the character because I thought it really helped with specificity in terms of the pagan aspect of her craft and also grounding her."

"It also made her more mysterious because it’s like, wait, where’s she from? It was like a jumping-off point, and Ryan [Condal] and everybody at HBO were really excited about me using my own accent."

"I think it gives her this unique power in some ways because she is untouchable and doesn’t have a familial lineage."

"It also makes her vulnerable, too, because she’s out there in Harrenhal on her own for years."

"What’s she been doing? Where did she come from? — I have a backstory as an actor."

"That’s kind of my process, and that huge part of it for me to really ground her and make her a real woman."

HOW WOULD YOU RANK HER POWER COMPARED TO THE DRAGONS AND WHAT SHE MIGHT BE HOLDING IN?

"I think what’s interesting, and if you’ve read the books, where Alys ends up is in a pretty powerful position."

"Prophecy is like the missing piece to take over the throne."

"Prophecy and magic and witchcraft and that kind of power have amazing brute force."

"Dragons are magical in their own way, but there’s something about being able to manipulate and understand and know things about the world."

"It’s kind of speaking to a bigger theme inside the story, which is that it’s an extremely female-centric power story."

"The fact that these women know things and know how to do things, and they aren’t being helped or respected, like Mysaria and Alicent and obviously Rhaenyra."

"These women know what they’re doing."

"They know, and Alys definitely has another kind of knowing."

"I think it’s cool to add that to the pot."

ALYS HAS ONLY INTERACTED WITH DAEMON SO FAR. WHAT DOES SHE WANT FROM HIM?

"I think as much as Alys is in charge, there’s also something bigger that’s at play."

"I think she knows that, and it kind of allows her, weirdly, to be with Daemon in this experience."

"I think we’re going to start to, hopefully, get to see them actually interact."

"As much as Alys has all this power, there are things about her that she wants and desires and has her eye toward."

"There’s a long game, I think, for this character."

"My interpretation and hope to get through is that she also has a human yearning and yearns for human connection."

"I think someone with a lot of power like that, who’s been alone for a long time, how is that going to play out when they get to spend time with a human being?"

SHE TOLD DAEMON THAT SHE'S "NO SO BAD" ONCE YOU GET TO KNOW HER. THAT WAS A REALLY HUMAN MOMENT IN THE MIDST OF THIS OTHERWORDLY EXPERIENCE AT HARRENHAL.

"She desires to be known, I think, and that’s really interesting that she desires to be known by the scariest motherfucker around."

"She’s kind of here for it."

"There’s something really progressive about that because the thing about Alys is she’s able to see something in Daemon that’s important to be seen."

"She’s fearless."

"I think when you wait around for 400 years, when you get an opportunity to get involved in your life for your purpose, which I think Daemon is a part of her life and her purpose, like, go for it."

"She’s going for it."

IN EPISODE 3, SHE TOLD DAEMON THAT HE'D "DIE" AT HARRENHAL. DID SHE SAY IT AS A WARNING OR JUST A FACT?

"I think it’s good that we’re asking that question because I think that exposes a lot about her."

"I don’t think she knows really how Daemon is going to play out in her life."

"As much as she knows everything, I don’t know if Alys knows everything, you know? I think there’s a learning happening with her, too."

"I think there’s warning, there’s fact, there’s empathy, there’s power dynamic playing out."

DO YOU THINK ALL OF HER POWER IS CONTAINED AT HARRENHAL? IS THAT SOMETHING YOU'VE THOUGHT ABOUT?

"I’m sure it’s something that she’s thought about."

"I think it’s something that she’s probably worried about and excited about and challenged by."

"I think that’s an exciting question for the show because, ultimately, it doesn’t seem like it is, but I don’t know if she knows that."

"I don’t know how that would change her."

WHAT CAN YOU TEASE ABOUT WHAT'S NEXT FOR ALYS REGARDING HER DYNAMIC WITH DAEMON? IT FEELS LIKE WE'RE AT A TIPPING POINT AFTER THE HALLUCINATIONS AND VISIONS.

"I think that’s what’s interesting is that there is a tipping point."

"What happens? How do power dynamics start to shift? — Hopefully, the audience will be hungry to see how we are going to start finding out more about Alys and there might be potential for that."

I WANTED TO POINT OUT THAT DAEMON JUST ACCEPTED THAT CUP OF WHATEVER ALYS WAS BREWING IN EPISODE 4, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. HE DIDN'T SEEM SCARED BY IT, AS IF THERE WAS A CERTAIN TRUST THERE.

"There’s something quite comforting about their dynamic."

"I think no one has ever challenged Daemon, and it’s interesting how Alys kind of flip flops between maternal energy and friend energy and kind of a little sexual tension, and any different kind of tools she has but also things that she wants to experiment with."

AEMOND AND ALYS HAVE A VERY PROMINENT RELATIONSHIP IN FIRE & BLOOD. IS THERE ANYTHING YOU CAN SAY ABOUT THEM POSSIBLY MEETING THIS SEASON?

"I can’t."

"I think my whole thing with talking about Alys and talking about the journey is I think patience is going to be a really… I think it’s going to pay off because I think all of these things are so informative of one another."

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved (to devour)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: It started with Harrenhal and the year of false spring, where you danced with a dragon trying to calm his flames.

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: to mend

- Next part: to cry wolf

The early morning sun barely breaks through the thick canopy of trees as Rhaegar rides ahead, his heart pounding louder with every beat. The cold air stings his face, but he barely notices. His thoughts are consumed by you—his twin, his sister—lost somewhere in the Kingswood with their increasingly unstable father. Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold ride close behind him, their expressions grim, but Rhaegar feels as though the world is closing in on him with every second that passes without finding you.

Suddenly, the black silhouette of Aerys's stallion looms ahead, its dark coat slick with sweat and stained with something darker. Rhaegar's breath catches as his eyes lock on the horse. Blood. His heart races even faster, panic surging through him as he calls out your name, his voice breaking. “Y/N!”

No response.

His gaze darts to the right, where your white-gray mare stands, her reins missing, the beautiful creature now stained with blood, her eyes wide and wild. The sight sends a shiver of dread down his spine. He yells again, this time his voice louder, desperate. “Father! Y/N!”

Silence presses down on them for a long, torturous moment before Ser Gerold spots movement in the distance, his voice steady but tense. “There, my prince. They're coming.”

Rhaegar’s eyes snap to where Gerold is pointing, and his breath stutters. From the thick of the forest, Aerys emerges, dragging the body of a dead doe behind him. At his side, you walk slowly, your head lowered, your steps unsteady. Aerys seems wholly unbothered, his expression a mask of triumph as if nothing unusual has occurred. 

Rhaegar spurs his horse forward, his mind racing, his throat tight with fear. “Father!” he shouts again, but Aerys ignores him, his attention fixed on the dead doe.

Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold exchange uneasy glances, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. They are stunned by the sight before them but trained enough to maintain composure.

Aerys stops just short of the group, casting an almost lazy glance at the knights before addressing them. “Strap the doe to Barristan’s horse,” he commands casually, as though nothing at all is amiss. “We shall have it for dinner.”

The knights hesitate, their eyes flickering toward Rhaegar, but at Aerys’s expectant look, they obey, working quickly to secure the doe, though their hands tremble ever so slightly. Rhaegar’s eyes are only on you now. His heart clenches as he sees the state you’re in—your once-pristine clothes are torn, stained with dirt and blood, and your face is pale, haunted. But it’s the wound on your neck that catches his attention first.

A wolf bite. The jagged teeth marks mar your pale skin, the wound hastily cauterized, the burned flesh an angry red. His eyes sweep over you and find more—scratches, cuts, bruises—all signs of a fight, a struggle. His heart twists in his chest as he realizes how close you must have come to death.

He slides off his horse and takes a step toward you. “Y/N,” he says softly, his voice shaking with both anger and fear. “What happened? Let me—"

But before he can reach you, Aerys’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you roughly against him. “She will ride with me,” he declares, his voice edged with a possessiveness that sets Rhaegar’s teeth on edge. “Her mare is without reins, and I will not have her ride unguarded.” His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your side. He doesn't even glance at the blood-stained horses, as if the danger you'd faced meant nothing to him.

Rhaegar clenches his fists, his fury barely restrained. “She could have died!” he snaps, his voice rising. “You led her into the woods, and she—" His words cut off as he looks at the bite on your neck again. The sight makes his stomach churn. “Look at her! Look at what happened!”

Aerys finally meets Rhaegar’s gaze, and the madness in his eyes flashes, but his voice remains calm, unbothered. “And yet, she did not die, did she, my son?” He smirks, a cold, humorless thing. “She is stronger than you think. The wolves are dead, the doe is ours, and my daughter is unharmed.”

Rhaegar’s anger flares hotter. “Unharmed?” His voice cracks, disbelief laced with fury. “She’s covered in wounds! Look at her, Father! How can you be so—” His words falter, unable to find a term to describe how callous Aerys is being.

But Aerys only tightens his hold on you, his fingers brushing lightly over the burned wolf bite on your neck. He looks almost proud, as if the injury were a mark of honor. “She survived,” he repeats, his eyes flicking back to Rhaegar. “And she will ride with me now. We are done here.”

The finality in his voice leaves no room for argument. Aerys turns his horse, pulling you with him, and you don’t resist, though your eyes flick to Rhaegar’s for the briefest moment—filled with something he can’t quite place. Exhaustion, fear, perhaps even resignation.

Rhaegar watches helplessly as you are lifted onto Aerys’s horse, his chest tight with frustration. His gaze burns into Aerys’s back, seething with anger at how easily his father brushed aside the danger you had faced. How close you had come to being lost, and how little it seemed to matter to him.

He mounts his horse again, but the fire in his chest remains, his thoughts whirling with the realization that whatever hold Aerys has on you, it’s stronger than he ever feared. He looks over at Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold, both knights just as shaken but silent, obedient.

“We return to the Red Keep,” Aerys calls out, his voice unnervingly cheerful as if the events of the night had been nothing more than a game. “We have dinner to prepare.”

Rhaegar tightens his grip on the reins, his jaw set, his mind already racing for a way to pull you out of the madness that had wrapped its claws around you both.

As the Red Keep looms into view, its towering walls rising against the pale morning sky. The sound of hooves echoing off the courtyard stones is the only break in the stillness as your group rides through the gates. Rhaegar’s eyes never leave you, watching the way you slump slightly in the saddle, how your head remains bowed, your usual grace diminished by exhaustion and the wounds that mar your body.

Aerys dismounts first, moving with a practiced ease that belies the night’s strange events. He turns toward you, his hand extended in a gesture that seems almost gentle as he helps you down from the horse. His fingers are firm as they curl around yours, pulling you close to him once again. The movement, meant to appear fatherly, holds an undercurrent that Rhaegar can't ignore, and his heart tightens in his chest as he watches you lean into Aerys, either out of habit or necessity, perhaps both.

Behind them, Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold move quickly to deal with the dead doe, strapping it to be taken to the kitchens as Aerys had commanded. They work silently, their expressions tight, as if still processing the strangeness of what they had witnessed in the Kingswood.

As soon as you and Aerys step onto the cobblestones, a small crowd of courtiers approaches, led by none other than Tywin Lannister. His green eyes sweep over the scene, his expression carefully schooled but sharp. Tywin, always the lion, seems to notice everything—the blood on your clothes, the anger on Rhaegar’s face, the strange energy that still clings to Aerys. The Hand of the King wastes no time in moving forward, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.

“My king, Princess Y/N,” Tywin greets, his voice measured but holding an edge of concern. “We were all concerned when word came that you had gone hunting and did not return at nightfall.”

There is a slight emphasis on we, as if Tywin were reminding Aerys of the court’s need for stability, for leadership—things that had grown increasingly tenuous under his reign. His gaze flicks to you, lingering briefly on the bite mark on your neck before moving back to Aerys.

Aerys, however, seems entirely unbothered by the scrutiny. He smiles that strange, cold smile of his and gestures to the doe now being handled by the knights. “We had a successful hunt, Tywin. The princess and I felled the beast ourselves. We shall feast on it tonight.”

Tywin’s eyes harden briefly, though his face remains impassive. “Of course, Your Grace. The kitchens will prepare it as you wish.” He pauses, glancing back at you, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. “Princess, I trust you are well?”

Before you can answer, Aerys’s arm tightens around your waist, pulling you to his side, his fingers possessive as they rest against your hip. “She is unharmed,” Aerys says, his voice cutting through any further inquiry. “My daughter is stronger than the wolves in the forest. They did not stand a chance.”

Rhaegar, still mounted, watches the exchange with growing unease. His eyes flicker between you and Aerys, his jaw set tight. He dismounts his horse swiftly and approaches, his worry turning to frustration as Aerys continues to act as if nothing had happened. He steps forward, trying to catch your gaze, but you avoid his eyes, your body stiff beneath Aerys’s touch.

“Father,” Rhaegar says, his voice low but filled with barely restrained anger, “she could have died. The wolves—”

“But she did not,” Aerys interrupts sharply, his voice rising. His eyes gleam with that unsettling mix of fervor and madness as he glares at his son. “And do not forget, Rhaegar, that I was there. I protected her through rest of the night after the attack, as any father would. My daughter is alive because of me.” He smirks, his grip on you tightening even further, almost as if daring Rhaegar to challenge him.

Rhaegar grits his teeth, his frustration barely held in check. He looks at you, his voice softening when he speaks again. “Y/N, please, let me—”

“She stays with me,” Aerys snaps, cutting Rhaegar off once more. He pulls you close, his voice lowering into something more dangerous. “Or do you once again doubt my ability to keep her safe, my son?”

The threat is clear, and Rhaegar knows better than to push further, at least not here, not with the courtiers watching. His eyes burn with anger and worry, but he nods stiffly, stepping back to let Aerys lead you away.

As you and Aerys turn toward the keep, Tywin steps aside, his sharp eyes following your every movement. He says nothing more, but Rhaegar knows that the Hand of the King has seen enough to understand the growing fracture between father and son—and knows about something far darker between you and Aerys.

The crowd watches silently as Aerys leads you inside, his arm still wrapped around you. Rhaegar lingers in the courtyard, his fists clenched at his sides, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this—whatever this twisted bond was between you and Aerys—was spiraling out of control. And he was powerless to stop it. For now.

Tywin approaches Rhaegar as the courtyard empties, his expression unreadable. “You have every right to be concerned,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that only Rhaegar can hear. “But this… This will require patience, my prince.”

Rhaegar says nothing, his eyes still fixed on the doors where you and Aerys had disappeared, his heart filled with a dark, suffocating dread.

The water in the bath is warm, though it does little to ease the aching sting of your wounds. You sit still, your hands gripping the edge of the tub as your servants work quietly around you, their soft footsteps and hushed whispers barely audible. They wash away the blood and dirt from the night before, their hands gentle but trembling, aware of the tension that clings to you like a shadow. The pain from the wolf bite on your neck pulses in time with your heartbeat, and the burns from where the wound was cauterized throb with every movement.

You try to ignore it all—the sting, the bruises, the way your body feels foreign and fragile. Instead, you focus on the water, the way it ripples with each soft brush of the servants’ hands. But even the warmth of the bath can't drown out the memories of the night before, the feeling of Aerys’s hands on you, the madness in his eyes, the way you had clung to him afterward despite the fear that had gnawed at your insides. The fear that still lingers.

The servants exchange worried glances, their hands hesitating every time they touch you. You can feel their concern, the way their eyes flick to your face as if expecting you to react, to say something—anything. But you remain silent, detached, staring blankly at the water. You know they’ve seen the marks, the bruises, the burns. They’ve seen the blood and the way your body bears the evidence of the struggle with the wolves, but they don’t ask. They never do.

One of them, a younger girl with trembling hands, wrings a cloth and gently presses it to the bite on your neck. You flinch at the touch, and she gasps softly, stepping back as if she’d burned you. The other women give her a reproachful look, but you say nothing, your gaze still unfocused.

The door creaks open suddenly, and the servants freeze, their eyes wide with fear. You hear the sharp intake of breath from one of them as they step back, hands trembling, and your heart drops when you see him—Aerys, standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with a tension so thick it’s suffocating. He says nothing at first, his gaze sweeping over the scene before him, lingering on your still form in the bath.

"Leave us," Aerys commands, his voice low but with a dangerous edge that brooks no argument.

The servants don’t hesitate. They scurry from the room, heads bowed, leaving behind the water and the scent of herbs and fear. The door closes behind them with a soft click, and now it’s just the two of you. You don’t look at him, your gaze still fixed on the water, though your heart races in your chest.

You hear him move closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor, until he kneels beside the bath. His hand reaches out, brushing a lock of wet hair away from your face, his fingers lingering longer than necessary. You flinch again, but this time, you don’t move away.

Aerys’s voice is soft, almost tender, when he speaks. "The dinner tonight will be a grand affair," he says, as if the events of the previous night never happened, as if your body isn't covered in wounds from the wolves and your spirit isn’t weighed down by the twisted bond that holds you both together. "The doe I’ve hunted—it will be served as a feast for all to enjoy. You will sit by my side, of course."

You swallow hard, your throat tight. The thought of sitting beside him at that table, of pretending everything is normal, makes your stomach turn. But you know there is no choice. There never is.

"You should wear something fitting," he continues, his fingers trailing down the side of your face now, grazing the edge of the bite mark on your neck. His touch is light, almost reverent, but the shine in his gaze makes your skin crawl. "Something to show your beauty. To remind them that you are a Targaryen, born of fire and blood. You were magnificent last night, Y/N. You are always magnificent."

You don't answer, your lips pressed into a thin line. The bathwater ripples as he shifts closer, his eyes fixed on you, waiting for some kind of response, but you can’t find the words. You can barely breathe, let alone speak. The pain in your body is nothing compared to the weight in your chest, the suffocating realization that this is your life now. That it has always been this way.

Aerys’s fingers brush your collarbone, and he leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We are bound together, you and I. No one understands us, not like you do. You keep me grounded, my daughter, my princess. You keep me... sane."

The irony of his words hangs heavy in the air, but you say nothing. You’ve heard this before, countless times. And each time, the grip he has on you tightens. Each time, the madness seems to creep a little deeper into him—and into you.

He stands slowly, his gaze lingering on your face, and then, with a final stroke of your hair, he turns toward the door. "Rest now," he says. "Tonight, you will shine."

As the door closes behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The water in the bath is cooling now, but you don’t move. You sit there, staring at the ripples, trying to ignore the sting of your wounds and the heavier sting of the reality that has settled over you.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alive with the clinking of goblets, the low murmur of voices, and the scrape of silverware against plates. The air was filled with the scent of roasted meat, herbs, and wine, but there was an undercurrent of something else—a unease that hung like a heavy fog over the room. The courtiers, lords, and ladies in attendance spoke in measured tones, their smiles practiced and polite, but their eyes kept flicking to the head of the table, where Aerys sat, you by his side.

You had taken your place as he commanded, wearing the gown he had insisted upon—a deep red, the color of dragonfire, edged with black. It clung to you like a second skin, the fabric light but suffocating, as though it were part of the weight you carried. Rhaella had wisely remained in her chambers, claiming illness, though you knew she simply couldn’t face this spectacle. Not tonight.

Aerys, of course, was in high spirits. His mood was unpredictable, always swinging between manic glee and cold calculation, but tonight, he was content. He had his doe, the prize of his hunt, and you beside him, his favorite child. His dragon princess. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the table.

You kept your face composed, doing your best to appear the part of the princess of the realm, the true daughter of the dragon. Your back straight, your head held high, you made no outward sign of the turmoil that churned inside you. Instead, you smiled when necessary, nodded at the appropriate moments, and allowed Aerys’s hand to linger, even though every touch felt like a brand on your skin.

Across the table, Rhaegar sat with Elia and their children. A light breeze swept in through the hall, tugging at Elia's dark hair, and for a brief moment, your eyes met Rhaegar’s. In that one glance, you tried to convey everything you couldn’t say aloud—the reassurance that you were still here, that you were still fighting, even if it didn’t look like it. His expression softened, worry creasing his brow, but he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of the weight you both carried. You felt a flicker of comfort in his understanding, but it was fleeting.

The meal was served with great fanfare—platters of roasted meats, bread, and fruits carried in by a long line of servants. At the center of it all was the doe, the one Aerys had so proudly dragged from the Kingswood, its meat roasted to a dark, glossy perfection. The lords and ladies offered the king their compliments, some braver ones daring to speak directly to him, praising the hunt and the meal.

You watched as the first slices of meat were served to the table, the doe taking pride of place on Aerys’s plate. He cut into it with sharp, deliberate motions, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he took his first bite. Then, the rest of the table followed suit.

You picked up your knife and fork, forcing your hand to remain steady as you sliced into the meat on your plate. Aerys watched you, his gaze sharp, waiting for you to taste the prize of the hunt. You brought the fork to your lips, forcing yourself to chew and swallow. But the moment the meat hit your tongue, a strange, rancid taste flooded your mouth.

It was off. The meat was foul, as though it had been left out in the sun too long, the flavor cloying and rotten. You tried to suppress the instinct to gag, swallowing it quickly before you could give yourself away. Your stomach churned, and for a moment, you were convinced something was terribly wrong. The meat—how could everyone else be eating it without complaint?

Around you, the lords and ladies continued to eat, their faces betraying nothing. Some even offered more compliments, one or two brave men toasting Aerys’s prowess in the hunt. You glanced at Rhaegar, watching as he took a cautious bite, and though his face remained impassive, you could see it—the brief tightening of his mouth, the flicker of unease in his eyes. He had tasted it, too.

Yet no one said a word.

Aerys’s hand shifted on your thigh, his grip tightening as he leaned closer to you. “Do you enjoy the meal, my daughter?” he asked, his voice low, almost intimate, as though the two of you were sharing some private joke. His breath was warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips, though your throat felt tight, the rancid taste of the meat still lingering at the back of your mouth. “It is… perfect, Father,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the noise of the hall.

Aerys smiled, satisfied with your response, and you could feel his gaze linger on you, studying your every move. The weight of his attention was suffocating, his touch on your leg an anchor that kept you bound to this twisted reality.

As the dinner continued, you forced yourself to take another bite, trying to mask your discomfort, though each morsel seemed worse than the last. You glanced around the hall, wondering if anyone else had noticed the strange taste, but all you saw were polite smiles and empty words of praise. The air felt thick with something unspoken, a creeping sense of wrongness that clung to you like the aftertaste of the meat.

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on the voices around you, but the feeling that something was terribly wrong lingered in the back of your mind. You wondered if it was just you—if the rot you tasted was somehow your own, a reflection of everything you had become in the shadows of Aerys’s madness.

You forced yourself to focus on the conversations around you, even though the foul taste of the meat still lingered on your tongue. Aerys’s hand remained on your thigh, his grip possessive, as if reminding you that you were his—always his.

From across the table, you saw Lord Qarlton Chelsted lean forward, clearly emboldened by the king’s good mood. Aerys was smiling, pleased with the compliments and attention he was receiving. Lord Qarlton, ever the opportunist, chose that moment to speak, his voice carrying over the din of the hall.

“Your Grace,” he began, his tone measured and deferential. “We’ve received a message from Lord Stark of Winterfell. He writes to inform us that he and his son, Brandon Stark, are preparing to journey south to the capital.”

At the mention of Brandon Stark’s name, you felt a subtle shift in the air. You paused mid-bite, your fork hovering just above your plate. You didn’t have to look up to sense it—your father’s mood had turned from jovial to something darker. The shift was felt, a sudden chill that spread through the hall, freezing the words on Lord Qarlton’s lips.

“They come,” Qarlton continued, oblivious to the change, “so that Brandon may wed his betrothed—your daughter, Princess Y/N—as agreed upon, so the alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark may be sealed.”

The words hung in the air like a lead weight, and you felt your body stiffen, your entire being focused on the silence that followed. The warmth of Aerys’s hand on your thigh turned cold, his fingers unmoving, and you knew without looking that his eyes were fixed on Lord Qarlton, that dangerous gleam of madness lurking just beneath the surface.

Qarlton, unaware of the growing storm, mistook the silence for attention. He pressed on, his words careful but hopeful, clearly believing that he was reminding the king of something important. “It was, after all, a match made by your own hand, Your Grace. A union between the blood of the dragon and the wolves of the North.”

The silence in the hall deepened. You could feel Aerys’s fury building, like the slow burn of wildfire, just waiting for the spark that would set it ablaze. His hand tightened on your leg, the pressure enough to make you wince, though you dared not move. He was no longer a king in high spirits. He had become a predator, and Qarlton had unwittingly become his prey.

The rest of the hall seemed to sense the shift as well. Conversations stilled, and the once-brave lords and ladies who had been complimenting the meal moments before now avoided making eye contact with the king. Even Rhaegar, seated across from you, had gone still, his eyes sharp and watchful.

Qarlton, realizing too late that something was amiss, faltered. He glanced nervously at you, then at Aerys, as if only just now understanding that the king was not in the mood for such discussions. His earlier confidence drained from him as the king’s silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive. The realization seemed to dawn on him that Aerys had forgotten—or perhaps chosen to forget—the match he had once made between you and Brandon Stark.

You dared not look at Aerys, but you could feel the air around him vibrating with a barely contained rage. His fingers dug into your thigh, the touch no longer possessive but punishing, as if the mere mention of Brandon Stark had provoked something dark and primal within him.

At last, Aerys spoke, his voice low, venomous. “Brandon Stark?” he repeated slowly, as though testing the name on his tongue, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “The wolves think to come south and claim what is mine?”

You stiffened at his words, your breath catching in your throat. Aerys’s grip tightened further, his nails biting into your flesh, but you forced yourself to remain still. The entire hall was watching, waiting for his next move, for the explosion that seemed inevitable now.

Qarlton, pale and visibly shaken, tried to backpedal. “Your Grace, I—”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to Qarlton, his eyes burning with fury. “You dare remind me of promises made to wolves?” His voice, though quiet, was filled with a dangerous edge, each word like a lash. “Do you think I am in the habit of giving away what belongs to the blood of the dragon?”

Your stomach churned, the dread pooling in your chest. This was worse than you had anticipated. Aerys’s rage was rising, and the mention of your betrothal—something he had arranged himself long ago—was now a threat to him, a reminder of a promise he had no intention of keeping.

You cast a fleeting glance toward Rhaegar, who sat rigid, his expression carefully controlled. His eyes met yours for a brief moment, and you could see the same fear reflected in them—the same knowledge that this dinner was teetering on the edge of disaster.

Aerys released your leg suddenly and stood, his eyes fixed on Qarlton with a hatred that sent a shiver through the hall. “Brandon Stark will never have her,” Aerys growled, his voice like the hiss of wildfire. “No wolf will ever take what belongs to me. My daughter is mine, and mine alone.”

The hall was deathly silent. The courtiers sat frozen, no one daring to speak, no one daring to move. You felt your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse racing as the weight of Aerys’s claim pressed down on you like a vise. You didn’t have to look at him to know that his madness had fully taken hold, and there was no reasoning with him now.

Lord Qarlton, his face ashen, wisely bowed his head, murmuring, “Of course, Your Grace.”

The silence in the hall stretched on, the tension so thick it was suffocating. You sat frozen in place, your pulse thundering in your ears as Aerys’s words echoed in the vast chamber. The king’s declaration—Brandon Stark will never have her—hung in the air like a death sentence, and no one dared to challenge it.

Except Tywin Lannister.

The Hand of the King rose slowly from his seat, his movements measured, deliberate, as though carefully navigating a minefield. His green eyes, sharp as ever, flicked briefly to you before settling on Aerys. Tywin, always composed, had the look of a man who knew the stakes of what he was about to say, but he spoke anyway, his voice calm and authoritative.

“Your Grace,” he began, “the match between the princess and Brandon Stark was made many years ago. It is a matter of duty, not just to House Targaryen but to the realm. The North expects this alliance to be honored.”

Aerys turned his gaze on Tywin, his eyes narrowing, the light of madness flickering behind them. His hand still rested on the table, his fingers drumming against the wood, as though the idea of this marriage were some small, bothersome matter to be crushed beneath his heel. His lips curled into a sneer.

“Duty?” Aerys spat the word, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think I care about duty, Tywin? You think I care about some wolf coming south to take what is mine?”

Tywin didn’t flinch, though you could sense the weight of the moment pressing down on him. His voice remained even, his words carefully chosen. “This was your arrangement, Your Grace. You made this deal with Lord Rickard Stark yourself. It is your word that binds this match, your promise that the North depends on.”

For a moment, Aerys was silent, his gaze locked on Tywin. Then, a bitter laugh escaped his lips, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “My word?” Aerys said, his voice rising in pitch, his laughter turning sharp and cruel. “I made this deal? I promised my daughter to the wolves? You must be mad, Tywin, or perhaps you think I am.”

Aerys’s hand slammed down on the table, the force of it sending goblets and plates rattling. “You lie!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. “You and your schemes, Tywin. Always thinking you can manipulate me. Always believing you can twist my will.”

The court watched in stunned silence, not daring to breathe as the king’s fury grew, his eyes wild and bright. Tywin, however, stood his ground, his face unreadable, but you could see the flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps frustration, perhaps resignation. He knew the king was beyond reasoning, but still, he pressed forward, his voice steady.

“Your Grace, I only remind you of the truth. This was your will. You commanded this match to strengthen the realm.”

Aerys’s laugh rang out again, high and brittle. “My will? My will is my daughter here, beside me. She is not some tool to be bartered away to the wolves. You would have me send her north, to be taken by Brandon Stark? I will not allow it.”

His words struck like a hammer, each one filled with venom. His fingers dug into the table, knuckles white, and you felt a cold shudder run through your body as his gaze flickered to you. The possessiveness in his eyes was visible, as if he had forgotten entirely the political game being played, as if his sole concern was keeping you close, at his side, and away from anyone who might take you from him.

Tywin exhaled slowly, the subtle stiffness in his frame the only sign of his growing frustration. He spoke again, this time more cautiously. “Your Grace, the Starks have sent word. They expect this alliance. We cannot afford to insult the North. It would cause a rift—”

“Enough!” Aerys roared, standing so suddenly that his chair scraped back with a screech. He pointed an accusatory finger at Tywin, his face twisted in rage. “I will not be lectured by you, Tywin! You dare presume to tell me what I must do with my own daughter? You think I care about the North, about your precious alliances? I am the king, and my word is law.”

The hall fell into an even deeper silence, if such a thing were possible. The courtiers sat frozen, their gazes darting between Tywin and Aerys, unsure of where this would lead. Even Rhaegar had gone still, his eyes flicking toward you, filled with quiet worry. He knew as well as you did that Aerys was on the verge of something dangerous, something irreversible.

Tywin, sensing the precariousness of the situation, bowed his head slightly, a calculated gesture of submission. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said quietly, though there was a sharpness to his tone that you could hear beneath the surface. “I would never presume to challenge your will.”

Aerys, still glaring at him, seemed to hesitate, as if weighing Tywin’s words, the room, and the power he held over everyone within it. His fingers twitched, his madness still crackling in the air, but for the moment, he seemed satisfied with Tywin’s retreat.

He turned back to you then, his expression softening, though his eyes remained dark. He reached out, placing his hand back on your thigh, his voice lowering as he spoke only to you now, though loud enough for all to hear. “The wolves will never have you, Y/N,” he murmured, his tone a twisted mockery of affection. “You are mine. You will always be mine.”

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly in your lap as the weight of his words settled over you like a shroud. You felt the eyes of the court on you, and though your face remained composed, inside you felt the creeping dread of what Aerys’s declaration truly meant.

Tywin, still standing, gave a curt nod before sitting back down, his face set in a grim mask of professionalism. But you knew that this was not over—not truly. The alliance with the Starks had been thrown into jeopardy, and now the political landscape would shift beneath your feet, all while you remained trapped in Aerys’s tightening grasp.

You could feel Aerys’s grip tightening on your thigh, his fingers digging into your flesh as the situation in the hall pressed down on you both. You knew him too well—knew the signs, the way his eyes gleamed when his mind began to unravel, the way his voice dropped into a low, dangerous whisper when he was on the edge of something dark.

The hall was still, conversations picking back up only in hushed whispers, and you could feel the weight of every gaze on you, waiting to see what the king would do next. You couldn’t afford to let him spiral further. Not here. Not now.

You turned slightly in your seat, your hand slipping under the table to gently rest on his wrist, your fingers brushing against his knuckles in what you hoped was a calming gesture. You kept your voice low, soft, meant only for him. “Father,” you began, your words carefully chosen, “there’s no need to worry. I’m not leaving you. No one is taking me away.”

His gaze shifted to you, the fire in his eyes still burning, but there was a flicker of something else—something like doubt, uncertainty. His lips pressed into a thin line as he leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I did not make that match,” he hissed, his words sharp, his eyes searching yours as though looking for some confirmation of his own version of reality. “That is not my will.”

Your heart clenched at his words, though you kept your face serene, composed. You knew the truth—had known it your entire life. The match with Brandon Stark had been arranged before you were even old enough to understand the significance of it. Your father had made the promise himself, sealing the alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark with your future. It had been your duty, your destiny. And yet here he was, rewriting the past in his mind, casting aside that promise in favor of his possessive insanity.

But you couldn’t contradict him. Not now. Not when he was so close to the edge.

You forced a gentle smile, your hand still resting on his. “Of course, Father,” you whispered, your voice soothing, even as your heart raced. “You made no such match. There is only your will, and I will always follow it. No one can take me from you. I belong here, with you.”

His grip on your thigh loosened slightly, his expression softening just enough for you to see that your words had reached him, if only for a moment. The madness in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a strange, toxic affection that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You see?” he murmured, his voice almost tender now. “You understand. You are the only one who does, my daughter. You are my true heir, the blood of the dragon. You will never be taken from me.”

You nodded, your heart heavy with the weight of the lie you were telling. You couldn’t bear to challenge him, couldn’t risk provoking him further. And so, you leaned into the role he had cast you in—the dutiful daughter, bound to him by blood and fire, the one person who could calm the storm inside him.

“I will never leave you, Father,” you whispered again, the words tasting bitter on your tongue even as you forced them out. “I am yours. Forever.”

Aerys studied you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face as if trying to find any hint of deception. But when he found none, he exhaled slowly, his body relaxing just a little, the tension in his shoulders easing. His hand slid from your thigh, coming to rest on the table beside his goblet, and for a moment, it seemed as though the worst of the storm had passed.

The hall continued to murmur around you, the courtiers still on edge, but the immediate threat had diminished. You allowed yourself a small breath of relief, though you knew this reprieve was only temporary. Aerys’s madness was always lurking beneath the surface, ready to flare up again at any moment.

Still, you had bought yourself a little more time. And in that time, you would do whatever it took to keep him calm, to prevent the darkness from consuming him—and you—entirely. Even if it meant continuing to play this role, pretending that the world he imagined was the only one that existed.

As Aerys lifted his goblet to his lips, his hand now steady, you caught another glance from Rhaegar across the table. His expression was one of deep concern, but there was also a flicker of pride in his eyes—he had seen what you had done, how you had managed to bring Aerys back from the edge.

The feast dragged on, though you barely registered the conversations and laughter around you. The sounds of the hall were muted by the thrum of your own thoughts, each beat of your heart a reminder of the careful game you were playing. Aerys sat beside you, his mood teetering between satisfaction and a dangerous edge, his hand never far from yours. You continued to smile, nod, and offer the occasional response, but your mind was elsewhere—focused entirely on keeping him calm, keeping him stable.

At last, Aerys rose from his seat, the sound of his chair scraping against the floor silencing the murmurs in the hall. You followed him, your body moving automatically as he reached down, taking your hand in his. His grip was firm, as he pulled you to your feet, and you could feel the shift in him—the change that always signaled the start of something darker.

He led you from the table, his hand never leaving yours, and as you glanced over your shoulder, you caught sight of Varys, his pale face unreadable as he watched you both. The Spider's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he turned back to the rest of the court, his expression a mask of quiet contemplation. It unsettled you, the way Varys could watch without judgment, his intentions always hidden beneath layers of ambiguity. But you had no time to dwell on it. Aerys was already leading you away.

The moment you stepped out of the grand hall, the air changed. The warmth and light of the feast were replaced by the cool darkness of the secluded corridors, the only sound now the soft echo of your footsteps on the stone floor. Aerys’s hand tightened around yours as he led you deeper into the castle, away from prying eyes, his pace quickening.

You knew this part of the keep well—these quiet, shadowed hallways where no one dared to follow the king. It was here, in the darkness, where Aerys’s mood often changed, where his madness could take hold in ways that the court would never see. You felt the shift in him, the way his breath quickened, the way his fingers gripped yours tighter, pulling you closer to him as the light from the torches dimmed.

When he finally stopped, it was in a small, dark alcove, the shadows thick around you. The only light came from a single flickering torch in the distance. Aerys turned to you, his eyes gleaming with something wild, something unholy, and you could feel it—the familiar pull, the dangerous edge that always ignited something deep inside you as well. No matter how much you feared his instability, there was a part of you that was drawn to it, just as you were drawn to him.

“You are mine,” he whispered, his voice low, filled with a dark reverence. He raised a hand, brushing his fingers along your cheek, down to your throat, where the wolf’s bite had left its mark. His touch was possessive, his eyes fixated on the wound. “No one else will ever have you. Not the wolves. Not the North. You belong to me.”

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as his words stirred something deep within you. His madness was infectious, seeping into your veins, making your pulse quicken. 

Aerys’s hand slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke in that dark, unsettling tone. “Do you know what I’ll do if the wolves come for you? If that Stark boy dares to set foot in my capital, thinking he can take you from me?”

You shivered at his words, your body responding to the dangerous edge in his voice, though your mind recoiled at the thought. You knew what he was capable of. You had seen it, felt it, time and time again.

“I’ll burn them,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “I’ll burn them all. The Starks, their sons, their lands. I’ll burn Winterfell to the ground if they dare to challenge me.”

Your heart raced, a mix of fear and something darker coursing through you. You knew he meant every word. Aerys had no boundaries, no limits when it came to protecting what he saw as his. The darkness in his eyes, the gleam of fire that always lingered there, told you that he would follow through on his threats without hesitation.

“They think they can take you from me,” he growled, his hands tightening on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin. “But I will burn every last one of them. I will make sure the North never forgets that the blood of the dragon runs through your veins. You are mine, and I will never let you go.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but there was a part of you, buried deep, that responded to the intensity of his claim. You had been raised in this world, forged in fire and blood, and no matter how much you hated it, a part of you had always belonged to him. The bond between you was unbreakable, twisted and dark, and in moments like this, it was impossible to deny.

You tilted your head slightly, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “I’m not leaving you, Father. I’ll always be here, beside you. No one can take me away.”

Aerys’s grip on you relaxed slightly, though the wild gleam in his eyes remained. He leaned back, studying your face as if searching for any sign of doubt, any flicker of rebellion. When he found none, he smiled—a cold, triumphant smile that sent another shiver down your spine.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softening. “You understand, my daughter. You always have.”

He leaned down, pressing a rough, possessive kiss to your lips, and though your mind screamed at the meaning of it all, your body responded, as it always did, to the fire that burned between you.

Aerys's lips pressed harder against yours, rough and demanding, his hand gripping your waist as if he could mark you with his touch. His kiss was all-consuming, pulling you further into the insanity that had bound the two of you together for so long. Your thoughts, already spinning, suddenly drifted back to the Kingswood—to the wolf. You could still see it clearly, the large creature’s body lying still beneath you, its hollow, dead grey eyes staring into nothingness. Its final moments had been marked by your hands tightening the reins around its neck, cutting off its last breath.

You had saved yourself that night, but the image of the wolf haunted you still, a reminder of what you were capable of, what you had become.

Aerys’s hands moved now, one trailing down your side, sliding dangerously close to the intimate places he had always claimed as his. His touch made you shudder, a mixture of fear, disgust, and something you couldn’t deny. Your body responded, despite everything, despite the madness swirling around you both. His breath was hot against your neck, his lips moving against your skin, whispering sinister promises that made your heart race.

But the moment shattered abruptly as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Aerys froze, his lips still against your neck, his body tensing as a growl of annoyance rumbled deep in his throat. His hand gripped your arm, pulling you away from the wall with a swift, almost violent motion. Without a word, he yanked you toward one of the secret passageways hidden behind a tapestry. The stone door creaked open just enough for the two of you to slip inside before it closed again, leaving you in near darkness.

You clung to Aerys in the confined space, your heart pounding in your chest as you pressed against him, trying to make yourself as small and quiet as possible. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close, and for once, you were grateful for the way he pulled you to him. His body was rigid, his breath shallow but controlled. Despite his earlier frustration, he stayed perfectly still, like a specter hiding in the shadows.

The footsteps grew closer, and then two figures emerged, their voices low, whispering just outside the passageway. You couldn’t see them clearly, the thick tapestry muffling some of the sound, but you could make out fragments of their conversation.

“… the Starks … Aerys grows worse by the day …”

Your breath caught in your throat. They were talking about him—about your father. And you. You strained to hear more, but the words were faint, their identities obscured by the dark and the distance. You wanted to lean forward, to make out what they were saying, but Aerys’s grip tightened around you, silently commanding you to stay still.

“… the princess … she is the key … if the Starks arrive …”

Your pulse quickened, fear creeping into your veins. You knew how precarious your position was, how much danger there was in being caught between the madness of your father and the plans of those who sought to use you. These men—they were plotting something, something that involved you, the Starks, and Aerys.

You glanced up at Aerys, expecting to see the fury that always followed when he felt threatened. But he remained perfectly still, his face unreadable in this light. His chest rose and fell slowly, controlled, though his eyes gleamed with something ominous. You were afraid he might lash out, storm from the passageway and confront whoever it was that dared to speak of him in hushed tones, but instead, he held you tighter, his breath steady and measured.

The voices lingered for a few more moments, then faded as the men moved away, their conversation growing more distant until the hallway was silent once more. Aerys didn’t move at first, his body unmoving , but after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled softly, loosening his grip on you just enough for you to breathe again.

You stayed in the passage for a few more moments, both of you wrapped in the darkness. You could feel Aerys’s mind working, calculating, his mood shifting. You feared what he might do now, how he might react to the words he had overheard, but for the moment, he remained quiet.

After a long, heavy pause, he finally spoke, his voice low, menacing. “They speak of things they don’t understand,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “But we’ll show them, won’t we, my daughter? They’ll see that no one can take you from me.”

You nodded, your throat tight, unsure of what else to say. The threat in his words hung between you, heavy and undeniable. Whatever the men outside had been planning, Aerys would not forget their words. And neither would you.

[snowblack-charcoalwhite]

When answering asks I mentioned several times that while I agree that Aegon's character arc is the best one this season (among the Greens and overall), I still don't like it. No one really asked but I decided to put it out there anyway - because he is my second favourite character of the book/show combo.

When I think about Aegon in season 2, this bit from the trailer comes to mind:

If we are to take Aegon more or less as a separate character (which is not so easy as no character can/should exist in a vacuum), his storyline has been quite decent (the effort to be a good ruler despite the lack of actual preparation, the obvious love and care towards Jaehaerys and heart-wrenching reaction to his murder, the failed attempt to prove himself at Rook's Rest - and now the signs pointing to him becoming a new man after what happened, more cunning and harsh). Besides, Tom has been given quite a few really good moments where he could show, truly and without being restrained, just how talented he is (it was the least HotD owed him after the treatment he got because of the shitty writing for the previous season). And even with that, I am still far from being convinced that the writers won't fumble it all in season 3 (just look what they did to Aemond this season after him getting IMO the most compelling and consistent beginning of the character arc in season 1).

But if we look at Aegon in connection with other characters? I am not merely disappointed, I am fucking furious, actually.

He's the character who suffered the most this season (feels like suffering takes up 90% of his screentime) - and this is understandable given what he's been going through. But how does the show present us this suffering? More precisely, who is presented as being responsible for it?

The first big blow dealt to Aegon was the murder of Jaehaerys. And which characters are actually shown to be the cause of Aegon's anguish?

Not Rhaenyra - she was as clueless as poor murdered boy himself. Not Mysaria - her opressed self "just provided the names" to Daemon. Daemon is the closest to it, but even here we were treated to this "ambiguity" bullshit about him supposedly not giving clear instructions to Blood and Cheese - and apparently he deeply regrets his actions. Boo-hoo, poor baby (I am not even a Daemon hater, actually, but the "he is just a tormented soul" thing he has going on this season has gone too far). The audience can't even properly hate the murderers themselves because of the shallow and cartoonish way the whole event was handled on screen.

But we get to see how Otto turns the horrible murder of an innocent child into a propo show - and Alicent sides with him (both are shown to disregard Aegon's feelings on the matter). Criston is presented as the one who neglected his duties and in doing so facilitated the heir's murder (and later he tries to shift the blame to Arryk which eventually gets the latter killed while fighting his own twin brother). Aemond doesn't gaf about his nephew's death (or the way it affected anyone in his family, specifically Aegon) for which he is partially to blame. And later Aegon gets a parting gift from Otto in the form of "you are a useless piece of junk - and a naive one for even daring to believe otherwise" - and Alicent's inability to console him when he needs it most.

Things only get worse from here. The Blacks are doing their thing on Dragostone (in Daemon's case - at Harrenhal) while Aegon keeps being abused, neglected and terrorized by those closest to him. His council members (including his mother and brother) do not respect him, Alicent flat out tells him he is useless in the most hurtful way possible (comparing him to Viserys who, as Aegon learned, didn't deem him worthy either after all). Oh, and by the way Viserys' neglect towards his children - Aegon in particular, in this case - is now completely taken out of the equation. Instead Viserys is presented as almost a godlike figure, someone to be worshipped and as infallible as the Pope.

And then, as the cherry on top of the cake, Aegon and his beloved dragon get horribly injured, almost killed by Aemond who Aegon trusted despite everything (Rhaenys' part in Aegon being hurt is minimal). And even after that Aemond proceeds to torment his bedridden brother, physically and mentally (I am aware there are supposed layers to it but I really doubt a lot of viewers gave that scene a second thought), so the former could remain in power; Alicent experiences remorse in all the wrong moments (and then proceeds to tell Gwayne how she is disappointed in both of the sons she actually knows and seems to redirect her hopes towards the one she doesn't). The only person who actually seems to care about Aegon is, surprise, Larys Strong, a reigning Kinslayer Supreme who actually murdered his father and elder brother while playing the game of thrones (and there is a BIG question whether Larys would give a single fuck about Aegon and his condition if he had been granted promotion by Aemond). While it's nice that the indisposed king has at least someone on his side, it's really fucked up that out of everyone else around him it had to be precisely Larys, whose loyalty is very much conditional.

To sum it all up, the writers gave Aegon an extreme amount of suffering (in accordance with his story in F&B and even more), clearly aiming to make the audience pity him as much as possible - and in a dirty and lazy writing move weaponized this pity against other TG characters (it's not clear for now whether it worked to the degree they expected for GA - but for the fandom it certainly did). Meanwhile TB is whitewashed once again. Now it's understandable where all this "they all hate each other" promo jokes (that turned out not to be jokes after all) made by TB actors came from.

In conclusion, I despise the way Aegon's suffering is being used in the narrative, and it takes a really big chunk out of the positive feelings I have about Aegon's arc in general. The F&B Greens, while being flawed individuals and not the most well-functioning family, were loyal to and cared for each other. HotD destroyed the majority of inter-Green relationships, and I am really, REALLY not here for it.

[its-actually-minicika]

The Harshest Winters (18+!)

Part 4;;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon Aemond;

Warnings: all of them lmao - dubious consent, canon typical violence, lack of Jacaerys, death, blood and gore, Aemond - who forces the reader into holy matrimony in this one (oh yes it's happening), and of course engages in petty masturbation (it's not THW without him going ham on his own hand ♡)

Word Count: 15k+ (wowza i know)

Author's Note: Low and behold, part 4 is here!! Originally, this was supposed to be a 4 parts series, but that obviously isn't the case anymore. THIS TOOK SO LONG AND I'M SO SORRY - I had major issues with the tag list, and at some point, tumblr wouldn’t let me post this; I unfortunately couldn't solve those problems, no matter how hard I tried, so most of you haven't been properly tagged :") This update is a hot mess, and I haven't actually had the time to read through all the paragraphs that I wrote. I SHALL BE BACK TO EDIT

A huge thank you to everyone who's still following the story, though, and I hope you enjoy!

A war is in its midst.

When everyone else is readying themselves for the following decisive battles, you and Aemond are busy playing house.

Things get heated in Harrenhal, and one must decide when and where to pick their side.

The contact of the hot water upon Aemond’s ivory skin made the man shudder in naught but blinding pain. Achingly slow movements, followed by slow grunts echoed throughout the room – and Lady Tully stilled upon the silken sheets, moving her eyes over the book’s page for the thousandth time since he returned; thus driving all her peace away.

The baths Aemond determinedly took in the raptures of the late-night hours never failed to make her uncomfortable, and keep her on edge. Even so, being forced to hear the pained man move with such little stability and lack of confidence almost teetered the girl to the brink of madness.

Harrenhal had been in shambles since its proud conqueror beckoned his return on dragon back that very eve. Two young maids shouted for maesters, and Alys Rivers nearly caused a scene. As he got off his leather saddle, the Prince all but collapsed from tiredness and blood loss.

'He commanded his features to turn brave and taciturn,' his paramour had told her, 'as to not let a single hint of his condition spread throughout the Keep. My poor Aemond.'

The fool had been reached by an arrow.

An impressive feat, one had to agree – and wonder further on the identity of the courageous shot.

‘Struck right between his shoulder blade and chest,’ she had heard some lost girl utter, ‘It is a miracle he’s still alive.’

… Or the Gods’ cruelest punishment, the Lady compelled within her thoughts.

“Mmhh…” Aemond’s rugged breath deterred the girl to raise her glassy orbs from the confinement of the wilting pages. She schooled her eyes to stay above any level of indiscretion, and gingerly followed the trail of blood mixed with dirt, that seeped into and dirtied the once clear water.

Now that her curiosity was quenched, she could freely look away again.

Half a heartbeat later, she relented and surrendered in the face of his quarrelsome state. The Prince bit the inside of his cheek again, and raised his hand up to allow droplets of liquid to trail past his wounded shoulder… but to no avail.

“You could call in a maid, you know.” Her raspy voice descended upon his struggling body. Sooner than she may have liked, the Bliss of Riverrun closed her eyes, and concentrated on the languid noises that the Prince was making.

Seconds felt like pending minutes, until Aemond One-Eye graced her with a reply.

“I don’t need a maid to help me.”

Then that was that, the young woman soon concluded, returning her attention to the opened book.

'The Philosophies of the Riverlands', however, provided little to no aid to the situation at hand – and her overall station.

For she knew, perhaps far too well, that she had to play a different game than the one they'd engaged in, months prior to her imprisonment in that cursed place.

Insufferable man… she vexed him cruelly inside her head, I hoped by now you would be dead.

She raised one leg from the mattress that embedded her, and shifted it, so as to allow her limbs to hang lowly by the edge of the bed. Her thoughts formed and went as they pleased, but the girl settled on one final reach.

He hadn't even allowed Alys to help him undress. Suggesting her now was a deliberate waste of her time.

Not only that, but she still had to win his trust. Somehow, she promised herself, no matter what it takes, she'd do it.

Forcibly she rose from the bed, and made her way slowly towards his wide basin, fixating her eyes on the stone floor ahead. Her throat closed in on itself, and the girl pursed her lips into a tight line, whilst exhaling through her nose. It took a while for her to calm herself.

"... What about me?" She asked in a leveled tone.

Her gaze met his piercing orb, and the Lady nearly took a small step back. His face long washed the wave of shock from his sharp, Targaryen features – Aemond awaited her next words with a quirked up brow and a slight bite o'r his inner cheek. He seemed more than interested in her meek suggestion.

His wordless approval had left her speechless and, for a while, only her heartbeat emerged in her ears.

The Prince Regent trailed his eye hungrily over her extended arm. He took in a sharp breath as she grasped the rough sponge from his hand, and drained it of the putrid smell. She confidently brought it up to him – and teasingly trailed it over his hard chest, down to his lower abdomen, up again to his slouching shoulder.

"This… will hurt you a little bit." She whispered to him, skillfully averting her face from the man in question.

He gritted his teeth harshly, and almost let out a groan from his parted lips – with his dexterous and long fingers, he gripped the edge of the wooden basin, but dared not to look away from the kneeling Lady – choosing, instead, to focus on singling out her every soft and hard feature.

On her end, (Y/N) dabbed the piece of cloth over his wound gently, chanting inside her head to remain small and taciturn.

He shan't get more of a reaction from me, she promised herself through the span of an agonized huff, as she focused in on the task at hand.

Aemond's white skin revealed itself from the washed patches of dirt, and the Prince sighed a deep breath of contentment, as he felt his body be unintentionally caressed by her. His eye fluttered close, and a slight furrow of his tantalizing brow indicated the uncommon pleasure he took from their sporadic intimacy.

The two remain in awkward silence - the only noise that reached the girl's ears being the rattle of water and the occasional hiss from Aemond.

"... I'm sorry." She strained herself to whisper, whilst her hair fell seemingly out of place. "This looks as if it's painful."

The Prince Protector mirrored her stance, and glanced at her through the thick curtain of long, silver hair – the lilac in his eye complimenting the heatwaves of fire that danced across his marred skin.

"It's not painful." His gruff voice echoed in reply.

"... You –" The Lady began, but stopped on her tracks to level her voice again, by the aid of coughing in the back of her hand.

"You don't have to pretend in my company, you know."

She graced him with a forced smile, one she hoped seemed light enough to fool him. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't make fun of you."

Her eyes trailed over to the harsh stone floor, wrinkling at their sharpened ends – "When I was three and ten," she began, "My youngest brother betted against one of the stable boys: that he could ride faster than anyone on his horse, Middle." Her eyes spasmed close at the memory, and the girl wistfully smiled to herself, "The fool scraped his knees in that dreadful race. Middle threw him right out of his expensive saddle."

As she spoke, she brought the rough cloth over Aemond's shoulder blade, right above his wound, and began scrubbing the dirt that adorned over his skin.

"He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened, so he made me clean it, in the stead of a maester." The Lady let out an airy laugh, as her nose scrunched up with a pang of fondness. "I have never seen a boy get so worked up over a simple scratch before."

Aemond hummed in admission – half relieved by the distraction she was offering, and half worried by the impending pain he would soon feel. He shifted from inside the basin, as if to reach for the sponge in her hand himself, but the girl simply laid her hand away.

Her musings came to an abrupt end. She retreated on her steps lightly, and offered the Crown Prince a quirked-up brow.

"You need to stay put, Prince Aemond. Otherwise, I risk causing you more harm than good." She swallowed thickly, and only shook her head, "Your wound needs thorough cleaning, Your Grace. And it is too far in the back for you to clean it by yourself."

She glanced at his face anew, and let out a tumbling sigh as he nodded his head again, trying his hardest to relax into her touch once more.

Part of him remained put up – the bulk of his chest and shoulders still gloriously hunched over, ready to bolt up at any given moment.

"... I hate to admit it. I thought he was exaggerating then – with the discomfort which he feigned was feeling."

Her lips pursed into a tight line, as she glanced quickly at the laying man, "But how can one make fun of another's state of pain?"

A sympathetic look was shared between them.

Her eyes softened in admission to his furrowed brows and descended features. In that exact light, she couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled her Jace.

"Pain makes us human. And it's a reminder for us: to really cherish our times of incandescent joy."

The break of a cold sweat kissed over Aemond's forehead; droplets of which gathered at the base of his left eye, where his leather eyepatch stayed secured.

The girl pushed down a disdainful puff, as her eyes trailed him over, from the rosy blotch of skin, back to his hawk-like eye.

"Leather retains heat." She murmured before she could catch herself.

The Targaryen Prince expelled a deep breath, and, as her hand came to rest over the buckle that secured his patch into place, he primed his lips into a downturned arch.

"It can't be good for you to always keep it on."

"The sight of it frightens others. I don't want it to frighten you."

"I've seen you without your eyepatch before."

"That was different. This time… is different."

The latter of his words sent a shiver down her bent spine. Nothing is different, she was aching to say. Her lips pressed anxiously together, and the girl offered Aemond a curt nod. Just as she was about to pull her hand away from the nape of his neck, the Prince's wet palm came up to stop her.

His fingers shakily entwined with hers. The deep callouses of his hand scratched the softness of her open palm.

For a while, Time herself froze before them.

(Y/N) came to avert her gaze, but Aemond's eye feverishly searched for the relieving clash of hers. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the Lady of Riverrun nearly choked onto the clogged-up air.

His silver locks curled slightly at their ends – the dampness of the room striking its claim over his perfectly straight strands of hair. In his own right, Aemond could be called beautiful. His striking Targaryen features might have ensured the favor of many young maidens, were it not for his rash and impetuous attitude, the bite that rested in his character – which no doubt spread like a disease over his life at Court.

"Look at me." Against his better judgment, and his innermost turmoil, Aemond allowed her small fingers to trail over the buckle of his blinder again. He drew out a comforting sigh, and, with her hand still in his, gently slid the leather off.

He sucked in a quiet breath, as the coldness of the air enveloped his throbbing eyelids.

The poise in his composure was cracking at the seams, with the passing of each second, during which she settled to remain silent.

Eventually, her hand came to rest over his face again. Her dexterous fingers began to leisurely wipe the sweat from his brow, his eye, by submerging them into the lukewarm water, and bringing them over and over to his clenched face.

"I'm sorry." She settled on to say instead, once the breaching of kind words failed to meet her. "No one deserves to be left without an eye. No one deserves such appalling cruelty."

"You appear to be sorry an awful lot this evening, My Lady." Aemond choked under his breath, taken aback by her gentle movements and sainty utter.

"I spend the better part of my days in the company of my own thoughts." She huskily reminded him, "... It's been increasingly easier for me to reflect on my past mistakes."

Wordless from her hoax admission, and desperate to feel her hands explore him further, the Targaryen Prince rose heavily from the dirtied water – his chest coming directly to her field of vision.

The girl let out a cutting gasp, as she turned swiftly on her heel, refusing to glance at his modesty, not any longer than she'd already had.

Her eyelids fluttered close, and she shifted from one foot to the other, but to no avail. For in spite of her desire to run away, the Lady found herself hammered in place.

The proximity between them laid out to be a problem – Aemond let out a frustrated sigh, and turned her head around with the clasping of his untouched arm. Two of his fingers came to rest at the base of her cheek and chin; the Prince let out a satisfied hum, as her body trembled in slight shock at their change of position.

"Gevie…" He muttered to no one but himself.

His cock stood proudly at attention, kissing over his prominent abdomen, trailing long past his belly button. Every now and then, white pearls pooled to the base of his length, weeping from his angry tip, trailing past his stones in the reach of the water below him.

"Look at me." He breathed again, and his sweet Lady obeyed.

She threw him a dejected look: half harsh and cold, half hardened and scorned. The tips of her ears matched the redness of her pale cheeks. Her eyes cast their curious glow throughout every corner of the room, yet stayed away from the scorn of indiscretion that called out to her, only centimeters below her swollen lips.

Aemond's thumb flicked once over her crimson labium, but the man sighed, seemingly discouraged, and settled upon gripping her dainty wrist instead.

"Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda."

The gentleness that oozed from his voice could have had anyone fooled. But not her. The translations of the words he muttered against the skin of her wrist were lost on her, but the Lady of Riverrun still singled out a most protruding word.

He had never failed to call her 'his tormenting love'.

The girl's breath rose and fell with each agonizing word that befell over her face.

"Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa." Aemond sighed against her wrist.

'I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin.'

Her words rang harsh and true inside her head – and, much like it was back then, her heart harbored no honorable intent towards the Trident's Terror.

He burnt your entire homeland, she chastised herself harshly, He killed thousands. Every day, even more find their end by the breath of his dragon. By the way of his wrath.

The ache in her heartbeat rang loudly inside her ears – her every pore aligned with her wish to run away, and her mind was screaming at her to retreat to a corner.

Comparing him to Jacaerys was a laughable feat.

"Let's… just finish getting you cleaned up, Your Grace" She struggled to finally suggest out loud, through the timid inflection of her outwardly calm voice.

She slithered her face away from his grasp, and began draining the sponge of the dark mud again.

Aemond sighed, and lowered himself back into the cold water – his lone eye never leaving the mould of her smaller frame.

"I heard that conversation… sometimes distracts the ill from the discomfort of the cleaning process, Your Grace."

Now turned to his exposed back, the girl's hand wavered over his punctured shoulder. She waited three, perhaps four seconds, before her arm finally breached contact with the wounded flesh.

Aemond took in a sharp breath, but remained otherwise silent, until she prompted him to speak again.

"How… how did such a thing even come to happen?"

Aemond's chest rose and fell with each labored pant. His eye remained tightly closed, his jaw awfully set. Her question registered into his mind, and a reply formed at the former base of his thoughts.

For a while, however, the One-Eyed Prince remained quiet – weighing the option of telling her the truth rather carefully.

"A Frey company was marching South." He hissed as her light hand came over his flesh, applying soft pressure in its wake. "The fog of the morning masked them from me – but Vhagar's shadow still went right above their heads."

The woman brought her free hand to rest over his lower back, and her fingers rubbed soothing circles into the dampness of his skin. "It was… very lucky that you didn't get more hurt."

She scorned herself inwardly, but kept her curiosity at bay. She wouldn’t ask him whether the company had risen victorious, or if he burnt all those men to the ground.

The latter option, in any case, seemed more than likely.

The Crown Prince tensed visibly, but didn’t scoot away from her soothing touch. A deep sigh parted from his cracked lips, and the man revelled at their sudden closeness.

He ached to talk to her, to plead with her to welcome him inside her heart – and into her bed. He could feel his own beat loudly, and his body trembled in unquenched lust and rage.

Still, he knew it was too soon for that.

Not once during their rash acquaintance, did the girl before he talk with so much interest about his day with him.

His thoughts trailed to Alys, and Aemond wondered if half her new admission was owed to her – if indeed the two women secured a friendship within the last two weeks, if his whore became her confidant, if she breathed in her trust in him.

He would have to talk to her later. Thank her, if he was feeling apt and generous.

(Y/N)'s breath caught in the shell of his ear, and the Targaryen Prince nibbled at his lower lip. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down; the coldness of the water gave him the strength to concentrate, by the sliding of small ripples down his exposed chest and abdomen. The ache of his wound was a small price to pay, if only to feel her knuckles working against his back.

"There we are. All done, Your Grace."

She rose up from her kneeling stance, wincing at the sudden change of perspective, and at the throb of her tired knees. She gingerly presented the clean set of clothes and bathing robes to him. Her head remained turned to the side, and her hand instantly let go of the heavy clothes, the moment his palm came into contact with them.

In the stead of returning to sit idly by their resting place, the woman graced him with a final look, and let out a faint mutter. "I'll leave you to it."

She wavered but a moment, and turned her stare to the ruined clothes; the ones that Aemond had so carelessly discarded on the floor, as he prepared for his undeserved nightly soak.

The shadow of a long-laid plan gleamed beneath her silent gaze.

"I can wash them for you tomorrow – after my bath. It might be wiser to keep the nature of your wounds hidden. The maids needn't worry over how much blood you lost."

Aemond's brows furrowed in slight shock, and the Prince remained wordless in the face of her sensible suggestion.

And yet her eyes spoke with so much sincerity, that he gleefully allowed the pang of hope to warm his unforgiving features.

"As you wish." He rumbled out, while forcing himself to move his stare to the folded clothes before him.

His eye trailed back to his hands' agile ministrations, and Aemond soon began to roll over his linen breeches, covering his half-hard cock with the help of the rough material.

A throaty groan etched from deep within his throat, however, as he reached for the pristine shirt.

The girl stopped in her tracks, and a deep scowl settled over her fair features.

The struggle he was undergoing would have been music to her ears – were it not for the solidarity of her position. For the millionth time that night, she reminded herself of her plan and her desperation to escape.

Thus, unbeknownst to her own better judgment, the Lady compelled herself to seek him further.

Although her words failed to assist her, the way she gingerly reached, with her hand wide and outstretched, made Aemond aware of her pending intent.

Their bodies were inches apart. The girl sucked in a hurried breath, and neglected to exhale it as the oxygen hit her lungs.

Aemond was burning up – and whether that was from the lack of fresh air within the confining room, or the first telltale sign of fever, or her – he was lost on saying anymore. His weakened arm slithered into the sleeve of his shirt, though the pain was long forgotten.

And instead of focusing on his poised movements, his glassy eye ran hungrily over her face and hypnotic features.

(Y/N)'s fingertips grazed over the light material. Her tired eyes softened at the familiar feeling. The threat of tears beckoned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them all away in a hasty movement. Melancholy ate away at her, far more often than she knew was wise to allow.

Still she remembered, if only for a moment, the raptures of Jacaerys' warm embrace. And how, in the heat of summer, that very same cloth felt against her heated cheek.

They must have had the same seamstress, the same tailor. Of course, she thought to herself in a bitter manner, after all, they are both Princes.

… Were.

But if she closed her eyes, she could pretend – No, she chastised herself fully, such a thing just cannot be. And you'd be a fool to attempt to it.

The magnetic pull between them trebly pried the two souls together. And it would be yet another minute, until (Y/N) finally took a step back, opening her mouth to announce the end of her intimate task.

Her eyes fell on the stone hard floor, and she carefully turned her back around him.

The long waves of her hair shifted over her modest nightgown, covering her mounds of flesh with a slight shift to the left.

"I'm going to sleep." She pathetically uttered, as the warmth that emanated from Aemond's form not moments prior, still fell heavily over her slight frame.

Mechanically she gripped the satin sheets and engulfed herself with them – a slight comfort came over her, as the coldness of the unused bedding fanned gently over her scorched limbs.

Aemond remained stuck in place, and a heaved breath rumbled from within his chest. The red in his cheeks would have put both their Houses' seals to shame – For once, he was glad she wasn't looking his way.

***

The rest of the night was spent in washed quietness.

And his Lady might have made it up: the dip at the edge of the bed, the smell of fresh pine and wildfire that caressed her in her sleepy state, and the slight "Thank you" that dabbled from her captor's lips.

“You plan to ride on dragon-back again? So soon?” The echo of Alys' voice carried her worry throughout the silent clearing.

The first rays of sunlight caught flame into her raven hair, lighting her features in such a way, that it accentuated her every perpetual scar and wrinkle. The fire inside her eyes could rival the one of a trueborn Targaryen, were it not for her strong outer appearance.

Aemond moved his body at a leisurely pace, not even bothering to throw the woman one of his usual vexing looks.

"Do you think dear nuncle will put a stop to the siege of the Twins, should the word spread about my condition?"

His cutting words rendered the woman speechless, and the Rivers witch simply clicked her tongue, whilst glancing at the green grass below her.

"War awaits no one, my dear." He asserted definitively, as he gripped onto Vhagar's long bridles.

The mighty beast let out a shaken roar, as Aemond winced once his wounded shoulder made light contact with her dark-green scales.

"Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar." He instinctively reached for her, and caressed her lower belly with one of his gloved hands.

At their calm exchange, Alys bit over her lower lip, harshly enough to draw her own blood. "You should stay." She managed to draw out, "At least a while – going in search of your uncle today, instead of tomorrow, won't make a difference to your brother's cause."

But her voice of reason reached deafened ears. For Aemond Targaryen was set on paying the debt he owed. The debt he agreed to take on, the moment his dragon clasped onto Lucaerys, swallowing the bastard whole.

"Everything matters at war, Alys." He hummed impatiently, while snapping his head in her general direction. "What do you think will happen to you, should Daemon reach Harrenhal? Your pretty head will rest near mine, impaled on a sharpened spike."

But if she told you to stay put, you would do just that, wouldn’t you? Her bitter thoughts chewed her conscious away.

Alys spat out a lowly curse, as she shifted uncomfortably in place. "Daemon Targaryen was here once, not long before you. He didn’t kill me then."

"Because you didn't matter back then." The Prince Protector of the Realm hissed through painfully gritted teeth, "You were no one to him. You were a wet nurse who merely spread her legs for him."

The man turned his back to her, as he wordlessly bound Vhagar's bridle over his wrist again and again.

"And last I checked, your cunt failed to inspire him."

Her mouth parted in a silent protest, and her green eyes widened in partial distress. "Still I should remain in luck," She choked out through a breathless laugh, "for it has never failed to inspire you."

"You are perfectly right," Aemond's laughter was humorless and brash, "And it is because of this loose cunt that Aegon nearly lost the support of Storm's End."

The Prince spun around on his heel's end, and trapped the woman in between his hard chest and restless dragon. "Sometimes I think you cost me more than you're worth." He whispered calmly into her ear, while trailing his index finger over the sharp edge of her jaw. "For speaking back to me, I could have you executed."

The finality of his words drew her body closer to the ancient beast, and Vhagar let out a displeased grunt. Amusement pulled at the corners of his downturned mouth.

"Still you should remain in luck," He mocked her with an airy laugh, "I find myself in an exceedingly good mood today."

The back of his hand came to play with a loose lock of her messy braid, and the Prince smiled at her stance and her bewildered look. "But you've been a most useful asset, haven't you, my dear?" He obliged her with a teasing smirk, "Lady Tully responded well to you, hasn't she? Tell me," He paused momentarily, as he trailed his hands to the narrow middle of her waist, and back up again. "Have you kept up your training with her?"

Alys' face fell into a frown, as she staggered a frustrated look. Aemond was toying with her.

"That dull book she pretends to read at night has the maps of three secret passages hidden amongst the latter pages. Two of them lead to that cell into the West Wing – but of course, she doesn't know that. The third one leads to the stables of Harrenhal."

Aemond hummed pleasedly, and the man soon took a wide step back, allowing his paramour enough space for proper breathing. "You did well." He smiled wistfully, "I should reward you well tonight. You may think of something you desire. I will see to it once I return."

"I would very much like you to stay and heal today." She urged him not a heartbeat later, surprising even herself with the intensity of her tone.

Aemond's composure broke with the licks of roaring laughter – one that was empty, and fell devoid of any feelings of fondness or grief.

"Think of something else." He urged her coolly, and dismissively pushed past her, to reach for his dragon's saddle.

"'Tis a good thing you shall never be a wife, Alys. The role of the worried wench doesn't suit you one bit."

"Keep feeding her half-truths and lies." He encouraged the woman with a final reach over her hand. He squeezed once over her balled-up fist – acting as both a promise, and a taciturn warning on what should happen, should she let him down again. "Regarding whatever else she may have to say… you'll report it back immediately."

With that, the Kinslayer of the Trident took off, leaving the promise of bone and ash behind his dragon's menacing ascend.

The Eyrie was, on all accounts, smaller even than Maegor's Holdfast. Inside the stronghold nestled the Arryns, hidden deep beneath the illusion of the smallest stronghold of the main seven Kingdoms. Despite its intermediate size, the Keep of the Giant's Lance deemed itself one of the safest places to be – Hardly a lie, especially now, Cain Waters ineptly hummed, once his wobbly feet carried him over the stoney threshold.

Despite its less-than-imposing size, and lack of sheer volume, (Y/N)'s sworn shield felt himself smaller than ever before.

How would he dare account for his whereabouts? Reason his shortcomings?

How could he hope to explain to his Lord that not only did he return empty-handed, without his beloved granddaughter on horseback – he returned without the notion of a hand at all?

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, it was Mira Florent who rested loyally by his side – her strength and stability allowing the Waters bastard to lean into her, if only for a fleeting moment, during the ascend of the narrow stairs.

"Take heart," She whispered, "Your Lord is a kind and understanding one. You won't be facing trial for this."

His mere reply was a solitary grunt, and a quick smile, dejectedly thrown her way.

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, Albar had remained behind. The mute man shrugged his head decidedly when Cain gestured towards the waiting castle, and Mira explained to him that the Vale scarcely left him feeling safe and wanted.

And he understood, perhaps far too well – the feeling of dejection a bastard boy felt, as he stepped foot into the land of his birth.

***

He'd been granted the comfort of a Maester and a hot soak, almost immediately after his appearance at the Arryns' Great Door.

The Lady of the Vale proved to be a kindred spirit, capable of great nurture, despite her lack of heirs to her family's ancestral throne. She gasped loudly at the sight of him. Her eyebrows furrowed in grave distraught, and her lower lip trembled as the healers informed her of the state of his right hand.

Her searching eyes reminded him of the ones of his own mother – neither particularly warm nor cold towards him, but fair and just in their own accord.

She almost decided against calling upon him to the Trouts' Black Council, but the young Oscar Tully had entirely different plans.

His eyes, as they were, were socketed by a deep, but elusive brown. They spoke and reminded him of a whole different tale than the one of his fair, poor Lady.

And it was Oscar's eyes, so similar in shape to hers, who bore ghastly holes into the back of Ser Cain's skull. His arm rose up, as if to cut off the man's retelling – his nostrils flared up in disgust, and his face twisted into a painful scowl.

"So what you're telling me… is that you failed to bring her back."

Cain's eyes hardened at her brother's words, and the knight nibbled on his lower lip, in an attempt to calm himself.

Although a brave and honest man, he dared not look in the eyes of Lord Grover Tully – he dared not see what lay beneath his wilted face. Thus, all his attention focused in on the chirping lass.

"Aye, my Lord." He mustered up to tell him, "I lost her to the One-Eyed Prince. We escaped Harrenhal, and managed to get as far as the Saltpans, but –"

The boy scoffed at his attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze.

"You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably."

His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze.

"Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"

Lady Jane Arryn clicked her tongue in disbelief, and beckoned her guard to guide the boy back into a sitting stance.

"That is quite enough, Oscar." She asserted calmly, "We have no evidence of such a feat."

"Of course we don't!" The young Lordling huffed annoyedly, jolting on the brink of madness, "The deranged cripple wouldn't reply to any of our ravens!"

His face contorted animalistically, the freckles on his face being taken by the deep shade of crimson that coloured in his plumper cheeks. "And with you here, Waters, we don't even have the certainty that (Y/N) is still alive!"

"Oscar." Grover's deep voice echoed a warning through the quietness of the tiny Keep.

As if struck in the face, the youngest of the Tully brothers shifted in his seat again. "My sister's fate is breached unknown," He cried out in a collapsing tune, "She's our family, grandfather, my only sister! Pray tell, why does it look as if I'm the only one who gives a damn?"

The graying Lord and the narrow Lady both leaned towards a perplexing look. But before any of them could reply to his laid-out challenge, (Y/N)'s brother urged them further, as he hissed through his gritted teeth. "It would have been better for you not to return at all, Ser Cain. It would have been better for all parties involved to have sent me in his stead, Grandfather!"

His shoulders slouched forward, and the brazen boy fought with Grover's intense stare. "Had I failed, I wouldn’t have even returned at all." Oscar roared over the silent council, proclaiming his intent with a defying raise. "I would sooner have died, than see her be taken by that monster again."

"What would you have had me do, boy?!" Grover Tully raised his voice in turn, "You fool. Would you have had me send you away for her? Do you think your death would have made you a martyr?!"

Cain's lips pursed into a tight line, as the Riverlords before him bickered further. Even Lady Jane Arryn seemed to be left speechless, unsure of when or how to stop their arguing.

Family feuds were neither one's strongest suit.

"Do you think," His Grandfather uttered, "that if you were to die, anyone would remember you fondly?!" The red in his cheeks matched the one on his grandson's face, and the elder Lord broke out into a coughing fit. "Your sacrifice would mean nothing. And when the dust settled over Westeros, and the war was done, you would just be another casualty. Another body to burn in a communal."

Almost immediately, his eyes softened, and their deep creases faltered on his face.

The Lord of Riverrun grunted in fatigue, but still rose himself securely on his two able feet. He marched towards the huffing boy, and placed a wrinkled hand over his sweaty forehead, urging him to quiet down.

"It's not about glory, Grandfather." He spat out lowly, as his ears began to match his fiery locks of curly hair. "It's about family. Our family. It's about ensuring its survival."

The older man gave the lass a curt nod. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and turned to the knight with a downturned smile.

"There wasn't a knight more fit for the task than Ser Cain." He confirmed his judgment with a tired gesture in his direction. "He was knighted at five and ten. You are over your seven and tenth birthday, boy, and haven’t been even mirthed a squire."

Oscar sucked in a protesting breath, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room fall before him. His brows furrowed in a dangerous quarrel, and his blood ran hot. "Yet even with all the skill in the world, he still failed."

Lord Grover was losing his patience, "Yes, grandson, that he did! He failed, despite all the signs that pointedly told us otherwise – do you think you'd do an equitable job? When you haven't even once crossed swords in a Joust or Tourney?"

Nearby the aching knight, Lady Arryn renowed her position.

She whispered to her waiting guard, and the man took a step ahead, hitting over the chantry with the hilt of his sword.

The noise that erupted grabbed the attention of both grandson and grandfather.

"The turn of events marked by Ser Cain's departure means we need to readjust our plans." She commanded their heed calmly, "It is… unfortunate; that Lady Tully's sworn shield failed to protect her. Yet here we all stand, warming our bottoms on a mine of gold."

Cain should have been grateful for the distraction she was offering. All the displeasure surged upon him evaporated within the click of her tongue, and less conventional language – still, even he had to remain weary on the subject he opened.

"On a mine of gold?" Oscar spat out sharply, feeling his self-control disperse by failing him again. "My Lady, do you think my sister's condition is a situation of great rejoice?"

The Lady's blue eyes cut through the boy deeply, and the young man closed his mouth in embarrassment, before sitting down again.

She reached for the goblet of wine, and wet her lips with it, "Our strategical situation couldn't be better. Not once have we had a spy of Harrenhal successfully return. In truth, we didn’t even think it possible." Her lithe hand pointed towards the bloodied knight, and her eyes glimmered in mischief, "Yet here stands our living proof."

She elegantly rose from her ivory throne, and signaled the man to take a seat at the bent table. As he gingerly followed her lead, the woman spared him with a kind glance, and met his glance with her deep azul gaze.

"From what I gather, you spent the better part of a month undetected in the Strongs' Keep. Is that true?"

Cain nodded stiffly, and rested his bulky hands over his tired knees. "Yes, my lady. That I have."

"And you were knighted at fifteen?" She alluded to what was early spoken.

"Yes, my lady."

"By Lord Hunter Redwyne." She urged him to clarify, through the edge of a quirked-up brow, and the callings of a small smile pulling at her dusted lips.

"Yes, my lady. The very one."

Lady Jane hummed, seemingly satisfied by his short answers. She turned her attention to Lord Grover and his tiresome grandson, and merely asked Ser Cain again.

"And you faced the Kinslayer in combat, cut by a Valyrian blade, and lived to tell the tale?"

"... Aye, my lady."

Oscar's eyes remained unyielding. But Grover Tully glanced at the man before him, and offered him a wordless bow.

"Tell me, Ser, how would you like to command your own battalion?"

"You have to be patient." Alys chastised her deeply, as her luring features turned from flaccid to sharp. "Hardly enough time has passed since your last attempted escape – Aemond is still very much on edge."

The Lady's eyes turned to her. With the bridge of her nose scrunched up, and her fair features molded into a desperate plea, the girl looked more like a lost child, than an able and resourceful Lady.

Alys regarded her as such, and sighed deeply as she grasped onto her shoulders carefully.

"If I wait any longer, it'll be too late. I've already wasted three moon turns in this cursed Keep. I have to return to my family." The Tully spoke decidedly, leaving behind no room for arguing. She took a seat before the tiny mirror, that breached her modest vanity – a recent gift from Aemond, deduced by him to make her feel more like a proper lady.

The image that reflected within it looked at her like a dire stranger. The green silks she was dressed into, the pristine, braided hair that framed her pale cheeks perfectly; She was the vision of a flawless royal, a soft and polite maiden, untouched yet by the spoils of death and war.

'Would this be enough?' She asked herself desperately, whilst gripping the edge of her chair painfully.

Was this what Aemond had always wanted? The proof of her lack of autonomy, finally presented to him on a silver platter, as he returned from war every night?

Was he, perhaps, congratulating himself, every time he glanced at her, thinking himself master of the universe for making her arch and kneel?

Alys shook her head once more, and rested a hand over her bouncing knee.

"Patience is a virtue, Lady Tully. You needn't put yourself through any more unnecessary risks."

The Lady of Riverrun shook her head vigorously, finally snapping herself back to reality; Her actions were defying, and devoid of any capacity. Alys felt herself more confounded by the second. "I'll help you plan this thoroughly." The wood witch adverted. Her head quirked to the side in an encouraging gesture, and the girl nodded feverishly in reply.

Her green eyes widened in fair delight, and Aemond's lover lowered her gaze over the girl's book. "You memorized the passages well enough. Very soon, you shall put your knowledge to practice."

(Y/N) let out a tired sigh, and graced the older woman with a pleasant smile. "I'm lucky to have you, Alys" She played with her rings as she spoke, "Thank you. For everything."

As the elder woman finally left her Quarters in favor of bringing out the order for dinner, (Y/N) let out an aggravated groan.

Her long pretense would surely make her nauseous. But she would be a simpleton indeed, to place all her trust in Alys.

The walls preleened with the doom of silence. A cold breeze dug its way deeply into her spine, and the silent taste of passing and demise left a sour taste in her parted mouth.

***

Aemond began dinner as he wontedly did every day – praying to the Warrior to grant him strength in battle, to the Smith, to mend all that was left broken, to the Father, "to shine his light", and lead their souls out of the brink of darkness.

Each and every time, without fail, the girl would bring the pristine napkin to her mouth, masking the obvious way her lips would quirk into a most unyielding smile. His pious speech, and the way his hands painfully clasped together, begging for the blessing of resolve, made her scoff in blinding wonder.

Was he even aware of the words he mostly muttered? Did he ever stop to assess himself throughout the day, and realize the sin in which he debaucherously bathed in?

As his speech came to an end, the Lady preleened forward, grabbing a hold of the boiled-up stork.

How lovely it was to sit between comfort and chaos.

"You've never been one to speak much during our time spent together." Aemond remarked through the rumble of a solitary hum. "Yet I had hoped this last week softened your resolve, My Lady."

Her eyebrows rose in slight discomfort, as her eyes focused on the leisure movements of his bigger hands.

So he was softening up.

She opened her mouth almost immediately, but her hesitant eyes danced around his blinding stare. Her plump lips pressed into a hard line, and she exhaled loudly through her nose, in an attempt to ground herself.

"Not at all, Your Grace, I assure you." The cluttering of her fork came to a hoisted end, as Lady Tully aligned her head to focus directly on the One-Eyed Prince. "I should love nothing more than to talk to you… Please, do advise me on what you would like most to hear."

She fidgeted nervously with her silver rings – a quirk she developed whilst imprisoned in the Strong's Keep – and gingerly awaited his reply.

Your Grace. Your Grace. Your Grace.

The stillness in her speech and eyes drove the man effectively wild.

"Aemond." He stilled her faction through the reign of a distorted sigh.

She regarded him with a petrified stance. Her hands fell heavy over her legs in the wake of anticipation.

"... I-I beg your pardon?"

"Aemond." He repeated his name again, "We already break bread and sleep in the same bed." His lilac eye rose from his plate, and singled out her reddened cheeks. The man paused a while, as if to weigh his words carefully, and his cold, glassy orb, hungrily ran over her form. "It seems inevitable that we'd call each other by our given names. Yet you never once said mine throughout."

The girl could feel her throat dry up. While still maintaining his awkward stare, she reached for the glass of wine that rested by her left side. She wrapped her hand around its stem, and brought it to her paling lips.

The liquid courage slid down her throat in a quick, though burning manner, and (Y/N) had to swallow down an erratic cough. Her brows furrowed amidst, as she picked her words out slowly.

"I have called your name before, Prince Aemond. Many times throughout the moons, in fact."

He smiled at her perturbed reply, and shook his head in coy distraught.

"Not without the honorifics." The man clarified in a pleading tone, his voice growing hotter now. "... Just say my name." He sighed defeatedly. His hand gripped the edge of the table, silently, as the Targaryen Prince could feel his mind running with a thousand thoughts per passing minute.

The silence ate at him alive. She drowned the wine in a swift swing, and slouched forward to pour herself another glass.

She was too sober for this.

Lucaerys, Jacaerys, Cain.

Part of her wanted to pluck his eye out. Part of her wished nothing more than to make fun of him. Laugh, perhaps, at his desperate indiscretion. Do something – anything – to gauge a reaction out of him.

Any sort of reaction, that would make her pestering feelings for him leave her heavy soul.

Surprising even herself, adamantly going against her own wishes, the woman caught herself breathing out.

"... Aemond."

Unexpectedly he moved, by jumping to his ready feet, fully disregarding the oak chair as it hit the floor in a most perused manner.

The pang of noise alerted her, and seemingly, the guards outside. A while they remained in silence, listening in to the clash of metal that announced their unsure shifting.

But they wouldn’t come inside. The girl was lest aware of that.

As time pressed on, Aemond remained hammered in place, heaving out his weighty breaths and clasping his hands in aching fists.

Her eyes momentarily left his shadow – to turn again towards the poach of wine, and empty another glass in rapid gulps.

The heavy atmosphere inside the room hung lowly over their tired heads. (Y/N) resumed her mellow eating, wincing at the shakiness within her hands. She grabbed another piece of the boiled meat, though Aemond's stare soon made her drop it, and the girl clicked her tongue in disbelief; grabbing it instead with a piece of cloth, and securing it into a tight knot.

This time, it was her actions that had failed her. And perhaps it'd be her ready words that would prevail.

"Aemond." She spoke again, this time more confidently than before. The bitter liquor was burning her throat, her chest, her heart. She felt her limbs heavy – with both anticipation and frustration - borne out of lack of relief. She wanted to slap him, to hit him, to crush him beneath her feet.

She wanted to run away, to stay confined, forever inside this room, forever astute to what was going on in the outside world.

She wanted to feel something.

She wanted…

"Yes." Aemond encouraged her softly, and her attention came back to the raptures of the present tense. "There we go." He worded out, keeping his tone barely above a whisper.

Neither could tell when or how it happened – but Aemond's body was inches away from touching hers. The heat emanating from his beating heart washed over the meek form of the tipsy Lady. His Lady.

She gulped painfully, and the Prince could feel how his hands started spasming with the need to feel her. His nails bit the inside of his calloused palm, leaving deep and angry marks inside them.

His prominent veins shifted with his every faction. His face morphed into hopeful disarray.

"There we go." He repeated gently, "I want to hear your laughter. You never once laughed with me."

Her stare was hard to decipher. And yet confliction danced across her face. Aemond turned serious, and the stammering of his hands came to an untimely end. His eye bared holes into her reddened face; and the Lady humorously thought, if only for a moment, that it was a lucky thing he didn’t still have both his eyes. For such a stare would be embedded in her subconscious, bringing forth her swift undoing.

The corners of her mouth felt painful to bend and break. Shakily she smiled at him, and opened her mouth in shocked reclusion.

A shy laughter erupted from her unquenched throat, and the woman shuddered, surrendering the reins of reason to the drunken thoughts that sieged her.

Her laughter wasn't her own. The languid movements of her hands, that trailed over Aemond's chest, were not her own.

His finger came to caress her cheek. Her nose. Her brow. Her lips. Her mouth. The Crown Prince sucked in a dangerous breath, and secured his left arm loosely around her waist.

"Good girl," He spoke tenderly, his voice going from gruff to rough, "Such a good girl for me." His fingers combed through her messy braids, marking their swift undoing – taking a step back, he could feel the heat leave his head, in the favor of traveling lower, to meet the almost flaccid cock confined in the tightness of his pants. "Say my name again. Laugh again." He commanded in a pleading meowl. His lips twitched in anticipation, and his eyes trailed lower, lower still, from up her face, down to her soaring bosom.

"Aemond."

"(Y/N)."

A solitary look of shame was shared between them. Perhaps pushed forward by the only remaining faction of rationale, the two placed a step in between each other, but even that proved to be too fickle of a barrier to keep them whole apart.

Aemond reached to cup her face with his own trembling hand – on her end, the girl's digits trailed over from his high cheekbones, down to his prominent cupid's bow, in an all but gentle caress.

"Avy jorrāelan." He hissed through painfully gritted teeth, allowing his head to rest in the crook made of her shoulder blade and neck. "Avy jorrāelan." He repeated, the vulnerability in his voice making him lose the hold he had over himself.

"Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao." His feathered breath came into contact with her dainty neck. (Y/N) gasped lightly, as she felt the first of his many kisses being tenderly placed over her jaw and neck.

Her head was pounding, and her eyes were screwed shut, as the coldness of the wall hit her in perused waves. The impropriety of the soft moans and sighs that filled her ears to the brim left her confused and wanting.

The worst of it was that she didn’t know whether they came from her or him.

She felt as though her head was being harshly held below the water, and the girl clawed at her dress to loosen her tight bodice, which seemed to constrict even her erratic breathing.

Aemond's attention moved from her earlobe back to her lips. He felt how her hands contorted sporadically, and he placed his own palm over hers, to put an end to her hasty movements, and give her a sense of calmness. His fingers suddenly entwined with hers, as his form hovered above her. His throat etched with a lousy moan, and his mouth finally crashed with hers.

(Y/N)'s eyes opened at the shocking scene, and her lips suddenly parted, either to beg or to protest against him, but Aemond's hot tongue found entrance into her warm cave – deciding instead to deepen the kiss, and press himself further against her smaller form.

The outline of his throbbing cock molded against the shape of the woman's thigh, and the Prince Protector of the Realm let out a pleasured hiss, once her insistent writhing ended up brushing up his weeping tip. "Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa." He mumbled against her swollen lips, "Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī."

She let out a fatigued whimper, and swiftly turned her head around, putting an abrupt end to their meek and vicious pecks.

"What's wrong, hmm? Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir."

Aemond's lips were soft and tender, leaving behind an almost vivacious bite over her exposed parts. His pace had been filled with an animalistic hunger; the longing inside his eye caught her unprepared, and her lips parted with the desire to feel something – anything – that his palpable mouth would keenly offer.

(Y/N) shuddered with her eyes closed, and grabbed a hold of his long, white hair, leading the man closer yet to her swelling heat.

The way in which he held her should have felt so very wrong. But at that moment, the only thing she could do was extend her arm back up to him, and guide him with an insistent pull over his silky locks: encouraging him to bring forth his descent upon her lips.

She disregarded the way a figment of her psyche screamed at her. To stop her ministrations, to slap his calloused hands away from her. For if she kept her eyes closed, and focused solely on the shape of him, then she could almost pretend that the man before her had nothing to do with her beloved Jace.

She could almost pretend that he was Jace.

Aemond's pupil was left blown wide – so much so, that the lilac of his iris could almost be left neglected. He wrapped his hands around the lady's thighs, and hoisted her up to meet him by his narrow hips. Both moaned into the other's mouth, and the Prince soon found his way into the raptures of the silken bed.

His heated cock kissed the outlines of her soaked cunny. Aemond sighed deeply over the arch of her neck, and pawed away at her untouched bodice.

(Y/N)'s hands rested still upon his eyepatch, and, with a swift and hasty movement, she yanked it off his sculpted face.

"We need to stop…" She moaned, defeated, and felt how Aemond's body stiffened up below her, as the harsh realization finally hit them both.

She had uttered the words aloud.

Half expecting him to blow out fuming, the woman tried to pry herself off his fevered body, but his hands reigned like iron shackles over the inside of her spreading thighs.

"Do we?" He whispered lowly, whilst leaning in to steal another kiss from her again.

"We shouldn’t." She strained herself to say once more, and Aemond nodded, still chasing her lips with his.

She melted into his reluctant touch, and hummed against his beating heart. His hands dug deeply into her resting sides; his fingertips scattered over her translucent spine, leaving their possessive mark. "This isn’t right."

"I know, I know," He gasped, "Seven Hells, I know…"

"Yn nyke istan zarvīzis," He pressed a finger over her swollen lips, "Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis."

With the last ounce of her strength, she bit over his lower lip, dragging a wanton moan from out of his rosy lips.

"Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa..." He chanted, while latched onto her burning sear, "Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī."

His High Valyrian had made her dizzy. And at first, she tried to pay his words her mind, she tried to grapple and understand what he was saying.

A starved meowl left her panting lips.

"You can tell me to stop," The words that poured out of his mouth washed upon her like a rippled tide, "You can tell me to stop… and I will..."

Her body quickly arched against him; her shaky hands came to rest over his hips. She laced her mouth again with his, expecting rough, dominant kisses – but Aemond's hands propped themselves loosely against her cheeks, his thumbs pliantly stroking her with untoward devotion. His single eye drank her in with reverence.

"Please…" He whimpered into her mouth, "Avy jorrāelan." He confessed to her, again and again, trying his hardest not to take her against the cold floor – and not fuck her straight into the messy mattress.

Her limbs felt heavy. Lacking their autonomy. The body she was nestled in still wasn't her own.

"... Why?" She asked him disdainfully, sporadically, as his index finger came to pry open her haughty entrance.

His eye widened in perplexed ruin, but the Prince soon stumbled over his words again.

That bastard Jace must have taught her the gist of that.

"... I wish I knew." Came his sole and sincere reply.

Just like that, her eyes welled with the threat of tears.

His hands, his hold, his voice, his mouth. It was all wrong. In truth none could ever hope to feel right.

Flashes of her old lover, of his baby brother – who was so small the last she'd seen him –, of her sworn shield came into view. All of them, gone as if they never were. All of them, with their memories trampled deep beneath her sprawled-out form.

She wasn't a woman of the Faith. Not after what had happened. Not after the spoils of war that she, herself, felt like angry whips upon her skin. But her eyes fluttered close, and she begged the Mother for forgiveness, whilst a tear rolled off her ticking cheek.

She brought a hand to her wobbly lips, and began to violently rub away any remaining trace of Aemond's presence.

She was disgusted. With him, with herself, with the world, with the image of her Jace – that surged in her mind the second she blinked, the moment that she jolted awake in her misery.

On his end, (Y/N)'s display of pure abhorrence failed to falter Aemond's lustful grief. Why, if she did not desire him, did she fall into his arms again and again?

Love was the death of duty. And longing was the doom of all.

"Fucking cock tease…" The Prince growled, grief-stricken, "How much longer are you going to give into me, just to push me away?"

His patience had been running thin. The ache in his breeches was long forgotten. In its stead, the urgent sting in his heart dragged the man into the pits of madness. "What is it this time?" He groveled over her closed legs again.

Her recuperation had been jovial and quick. Adrenaline replaced the pain and shame, and the woman tried to get off the bed, put as much distance as she knew how in between her and the ravished Prince.

For the first time since he came to be, Aemond would not let her escape his clutches. As she moved backwards, he persisted forward – following her wobbly feet throughout the room with the spare of his predatory eye.

"Y-You said –" She tried ceaselessly to accuse him. "You said you wouldn't –"

"And you're right. I meant every. Single. Thing. I told you." He growled into her frightened ear, as his hands came to cage her, trap her under the seclusion of the hard, stone wall.

"You're mine." He hissed desperately, as he clasped her jaw to face him. "You've always been mine, you fucking harlot. From the moment you stepped foot into Harrenhal, your life belonged to me."

Perhaps Aemond was right, and she was nothing but a harlot. A treacherous swine that hung onto whatever he could give her - so starved and devoid of love and warmth, that she'd dare to stoop so lowly with him.

Aemond descended his unquenched rage over her exposed neck, and began leaving tender love bites all over, in spite of her lackluster pleas.

(Y/N)'s head felt like it was about to explode. She felt sick to her stomach – the wine and the distraught both built up inside of her. All she wanted now was to be left alone. For Aemond's touch felt oddly comforting, and her tired eyes began to close. "You drive me insane." She heard him choke.

She wanted to open her mouth. To urge the Prince to stop; but her word hole was sewn shut, taken over by the grip of feared confusion. While his hand hoisted her up by the waist again, her hand went around him, to grab onto whatever she could find. Finally, she stopped at the dragon-glass dagger, that securely latched onto Aemond's waist. Effectively, she wrapped her fingers around its silver hilt, and sheathed it out of its confinements.

"I swear on whatever God you want me to, I'll slit your throat if you don't stop touching me –" She wailed into Aemond's form, as she felt him stiffen up in tumultation.

His nostrils flared up at her attempt to intimidate him, and yet… his face looked most serene, as the cutting edge of the dagger reached close to his ivory skin. She raised her brows at him in utter surprise; for she expected him to surrender. His arms snaked away from her, and Aemond watched her intensely with his piercing gaze.

She could kill him, consequences be damned. And if she faced trial for this, then at least she'd have taken out a Green and Vhagar.

Her hand was shaking. Her breathing became erratic. She'd held a blade on multiple occasions; she'd fantasized about cutting Aemond's throat more times than she could bring herself to count. And yet…

His lack of movement – of worry – rattled her endlessly. She wanted to scream at him, to push him, to cut him. But for some reason couldn't bring herself to do it.

The realization that she just couldn’t do it made her almost drop the knife from the tight hold she'd kept it under.

"Why aren't you the least bit worried?" She spat out lowly, with her body trembling and her jaw set tight.

Aemond remained quiet and taciturn. His eye fixed her face carefully, and his hand gently wrapped around her quivering wrist. "Come on now…" He whispered to her, and watched how her eyes filled with the endless tears of frustration, how the hot droplets rolled down her reddened cheeks.

It would take another moment for her to drop the blade.

A moment she would forever grow to resent.

"I fucking hate you." She hissed through a breathless sob.

Oh, how she wished to hate him. Hate him as she did when they first clashed swords. Hate him as she did when she heard Jace talk about Lucaerys' death.

"Liar." Aemond rasped in acknowledgment.

And, just like that, the damage had been done. The blade rested back into his hand within an instant, and Aemond hit the wall behind her with murderous intent. "Fucking liar." He whispered again, breathing less and less sporadically, trying to wash his nerves away.

"I have been so good to you. But no matter what I do, it'll never be enough for you. Hmm?" He shook his head adamantly, and dug his fingers into the cold tiles of the cursed stronghold. "I am a patient man. But I will not wait a minute longer."

Her face twisted into a painful scowl, and the girl pushed over his chest roughly, but Aemond was quick to deny her exit. "This is not ideal," He muttered lowly to himself, "Yet you need to be taught a lesson."

"What are you d–"

Her words died upon her lips. Aemond hummed in dissatisfaction, and immediately brought the blade into her view.

She let out a scream of pure horror, but his pliant mouth silenced her with a scorching kiss. Her whole body was shaking, and the Prince Regent let out a frustrated sigh.

"Cease your crying, you hateful woman." He chastised her cruelly, "The fucking Gods sent you to ruin me."

At that moment, she wasn't above pleading. Her knees wobbled in place, and her orbs frantically searched for a way out. For something to grip and swing at the man before her.

Aemond's eye softened at the sight of her. Despite the pang of guilt he felt, a teasing and self-assuring smirk formed at the corners of his upturned lips.

So Jacaerys hadn't told her. He never mentioned their Valyrian way to her.

His triumphant feat soon washed away, as her trembling hands came into contact with his. "Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon." He told her adherently, truthfully, despite the obvious language barrier.

He took a moment to regain his composure. Grab a hold of her balled-up fists and remember the ancient words he'd only ever read about in his history books.

"Hen lantoti ānogar. Va sỹndroti vāedroma."

He ripped the sleeve from his linen shirt, and placed it over their entwined fingers.

"Mēro perzot gīhoti. Elēdroma iārza sĩr. Izuli ampā perzī."

The blade finally pressed down, over the softness of his left palm. Aemond winced at the sudden pain, and made a mental note to only nick the frightened girl with it, when the time came for that.

"Prūmĩ lanti sēteksi. Hen jenỹ māzīlarion. Qēlossa ozündesi."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened to a comical amount. Somewhere along the way, it seemed, she grew aware of Aemond's intent. She refused to show her hand to him, placing them both behind her back, and holding on for her dear life.

He let out a disapproving grunt, and reached his bloodied hands to her, yanking her right hand from underneath her strong grasp.

"No! No –!" She kept on screaming, and the guards outside shifted in place, before they fell under their oath of silence once again.

The cold and slick edge of the dragon glass pressed lightly against her writhing palm. Aemond made a smaller cut, and carried on with his rapid mumbling.

"Sỹndroro öñö jēdo. Rỹ kīvia mazvestraksi."

His very fist came to cut over his lower lip. His gory hand then reached for her jaw, hammering her in her place, and a sharp sting reflected on her weary stance. Aemond profited off the moment, to ease the dagger into her waiting mouth.

The metallic taste flooded her senses – the girl saw red before her eyes, and failed to register how his fingers came upon his and her forehead, painting them over with a ghastly symbol.

The Targaryen Prince reached for her hand again, and pressed her wounded palm cohesively with his.

"Following the tradition of my House from before the Doom of Old Valyria, I, Aemond of House Targaryen, bind myself to (Y/N) of House Tully, by blood, by soul, by life –"

"NO!"

" – And I pledge to her: that we are now one flesh, one heart, one body. Now and forever."

As he finally pried his limbs away from her trapped body, Aemond allowed his lips to feathery trace over her twisted mouth. She glanced at him, with wide-set and teary eyes.

"Fuck your fucking pledge."

Some grand venue she received.

A single question hung loosely into the air.

"Are you going to rape me now?"

She scarcely registered her own words as they left her mouth.

Aemond's eye widened at her query, and the Targaryen bit over his lower lip, as a deep grimace morphed the fairness of his features. He looked almost dumbfounded by her made assumption.

As soon as it came, the look of utter betrayal left his face.

"You would slit my throat with the knife." Was his mere reply.

***

Sometime along the night, he left.

The mighty roars of Vhagar registered themselves in the far-away distance.

That night, and only that night, she allowed herself the sacrilege of prayer. And she did so, again and again, pleading to the Seven for a blind arrow to reach his neck.

On the back of Vhagar, Aemond shuddered away from the impossible waves of heat, that licked deliciously at his stiffened cock; whenever her breathing would reach his ears, he felt tortured, trapped beneath the swell of lust and wanton desire.

Despite his abhorrent decision, he knew what their marriage meant. He knew all too well what his cruel bind had done, and yet… he felt no plausible remorse for the situation at hand.

The support of Storm's End, Floris Baratheon, Alys – mere casualties compared to the brink of having her, to knowing that she was finally his, as he was wholly hers.

Eventually, she'd have to love him. Eventually, she'd learn to do so.

A marriage wasn't a marriage until it was consummated. But he would give her, as he had promised, the illusion of choice, if nothing else.

As the cold night's air whipped his face again and again, and as Vhagar's thundering resounded over the burnt trees of the Riverlands, Aemond sighed, and brought a shaky hand to the strings of his breeches.

Scared as she was, his Lady made for a beautiful bride. It was such a shame that he didn’t get to see her wear the traditional Targaryen gown.

The pad of his thumb trailed over the cut he'd made – the same cut that now rested over her extended palm.

The flesh would scar, he thought, well pleased; whenever he looked at her, he'd get to see how she was undeniably his.

A possessive growl etched from his parted lips. Images of her paling skin, of her laugh. Her smile. The way her eyes bore into him, as if she always knew something he didn’t.

Leisurely, he began to pump his cock. Below him, Vhagar let out an anguished roar.

"Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon."

Droplets of precum rolled over his clenching digits, coating his knuckles and the base of his shaft in a translucent, but thick ropes.

He groaned desperately, aching to relieve his frustration deep within her, but alas…

His gruff moans filled the air around him; and Aemond could feel his climax building up, as visions of her flooded his thoughts.

How she would feel underneath him. How she would writhe on the edge of bliss, begging, pleading for him to finally take her.

He could feel her legs wrapping around him, and feel himself sliding inside her with ease, praising her for being so good to him.

He wrapped Vhagar's bridle tight over his arm, and secured himself better in his leather saddle. His grip tightened around his dripping cock, but it was just not good enough.

The pace with which he fucked his hand picked up in a wilding speed. Aemond sighed in pleasure, and felt his hips move to their own accord. His breathing became rugged. His very mind was not his own.

He wondered what other scars her body bore. What the story behind them was, and how many of them came by his swift undoing.

Would she lie down and let him take care of everything? Or would she want to stay on top, jumping up and down on him, each time with a harsher thrust?

His hips rose and fell with his less than gentle pace, and the man pushed his length deeper into his steadfast grip.

He knew that if she let him touch her, he wouldn't be leaving her bed for weeks. He would pull countless orgasms from her, time and time again, until she begged for him to stop. He would have her so full of his seed, so the Gods' help him, that she would swell with his child – his trueborn child – before the rise of the first rays of sun.

Feeling his release beckon, the Prince set on a final rhythm, one that left his loins more in need than ever. With a loud hiss, he pushed himself inside his fist one final time, spilling his seed onto the saddle beneath him.

He panted wildly into the night, and suddenly opened his lustful eye, allowing a tear of ecstasy to roll off his scarred cheek.

"Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra."

He couldn't keep up the charade with her. He would tell her all about it, once things finally settled down.

Word in Harrenhal traveled fast.

First it was her brash arrival. Then her impromptu marriage.

No one dared to talk to her. Yet she was never without the indiscreet eyes that followed her about.

Her situation wasn't without its ups and falls: Aemond felt no need to guard her as stiffly anymore – For where would the former Tully go, now that she bared his Targaryen name?

She was allowed to breach into some castle corners, always in the company of hefty guards, of course, and basked herself in some new acquired perks of freedom.

On the same account, whilst Alys remained loyal to her role as her lady-in-waiting, the tension between them couldn't have been more pain-strikingly high.

"I never asked for this. You must believe me."

She gave the younger woman a domineering stare, and only shook her head, obliged.

"And yet here you stand, inside his bed."

Word in Harrenhal spread fast – like a fire left unattended, like the so-called "Targaryen madness".

But a new, particular rumor gobbled the attention of everyone present.

Daemon Targaryen was to return to the Riverlands. And with him and Caraxes, he'd bring forth the formerly wild dragon, Sheepstealer, mounted by none other than Nettles.

The Lady had been acquainted with the bastard girl before – when the Sowing of the Dragon Seeds reveled in their first borne crops.

Another troubling report came forth. King's Landing had been secured by Rhaenyra.

When (Y/N) heard the news be whispered, she almost collapsed on her knees in glee. This must have marked the end of it. Surely, the usurpers would be put through the sword, leaving all to be well, and right again.

The Greens would die. They would face trial.

The Greens.

Indeed, word in Harrenhal spread fast. And she'd just been made the wife of the cruelest of them all.

Dread filled her insides. Her eyes cast their darkened shadow over the walls of the cursed Keep. A single, fundamental truth raised strongly from her anxious wallowing.

If Daemon Targaryen should find out about her marriage to his nephew, and get to her first… naught of the loyalty of the Riverlords would have a single say in her decided fate. And she would meet her end by the way of his blade, Dark Sister.

Now, more so than ever, it was pivotal for her to escape.

The clock was ticking.

And she was running out of time.

***

Her last day in Harrenhal was spent making plans. She'd rubbed her temples a myriad times, and paced about the room in a dizzying trot.

It wasn’t enough for her to disappear – she had to ensure everyone else thought she was gone.

When Aemond returned, she beckoned his call by jumping to her ready feet. The girl took him in, in his devillished state, and merely raised her brows at him. Whenever she saw him, the nick on her palm and lip itched at her relentlessly.

Neither was willing to recognize aloud what had transpired two moons ago, but both knew the inevitable punishment that would come with Aemond's actions.

He took a seat by the edge of their bed, and took his dagger out to play with it.

In vain he had asked Alys to share with him what she could see. She laid in broken, cradling her forming bump – the one she so desperately tried to hide away from him. The one thing that once meant her protection and raise in rank, now could very well heed out her doom.

Her green eyes raised from the floor below them, and Alys merely shook her head.

"There is fire, my Prince. Fire, and blood, and death."

"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silent chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved."

And there it was. The silent admission of what he had done.

"We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."

Was he sorry for what he did?

"It was about time you got acquainted with the rest of the family."

Aegon's cause was lucky that Storm's End was already too involved. They couldn't turn in their banners to the other front. Not now.

"It's a wonderful idea." She uttered in a glacial tone, barely above a whisper. "When will we depart?"

Sharpened orbs came in contact with the loneness of a purple eye.

The man took in a sparring breath, and hummed at her obedient retreat. The Prince's fist clenched over his cutting wound, and he nodded his head firmly.

"Should we be graced with the Gods' favor, issa jorrāelagon, then on the morrow," He explained, "but no sooner than that."

The girl's brows furrowed in discontent, as Aemond faltered in pressing the matter further. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the aid of two long fingers, and heavily rose from his seat.

"Don't wait for me tonight. I shall return to you in the morning. I have unfinished business to attend to."

Lack of air. And crippling fear.

Her tiny world had been thrown into the arms of chaos. But everything fell so perfectly into place.

As soon as Aemond had mounted Vhagar, as soon as her father of wings died upon the night's first watch, the woman sprung to her feet, and began her soul's ascent into the pits of the Seven Hells.

She started off by breaking in her tiny mirror, placing a goose feather pillow below and over it, to somehow mask the clefty noise.

Her long hair was the first to go. She began cutting it swiftly, using big and brisk movements to chop off as many of her luscious locks as she possibly could.

She ripped the mattress of the bed open with one of the bigger shards, and revealed Aemond's dried-up shirt, that she had tucked well under after washing it, long preparing it for that occasion.

Her stomach churned as her hand went to her chamber pot. Risking her own deniability, she submerged her digits deep within it, letting out a victorious huff as she brushed across a piece of cold felt.

The insides of the sack revealed fermented meat – putrid, more like. She scattered the final remains of it over the stone floor like a mad-woman, and ripped the latter pages of the book Alys had gifted her.

She would take the passage to the stables, and simply hope for the best.

Her eyes searched feverishly about the cluttered room, but the hammering in her heart stilled only as she gaped upon the lower left corner of the wall full of banners.

There it was. Exactly where Alys told her it was going to be.

She tore into the mattress further, spreading the wool around, and grabbed a hold of a piece of wood from the crackling fire.

May she be forgiven for what she was about to do.

Her shaky hands grasped the lumber strongly, and she let it roll in the middle of the room, allowing it to fall with a loud bang.

***

The sound of wailing screams echoed inside her head, scratching at her ears, to the point of making them almost bleed. The heat of the fire she caused fell over her skimpily clothed back, and the disgust she felt with herself was palpable against her tongue.

With every turn she took, she made herself another promise. She would not rest until the war would see its end. She'd never sleep warmly again, and forever remind herself of the sacrifice she had to make – of all the lives that she undoubtedly ended, if only to meet her selfish ends.

For once, this was not just Aemond's doing. This was her fault all alone.

Blinded by rage, and seething with fury, her feet carried her down the crooked set of stairs. The woman brought a hand up to her face, and coughed wildly in the back of it. She'd have to make a bold turn soon. Then the outside world would heed, and she would be free again.

With just a twinge of luck, the guards should think that whatever was left of her room collapsed upon herself inside. Her burnt hair and clothes would create the wanted look – the meat would add the unmistakable smell of rot and death, and the lack of an actual body would take days to figure out.

And she prayed. She prayed, she prayed, she prayed: that no one else knew of the passages that she was threading through below.

Her eyes could barely see in front of her. Smoke rose to unforgiving levels, and the Lady swore it could be cut even by the dullest knife. As she reached the crossroads of the secret tunnel, her hands came to grapple at the breeches' pockets, turning them inside out – trying to find the torn pages of the book she'd just previously carried.

A sigh of relief rumbled from within her throat, as the pads of her shaking digits stroked across the withered, olden pages.

Her relief would be short lived.

Boney hands snaked around her, and the girl nearly screamed – until the familiar scent of mint and wild berries floored her senses.

"Alys?!" Her voice let out in an exasperated high. "Alys, we need to hurry!"

But her able hands still hesitantly clung to the soft material of her shirt, digging so deeply into it, that she could rip it in a downward pull.

"You –" She began to say, but cut herself short as she momentarily closed her eyes.

No matter what, she couldn’t tell the Lady before her that she'd have sent her upon her death.

"You took a wrong turn. This isn't the right way towards the South Gates."

The adrenaline flooded her veins. Her heart was pumping wildly against her ears. Lady Tully only nodded, failing to process that Alys had, in fact, never given her access to such an option on the crudely drawn map.

"This way, (Y/N) – came quickly!"

Two sets of legs descended further into the murky passages of Harrenhal. At one point, the smoke had gotten so very thick, that both women had to feel their way out, by touching the corners of every tunnel that they surpassed.

When all seemed lost, Alys finally spoke, "Over here!" She yelled out to her, and latched onto Aemond's dampened shirt.

They stumble into each other, as the small opening of the stifling cellar reaches the South Gates. The witch stops hastily on her heel, and the young Lady nearly busts their cover.

A raid of soldiers came flocking out, with what then looked like tens of thousands of squealing maids. So frightened by their own demise, they bumped into the oak doors and onto each other – choosing to, instead of unlocking the main Gates, reach and pull at the other's hairs, cursing loud and wildly.

Alys let out a bemused huff at their perused antics, but her reglament was short lived; as one of the smarter lassies reached for the illustrious piece of wood, and opened the doors with the loudest of creak.

"Now's our chance," The Lady of Riverrun whispered to her fellow escapee, grabbing onto her wrist harshly, and dragging her out and into the light. "Mingle in the crowd, Alys –"

"My Lady, do not stray far –"

The older woman let out a staggering breath, as she raised her skirts to follow suit on the trail left by the hot-headed girl.

She is Elmo's daughter alright, she disarmingly told herself, Just as hopeless and reckless as he once was.

Alys almost tackled her to the ground, as Lady Tully succumbed herself deeper into the burnt out forest. She gripped onto her hands with hers, so harshly, that she'd definitely leave her mark. "I thought I had told you not to stray far."

The breathless form of the lost child before her appeared to be enough to soften a tad of her resolve. "When I tell you something, I expect you to do it."

Whilst chastising her deeply for her foolhardy behavior, the woman searched her pockets, and pushed out two quarter silvers into her trembling hands.

"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn."

As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire. Make sure to cover the cut on your hand with this." As she spoke, Alys pushed a black glove into her resting hands.

The Bliss of Riverrun threw the witch a bewildered look. Her eyes searched adamantly for hers, and the woman panted out in pure wonder. "How did you know I intended on migrating North?

"I've already seen you do it." She shook her shoulders promptly, "I've already seen you succeed."

Her green eyes softened, if only for a blazing moment; but the crackling of the trees behind them snapped her out of her inward trance. "Don't waste anymore time. Your diversion was smart, but he will try to find you."

The girl reached down, to squeeze her hands, perhaps, in a wordless display of gratitude and affection. Her soft fingers interlaced over her boney knuckles, and Alys muttered a faint blessing over the twisted arch of her furrowed brow.

The Lady turned around, but not before pausing and shooting the witch one last fiery look. "Come with me." She offered determinedly, and shook her head strongly as Alys took a step back. "He'll try to punish someone for it. You're his next available girl." She begged her to see to reason.

"My place remains here. By his side."

(Y/N)'s eyes hardened at her thorough admission, but she strained herself to shoot the wet nurse back with a curt nod.

"I shan't forget what you did for me." She promised her elder with a minute smile.

"A heads-up when you next decide to set the whole stronghold on fire would be most appreciated…!" She lightheartedly told her, despite the obvious wabbling of her lower lip.

(Y/N) nodded, but remained hammered in place for another while. Alys' hand reached to cup over her face, but a brisk moment of clarity was quick to change her mind.

"Go, you foolish girl…!" She snapped, "Make good use of that promise you made."

Her feet began moving on their own accord. Her mind was blazing with all of the unfinished tasks at hand.

She would run towards the Rushing Halls. Buy a mule. Retreat towards Green Fork. Reach the Twins.

Her road shall lead to Winterfell. If Forrest Fray remained the same kind fool that he once was, she should have no trouble sending Cregan Stark a raven.

And if she could reason with Jacaerys' friend, take in his testimony of protection, perhaps her life wasn't lost just yet.

The gusts of wind ran through her shortened and unkempt hair. Aemond's clothes hung loosely over her, and the stench of fire and ash filled her nostrils with something else other than hopeless dread.

Never before in her life, did the girl run so fast.

Taglist:

Translations:

Gevie… = Beautiful;

Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda. = Do not worry, my sweet love. I promised you I would be patient;

Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa. = One day you will desire me;

Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao. = The Gods have cursed me to love you;

Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar. = Calm down, Vagar. Be still. Good girl;

Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa. = Gods, you were made for me;

Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī. = Just look how perfectly we fit together;

Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir = Sweet girl… don't pull away from me now;

Yn nyke istan zarvīzis. Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis. = But I've been patient. I've been so good and… so, so patient;

Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa... = You act like you don't want this…;

Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī. = But you want me just as much. You ache for me – just as badly.

Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon. = Don't cry, my beautiful Princess. I would sooner die than hurt you;

Valyrian Wedding Vows: Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows, two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass – the stars stand witness, of the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light;

Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon. = I know Vhagar, I know;

Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra. = The Gods don't listen to men like me. But I would go on my knees and beg them to let me keep you. You were once the bane of my existence… and now, you find yourself the center of it.

[fromtheseventhhell]

I'm not sure how to get it into people's heads that Arya is a female character. She's not a boy, not nonbinary, trans, agender, or genderless. I don't intend this in a way to be negative or wanky, but her girlhood is imbedded within her character. The problem isn't that Arya stans are missing the point by overemphasizing her femininity and wanting her to be a barefoot tradwife baby making machine, but that we're stating it exists when the majority of fandom and the show itself have gone out of the way to minimize the relevancy of her gender. I'm fully convinced there are a lot of people who think Arya would be the exact same character had GRRM created her as a male character named Arry instead, perhaps they'd do a better job at acknowledging her importance.

What's most ironic to me is how these same fans will gush and coo over the sisters being more alike than we think, but only if it involves giving Arya's characteristics to Sansa. Well acktually, Sansa likes to ride horses just as much as Arya does! They're so alike uwu! But dare acknowledge that Arya has traits and aspects commonly associated to Sansa then not only does that get accusations of wanting Arya to become Sansa, but that it's solely about showing Sansa up and wanting her to grovel in Arya's shadow and superiority 🙄 Hypocrisy and projection showing itself.

Somewhat of an aside, but I recently saw a post on reddit complaining about the fact that all four of Daemon's children survived the Dance specifically focused on the fact that both Rhaena and Baela lived. According to the OP, one of them should've died and their post-war roles in the story should've been given to only one of them. Which at its core is really the main conflict between Sansa and Arya stans, no matter how much the Stansas want to cover their ears and play dumb. It's not about Arya stans projecting their sibling squabbles onto the two of them but simply the fact that it's not possible for two characters to fulfill the same role in the story, specifically when it involves two female characters. The existence of two Stark sisters is an inconvenience for the people who want the story to revolve around Sansa.

I have to believe there's some bubbles that they don't want to admit will burst if TWOW will ever be released and that's why they cling to the idea that Arya stans are the delusional ones. They have to believe that the parts of Sansa's seasons 5-8 storyline they like came from GRRM instead of D&D or else their Jonsa and QITN fantasies will fall apart. I have no idea how someone can watch the scene where Sansa tells Arya she couldn't survive what she had while Arya can only sputter out that she was training and believe 1) it makes sense for their book characters and 2) D&D didn't blatantly favor Sansa and Sophie over Arya and Maisie.

This ask came literally seconds after I drafted a post talking about this exact topic and it's so wild to me that we were both up thinking about Arya + her girlhood and wanting to discuss it 🥹

As for this ask, you really hit the nail on the head. Arya's gender is an essential aspect of her journey but fandom ignores that because they've decided that there's only one "right" way to exist as a female character. Arya's self-esteem issues stem from her being a non-conforming Lady in a misogynistic society, she has to disguise herself as a boy in part because of the threat of sexual violence, in Harrenhal she is assigned gender-specific tasks/labor, political matches are made without her knowledge/consent, she is threatened with sexual violence multiple times, and even her role within the FM is influenced by her gender. Her being non-conforming doesn't mean she's the complete antithesis of everything feminine. The obsession with propping up Sansa has ruined people's ability to perceive complex female characters, ironically including Sansa herself. They genuinely would've respected Arya more if she had died passively rather than fight for her life and you can't tell me that isn't misogyny.

That Reddit post is a great example of how people genuinely can't (or refuse to) comprehend the idea of two female characters occupying the same space. Cause you're right, that is the root of the issue. I think the only reason they bother with the fake "Stark sisters uwu" crap is because they've backed themselves into a faux-feminist corner and they don't want to look hypocritical for disliking Arya. So instead, they pretend to care all while rewriting her to serve as Sansa's prop. This is also why so many Queen!Sansa truthers are also anti-Dany + think that Sansa becoming Queen depends on Dany's downfall. They desperately cling to the show as canon, when D&D have openly admitted they changed the story because they favored Sansa/Sophie. They're fine with how show!Arya is written because to them, that's exactly how she should be; a subservient lapdog for Sansa. TWOW is definitely going to ruin that illusion, and one of the reasons I'm optimistic about it being released is getting to see fandom's reaction.

[flowerandblood]

The softest whisper (Oneshot)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x servant! • female ]

[ warnings: virginity loss, oral sex, angst, smut, cheating, toxic relationship, toxic behaviour, objectification ]

[ description: Aemond, on the orders of his brother, arrives in the Red Keep and notices that a new, young girl has appeared among his servants. Wanting to fill his time, he summons her to his chamber and forces her to read to him. His time to return to Harrenhal is approaching, and he is less and less willing to part with his new property. Sexual tension, angst, very dark Aemond. ]

This oneshot have an alternative ending: The dearest embrace

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

My other works: Masterlist

____

Ever since the war began he had felt that piece by piece he was losing parts of himself; even the knowledge that Alys would bear him his child, his bastard son, didn't brought him joy or solace.

He felt both contentment and disgust at the thought of his heir from an illegitimate bed.

He thought the gods were laughing at him from the heavens, mocking his hypocrisy.

After Luke's death, there was no turning back.

He returned to King's Landing reluctantly, at his brother's request – he preferred to stay in Harrenhal, pressing Alys with his body against her bed, the brutal thrusts of his hips pushing apart her hot, slick interior, always welcoming him home.

Alys was an intelligent, witty woman, and her visions made her mysterious and disturbing in his eyes.

He was attracted to her.

There was a darkness in her as deep as his own.

His brother, however, decided that he was to attend the next meeting of the Small Council and report personally on how the battles were going, what their situation was like in the north of the kingdom.

Therefore, he arrived on Vhagar late at night and informed his servants that he wanted to take a bath.

His order meant that his other servants who were already asleep had to clothe themselves in haste and rush to him, filling his tub with hot water.

He watched their movements with a blank stare – his pupil narrowed like a cat's when he saw some new young girl, clearly just being apprenticed to her job – her gaze drowsy, struggling to listen to what the other, older woman was saying to her as the other two ran around them.

In her haste, she had forgotten to put on her white coif, her hair pinned around her head in a tight braid, short strands of her hair framing her soft, flushed face.

She did not look at him once.

He saw her the next morning too, this time already dressed appropriately – she was helping other girl to place the dishes prepared for him on silver platters.

She was completely focused on her task and paid no attention to him, so he had no fear of being caught closely observing her long eyelashes and eyebrows, her flushed cheeks and her full, fleshy lips, her pleasantly rounded chin and her softly shaped nose.

She smiled a lot even though her companion was terrified, as if she did not understand well who sat before her.

It seemed to him that she lived in a world of her own, detached from his worries.

He waited like a predator for an opportunity when she would come to him alone and it happened two evenings later.

He commanded some books to be brought to him from the library that he wanted to return to and read again. He sat in front of his fireplace in his richly decorated wooden chair and glanced out of the corner of his eye towards the door when he heard it open – his new servant holding three thick volumes in her hands walked up to the table next to him, placing them there in complete silence, then bowed, wanting to leave.

"– Your Grace –" She said softly, warmly, lightly, and turned away immediately – he heard his low voice echoing in the silence of his chamber.

"You should ask if I need anything else." He said coldly and matter-of-factly, his pointing finger tapping rhythmically against his armrest; he sat with his legs crossed, sprawled comfortably in his seat, looking at her expectantly.

She stopped in mid-step and then looked at his face for the first time – he saw terror in her gaze, but not caused by him or his appearance, but by what he had said, by the fact that she had committed a discourtesy, that she had done her job badly and her superior or he could punish her for it.

She swallowed loudly, turning to face him, folding her hands in front of her in a gesture of humility, lowering her gaze to the stone floor in front of her.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I am just learning. Is there anything else you need?" She asked softly – she was breathing nervously, her breasts hidden beneath the thin material of her top gown rising and falling quickly, her lips clenched into a thin line.

He liked how humble and submissive she was, how much she wanted him to be pleased with her; he hummed under his breath, lifting his chin higher, curious.

He thought he would have a little fun at her expense for his own entertainment.

"Can you read?" He asked in a low, deep, slightly hoarse voice. He saw that she gave him a quick, surprised glance, but then lowered her eyes again, apparently reminding herself that she was not supposed to do that.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Mmm. Who taught you that?"

"My father."

"The same one who sold you here?"

He saw her brow furrow in pain, her body flinch, her eyes big, she began to breathe through her mouth.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Mmm."

There was silence between them – he stared at her, rubbing the fingers of his hand against each other, and an idea occurred to him.

He liked her voice, soft, girlish, warm, calm, light; she was very young, younger than he was. He squinted his eyelids at the thought that she appeared to him to be the complete opposite of Alys.

"I want you to read me the fourth chapter of the Great History of the North. Take the book and sit on the floor next to me." He commanded; she looked at him in shock and lowered her gaze thoughtfully, her face red with stress.

They both knew it was indecent, that she shouldn't stay so long in his chamber if she didn't want to arouse suspicion about the nature of their relationship, however, he didn't give a fuck.

He tapped his finger loudly on the armrest, impatient that she had hesitated so long.

"I'm waiting. Do you want to annoy me?" He asked coolly – she shook her head quickly, clearly horrified by this vision, and walked on her trembling legs to the table, the scent of grey soap and some other scent, her own, coming to his nostrils.

Alys always smelled of oils, lavender and cloves.

She picked up the right book and, with an uncertain slow step, sat down by the fire opposite him, sitting on her knees, opening the book on her thighs, her hands trembling as she flipped page after page looking for the chapter he had mentioned.

"Pull off your coif." He commanded; she gave him a frightened, pleading look – only now did he see how large her eyes were, surrounded by a veil of her long lashes. He thought they added to her charm and innocence.

"My superior said I must not…"

"Pull it off."

She lowered her head obediently, swallowing loudly, breathing heavily through her nose, her trembling hands raised uncertainly, pulling the white cloth off her head.

Her dark hair was tangled in a braid wrapping around her head in the same way it had been before, unruly short strands at the sides of her face.

"Read." He ordered, and she nodded, going back to finding the right page. When she found it she grunted loudly, licking her lower lip dry with stress as she tried to calm her breathing.

She didn't dare look at him, all red, her eyebrows arched in horror and helplessness – she was obviously afraid he would do something more to her.

He thought that she must surely have heard stories of what his brother did to his servants.

"It is well known that Winterfell was built not as a re...representative castle but as a fortress, s-so the construction of its walls is several layers, that is, consisting of three hoops, the last of them the thickest, composed of stones. The windows in it are not large, giving the enemy no chance to assault with their help or to be the target of cross...crossbow...crossbowmen. For this reason there is only one gate leading into the fortress, protected by several layers of thick oak wood, reinforced with iron fittings, impossible to be destroyed by infantry or armed army."

He closed his eye, spreading himself out comfortably, feeling that somehow her warm, soft voice soothed him, the strong pounding of his heart began to slow down. He listened to her, analysing what she was reading and at the same time falling asleep, the fire burning in the fireplace enveloping him making him feel safe, his muscles slowly beginning to relax.

She had read to him every day since that evening, at his request.

He would always call on her after the Small Council meeting was over, pouring himself some wine, and she would take the book from the table beside him without a word, sitting down in the same place as always. Everytime before she got down to reading she would pull off her coif and place it beside her feet, no longer even waiting for his order.

Subconsciously she knew that he derived some kind of pleasure from this essentially innocent negligee of her body.

It seemed to him that after he had let her go on the first evening without touching her or taking her by force she was no longer afraid of him – he even had the impression that the fact that she could read gave her pleasure since she had no time for it on a daily basis through her duties.

He didn't care who she was, what was her story.

He just wanted to get through time somehow before he returned to Harrenhal.

However, one evening as he sat, waiting for her, drinking wine thoughtfully, a completely different girl appeared in his chamber. He furrowed his brow, furious.

"I do not recall summoning you." He growled harshly – the girl lowered her gaze, ashamed and humiliated.

"It is the Queen's order, Your Grace, I −"

"− bring her here. Immediately."

After several minutes she stood again in his chamber – however, she did not approach him but looked towards him, trembling all over.

"Your Grace, please, I cannot −"

"Come here."

"I can't, Your Grace."

"Come here, I said."

"I can't, Your Grace, the Queen specifically ordered me to −" She paused and jumped in place, horrified when he pulled up suddenly with his eye wide open – within a moment he was in front of her, towering over her, and she lowered her gaze, terrified.

"I fucking hate to repeat myself. Do you understand?" He hissed, her breasts rising and falling in rapid, uneven breathing, tears of helplessness in her eyes – she was shaking all over playing with her fingers in a nervous gesture.

"I beg you, Your Grace, have mercy." She mumbled, falling to her knees before him, humbly lowering her head, on the verge of sobbing.

"Get up." He said coolly – she cried out loudly, burying her face in his hands. He pressed his lips together, looking down at her, her small, helpless figure curled in fear.

"Get up. You are mine. I decide your fate. Stop crying." He commanded, and she drew in a deep breath through her mouth, looking up at him with those big, terrified eyes, seeking reassurance that he would protect her, that he would not let her get hurt.

She sniffed loudly with her nose, wiping her cheeks red from crying, her face all swollen from tears, almost resembling the intense colour of her top dress; she rose with difficulty, not looking at him, standing in front of him as if waiting for a verdict, staring at his chest.

"Mmm."

He turned away, returning to his seat, taking a sip of wine, gazing into the fire – she moved behind him, repeating their ritual, sitting down by his feet, closer than usual, pulling her coif off her head, opening the book.

The next day he made it clear to his mother that she was not to interfere in the affairs of his servants ever again.

His own mother was afraid of him.

She who had always seen him as her greatest support could not look him in the eye.

He felt nothing at that thought.

The time for his return to Harrenhal was slowly approaching; when she came to him again he took a deep sip of wine before surprising her with his words spoken in a calm, deep tone.

"Get ready to travel. Tomorrow you leave with me for Harrenhal."

She looked at him in shock and swallowed loudly, shaking her head – he threw her one cool, menacing look and she curled into herself, looking at him again with those big, shining eyes.

She was so innocent.

"– Lady Rivers will murder me – please –" She mumbled pleadingly. He grinned under his breath and snorted involuntarily – she flinched all over and blushed as his hand went to her head and combed her hair as if he were stroking the fur of his beloved pet.

"Do not fret. I won't allow it."

As he flew on Vhagar, she travelled in one of the carts, like the rest of his possessions.

She was his property.

Alys greeted him with reserve; her abdomen on which she held her hand firmly rounded. He stroked it with a gesture he might call affectionate, thinking of the fact that inside her was his child.

His bastard offspring.

He saw her gaze fixed on the girl who stood far behind him, looking down at her legs.

"You let her into your heart." She said to him regretfully when they were alone in her chamber, standing over him by his chair, his hand wandering involuntarily over her pregnant stomach. He hummed at her words, amused that she was jealous, but did not reply.

He didn't need to explain himself to her.

She instead let him between her thighs, moaning and panting along with him, hurting him with her nails driven deep into his skin, between his brutal thrusts hissing that she hated him only to sob a moment later that she loved him – he came inside her hard, clenching his eyes, feeling relieved.

He stayed with her for the night, but in the morning he returned to his chamber and summoned his servant, ordering that he wished to take a bath.

She stepped into his chamber ashamed, surely having heard the sounds Alys was making during the night as he fucked her – she couldn't look him in the face.

He wondered if she imagined herself in her place and felt his cock throb hard in his breeches at the thought.

She oversaw the other servants who poured water into his tub, and then personally poured the oils he used into it.

Would she be very tight if he took her now?

Would she stifle her sweet moans if his length with each deep thrust of his hips would stretch her fleshy insides and fill her with his seed?

They were left alone.

She pretended not to see or hear him as he began to slowly undress – usually he made the servants leave before he removed his breeches, valuing his privacy and intimacy, but not this time.

She knew she couldn't leave without his permission so she stood, looking sideways, trying to pretend not to see that he was standing bare in front of her.

With a slow, unhurried walk, he stepped into the tub and sighed low, feeling the pleasant heat relaxing his muscles – he was tired after travelling for hours on Vhagar and was sore all over.

"Massage my back and shoulders." He commanded coolly, lying with his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his breathing calm.

He heard her swallow loudly, terrified that someone would catch them, knowing she shouldn't do that – he glanced at her with a look of defiance and saw in her eyes that she had given in.

She approached him from behind, with a gentle, light movement taking his hair out of her way. He murmured lowly, feeling her warm, soft fingers dig into his skin again and again, surprised at how determined she was, that she could do this properly.

Her hands were pleasant against his skin, finer than Alys, she had longer fingers – he felt her warm breath on his head, felt her watching him, felt her scent, all around them just the quiet splash of water at his every slightest movement.

He thought of how pleasant it would be to feel this small, soft hand down there, on his cock.

He was completely hard.

They both shuddered, and he felt her move away from him quickly, terrified, as the door to his chamber opened – he didn't have to turn to feel Alys' oils filling his nose.

"You may leave." She said to his servant, and he pressed his lips together at the thought that she dared to command her in his presence.

He heard her quick movement and after a moment she handed him his shirt and breeches, which he put on with an unhurried, lazy movement, not caring that the mother of his future bastard son could see how ready his cock was to fuck this little girl.

"Stay." He said lowly, standing up from the water, extending his hand to her.

"What is it?" He asked matter-of-factly, without even giving her a glance, tying his breeches, pulling his chemise into them. He saw out of the corner of his eye Alys stroking her stomach in a nervous gesture.

"I wanted to speak with you in private. About my vision." She said lowly. He glanced at his servant, at her pale, terrified face – she was trembling all over, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes full of tears.

He walked over to the chair and sat down in it, looking at her expectantly.

"You may leave." He said softly. She bowed and left with quickly, closing the door immediately behind her.

"Speak."

Alys looked down at him, her lips tightened, her green eyes piercing him.

His lady, his Alys, his insufficient lover, his attempt to fill a void that could not be filled.

"I saw danger coming from the east, great and powerful like a storm cloud. I saw you in the skies. I saw you being devoured by water." She said in a trembling voice – he furrowed his brows, analysing quickly what she had said.

I saw you being devoured by water.

She knelt before him, laying her head on his thigh, and he stroked her long black hair.

"Don't leave me." She whispered.

The word that Daemon wanted to face him, that he was challenging him to a duel spread throughout the fortress.

He knew he could not refuse.

He was terrified.

He feared death.

He locked himself in his chamber despite Alys' pleas to let her in.

If she hadn't told him all this, he wouldn't have been so frightened.

If she hadn't told him he was going to die, he might have had hope.

He summoned her in.

As soon as she walked into his chamber, he ordered her to lock the door behind her, which she did.

She stood before him, looking at him with her eyes wide open, tears under her eyelids, her body shaking all over.

Of course she knew.

He was sure she would take the gold and run away, as she should.

"Spend the night with me or leave. On the table lies a sack of coins that belongs to you. You are a free woman. Take as your husband someone you deem worthy of you."

But she stayed.

She let him undo her hair, allowed him to undress her, to brush with light, butterfly kisses her soft, long neck.

Never before in his life had he been so affectionate to anyone, his hands had never touched anyone with such reverence, never had he cared so much to do it slowly.

First he kissed her on the mouth, gently and tenderly, barely touching her lips, his fingers entwined in her soft curls – she only sighed and stroked his cheek, looking at him dreamy.

He thought that this night, the last night of his life, they would be equals, that he would take her tonight like his wife, only to make her a widow tomorrow.

"Shhh." He hushed her as his mouth clamped down on her hard, swollen nipple, sucking and licking it – she squirmed beneath him and moaned sweetly, finding the courage to stroke his hair, his bare shoulders and back, driving him mad.

He sank his face between her thighs, forcing his tongue again and again between her slick folds – she didn't care if anyone heard her, her sobs loud, helpless and full of pleasure, his nose and thumb with painfully slow, circular motions teasing her pearl, dragging out her fulfilment.

"− easy now − just a little more −" He hummed between the sticky, loud clicks of his tongue – her tiny fingers clenched in his hair, her thighs spread before his face, locked in his hands hot with exertion.

"− please − please −" She mewled helplessly, her gaze clouded, her mouth wide open.

He pulled away from her, jerking his length already dripping with his precum of with a few light strokes, guiding it's fat, pink head to her hot entrance, sticky and wet from her moisture.

She was painfully tight.

He felt like he was tearing her apart from the inside.

She was almost screaming as he thrust inside her, panting along with her, saying 'just a little more'; 't's almost in'; 'shhh, sweet girl'.

They kissed tenderly as he with sure, deep, steady pushes of his hips claimed her maidenhood – he stretched her fleshy, slick muscles with his swollen cock throbbing in pleasure, her blood and their shared moisture running down his thighs and her buttocks, slapping loudly against each other.

"− gods, help me −" She mumbled beneath him, crying in terror and pleasure at the same time, not knowing what was happening to her body, all welted and sweaty, beautiful, innocent, vulnerable, her hands clenched tightly on his buttocks.

He looked down at her, panting and moaning along with her, never having experienced anything like this with a woman before – their bodies seemed to him to be one, clinging to each other, her soft breasts pressed against his chest, he could feel her hard nipples rubbing against his skin with each of his thrusts.

He sped up his pace, forcing her body to give in, to not resist him, his forehead pressed against hers, his tongue deep in her throat.

"− such a sweet girl − hm? − my pretty little servant − makes her prince feel so fucking good − such a tight, hot cunt −" He exhaled, licking her lips, feeling how, at his words, her walls began to clench against him greedily; he heard Alys voice outside his chamber, heard her pounding on the door, heard her crying, but he only chuckled, neither of them was able to stop now.

"− let her hear how good you feel with me − I'm going to come inside you a few times, hm? − just in case, to make sure I've filled you properly −" He cooed, and she cried out loudly at his words, distraught at how strong and delightful fulfilment shook her body – she tried to push him away, her cheeks red from exertion and tears, asking him to stop, overstimulated, but he just came deep inside her at the sound of her sweet, helpless voice.

"− that's it − take it − just like that, don't fight me −" He murmured feeling her body begin to relax, no more sound or crying could be heard behind the door, only silence.

He had thrust his length into her core all night, turning her into a babbling mess – he felt like he had never been more of one with anyone, that he had never been closer to what he could call peace.

He only slid out of her in the morning, watching with satisfaction as a trickle of his pearly spend flowed out of her – he looked down at her, tying his breeches, her gaze directed towards him hazy and absent, yet tender and warm.

"Don't think about me when it's all over." He said softly, her brow arched in pain, tears of despair in her eyes.

Alys bid him farewell with a tender, distraught kiss full of pain, hatred and love.

"Run away from here as fast as you can. With me gone, no one can protect you from her wrath." He said lowly, slipping his boots on his legs and walked out, leaving her alone, informing other servants to prepare his armour for him.

In response he kissed her forehead and stroked her lower abdomen, thinking hopefully as he turned away, walking towards Vhagar to soar through the skies on her for the last time in his life, that his little servant was already far away.

_____

This oneshot have an alternative ending: The dearest embrace

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy

[pterodactylterrace]

Do they understand the difference between perceived infidelity (Rhaenyra had an open relationship, but literally no one but her, Laenor, and their paramours knew that, so the general public, she is being unfaithful) and a widow having sex? Alicent’s husband is dead at this point. She’s not being unfaithful. Their vows were until death, and Viserys is dead. She can fuck whoever consents.

Is now a bad time to bring up Emma saying they also don’t like Rhaenyra and stating that she is a liar? I don’t care, I’m saying it anyway. Emma doesn’t much care for their character either, because they understand that she brings everything on herself.

Ok, cool. When was she given this opportunity? Was it when she was encouraging Viserys to make a political match with Laena, or when Viserys announced to the small council his intentions without ever asking for her input on marrying him? The king told her she would marry him. She never had a choice in the matter, unlike a certain someone else.

Rhaenyra was forced to marry Laenor because she ended her matchmaking tour months early, leaving several destinations unvisited. She threw a tantrum because she didn’t like the suitors she had seen thus far, incited a fucking murder, abandoned the tour months early and was spotted in a brothel with Daemon with her pants down. She had opportunities to find someone she could have legitimate heirs with. An opportunity provided by Alicent. It’s wild how people seem to forget that. Laenor was an absolute last resort to save face after she destroyed her own reputation. She threw away an opportunity to marry who she wanted, a choice most nobles don’t have. She brought this whole situation on herself by being an insufferable brat.

She never even made it to the part of the tour where she would have met Harwin, the man that ends up fathering her bastards. He is the heir to Harrenhal, the largest castle in Westeros. He is an accomplished knight. He is known as being the strongest man of his time. He is interested n her. Everything she was hoping for, had she just had a modicum of patience. Her arranged marriage to a homosexual man is no one’s fault but her own, and was brought on by her own actions. She is solely to blame for her position, and then she decided to birth obvious bastards, quite possibly the worst option she could have gone with as heir. The only thing worse than no heirs is obviously illegitimate heirs being pushed as trueborn. Now she has no heirs, and is also a liar to boot. Fantastic work!