#vaemond velaryon x a head attached to his body

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (12)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, domination, murder ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

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

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

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Ever since she learned from her servant how her husband had lost his eye, the thought of Luke Velaryon arriving with his family in King's Landing had filled her with dread. She did not speak of it aloud, but the tension in the keep was growing thicker, her husband was no longer able to hide his murderous thirst from her.

She knew that no amount of her words and reassurances would calm him down, he was burning like a living fire that could not be extinguished. All she could do was try not to ignite it any further, to cut off the air supply to it, so that it would extinguish itself.

Their close-ups were more brutal, more intense, as if he had fallen into a circle of his own weakness and rage at the same time. He never deliberately hurt her, but the thrusts of his hips were so fast and sharp, rooting into her so deeply, that she ran out of breath and was unable to extract anything more than gasping and moaning, coming hard, nearly screaming along with him from almost painful pleasure.

Afterwards he collapsed on top of her, panting heavily, putting his large hand, rough from holding the sword on hers, intertwining their fingers and begged her, whispering quietly in her ear, to forgive him.

He never heard a word of complaint from her.

She felt a strange kind of satisfaction at the thought that he needed her so desperately. That her touch, the warmth of her inside, her moans, were necessary for him to keep his mind sober.

To keep from going mad.

The day of Princess Rhaenyra's arrival along with her family and Vaemond Velaryon was inexorably approaching, and a great shadow was growing in her husband's eye that made her insides twist.

He surprised her when the evening before, as she was reading a book, sitting on his bed in her nightgown, he spoke to her suddenly, sitting by the fireplace, thoughtful.

"Kostā laodigon iā zaldrīzes daor. Do you know what that means?" He asked casually, not looking at her but into the fire, his face expressionless, almost indifferent, his fingers moving involuntarily on the armrest.

She closed her book, swallowing heavily, surprised. She knew that it was a sentence said in the language of Old Valyria, her husband's ancestors.

He sometimes used words that she didn't understand while he fucked her, panting hard in her ear, digging his fingertips into the soft skin of her hips.

She tried to decipher what he was saying by perusing the large dictionaries from the keep's collections in his absence. The only words she could translate were:

ābrazȳrys wife

dōna sweet

ñuhon mine

She decided that she didn't need to know any more, embarrassed by her discovery, the heat in her body spreading through her veins.

In the meantime, she also read about some other words. She thought that she recognised them, but she wasn't sure.

"I think… zalidries, means dragon, and daor means no." She muttered, fearing that she was mistaken after all, and that her words would frustrate him.

He, however, threw her a surprised look, cocking his head as if with curiosity, squinting his eye, leaning his head against the backrest.

"Zaldrīzes, dōna ābrazȳrys. Repeat." He hummed lowly, clearly pleased that she had taken an interest in the language that he used without his influence.

She felt warmth on her cheeks as she heard the words she knew and lowered her gaze, embarrassed.

"Zaldrīzes." She said softly, lifting her gaze to him, and he murmured contentedly.

"You can't steal a dragon." He whispered, and she froze.

She twisted in her seat, feeling uneasy, seeing that he was looking at her intently. She knew that what he would say or do would be very important.

Clearly he couldn't take the tension anymore and needed to get at least some of it out of him.

She couldn't discourage him.

She did not speak, listening to him in concentration, her heart pounding like mad.

Her husband lowered his gaze, hitting the armrest a few times with his finger, deeply immersed in his thoughts. She knew that his mind was not with her now, but somewhere else completely, in his thoughts and memories.

"A dragon is not a slave. It cannot be forced to obey. It must be tamed." He said matter-of-factly, as if he were explaining to her the laws that ruled the world, some complete obviousness.

She nodded, wanting to show that she understood, involuntarily tightening her hand on the material of her nightgown, feeling drops of sweat on her back. Suddenly he looked at her, his gaze terrifying her − cold, intense, piercing to the core.

"Do you know how I lost my eye?"

Silence.

She felt her heart in her throat. She wanted to lie, because she was afraid that if he found out that she had learned it from her servant, he would dismiss Lyanna.

However, she feared that she would reveal something in her face, that he would catch her on the lie, and that would cause him to back down, to lose his trust for her.

"Yes."

Silence.

A long one.

He looked at her, something in his face changed, as if he had gone pale, she felt herself start to breathe faster, her muscles all tense.

"Who told you?" He asked in a low, menacing voice, looking just as he had when she first met him.

She knew that she had to survive this, to be strong, that her weakness would only enrage him further.

"Lyanna. She betrayed herself unwillingly, she thought you had told me." She said quickly, looking at him softly, asking him not to exalt a problem that wasn't there.

"She didn't tell me how it happened." She added, seeing him turn his head impatiently, furious. "She only said that your eye was taken from you by your nephew."

She watched his chest rise and fall restlessly, his hand extended on the armrest clenched into a fist.

She wanted to add something but restrained herself.

He needed to calm down, to continue the conversation himself.

She knew that the last thing that would have a soothing influence on him was to ask, speak, or force him to externalise.

She saw him massage the spot between his eyebrows with his fingers, frustrated, and let the air out of his lungs loudly.

"It's irrelevant. What I want to tell you, is that I don't wish you to speak to any of these fucking bastards when they arrive here. I don't want to see you looking at them, smiling at them. Do you understand?" He asked coldly, his jaw clenched with tension.

She looked at him surprised, breathing anxiously, thinking that he just wanted her to be on his side.

Completely devoted to him, without asking why.

He wanted her to accept his words as they were, so she did.

She nodded, her gaze warm and understanding, no sign of frustration or displeasure on her face.

"Very well, my husband." She said calmly; at the sound of her last words expression on his face softened, as if he had come back to himself again.

The One-Eyed Prince had become her husband once more.

They were silent for a moment, not looking at each other, only the pleasant sound of the sizzling fireplace and flames around them. She shuddered, snapped out of her reverie when she heard his low, murmuring voice.

"Come here."

She stood up obediently, walking towards him slowly, fearlessly, full of trust. He could see that she was not afraid of him.

Not like the others.

He might have been terrified for her, but she never showed it to him.

His brave wife.

He held out his hand to her, looking at her calmly, and she took it in her.

It was big, rough, warm.

Her husband's hand, the same hand that had caressed her body so wonderfully every night.

She placed her soft fingers on his skin, and he drew her closer to make her sit on his lap. She pumped into him, landing on his lap with her arms around his neck.

Now, as she looked at him he seemed tired, fatigued to her, she thought the constant tension and anxiety was exhausting for him.

She knew that he slept badly, kept waking up, got up in the night and sat by the long-smoked fireplace, still sinking into his thoughts.

He kissed the middle of her hand as he cupped his cheek, letting the air out off his lungs. She leaned over him and kissed his forehead, going lower and lower, down to his scarred brow, his eye patch, his cheek. He placed his hands on her hips, as naturally and lightly as if it were an unconditional impulse.

He moved her closer to him so that she could feel how hard he already was. She smiled involuntarily at the sensation and he furrowed his brow, clearly thinking she was mocking him.

"− my husband − always ready to possess me − to give me so much pleasure −" She cooed, leaning over him, their lips brushed against each other and joined in a tender, sticky, loud kiss.

She pulled away from him, stroking his cheek, seeing him look at her expectantly, his gaze traveling from her nipples, peeking through from under the thin material of her nightgown to her face.

He wanted her to make the next move.

He wanted to give her the initiative.

It shocked her, but it also empowered her at the same time.

He needed her.

He needed her to take care of him.

Her husband.

When she leaned in to kiss him again, he grasped gently her cheek in his palm, reciprocating her caress with quiet click of his saliva. Their fleshy, moist lips pressed againt each other slowly, merely teasing each other, the tips of their tongues licking once in a while, making her nipples hard.

He murmured contentedly seeing this, his free hand grasped her breast, his thumb ran over her nipple, playing with it and teasing it, bringing out a whine of pleasure from her throat, her hips rubbed encouragingly against his manhood at the sensation.

He grabbed her by the nape of her neck and pulled her close, deepening the kiss, their tongues licking each other with the sticky, perverted click of their saliva, their accelerated breaths enveloping their skin, their hands travelling over their cheeks, their hips rubbing against each other, searching for any source of friction.

"− please, give it to me − you know what your prince needs −" He breathed out helplessly into her mouth, and she immediately reached to the his breeches, untying them.

He let out a low, surprised sigh as she took his swollen, fat cock in her hand in a sure, gentle motion, squeezing it several times at the very base to increase his sensations. He leaned his head back, completely hard, vulnerable, wanting what only she could give him.

She pressed her lips together and hummed with pleasure at the sight, slipping her nightgown off her shoulders. She smiled tenderly seeing his pupil dilating in desire at the view of her breasts, her soft, bare body.

He always reacted the same way as if perpetually surprised by this intimate, beautiful sight.

They both began to breathe louder as she lifted herself above him, his one hand holding her hip, helping her guide herself to the tip of his throbbing manhood, the other clamping down on her naked back.

He pulled the material of her chemise over her head, leaving her shamelessly naked while he was fully clothed.

He watched with delight as she fell on top of him, his thick, throbbing cock pushing hard against her tight, hot muscles. She was so wet, so eager, that he couldn't hold back, his hips immediately thrusting it deeper, all the way into her, making her utter a loud mewl, opening her wide.

"− yes − do it − oh fuck, I need it −" He exhaled excitedly, and she put her hands on his shoulders, rising and falling on the top of him, rubbing herself with his cock against her upper wall where her sweet spot was. They both tilted their heads, panting loudly, delighted by this tender closeness, his hands tightening on her soft hips, forcing her to speed up.

"− ah − my prince − it feels so good −" She mumbled out, her mind whirling from the feeling of being filled to the brim with him, so intense and hard, his thrusts sure and deep as if he wanted to sink all the way into her, seeking shelter. She rode him faster and faster, up and down, feeling him pulsing inside her with desire, quiet, low growls coming from his lips each time she fell back on him with loud slap.

" − hm? − ah − do you feel good when I'm inside you? − when your prince fills you with his seed? −" He gasped helplessly and she knew what he wanted to hear.

He wanted to know that she needed him, that she was devoted to him, that Luke or anyone else wouldn't be honoured with even one glance of hers while he was beside her.

" − yes, my prince − yes − gods, Aemond, yes! −" She spasmed with delight, feeling a wonderful, hot orgasm surge through her, aroused by his questions, so intimate, private, thirsting for her attention.

Her hot walls squeezed him greedily, sucking him inside, making him tilt his head back, rolling his eye, clenching his eyelid with slightly parted lips, his hips slamming his cock into her fast and sharp thrust of his hips, paying no attention to how delicate and sensitive she was now, writhing beneath him in convulsions.

"− yes, just like that − fuck, 'm close − ohhh, gods −" He sighed loudly with pleasure and relief, clamping his fingers firmly on her hips, spilling himself inside her after several sloppy, deep pushes, filling her insides with his spend.

She fell back against him, hugging her face to the hollow of his neck, feeling his veins pulsing hard, his chest rising and falling fast in heavy breaths, his hand slowly stroking her hair.

He fell asleep for a while after their close-up on the chair, still being deep inside her, but as soon as she woke him unwillingly, all sore from one position, he didn't sleep a wink again until morning, twisting and turning in their bed.

The next day her husband waited patiently outside her chamber for her to finish her morning toilet; when she stepped out he examined her from top to bottom and let out a satisfied murmur, as he saw that she had put on her richest, most beautiful gown.

She had to represent him and his family with dignity.

They moved down the corridor together without a word spoken between each other.

They all gathered in the great throne room to hear both sides of the conflict. She stood with her husband on the other side of the hall, close to the throne, along with his mother and siblings. Aegon measured her with his eyes and grinned under his breath, then turned his gaze away.

She noticed the heir to the throne and her family immediately, her one hand placed on her slightly rounded abdomen. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her husband and her sons, one of them, with the same curly black hair as the others was holding her hand, pain and terror in his eyes.

Luke.

She turned her gaze away, remembering what her husband had told her.

Although she personally believed after their wedding that he was a calm, gentle, good boy, she knew that she had formed a kind of alliance with her husband and could not betray him.

Whether she wanted to or not, she could not be impartial in this conflict.

She knew that he would not forgive her.

Otto, the Hand of the King, sat on the Iron Throne with an expression of contemplation and worry, which, however, did not seem sincere to her. She could feel him enjoying the situation and she found it hard to imagine how he would not be a biased judge; she lowered her gaze at this thought, looking down at her feet.

There was a stir in the hall as Vaemond Velaryon stepped inside, walking ahead proudly, confidently, dressed in beautiful, gilded robes, evidence of his wealth and power. Luke stared at him over his shoulder, horrified, and turned his head quickly, looking pleadingly at his mother.

She glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye and saw that he was grinning.

She knew that smile, a grimace that did not reach his eye, wide and terrifying.

It was very, very bad.

Otto greeted everyone, explaining briefly why they had met; the atmosphere was tense, she could feel them all glaring at each other vigilantly, waiting for something to happen, a spark to ignite that would allow them to lash out at each other.

The Hand of the King ceded the right to speak to Vaemond who stepped forward into the middle. He began to speak with pride about his lineage and his brother, about why the right of his brother's legacy should belong to him and not to Lucerys Velaryon.

Princess Rhaenyra interjected several times, but was silenced by the Queen who ordered loudly that her turn to speak would come.

When at last the right to speak was granted to the Rheanyra, she stepped out into the middle to speak on behalf of her son, but she did not even have time to utter a word, because the wooden door opened and one of the guards began to speak:

"The King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name −"

Everyone moved suddenly, drawing in the air loudly as they saw the king in the golden mask, moving barely on his staff, thin and weak, she covered her mouth at the sight, glancing at her husband, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"− the King of the Andals, and the Rhoynars and the First Man, the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Otto Hightower rose from the throne, startled, exchanging a quick glance with his queen-daughter; there was confusion in the hall and whispers of people could be heard, worried about the king's condition.

As he passed, King Viserys glanced only at his first-born daughter, the child of his beloved wife, but did not bestow it on his other children.

She felt a squeeze in her heart as she glanced at her husband and saw that his face expressed absolutely nothing.

The King sat down with difficulty on his throne and the whole meeting took a completely different turn. She could hear in the way he spoke that his daughter had his full support − the matter was a foregone conclusion.

She heard Aegon laugh under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief as the king announced that he was upholding Colrys Velaryon's decision regarding his heir.

He reinforced his decision by asking his wife, who had expressed a desire to marry her granddaughters to Princess Rhaenyra's sons, to speak on the matter.

She knew that the case was already lost for them.

She looked at her hands entwined in on her stomach, wondering how her husband would take it all.

She shuddered as Vaemond Velaryon stepped out into the middle of the throne room again, demanding justice from the king.

"THAT! Is not true Velaryon!" He hissed, pointing angrily at Luke, the boy stepped back, terrified, hidden behind his mother.

She thought that this boy was still just a child.

She couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"Her children…" He started and she looked at him, horrified, the whole room fell silent in suspense and anticipation as to whether he would turn out to be mad or not.

"… are BASTARDS!!!!!" He shouted low, and she, pale, unsure where to look, glanced quickly at her husband, his healthy eye wide open in shock, awe and satisfaction at the same time.

"And she… is… a whore."

She felt that this was already too much, that this man would surely not escape the King's punishment and wrath, wondering how he could be such a fool, allow himself to be so provoked.

The king was furious, suddenly there was no sign of illness or fatigue on his face; he rose from his throne on his trembling hand, drawing a dagger from behind his robe.

"I… will have your tongue for that…" He exhaled.

Suddenly the whole room screamed at once, Aemond stepped forward, shielding her with his body and she involuntarily grasped his arm, unable to suppress a squeal of horror and surprise, turning her head quickly away from the gruesome sight.

Daemon Targaryen stood over Vaemond Valeryon's half-cut head, looking at his body with disapproval, leaning on his sword.

His Dark Sister.

She watched it in disbelief with her lips parted wide in shock and looked questioningly at her husband.

She saw something in his gaze as he looked at his uncle from afar that she had not expected.

Admiration.

Daemon turned his sword in his hand, stepping back before the guards could reach him to disarm him.

"He can keep his tongue."

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Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

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