#watch this space and you might see her holding aemond’s hand | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lis-likes-fics · 7 months ago

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Shijetra Nyke, Mandia

Pairings: Daemon Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader Word Count: 5.9k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, technically dubcon bc coercion, fingering, implied age gap (she's laena's little sister), multiple orgasms, p in v sex, breeding kink, sort of cheating, mentions of death and war, swearing, technically reader is black but she can be read as any race, High Valyrian, Daemon is not a good person... A/N: Hey, everyone! Was trying to hold off on this one but I decided to just post it anyway. Super excited for HOTD S2 to come out in June. I promise there are ideas for Aemond but writing sucks so much ass so it's just taking a while to get to it. Thank you so much and happy reading!

The seas are steady tonight. As the moon glints off its gentle waves, the water seems to mourn as you do. It was hard to find sleep. You came all the way out here to watch the crashing waves, in hopes of finding some solace in the sea, but even it does not seem to have the strength to roar tonight.

Your nightgown blows in the soft winds of the night as you watch the ocean.

The rustling of sand pulls a sigh from you, and you grit your teeth as you turn away from the man coming to stand next to you. You don't have to look at him to know who it is. You could tell him anywhere.

“I wish to be alone,” you whisper.

Daemon clasps his hands in front of himself as he looks out at the sea. “That is understandable, my lady.”

“And, yet, you are still here.” You look up at him, your features hard as you glare.

His voice is soft. You're not quite sure it fits him. The non-confrontation in his voice feels strange.

“I thought you might need company,” he says, examining your face as he does. For a moment, you think he can see the ghosts of the dried tears you've shed. “It has been a tiring day, after all.”

You huff, turning away again. Looking at him for too long makes your skin crawl. “I have not want of company.”

He hums. “I said ‘need’, not want.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, I have no need for your company.”

He seems unphased by your hostility. “Even so…” he looks down at you, the look in his eyes sending a shiver down your spine, “you shall have it.” You stare at him, wanting to step back but not wanting to give him that satisfaction. He turns his body to face yours, craning his head down to watch you better.

He lowers his voice to a whisper as he leans in, as if there were thousands of people here and the secret he is to bestow upon you is too dangerous to say aloud. “It is in times like these, I hear, times where we are most vulnerable, that a bit of presence does one good.”

Despite your urge to stay planted in your sandy spot, you take a small step back without breaking your feigned confidence. “Very well, then,” you say. “You may go and fetch someone else to give me presence. I do not need yours.”

He almost seems amused, though he dies it well. He leans his head back a slight. “You despise me so, yet I have done nothing.”

You let out a breathy scoff, turning away from him and toward your humorless response. “Well, that's the whole of it, isn't it?” You shake your head, your frustration piquing once more. “You've done nothing.”

He hums. “I don't think I understand.”

You look at him, and he can see the anger simmering in your gaze. “Don't you?” You step closer to him, invading his space as he does yours, daring to play his game. “Where were you when my sister left her birthing bed? Where were you when she left the walls of the castle to give herself to her dragon's breath?” Your voice broke as the pain threatened to tear apart your anger. “Where were you when she ordered Vaghar to take her life?”

He almost rolls his eyes at your accusations. “I tried to stop her.”

“But you didn't try hard enough,” you seethe. “Or she would be standing next to me.”

He steps closer, taking the control back. His voice is still quiet, though his level tone is twinged with annoyance. “Laena had her own spirit,” he insists. “She did as she liked well enough. I see not why I should have blame for her own decisions.” His near lack of regard fuels you. “And besides, she would have died anyway. The maesters told me so.”

You shove him back, and your rage is flared by the knowledge that he only moves because he allows you to move him.

“She was everything to me!” Your uneven breaths have your chest heaving as your voice echoes across the water. “Not only my sister, my blood—she was my protector.” You sigh shakily, angrily wiping away the tears welling in your eyes. Your voice softens, though not because you want it to. “Now she is gone.”

He remains silent for a moment, letting it sit until it's no longer comfortable. He tilts his head, still standing so close. “And yet, I am not to blame.”

You roll your eyes, unable to look him in the eyes anymore as you look past his head. “Do you even care?”

“Of course I care,” he insists. “She was my lady wife, after all.”

You raise a brow. “Yet you do not mourn.”

He shrugs a shoulder, entirely unconvincing. “Everyone mourns differently.”

You nod. “And you mourn by shedding no tears and strutting through the castle halls?”

Daemon hums. “You must forgive me if I have offended you, my lady.”

You stare up at him, unblinking as your rage and grief continues to give you the strength to look in his eyes and speak your truth. “You have, and I don't.”

A huge part of that strength crumbles when he steps so close to you that you're forced to step back. You falter, a momentarily fear in your eyes at the predatory gaze in his own. His eyes seem to examine you, taking in each and every little curve of your body every crease in your dress. You try not to shrink under his scrutinization.

His voice is so soft, and your flesh crawls with the sound of it. “What do you need from me?”

You have no choice but to break eye contact. It's too much, too close. You swallow thickly, your voice quieting to a low request, rather than the command you had wanted. “I need nothing from you but for you to remove yourself from my presence. Hastily.”

He stands completely still for a while, his eyes just as fixed on your face. When he moves, it almost startles you. His hand reaches up to touch your face, his fingertips brushing your cheek. You're quick to swat him away with a harsh swipe of your hand, taking a step back. “Do not touch me.”

He says nothing, and the silence is unbearable. He just…watches you. His gaze is intense, focused, terrifying. He stands there, still as a statue for the longest time, before making another attempt for your face. You're just as quick as the first, if not quicker with your flickering frustrations.

“I said don't–”

He grabs your face, not caring this time for gentleness as his dull nails dig into the flesh of your jaw and hold you, pulling you close and keeping there, no matter how much you fight him. Your heart pounds against your ribs, beating so heavily that you think it'll stop any moment now. The fear that washes over you is both a searing chill and a molten burn. “Get off of me!”

Leaning in close, he shakes his head. “Shh, “ he bids. “Hush, little river.”

You hate that. Your family calls you that on occasion because you're the youngest of the Velaryon siblings, Laena especially. It's meant to be kind, for rivers are the waters that feed the sea, but when Daemon says it, you feel so small. You feel so insignificant. He taunts you with it.

“Don't call me that,” you hiss. “Get off of me!” You try to push him away, but as you suspect, he doesn't budge. But his next words make you freeze in your spot.

“You are just as beautiful as her,” he says, tilting his head as he stares. “Your sweet sister.”

You're stunned into silence, into stillness. You stare wide-eyed at him, holding your breath as the sound of the waves slowly beginning to build and the sound of your own heart beating away in your chest fill your ears.

You blink, confusion and shock coloring your face. “What?”

He tilts his head. “I wanted you, you know,” he whispers, his words lingering in the tiny space between you. You can hardly breathe, but you can't look away with his iron grip on your face. “When I married your big sister, I wanted it to be you I would bed that night… I only settled for her.”

Your shaking breath became loud as you tried to remove his hand from you, grasping his wrist with all your strength in an effort to pull him away, to no avail. “Daemon. Don't do this–”

“Now that she has taken her leave of us, bless her…” the slightest smirk slips onto his lips, “I am free to pursue my true desires.”

You shake your head, “Daemon–”

You turn your head just in time to avoid his kiss as his lips press against your cheek. Your squirm, squeezing your eyes shut as frightened tears spring to your eyes. Daemon chuckles darkly, taking a slip of your flesh between his teeth in a nip.

You have no control when he turns your head for you. His lips press hungrily into yours, forcing his lust down your throat whether you want it or not. Your protest comes out as a whimper, and it fuels his fire as his arm snakes around your waist and pulls you flush against his body.

You push against him, struggling to get any traction to shove him away. You reach around to grab his hand at your waist, pulling at his pinkie until you've bent it too far for him to continue holding you. He pulls away, pride shining in his face as he smirks. You push him, but this time he doesn't move.

“Get your fucking hands off me before I call for Arlaryx!” Your command is sharp, but he doesn't seem all that phased by it. You honestly hadn't expected him to be.

He inclines his head back, sneering. “And bring her against my war-grown beast?” He stalks forward, invading your space again, no matter how far you stumble back. “You know your dear thing would not stand a chance.”

The thought of your precious creature in the jaws of Daemon's monstrous demon makes your blood run cold. He's right. She would not be enough against Caraxes.

You shake your head. Your voice is weak. “Please.”

He sighs contently, his smile curling into something especially evil. “I like you begging,” he purrs. “So small and sweet you are, when you do not spit venom.”

A deep snarl just barely resounds over the waves picking up about the sea. As you look over your shoulder, you both take in the sight of Arlaryx, her scales almost as blue as sapphires, a color that blends with the deep seas.

Her towering figure stalks out onto the beach, smoke billowing from her nose as she watches the both of you. Another snarl rumbles in her chest.

The faint sound of another snarl, one much different from her own, is heard seemingly in the back of your mind. But you know you did not imagine it. By the smirk on Daemon's face, you know you have not imagined it.

He bends down, his lips by your ear as he whispers. “Do you want to do this, little river?”

You stare at her, your eyes watering at the haunting images of her torn apart on the sand. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you know she feels it because she begins to snarl again. Her claws dig into the sand, her long tail swishes the water when she takes another step forward.

You steady your breath, opening your mouth and hesitating for a moment. You clear your throat, speaking as level as you can manage.

“Dohaeris, Alarlyx,” you command, swallowing roughly. “Dohaeris. Nyke sȳz.”

The beast makes no move to leave, and you sigh heavily. Curse her and her loyalties. They will get her killed.

You steel your voice, trying to sound stronger than you feel. She will not listen to you if you sound weak. “Lyrkiri,” you insist. The smoke diminishes, becoming thinner and thinner until it has stopped. “Sōvēs, Arlaryx, sōvēs.”

She lifts a heavy claw, easing slightly like she'll actually listen.

Then Daemon wraps an arm around your midsection, pulling your body against his as he presses a kiss to your forehead. You wince, squirming in his grasp.

Arlaryx’s mind seems to be made up. She crouches again, advancing slowly once more as her snarls become louder. Smoke arises once again from her nostrils as she opens her mouth, the burning heart of her rage billowing inside of her.

You both know it's just a threat. She would not put you in such danger, but Daemon's crimes against you have officially enraged her.

But Caraxes’ distant croaks and growls fill your head, and you can't stand it. You nearly shout, sounding almost as desperate as you feel as you drop your voice and command her.

“Dohaeris, Arlaryx,” you bellow. “Dohaeris se sōvēs.”

Her warning snarls are replaced with a sort of whining sound as she takes a hesitant step back. She grunts, and you watch the smoke dissipate. Unfurling her great wings, she takes flight as she disappears into the night. Caraxes’ sounds have ceased. You sigh, almost relieved until Daemon's teeth nip at your ear. Anxiety fills you once more.

“That one is just as stubborn as you.” He kisses your cheek, his tongue darting out to taste the skin. He inhales your scent, and a shiver runs down your spine.

Shutting your eyes, you let out a shaky breath. “Just get this over with.”

Anticipation swirls in your belly, the prospect of his hands on you, his mouth, his…

But he just laughs at you, pulling away from your body and leaving you cold. You turn, surprise on your face as you try to figure out why he'd suddenly pulled away from you. Is he so fickle in his interests that he should let you go before having his way?

You have half a mind to run.

“Ȳdra daor gaomagon bona.” Don't do that. He remains close, his predatory gaze follows you. “Nyke gīmigon jaelā nyke, riña. Tepagon isse, byka qelbar.” I know you want me, girl. Give in, little river.

You clench your jaw, balling your hands into fists as you step closer. “Nyke ȳdra daor jaelagon ao,” you spit. I don't want you.

He chuckles, leaning in until your faces are inches apart. “Pirtra.” Lies.

He takes a step forward, continuing this back and forth dance—you step, he steps, forward and back, left and right. Then he begins to circle you as you stand there, feeling as small as he probably views you.

“You think I don't notice when your eyes follow me down the hall?” he asks, and the question makes your blood run cold. “You think I don't see you peeking over your cup at dinner?” He stops behind you, pressing his chest to your back and whispering in your ear, his lips caressing the shell. “You crave my touch so deeply, it makes you look pathetic.”

His arms snake around your waist as he pulls you close. Your breath catches in your throat when you feel his hand teasing you, reaching down, down, down.

“I hear you.” Your breath hitches. “At night when you touch yourself to my name.” The smallest breath slips from your lips when his hand cups your heat, his finger teasing your clit over your gown.

“Does it feel good?” His voice is a purr in your ear. “Imagining my fingers plunging inside of you? Wishing it was my teeth sunk into your flesh and not your own nails digging into your skin?”

Your legs tremble, his words resonating in your bones. You shake your head, taking a breath for courage as you object.

“You are not mine,” you whisper, your voice weak. You break out of his hold, turning to watch him as you try to recollect your wavering dignity. “Dead or alive, you are my sister's. I will not sully her memory this way.”

“Oh, come off it.” He comes closer. “Either way, your sister is dead. Why deny yourself pleasure for the memory of a dead sister?”

You slap him. His head whips to the side as your hand inspires a large red blush over his cheek. His fingers brush his skin, a large crooked grin taking his face as he slowly turns to look at you.

You take a small step back, anxiety creeping into you at the way he watches you, like prey being stalked by a cruel beast. He says nothing as he stands there. He begins to walk forward.

And you run.

Sand kicks into the air as you bolt away, your breath loud in your ears and your heart heavy in your chest. Tears spring to your ears as the exertion, the cold thrill of his hunt encourages your escape.

You don't get far. He's faster than you, and his strength is far superior to yours as he wraps his arms around you and lifts you from the ground. You kick your feet, trying to break free from his hold. But it's of no use. You shout over the crashing waves of the tides, waves that have picked up since Daemon arrived. Like they mourn with you, they fight for you, too.

He wrestles you to the ground, flipping you onto your back as he pins your arms down by your head. He looms over you, positioning himself between your legs and ignoring your fight like you're nothing against him. And perhaps you are.

“Go ahead,” he grins, spurred on by your struggle. “Pretend you despise me. Perhaps, now, you do.” He leans in close, whispering in your ear. “But we are all the way out here, with no one to hear your screams but the sea.”

Your fight diminishes, the reality of his words sinking in. You look at him, your eyes wide and struck with adrenaline-coated tears. His gaze is dark, his smile even darker. He shifts one of your arms to the other, grasping both your wrists in one of his big hands as the other strokes your side, dipping beneath your thin gown to touch your bare skin beneath. You shudder at the feeling, anxiety pooling in your belly at the knowledge that you can do nothing to fight him.

“Will you lose breath screaming or cumming?”

Your voice is weak and broken. It's barely a whisper when you speak. “Please.”

He shushes you, his lips so close to yours. You can almost feel it, the heat of his kiss as he would devour you.

And then he does. He presses his lips roughly against yours, his tongue slipping past them to taste you. He grips your side, his dull nail digging into your flesh. You can't help the whine you let out into his mouth, regretting the way you seek him out, especially after he pulls away. And he smiles triumphantly, knowing he has you right where he wants you.

“Don't worry, little river.” A quiet gasp erupts from your chest when his hand cups your bare cunt, his fingers rubbing against your folds before he parts them to plunge his finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open, sharp breaths teetering in and out at the way he touches you, at the way you clench around his finger like you'll die if he pulls away now.

“I'll give you what you've been craving all these years.”

He moves like fire. His hand is insistent as his finger plunges in and out of your wet heat, pulling more and more arousal from your already damp folds. You clench your jaw, stifling your moans as he forces the pleasure down your throat.

When he thrusts another finger inside of you, you moan at the stretch, your eyes rolling back at the way he curls them inside of you. You grab his arm, gripping it tight, though you're not sure if you're trying to stop him or not.

He moves quickly. You don't have time to catch up with the harsh thrusts of his fingers, so you lay back and take it as the pleasure explodes all over your body.

It feels so good. His fingers reach deeper, faster, too. The feeling of someone else's fingers inside of you instead of your own is so foreign. Your frantic breath makes you light-headed, and you can hardly keep your thoughts straight.

“I know it's exhausting,” he mumbles as his palm slaps against your clit, “fighting me.”

But you must fight. For your sister, who meant so much to you. You must fight against this man who let her die. Who would you be if you allowed yourself to succumb to your late sister's husband? She practically raised you, and this is how you repay her?

But here you are. She died hardly two days ago, and you were laying on the sand with Daemon's fingers in your cunt.

Being in this position is surreal. Because he was right, you had been craving this moment for years, wanting so deeply to feel Daemon's passion on your skin. His lips brush your cheek, and he murmurs into your ear. “You'll feel better when you let go.”

Your breath hitches. “Daemon.”

“That's it,” he smirks, feeling you leaning into him. “Close your eyes and give in to me, little river.”

Your eyes flutter shut. The pace of his hand, the feeling of his fingers thrusting so deeply, the pleasure scours your body until you feel yourself reaching your limit.

“Ȳdra daor keligon, Daemon,” you sigh, your voice high with bliss as you pull your hands away from his grasp. “Nyke jorrāelagon ziry.” Don't stop. I need it.

“Qilōni?” Who?

“Ao!” You! You moan, rolling your hips into his hand as he continues to coax your release from you. Your head is spinning, and you've long since left reason behind. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao,” you beg. I need you.

You turn your head to lay your eyes upon the sea, the pleasure within you swelling like the waves crashing against the shore. “Shijetra nyke, mandia.”

Forgive me, sister.

Your lips part and your back arches off the sand as you come undone. Your moans echo off the waters, becoming all the worse when Daemon's teeth nip the flesh of your neck.

It feels amazing, freeing almost. His hand continues to work out through your pleasure, even when it all fades into oversensitivity. He lets go of you, pulling away from your body and staring down at you. You watch through hooded eyes as he examines his hand, watching the way your arousal glistens off his fingers in the moonlight. He looks at you as he licks his fingers clean.

The scene is so erotic, the way he groans at the taste of you on his tongue. “Such a magnificent treat you are,” he hums. He bends down and takes your lips against his own, his tongue licking into your mouth as you taste yourself on him.

You watch as his hand reaches for his belt, and you can't help the way your legs close at the thought of him revealing himself to you. He reaches a hand out, gripping your knee and pushing your legs apart again. “Do not move.”

You do as you're told, waiting with bated breath as he unlatches his belt and sets himself free. You gasp silently at the sight of him, long and solid and flushed pink at the tip. When your eyes lock with his, he looks quite proud of himself.

Daemon turns you on your belly, positioning you as he wants you, with your face shoved into the sand and your hips in the air. His harsh hands grope your body, your ass, your waist, your thighs. You groan, your hips jerking when his thumbs spread your folds apart.

“You're fucking dripping,” he says, a dark smirk in his words as he runs a finger between them.

“Kostilus,” you whisper, taking handfuls of sand to try to control yourself. You were in too deep. Your desire for him has turned to a desperate need embedding itself in the pit of your stomach. Please.

He chuckles, “Say it again.”

You have no mind to refuse him. You've long since lost your dignity, and you've betrayed your sister like you never thought you would. It's too late for you. Why deny yourself pleasure over broken promises?

“Kostilus, Daemon,” you whine, shuddering at the way his hand strokes down your spine. “Nyke jaelagon ao.” I want you.

He puts you out of your misery with a harsh thrust into your needy cunt. You moan, your heavy breaths blowing sand into the air. “Ondoso se gods…” By the gods…

A long groan rumbles in his chest as he closes his eyes, relishing in the feel of your tight pussy. “Fuck,” he curses as he bottoms out. “You are a virgin.” He grips your hips, burying himself so deep that you feel like you can't breathe. “With all your supposed virtue, I thought you were pretending you weren't a dirty whore.”

As he grips you tight, Daemon doesn't take you, he fucks you. He holds you, digs his nails in your flesh. He thrusts his cock in and out of your tight hole, fast and rough and with the recklessness of a starving man devouring his food. The ocean rages. You're not sure if it's a reflection of your betrayal or your need. The sea is strange in that way, it's versatility.

You wish you could disappear into the dark waters, break away from this beast of a man and let the sea consume you. At least then you'd be at peace with yours, part of the waters of your bloodline.

But here are you, consumed by fire as you ignore the burn of the sand scratching your skin. It's a molten kind of pleasure, the kind that oozes out of you in lingering bliss and deep desires. You're slick with arousal, which makes it easier for him to glide in and out of you. His relentless pace smacks against you, the sound of it echoes through the air with the heavy heat of his passion.

Your position is so compromising. Anyone could happen across you. Anyone could walk the shoreline and find you being fucked into the sand by your sister's husband.

Your rationale falls short because the fear of it is nowhere near as strong as it should be. If the lords of Pentos saw you, they would surely gossip. Word would spread through the city, and that word would spread all the way across the sea. Everyone would know, your nieces, your brother, your mother and father. They would reject, disown you. They would strip you of Velaryon, you would be just another Waters bastard of Driftmark.

You could say he made you. You could tell them he threw you to the sand and took you as he pleased, ravaged you as though you were nothing but meat. But Corlys would go to war over you. To have your honor destroyed in such a way, it would be a war of sea against fire, a war full of bloodshed and hatred.

The idea has you running cold, but the chill doesn't last long with the way Daemon's hips thrust into you, full of his own fire.

“What I wouldn't give to spend every moment snug in this virgin cunt,” he grunts, reaching forward as he flattens his hand against the back of your skull. He twists your hair around his fingers and pulls, keeping you secure in his grip. You go limp at the feeling, the weakness seeping into your bones.

“Perhaps I should breed you,” he sighs with a laugh. “I'll fill you full of my seed, maybe even keep you as my broodmare. I'll keep you round with my children, always ready for me to fuck as I please. Is that what you want, little river?”

So truly blinded by your pleasure, you have no choice but to agree. You lean into the way he makes you feel, letting your troubles melt away, your concerns and your hesitations a thing of the past. They will do you no good now.

“Yes,” you gasp, allowing yourself to be ravaged. “Yes, Daemon, I want that.”

The triumphant look in his eyes shines at the way you give in so completely. Empowered by your submission, his thrusts become more merciless. He grunts and groans behind you, tugging on your hair and holding you still as you return the passion.

All of the sudden, he pulls out of you, leaving you cold and shaking. A stray whine seeps off your tongue, but you have no time to let it linger before he’s flipping you onto your back. He throws your legs onto his shoulder and shoves himself back inside of you in just a couple fluid motions. His ruthless thrusts have you nearly crying for him. The blunt head of his cock reaches so deeply like this, punching against that spongy part inside of you as stars swirl in your vision.

“It feels so good,” you moan, though you’re sure your words are nearly incoherent. It feeds Daemon’s ego either way, encouraging a rougher fuck as he gives you what you want, gives himself what he’s been craving all along. He was right. You do feel as good as he thought, better even. You’re so tight, so inexperienced and untouched that all of his cruel pleasure wrecks your body in your sensitivity.

“You can get louder, can’t you?” he asks, bending down to fold you in half for a different angle.

Your head falls back against the sand. You must look a mess, covered in tiny grainy crystals, hair all over the place. But it doesn’t matter. That’s probably what he wants. Your hands reach up to touch his face, pulling him close as he continues to fuck into you. His thrusts are shorter, harder now. You’re running out of breath quickly, struggling to keep up.

“Fuck, don’t stop!” The breathy wail feels almost like it was forced from your lungs. As he reaches his hand down to touch your clit, you’re done for and you know it. “Oh, Daemon, please.”

He’s intent on making you cum, and with the skill he’s acquired throughout his years, you know he’ll be successful. He’s already got you crying his name.

“Are you going to cum on my cock, girl?” he questions, his breath heavy and his hair messy upon his head. “I know you want to, you’re squeezing me so tight.” You cant your hips up into his own, seeking out your sweet release as he hangs it over your head. “Tell me who you want.”

Your eyes, blurry with tears, watch him hazily. “You.”

He tuts. “You can do better than that. If you want to cum, you will tell me who you want to breed this tight little hole of yours.”

You have no mind to refuse him—you have no mind to do anything but follow where the pleasure takes you. With shallow breaths, you blink pleasure tears from your eyes. “I want you, Daemon. Please, I want you to cum in me and make me your whore.”

He doesn’t know if you could have said it any better. Making harsh circles over your clit, he fucks you with all the strength he’s got. You feel like he’ll bruise you with how brutal he’s being. You feel a tightening coil in your belly, one that just clenches and clenches and clenches with every circle on the sensitive pearl he attacks.

“Cum for me, little river,” he commands, leaving you and your body no room to refuse him as he pulls it out of you. “Cum all over my cock and scream my name like the perfect whore that you are.”

And you obey. It’s like a lever being pulled. One moment you’re teetering on the edge, the next you're arching your back and feeling pleasure consuming your body in a fire that makes you shiver. He doesn’t stop fucking you. If anything, the way you tighten around him only makes his thrusts shorter and his grinding rougher. You’re dizzy and your moans are high and pathetic.

He doesn’t stop attacking your clit. You’re so sensitive, once the pleasure wanes and the movements sting, you squirm away from him, but he doesn’t care. He holds you in place and commands you as though you were one of the dragon beasts he meant to train. He wraps his free hand around your throat, leaning down to bite and suck at your neck. “Dohaeris,” he hisses, his tone sharp and quiet but full of so much of a threat that you bear through the discomfort until it twists in your gut into the dizzying sensation of overstimulated pleasure again.

His name falls from your lips like a chant. The sound of it continues to spur him on, his thumb becoming faster as he searches for that same release for himself. “Please, Daemon,” you whimper, “please cum inside of me. I need you to cum inside of me, please.”

You tip him over the edge. With a growl, he shoves his cock as far as he can go, far enough that it hurts when he buries himself so deep. Grinding into you, his hot release fills you to the brim. Encouraged by the adrenaline, his ruthless thumb carries on until you’re cumming with him.

Your sounds mix in the air, his grunts, your moans, the squelching sound of his cock thrusting into your clenching cunt. “Fuck, you take me so well,” he praises, his voice rough with the effects of his release.

With two more thrusts, as rough as he can make them—just for the fun of it—he pulls out of you. You whine, laying limply on the sand. He watches you, smiling at the way you seem to struggle to stay conscious.

He considers just leaving you there to recuperate on your own.

Daemon adjusts himself, stuffing his cock back into his trousers and fixing his belt. He stares at your cunt all the while, using his fingers to shove his cum back inside of you every time it begins to leak out.

He sits you up, fixing your gown and pulling your face to sit inches from his own. “Iksā ñuhon,” he mutters into your ear, his words clear. “Daorys kostagon renigon ao sir.” You shudder at his claim, your eyes fluttering shut as he whispers to you. You are mine. No one can touch you now.

”Do you understand me?” he asks, and you know you cannot refuse.

Not that you ever want to.

You nod slowly, looking up at him as you accept your fate. “Kessa, Daemon.”

He hums. “Good.” Staring at your lips, he leans in and kisses you. He kisses you with force and power, using a kind of domination that was quite unnecessary—given the fact that he’d already taken your virginity and, quite possibly, bred you with his children. There’s a hint of something in the background, however, a hunger, a desperation that seeps into your skin and makes you feel warm.

Under the cruelty is a gentleness that is entirely foreign to you. You chalk it up to imagination as he pulls away, pinching your cheek. “Come with me,” he orders. “I am not done with you yet, my little river.”

Shijetra nyke, mandia.

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#daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x reader smut #daemon targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #fanfic #fanfiction #female reader #reader insert

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horizon-verizon · 2 months ago

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I’m so tired of people claiming that Targaryens would hate Daenerys. I mean, obviously, Maegor, Jaehaerys I, Aemond, Aegon II, Baelor I would despise her, and I don’t think Daeron II would see her as an important person (he would probably sell her off into marriage if it was up to him as well). But her ancestors show up in her dreams to cheer on her and her eldest brother told her the long held dream of their dynasty, transcending space and time.

Maester Aemon wanted to break his vows for her and weeped because he couldn’t reach her. Even Viserys III loved her and tried to protect her before he lost himself to his madness. Not to mention the repeated parallels the text explicitly makes between her and Aegon the Conqueror.

And they’re telling us that Rhaenys and Alysanne, two queens known for loving the smallfolk, women and children, wouldn’t like her ? Alysanne who lost her own Daenerys ? Or the dragon twins, Rhaena so sweet and romantic, and Baela who is fearless and scrappy ? Bold and audacious Targaryen women like Visenya, Alyssa, Rhaenys the queen who never was, Daena the Defiant, and Elaena ? Targaryen women accused of practicing witchcraft and bathing in blood, like Rhaena the Black Bride and Shiera Seastar ? Rhaena the BB, Rhaenys, and Rhaenyra should have ascend the Iron Throne but were usurped but they wouldn’t see Daenerys as their revenge ?

Aegon V wanted to bring dragons back to force the high lords to accept his radical reforms for the smallfolk. Why wouldn’t he like the girl who brings them back and terrorizes slavers with them ?

Aegon III spent his days visiting the sick and sat with them for hours, holding their hands in his own, soothing their brows with damp cloths, wanted to give the smallfolk “peace and food and justice” and claimed that “full bellies and dancing bears shall be [his] policy”. But he would hate Daenerys ? Seriously ?

Anyway maybe this is a long ramble, but House Targaryen isn’t a monolith. Each era is different, each person is different. I think Targ antis need to read ASOIAF and Fire & Blood, not just watch HOTD before making these claims.

I don't think most Targs would "hate" Daenerys, but many could be puzzled by how she is a lot more selfless or family-focused than not, like Visenya. Those men you mention, absolutely, but that just hammers in how none of them are really worth my respect. Jaehaerys, for ruling through choosing good council people and "listening" to Alysanne, sure, but eh 🤷🏿‍♂️. Rhaenyra might not have liked her but neither do i think she'd necessarily despise her. You make great points.

The house isn't a monolith as much as the flip a coin quote and how far the fandom//D&D ran with it to "explain" the Targs and Aerys II. It's not just HotD, it's has been a thing ever since people watched that episodes with Viserys' abuse (without the context of his losses and exile and possible selling himself), how exactly Aerys fell out with Rhaegar, Tyrion citing that Targ kign who said that quote, etc. And since the Targs were leaders in the feudal system, some fans are just never going to like them and fantasize about Westeros becoming democratic under Daenerys' rule or at least just get smashed into a "reset". Or they use Targ-madness to denigrate and diminish any sort of faith in Dany's rationality and compassion/leadership.

#asoiaf asks to me #the targaryens #daenerys stormborn #daenerys targaryen #daenerys stormborn's characterization #agot characterization #character comparison #fire and blood characters #alysanne targaryen #agot #fire and blood #asoiaf

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humanpurposes · 2 years ago

Text

Karma is a God

Chapter 4: King’s Landing

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: Graphic descriptions of violence and death, greif/mourning, angst.

Words: 4700

A/n: Originally posted on AO3, posting to Tumblr before I get back to regular updates.

Vhagar lands on a stretch of shore along the Blackwater. He cannot say what the hour is, only that it is certainly later than he was supposed to return.

He had watched the sunset over Shipbreaker Bay and lingered longer than that. Now the sky is black and the moon shines like the sun, bathing the beach in a low and ghostly light.

Only when the dragon settles can he finally hear his breath, even through the breeze sweeping in unbroken from the sea. His gloved hands are still tight on the reins, but there’s something else bunched in his grip. Red fabric, dark and damp, soaked with seawater and rain.

He wonders if his hands are still his, numb and trembling with cold and… had he truly kept hold of it all this way?

He almost loses his grip as he climbs down from the saddle but keeps the cloak firmly in his grasp. His boots meet the sand and his knees go weak. For a moment he thinks his legs won’t take the weight, but he stands.

Vhagar has left them roughly half a mile from the Red Keep, he concludes, with consideration for the defect of his vision. The castle is little more than a darkened silhouette, so his eye is drawn to the little glimmers of candlelight glowing through the windows. It almost looks peaceful from here, and that feels like a lie.

He looks down at his fist. Some of the fabric has fallen and trails along the sand. He had spent hours searching for a body, and this was all he could find of her.

His stomach drops and he reaches out for the ropes hanging down from the saddle to steady himself. Vhagar gives a slight grumble, likely eager to skulk off and find food. He does not move, keeping himself there as if anchored to her.

But he cannot stay here forever. His family will be expecting news of Storm’s End.

His grandfather will be furious, his mother will never forgive him and Helaena… Helaena might never look at him again.

He begins his march along the beach, to the passageway below the castle and through the deserted halls. Every step feels wrong. His riding leathers are sodden and his eyepatch is loose from the flight, but he does nothing to adjust it. He keeps his head hung and his grip on the cloak tight, until he reaches the entrance hall.

Ser Arryk stands to meet him. “My Prince, the King awaits your arrival in the small council chamber.”

“Have the Lords also been summoned?”

“Yes, my Prince, and the Dowager Queen.”

Aemond’s gaze falls to the knight’s boots. He gives a distant hum in response.

Aegon sits at the table with the crown of the conqueror on his head. Considering he had to be dragged from the streets of King’s Landing to be crowned, his brother has settled rather comfortably into his throne. He does not have the presence of a King, the mind nor the strength, but in a few short days he has found the pride of one.

Their mother stands over his left shoulder, and Criston Cole over his right, while Otto Hightower sits in his usual place, face as grim and grave as ever. The other Lords sit along the left, Jasper Wylde, Maester Orwyle, and Tyland Lannister. The space once held by Lord Beesbury is still empty.

“Brother,” Aegon says. His voice is bright but his eyes are dark. “You look awful–”

“What news of Storm’s End?” Otto interrupts.

Aemond realises he is frozen in the doorway, but he can’t convince his legs to walk any further.

Why couldn’t he have just stayed on the beach?

Why couldn’t he have just let her go?

“Lord Borros has pledged to support your claim,” he mutters, “and I in turn have agreed to marry Floris Baratheon.”

“The prettiest of the four storms, so I hear,” Aegon grins. “Baratheon blood is strong if our nephews and niece are anything to go by. I wonder, shall your brood have hair as dark as their cousins?”

Aemond does not reply and his expression does not flinch.

“We received word from the Maester at Storm’s End,” his grandfather says, “that Princess Lucerra was attempting to treat with Lord Borros on her mother’s behalf.”

Aemond furrows his brows and swallows the lump building in his throat. “Indeed, she arrived not long after I did.”

“And her efforts were unsuccessful?”

A sharp pain strikes his chest. Until this moment he’s been fooling himself, allowing himself a glimmer of hope that if he says nothing it cannot be true. His lips remain tight, his hands in fists by his side. He is stalling and every pair of eyes in the room can see it.

His mother’s gaze falls to the cloak spilling from his grip. “Aemond…” He is used to seeing this melancholic look in her eyes, but there’s a new spark of fear in her. She catches her lower lip between her teeth as she starts to pick at her nails. He wonders if she even realises she’s doing it. “Their Maester he…”

Otto Hightower’s patience is wearing thin. “It is said you threatened the Princess.”

Aemond forces a small hum from his throat, but there are no words that follow.

He can see it all before his waking eyes, the flash of fire and Vhagar’s reins around his hands as he tried to deter her attack. As her jaws closed around Arrax’s body with an ear-splitting crunch he had tasted blood, and it is still faint on his tongue.

“Speak, boy,” the Hand demands in a tone usually reserved for Aegon, “we must know the whole truth.”

The whole truth.

The truth is he liked having her at his mercy.

The truth is he had felt a strange sort of elation when she entered the Round Hall. The Gods must have designed such a coincidence. His pretty little bastard niece, with a message in her hand and a blade on her hip, while the fate of the Kingdom hung in the balance.

The whole truth.

The truth is he had felt Vhagar’s bloodlust surging through his veins, and had been powerless to stop it.

And what kind of a man does that make him?

“I killed her.”

The room was quiet before. Now it is a void of sound. The silence throbs in his ears as his eye falls to his brother. Aegon stares back, his eyes wide enough to border on mania.

“What?”

“I pursued her as she left the castle. Vhagar tore Arrax to pieces and she fell.”

His grandfather’s voice is like gravel, low and scathing. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”

He feels everything and somehow nothing. “She owed a debt–”

“And you have taken far more than you were owed!” Otto bellows, standing from his seat. “You only lost one eye at her hand, how could you be so blind?”

“No, this is a victory!” Aegon insists. His eyes stay on Aemond and he nods. “We shall celebrate my brother’s triumph, his first taste of a true battle.” Then he turns to Otto, assured but with an understated venom to his words. “It is what you have always wanted, is it not, grandfather?”

“You fools! Rhaenyra might have accepted terms of peace, but now… now she will be out for blood.”

At the sound of a muffled sob Aemond looks to his mother. She has her head in her hands. “Mother have mercy on us all.”

When he returns to his chambers the first thing to come off is the eyepatch, then he sheds his boots and his riding leathers. He keeps Lucerra’s cloak bunched in his hands, but when he turns towards the bathtub he supposes he must part with it. He places it over an armchair by the fire to dry.

His servant assures him the water is tepid, but his skin burns and his core shivers.

Of the Princelings and Princesses of the Red Keep, Luke had the widest smile, the most obnoxious laugh, the quickest temper and the brightest presence.

She had a habit of finding him when he didn’t want to be found, trailing him through the gardens, barging into his chambers and perching at his feet like a puppy begging for attention. On the occasions of feasts and celebrations, he would have been happy enough to fade into the background, but she would snatch his arm and drag him to the dancefloor with a smug grin on her lips.

He found no solitude in the library either. He always sat at the same desk, by a window overlooking the bay. She would not be far behind, placing her chin on his shoulder and hanging her arms over his front so he had to read through her hair.

She was so relentless with her questions. “Why did Aegon forge the Iron Throne? Why did Maegor have so many wives? Why do we have dragons?”

“It is our birthright,” he said to the latter, “as the blood of Valyria, as Targaryens.”

“But you do not have a dragon.”

“No.”

“Why?”

For that he had no answer. He had born with the title of ‘Prince’, the name ‘Targaryen’ and the silver hair and violet eyes of Old Valyria but he could not claim their greatest birthright. While she and her brothers, dark-haired and Strong, had each hatched their eggs.

She leaned in to press a small pillowy cheek against his. “When Arrax is large enough, you can ride with me.”

If only they could have been children forever.

He has not known a moment of peace since Driftmark and it is all because of her. He has felt her, with every sudden strike of pain in his head, with every whisper of “monster” and “one-eye”. Even his own reflection is a reminder of that night.

Six years he waited. And when he heard news that Rhaenyra was returning to the Red Keep to stake her son’s claim to Driftmark, he took to the skies on Vhagar, circling over the Kingswood for hours, untouchable and undistracted.

He dreamed of slashing out her eye, carving out her heart and leaving her to be found somewhere in a quiet corridor of the castle in a pool of her own blood. A drastic fantasy, one he had no intentions of fulfilling unless he wanted to lose his head. Of course, Lucerra could get away with maiming the King’s son, but his father would not be so merciful to him.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting. They had been children when they last met, and his last look of her had hardly been with much fondness.

He had spotted Jace first, his face indisputably resembling Ser Harwin Strong from brow to chin, though lacking his natural father’s build. It was hard to believe he possessed a single drop of his mother’s blood. But Lucerra, despite the dark curls falling around her shoulders and those wide brown eyes, was nothing less than Rhaenyra Targaryen’s daughter, made only more apparent with maturity. She had the same deep set eyes, the same nose, the same stern and solemn gaze. Yet her beauty was less severe than her mother’s, in the round of her cheeks, her soft jaw, the slight fullness in her lower lip.

He couldn’t stop looking, and neither could she. Perhaps it was out of guilt, or fear, but whatever it was he decided he liked it.

When Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk those years ago, he had felt nothing short of repulsed. When he had indulged a few of the Ladies of the court, he felt unimpressed and underwhelmed. For a while he thought there was something (else) wrong with him, that where his brother seemed to think of nothing but fucking whores and harassing serving girls, his mind was elsewhere.

But he felt it in her presence, as her eyes met his across the table, as he followed her from the dining hall like a shadow and held her body against the wall, the want he had been waiting for. He had expected her mouth to taste bitter, but she had tasted sweet, like a promise of victory. He didn’t understand it, the heat and exhilaration as his hands roamed her body, as she sighed breathlessly against his ear, all too eager to right her past wrongs, chasing her high under his touch.

“I do not want him to hate me,” she said.

That’s not how it was supposed to be.

Six years of anguish, what had it all been for? Reeling in his bed at bouts of pain that even milk of the poppy could not sedate. The humiliation of misjudging his own vision when undertaking even the most mundane of tasks. All the hours he had endured his mother’s pity as she buried her face in his hair and wept. All the stares. All the whispers. All because of a doe-eyed and vicious little Princess.

“I hate her,” he would whisper, to his pillow, to the fire, to the images of the Seven, to the skies and beyond, “I hate her. I hate her.”

Even if he tried, he knows he cannot bring himself to say those words now.

And what was it all for if he cannot hate her?

Trembling fingers absentmindedly trace his scar. It is hers as much as it is his, a mark of her cruelty, her impulsivity, just her.

He slips below the surface of the water. He holds his breath until his heart pounds in his head and his lungs burn. His body betrays him. His mouth opens for a sharp intake of water and only then does he force himself up, choking and coughing violently as his lungs dispel the intrusion.

He hardly sleeps. By the time he closes his eyes it is dawn and his servant returns with a plate of cured meats and the news that the King means to hold a feast in his honour.

He does his duty. When he goes to greet his mother she turns her head and pretends not to hear him. When he looks to Helaena her eyes are fixed on her empty plate. She mutters to herself, her usual riddles, the kind he supposes he will never decipher. So he takes his place beside his brother. He does not speak and does not touch the platters of food laid out before him.

The rest of the hall is hesitant to indulge the King’s wishes for revelry. The conversations are hushed, the music quiet, and no one dares to make a step for the dancefloor.

Aegon leans over him and Aemond winces at the sour stench of wine on his breath. “You needn’t look so glum,” he says, “you have made a triumphant start for us.”

Having his brother’s approval feels like an insult, but he is the only person who has spoken a word to him since his return, the only member of his family who will look him in the eye.

Time doesn’t make sense anymore. Hours feel like weeks and days are mere moments as they slip by.

It is uncertain how quickly word will spread or when the news will finally reach Dragonstone, but when it does war will follow. Their allies are few but enough to secure power. Aegon is the anointed King, his rule will not be undone so long as they hold the capital. That is all they need. An attack on King’s Landing is unlikely, not with Vhagar defending it.

One morning he finds himself heading for Helaena’s chambers. He used to visit her and the children each morning. Now, when he goes to her, he finds he has little to say.

Their relationship has often been one of few words. Since childhood they have been happy to sit in a comfortable silence as she sews and he reads, to walk arm in arm through the gardens, to ride Vhagar and Dreamfyre side by side over the Blackwater. Other times one speaks and the other listens; she enthuses over her studies of small creatures, and he recites passages of history.

She’s pacing the room, bouncing little Maelor in her arms and the babe happily gurgles back. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are on the floor, admiring little wooden dragons painted in the image of their parents’ mounts, one gold for Synfyre, the other blue for Dreamfyre.

His presence seems to cast a shadow. Helaena pauses and turns to face him. He scarcely recognises her of late. She looks tired, her pale blue eyes duller and narrower than they should be.

“Helaena-”

“Come children,” she says with her usual sweetness, ushering the twins back to the nursery. His heart shatters at the way she clutches Maelor, turning him into herself, away from danger, away from him.

“Sister, you know I would never-”

“Never what?” She asks sharply.

He clenches his jaw when he notices the tears falling down her face.

She looks into the fireplace as she presses her lips to Maelor’s head. The boy squirms and she gently rocks him into a settled stillness. “We might have escaped this,” she whispers, “but now…”

His sister’s despair is the heaviest burden of all. “I can protect you,” he says. “I will protect you.”

Helaena shakes her head, eyes fixed on the flames. “Bonds of blood are so easily forgotten, and yet never forgiven.”

When he is not by Aegon’s side in meetings of the Small Council, Aemond lingers in his chambers. One night he perches on the end of his bed, glaring down at his eyepatch as he twists it around his fingers. The red cloak remains where he left it a fortnight ago.

The Blacks are mobilising. Daemon has taken Harrenhal and Jacaerys has flown North after leaving the Eyrie. Surely he has gone to Winterfell, to secure an alliance with Lord Stark. If that is true, they cannot hope to match their enemies by numbers, but he and Aegon are hardly concerned, for what is an army of unruly Northmen to the Queen of dragons?

There is little news of the would-be-Queen on Dragonstone. Rhaneyra lost the child she had been carrying the day she learned of Viserys’ death, the very same day Aegon was crowned at the Dragon Pit before the masses of King’s Landing. It is said, as she stood before the funeral pyre, a knight of the kingsguard presented her with the crown of King Jaehaerys.

His eye drifts up to Lucerra’s cloak.

Rhaenyra must surely know by now.

He vaguely becomes aware of a distant clattering of armour before the door bursts open and Ser Criston enters unannounced. He lingers in the door, panting for breath.

The eyepatch falls to the floor as Aemond darts to his feet with an alertness he has not felt for weeks.

Cole’s skin is pale. “The Queen…”

“Which Queen?” He demands.

“You must come with me, my Prince.”

They hurry through the Holdfast, Aemond holds his breath until they walk past the corridor that would lead them to Helaena’s bedchamber. At least his sister is safe.

He follows Cole across the drawbridge, towards the Tower of the Hand. He prepares himself for an endless number of possibilities. His mother may be injured, or ill. She may be dead.

He hears a woman’s screams before they reach the door.

A crowd has gathered outside Queen Alicent’s chambers, guards, servants, curious Lords demanding to know what has transpired within while the remaining Kingsguard attempt to maintain some order.

And then he realises, it is not his mother who is screaming.

Aemond’s heart stops. “Helaena?”

Cole places a hand on the door and pauses. His face melts into a mournful frown. “I am so sorry-”

Aemond’s patience snaps. He barges the door open and storms inside.

The tang of death is thick in the air.

His sister is kneeling in a pool of blood on the floor, screams tearing through her throat, occasionally broken by sobs and gasps for air. She is pawing at two, small, headless bodies.

Aegon hunches over her, tears streaming down his face as he tries to pull her away. “Let them go,” he begs her, “please, Hel, just let them go.”

It does not cease her screams. She flinches at his touch and pushes him away.

Their mother stands to the side of the room, crying too, her face twisted and red. She cradles Maelor in her arms, keeping his head between her shoulder and her neck as the boy shrieks and wails for a mother who cannot hear him.

Aegon looks up to him. His face is hollow and writhing at the horror before him. Aemond has never seen his brother so broken.

His mother says there were two of them, that they came into her chambers through a passage within the walls, and bound her. They waited for Helaena and the children. They said they were debt collectors, come to claim the lives of Jaehaerys and Jaehaera for the loss of Visenya and Lucerra.

He leads the hunt for the perpetrators himself. He has to. He cannot bear the wait, cannot bear to be within the same walls while his family grieves.

They find one at the city gates with the twins’ heads in a sack. He confesses he had been heading for Harrenhal, to collect his payment from Prince Daemon. Aemond ensures he dies screaming, in all the pain he imagines his niece and nephew suffered and more.

The other, a ratcatcher, according to the other man, cannot be found, no matter how he searches, no matter who he questions, no matter how many orders he bellows to the men of the City Watch. Instead he demands that all the city’s ratcatchers be hanged.

It is not enough. The damage has been done.

Aemond stands behind his family when they burn the bodies.

In the years since their marriage, he has never known his siblings to harbour any love outside of their marital duty. Now, as they stand before the funeral pyre, Aegon has his arm over Helaena’s shoulder and she leans into him. Their mother stands on Helaena’s other side, their hands clenched tightly together.

Even their dragons have gathered. Shrykos and Morghul have come to mourn their bound souls, while Dreamfyre watches the scene a little further away, cooing a wounded song.

At Aegon’s order, Sunfyre crawls forwards. “Dracarys.” He chokes as he says it, and the little Prince and Princess are claimed by golden flames.

The blazing heat is intense but the surface of his skin still feels cold. He had overheard his mother saying something about the twins being bound in death as they were in life. What will it matter? He thinks. They are still dead.

When he retires to his chambers he lays out on the bed. He knows sleep will bring him no comfort, so he basks in the silence, the isolation, the awareness of his breath and the pounding of his heart.

And then his mind starts to slip. He sees Luke’s eyes burning with a curious fury across the hall of Storm’s End and the stubborn pout of her lips…

Then he feels her fading into him, her hands on either side of his jaw as she kissed him, her arms around his shoulders, his lips on her skin as she whimpered his name…

He slips further. He sees a storm. He sees her cloak billowing behind her as she falls. He tastes blood. In the distance, someone cries her name…

He wakes to a rumbling in his throat and his own cries echoing through the chamber.

After that he does what he can to dispel sleep. He whispers Valyrain poetry to himself, counts every individual scale on Vhagar’s hide from memory, thinks through games of cyvasse in his head, but nothing works for long.

He keeps slipping back to her.

There is one horror that might spare his mind from the image of Lucerra, made all the more tangible when he can hear his sister’s screams and sobs echoing through the Holdfast.

So he lies there, drifting between consciousness and tormented sleep, tears falling effortlessly down his face. He wants it to stop. He wants to tear his other eye from his face, pull his hair out from the root, scratch at his skin until there is nothing left but blood. But he does not.

Three lives lost because of him, and how devastatingly simple the exchange had been.

At the behest of their mother, Aemond visits his brother at the same hour each day.

He finds what he has come to expect, newly replaced furnishings slashed and upturned, glass cups and mirrors shattered to fragments, books previously untouched torn to shreds and littered about the floor. Aegon is curled into a corner with his back against the wall, his mouth stained purple and his eyes red. Blackfyre is discarded at his side.

Aemond settles beside him. He reaches for an empty pitcher of wine and stands it upright. An attempt at restoring some semblance of normalcy.

“I failed them,” his brother whispers.

“They did not die by your hand,” Aemond replies.

“I should have protected them. What kind of father does not protect his own children?”

“Brother, if there can be blame, it should be my burden alone to bear. Had I simply done what was asked of me…” but he cannot finish. It’s like he’s drowning, a coldness washing over him in unrelenting waves as his very throat works against him.

“No,” Aegon whispers. His lips start to twist into a snarl, bearing his teeth like a feral animal. “Justice comes due. That bastard slashed out your fucking eye and our father did nothing.”

The memory is still as clear as it had been in the moment. The stitches in his wound had hardly been sewn, accusations and demands flew through the air, and through it all the King- his father, had hardly looked at him. When he finally did there were no words of comfort, no remorse, just the desperate fury of a weak, old man.

Just like that, he had felt his childish naivety slip between his fingers like smoke. It had been a cruel realisation.

Aemond had often thought he knew why their father had never been particularly impressed with his children after Rhaenyra. Aegon, a wasteful, Helaena, a dreamer, Daeron, a squire of Oldtown, and he, broken, and dragonless before that. But then he supposed, they had not always been the way they were. They were babes once, blissfully oblivious to the darkness of the world they had been born into.

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were children,” he mutters, “they did not deserve to be dragged into this war.”

“I offered Rhaenyra peace and now she has taken my heir and my only daughter. They died afraid, not knowing if-” he lets out a startled sob and holds it back as quickly as it came. He looks down at his hands, stroking a finger over a ruby set in gold, one of the endless heirlooms he had been bestowed upon Viserys’ death. “I don’t think I ever told them I loved them.”

A thousand memories flash before his eye. Aemond had been there when they babbled their first words, caught Jaehaera into his arms when she took her very first steps, carried Jaehaerys on his shoulders when he was too tired to make the walk back to the castle from the beach…

Aemond’s lips curl under his teeth to bite down at the flesh of his mouth. He has always thought of the children as being Helaena’s rather than Aegon’s. Jaehaerys, quiet and unsure, and sweet little Jaehaera, wistful and dreamy, a little more daring than her twin.

Aegon has spent most of his life fleeing from duty, and fatherhood is no exception.

He hesitates for a few moments, and gently places a hand over his. Aegon flinches at first, but settles at the touch.

“I will never be able to make things right,” Aegon says.

A dull yet familiar pain appears in Aemond’s skull, somewhere behind the sapphire in his socket. “We might yet,” he says. “If Rhaenyra wants a war, if she wants this to fall to fire and blood, then by the gods we will grant her this.”

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farity · 1 year ago

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In the Red of Night, part 11

Aemond saw twin blades, and knowing Alys, they were coated with some kind of poison.

She'd come ready to kill. And so had he.

He saw the way his woman rolled out of the way, an Arya move he'd seen many times, and he dodged the opposite way while Alys landed in between them.

"Don't do this, Alys. It will not end well for you."

"Bronn!" Alys shouted. "Bronn, where the fuck are you?"

"You mean this Bronn?"

Alys froze, staring past Aemond, and he stepped back before turning.

Arya had climbed onto Bronn's shoulders, sitting upon them as a child might upon their parent. But she was holding onto his hair, and the wide, deep slash in his neck was now a red waterfall. He choked out something that could have been a word as he slowly sank onto his knees, staring at Alys the whole time.

Arya stepped off his shoulders and looked at Gendry, who pulled out a vicious looking shortsword and with a precise swing, separated Bronn's head from the rest of him.

Full of rage, Alys turned to Aemond and pointed her knives at him while her men began circling Arya and Gendry.

"You've had so many chances, Alys," Aemond said quietly, stepping around as she approached him. "You could have been the queen you always wanted to be."

"Not without you," she snapped at him, and took a step before she jerked and her face twisted into a grimace. She turned slowly until Aemond saw the dagger that had been neatly thrown into the back of her neck.

Alys laughed, turning to face the woman who'd thrown the blade. The woman who had taken Aemond away from her. "You honestly think this works? You must be stupider than I thought."

"No," she said calmly, "that's just a distraction. That knife was for my shop."

Behind Alys, Aemond took out the sharp piece of wood he'd carried for centuries, and plunged it through her back into her heart.

He could hear the losing battle Alys men were waging against Arya and Gendry, he saw the shock in his woman's eyes as the point of the stake broke through Alys's chest, the momentary horror of seeing a body being fatally wounded.

But mostly, he felt a shift, something inside him that let go.

Alys took a couple of staggering steps and then fell to her knees. A moment later, Gendry was handing Aemond the shortsword.

"Aemond," Alys whispered shakily, her fingertips touching the bloody point of the stake sticking out between her breasts. "Silvered?"

Walking around to face the woman who had once meant something to him, who had turned him, he nodded. "Silvered. Poisoned. Blessed."

She looked up to him, blood beginning to run out of the corner of her mouth. "Aemond," she said again, her voice beginning to fade.

Without another word, Aemond swung, and cut off her head.

* * * * *

The cleaning team came in, and the bodies were burned in the back, heads separate from bodies, the ashes mixed with acid and disposed of separately. The restaurant was immaculate by the time Aemond walked back in.

He saw her sitting with Arya and Gendry now. She'd held his hand, asked him if he needed to say goodbye by himself while Alys's body burned.

"No," he had told her, but after a minute, she'd told him she was going inside. Giving him time. Giving him space. And in the end, he had needed that minute. And she had understood that even better than he had.

He'd watched the last of it burn away and said a final goodbye to Alys before going back in.

"I can't thank you enough," she was telling Arya. "If there is ever anything I can do, please let me know. I know that Aemond is incredibly grateful for all your help, too."

Arya nodded. "You did very well. Whenever you want to freshen up your skills, you know where we are." She looked at Gendry and smiled at him before turning to Aemond. "You good, Targaryen?"

Aemond nodded slowly before sitting and taking his woman's hand in his. "Yes."

"I hear you've bought some land in Scotland," Gendry added.

"I have. I mean to build a place for us, but the rest will stay as it is. You're both welcome any time."

Arya nudged Gendry with her elbow. "I like Scotland. Reminds me of Winterfell. You remember Winterfell," she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"I do. Very well."

"Shall we go have some actual food?" Aemond asked.

"Yes," Arya piped up. "I'm fucking starving.

* * * * *

"How are you?"

Aemond turned. She was sipping at her coffee, the light blues and greys of the morning still new, but she'd barely slept and she watched him as he checked his laptop.

"Come here," he said gently. When she sat next to him, he pushed his work away, took her in his arms. "I am saddened that it had to happen," he confessed, "but it did, and I am glad none of us were hurt. Part of me never thought it would come to this."

"I am sorry it all came to this."

He smiled against her hair. "It came to this because of every choice she made. And now it is done and we are free to live our lives." He pulled back to look at her. "Do you think me cold?"

Her hand slipped onto his cheek. "No. I think you were her victim, I think you gave her every chance to let go."

"It was never enough with her. It would never have been enough." He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "But now, it is enough. Let us talk about what you and I are doing from now on, shall we?"

She let him change the subject, and placed her legs over his thighs as he spoke of the land he'd bought in Scotland.

"Arya Stark offered to run a wolf rescue center in our land if we want. She also offered Gendry's services to work there, although I don't think he was aware of it."

"I think we know who runs that relationship," she laughed. "I like them both a lot."

He nodded in agreement. "Do you want to open another coffee shop? We have the location ready for you."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I don't know. Maybe we could do something and let Katie and Bailey run it, but I don't know that I want to spend my days there any more."

"You have time to decide." He went serious and quiet for a moment, and then looked at her. "I have something to ask you, and I do want you to think about it."

Her eyes widened at his tone and she raised an eyebrow.

"I'm committed to you, you know that. I want to know what form you want our relationship to take in the eyes of society."

He took her hand and kissed the back. "I will call you whatever you wish me to call you. I prefer to call you mine, but if you want me to call you my wife I will do so, but you need to marry me first."

Her mouth dropped open, but he continued.

"If you want me to call you my partner, then I will draft every legal document to make sure that everything that is mine is also yours, and that you have every right that I do. I just want-"

She stopped him talking by pressing her mouth to his, and framing his face in her hands. "Aemond," she murmured, "I love you so much."

"I adore you, and however you want us to be together, I will make it happen."

* * * * *

"It's not as good as ours was," Katie sniffed as she tried the coffee. "What do you think, Bailey?"

Bailey looked from Katie to their former boss and shook his head. "One might as well go to Starbucks for shit like this," he whispered.

"It's good to see you, bossy boss."

"It's really good to see you guys," she said, "but other than criticizing the coffee here, I had an idea that I wanted to share with you two." She took out two folders and placed one in front of each of them.

"Is this more money?" Katie asked, "because seriously, six months of salary is just about the most amazing thing ever."

"Nope."

Bailey looked up, their eyes wide with shock. "Are you motherfucking kidding me with this?"

"You already read it?"

"Maybe if you shut your mouth, you could read faster."

Katie opened her mouth to answer them, but instead shut it and began to read. "Oh holy fuck."

"That's what I called that reverend I fucked once."

She waited for them to get their bickering out, to read the paper in front of them, to take in what it meant.

"We would only pay you rent?"

"Well, you'd pay me rent, but you'd also be paying utilities and salaries if you hire others, and supplies."

"And we'd start out with all the equipment, ready to go?"

She nodded, her heart warming at the wonder in her former employees' eyes.

"Aemond made this happen. I mean, I got insurance money, but he insisted on upgrades and the latest technology, not to mention security."

"Bossy boss, this is beyond. I mean, no start up costs, no buying any of the machines, or the tables or anything, this is-" Katie sniffled and covered her mouth, and Bailey rubbed her back.

"My dad is a lawyer and he would fucking murder me if I didn't run this by him, but consider this approved. I know you, and I trust you," Bailey said. "And that hot piece of ass you're banging, I approve of him, too."

She smiled. "Which brings me to a request I'd like to make of both of you."

* * * * *

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