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targaryenrealnessdarling · 8 days ago

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Honestly Alys is such a ghost so far 😂 Rosaleen's a smart girl, she'll cope 😘

Thank you for reading lovely!! ♥️ can't wait to write the wedding night 😈😈

Four - A Union of Red and Black | Series Masterlist

Summary: The day to wed has arrived, and they both know what they expect of one another, whether they're willing to bend or not | Word Count: 6k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage, intimate examinations, mild threats

My dearest Rosaleen,

I regret that I cannot be there on the day of your union. The gods know that nothing would have brought me greater pride than to stand by you, to give you away as is tradition. But my health worsens with each passing moon, and my Maester advises against travel. To journey to King’s Landing in my condition may mean I never make it back to Raventree at all.

This is not how it should be. But know this, my daughter, you carry Blackwood blood, and that alone is enough to steel you for what lies ahead. I need not be there in body, for I am with you in name, in blood, in all that you are. And that is enough.

Make them remember who you are, Rosaleen. And if you ever have need of me, you know where to send the raven.

With all my love,Your father

How many times had she read the same letter now? At least twice this morning she had traced her father’s careful hand with her deep eyes, as if trying to see some message behind the words staring back at her. Her father had never been one for excessive sentiment, but she supposed this was near enough.

Except, it was not enough, she thought bitterly, not when she had to stand before all those lords alone. Let alone Aemond Targaryen himself.

The water lapped against her skin, the scent of rose and lavender near-sickly in combination with her bitter feelings towards her father, however childish. Steam misted the air around her as Lyla sat behind her, carefully working scented oils through her slick, black hair. At the sensation of her delicate fingers against her scalp, she tipped her head back against the tub, eyes half-lidded as she listened to the idle chatter of the morning outside her chambers. Scrambling headless chickens panicking for the last little arrangements of her union to Prince Aemond.

Tonight, she would not return to these rooms. Tonight, she would be expected elsewhere. Expected to consummate her union in the chambers of Aemond Targaryen.

Alysanne huffed from where she was strewn across the chaise, boredly twisting her rings and not a care in the realm for her wrinkled gown, “you’re going to burn a hole through that parchment with the way you’re staring at it,” she muttered.

The glare Rosaleen gave was as if she was going to burn a hole through Alysanne if she were not careful.

Thinking better of it, she inhaled, letting the warm, perfumed air settle in her chest.

She placed the crinkled letter aside in a dish, its edges curled where she had been constantly unfurling it. It sat beside her morning tea, honeyed breads and fruit, though at this stage, untouched from being wound up so tightly.

Alysanne glanced over, noting her lack of reply, “you look like a woman about to enter battle.”

Rosaleen exhaled a quiet laugh, fingers skimming over the surface of the water, “in some ways, I suppose I am.”

Alysanne smirked, “well, I doubt your betrothed will bring a sword to the wedding bed, at least. Unless, of course, it’s that oversized Valyrian one he never seems to be without. Compensating, if you ask m–”

Rosaleen cleared her throat, and Lyla let out a quiet gasp before hastily covering her mouth, eyes wide with embarrassment at reacting aloud. Rosaleen shot Alysanne a dry look, though she did not entirely suppress her amusement.

“I take it Lord Blackwood will not be making a last-minute arrival?” Alysanne asked after a moment, tipping her head to study Rosaleen’s expression.

“No,” Rosaleen replied simply, glancing once again at the letter.

My dearest daughter…

She heard Alysanne sigh before she spoke again, softer this time, “I’m sorry, Ros.”

“It is what it is,” she said, voice even, “I knew this was likely when I left Raventree. His health has been failing for some time.”

Alysanne watched her carefully, “that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.”

Rosaleen swallowed, staring at the swirling petals floating atop the water.

“No,” she admitted quietly, “it does not.”

Lyla lifted a pitcher of water to rinse Rosaleen’s hair. As the warmth cascaded down her back, Rosaleen closed her eyes, allowing herself this final moment of quiet. By evening, she would belong to Aemond Targaryen, and the bed she slept in would not be her own, but theirs, as husband and wife.

Alysanne stood to full height, examining herself in the looking glass, “well, if nothing else, you’ll smell divine when you face the dragon.”

Rosaleen opened one eye, arching a brow. “And that was a concern?”

“Of course,” Alysanne replied breezily, “men are useless creatures at the best of times, but at least this one will have no cause to complain about his wife’s scent.”

Lyla let out another startled giggle, and despite herself, Rosaleen shook her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “If he does,” she mused, stretching her fingers over the surface of the water, “perhaps I’ll drown him in rosewater.”

Alysanne grinned. “Now that’s the spirit.”

The gown was heavy.

Layer by layer, Lyla and another maidservant draped Rosaleen's figure with fabrics of intricate designs. Laces pulled tight, clasps clicked into place, the crimson gown falling snugly into place against her frame like armour. For the battle she would soon face. The vows she would soon take. Alysanne and Arianne watched from the sidelines. Earlier they had been bickering about whether to begin the festivities of the day with some wine, but now, as her dress was framed to her body, the weight of the moment drew them both into a reverent silence.

Bodice secured, Lyla circled her lady, admiring the gold thread mimicking the twisted branches that graced Raventree Hall woven alongside the Targaryen three-headed dragon. The skirt was rich, as deep as freshly spilled wine. Ornate. But no decoration.

No gown in this realm would wear Rosaleen Blackwood.

Alysanne had produced a fine, silver ring from a silken bag for her to wear. It was adorned with a rare emerald, shaped into a pear. Her mother's. She smiled in thanks and slid it onto her right ring finger, the fit comforting. Admiring the appearance of it alongside her other pieces of jewellery, Arianne sidled up to her.

“Your father had these sent.”

Arianne cupped them in her palm like teardrops, allowing Rosaleen to marvel at the silver and pearl hairpins that were delicately placed inside.

“He sent these?”

Arianne smiles softly, “they belonged to your mother as well.”

She had never seen these. Had never seen her own mother wear them when she yet lived. Could she have worn these on her wedding day? She’d never given much thought as to how she might have felt, a Piper marrying a Blackwood was a strange enough match. Soft, well-spoken Piper wed off to a Blackwood who could barely keep a conversation without uttering foul curses.

And now she was to be made an even stranger match.

Rosaleen couldn’t deny they looked elegant, little pearly pins, reflecting in her dark hair. They looked like little dew drops along a meadow, or the tears caught by the candlelight. And that is when she took a good long look at herself, properly, the woman that would be presented today. Not a Blackwood girl from the Riverlands, not the daughter of a yet grieving father. She was a bride who would soon stand beside a dragon, whether she welcomed the flames or not.

She exhaled, “Aly, would you pass me the box from that drawer,” Rosaleen asked, pointing to her vanity.

Alysanne arched a brow but obeyed, stepping lightly toward the polished wooden case that rested in the vanity. It was small but ornate, carved with intricate Targaryen dragon motifs curling along the edges. When she handed it to Rosaleen, Alysanne gave her an inquisitive look. “What’s in it?”

Rosaleen hesitated for a fraction of a moment before flicking open the latch. The lid creaked slightly as she lifted it. A necklace, delicate and finely crafted, its pale gemstone glinting like starlight.

Alysanne leaned closer, recognition dawning. “That’s…” she murmured.

Arianne gasped softly, covering her mouth. “How did you—”

Rosaleen’s fingers ghosted over the cool chain. A gift.

Her mind drifted back, the memory unfurling in her thoughts like ink spilling into water.

The summons had come late in the evening, just after Rosaleen had endured the humiliation of the Maester’s examination and Alicent’s thinly veiled warnings. She had wanted nothing more than to seclude herself away in her chambers, to gather her thoughts without feeling the weight of scrutiny.

Instead, she was here.

The heavy oak doors of Aemond’s solar loomed before her, shut tight, but the Kingsguard had wordlessly pushed them open when she approached, signalling that she was expected.

For once in her young life, Rosaleen Blackwood was unsure what to do with her hands. Were she in a different mindset, she would name this behaviour blatant, foolish even, knowing the situation and troubles she could find herself in. And yet, Aemond had done it anyway. Had summoned her, and albeit not as intimate as his chambers, still it was to speak with her. Alone.

Stood before him now, she felt akin to those poor creatures Lannisters kept in their caged, prodded, poked and taunted, as Aemond stood before a desk laden with papers and scrolls, no doubt pertaining to their upcoming union. But she dare not look too hard among the scribbles.

“Lady Rosaleen,” he greeted, ever unreadable. A small, polite gesture. That was all. But in his gaze he was searching.

She dipped out of habit but kept her expression composed, moving her lips carefully so as not to coat the words in barely concealed frustration, “Your Grace. You summoned me?”

He blinks as if a statue come to life, and nods, reaching for a square box upon his desk. “I did. There is something I wish you to have.”

She frowned slightly as he strode toward her, extending the gift. She did not move to take it immediately.

“We should not be alone,” she said plainly. “It is improper.”

She wasn’t sure if it was real, that little flicker of amusement in his expression, “are you concerned for your virtue?” he asked, edged with dry humour, or perhaps annoyance, “or my intentions?”

Rosaleen’s jaw tensed, “you would do well to respect the fact that I was just prodded by a Maester like some broodmare. And–”

And your mother. She was about to say, but stopped herself. And Aemond stood, expectant, but did not push when she did not continue.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, with slow deliberation, Aemond took her hand and pressed the box into it. His fingers lingered for only a moment before he stepped back. She hesitated before finally opening it. The moment her eyes fell upon the delicate necklace, her breath caught.

As non-committal as she wanted to seem, the piece was beautiful. Stunning gold was bound together so delicately to meet then in the middle, cupping a dark, green stone encompassed by yet more of the gleaming metal. This was no ordinary jewellery.

“These are the Queen’s jewels.”

“They are,” he answered simply.

“I cannot accept this,” she looked back up at him, “we are not wed and I am not yet your Queen–”

He tilted his head slightly, “no, not yet.”

Her hands tightened around the necklace, her fingers pressing into the intricate links of gold. “I am no fool, Aemond. This is not merely a gift.”

His eye flickered over her. “No,” he admitted. “It is not.”

Must every inquisition into his true intentions be akin to getting blood from stone? “Then what is it?”

“It is a message,” he murmured, almost tired, “to the court. To my mother. To you.”

Rosaleen did not flinch, though the weight of them settled against her ribs. She had expected possession. Aemond was a Targaryen, raised among dragons and conquerors, taught from birth that loyalty was to blood, to family, to the weight of power and duty. But standing here, beneath his unwavering gaze, she understood that he meant more than that. He meant this war was won. And she, this marriage, this alliance, this choice, would be his victory for all to see. His prize for all the bloodshed.

She let out a slow breath, “you wish to claim something that is not yet yours.”

His eye gleamed in the dim candlelight, and it was increasingly difficult to tell if he was impressed she dare defy him, or if the prospect excited him, “you will be.”

Rosaleen did not let herself waver. Instead, she lifted the necklace between them, the gold catching in the flickering light, “if I wear this, they will talk.”

“Let them.”

If she could roll her eyes she would.

Rosaleen straightened, smoothing her hands over her skirts, “then I suppose I shall wear it,” she murmured, her voice quieter than before, “for the sake of appearances, of course.”

Just that, nothing more, she thought. If he wished to show her off like a spoil of war, she would school herself into being nothing more than that.

Aemond’s lips twitched, though it was not quite a smirk, “of course.”

The mere notion that he might be enjoying this discomfort, revelling in it, made her spine tingle with unease. Rosaleen felt a surge of desire to make him feel the same. She had made her stance clear enough. Practical and humble. But even she was not one to flounder when made fun of, and certainly not one to shy away from batting back if needed.

She held the necklace out, “then put it on me.”

She thought he would not hesitate. But to her surprise, his expression slid right back to indifferent, and he did. A sense of unease in his pause. But after a moment, he pushed off the desk to full height, and took the golden chain from her grasp. Her deep eyes watched him, enjoying her small victory in his discomfort as she turned and pulled her hair aside from her shoulders so he might slide the jewellery around her neck.

He was careful not to touch her directly. As if that was a step too far before the union, before they would be joined before the gods.

But he did all the same, his fingers lingering slightly too long at her nape.

She rounded back and lifted her chin to show her bejewelled collarbone, the dark gold easy against her complexion. Neither spoke for a long, tense moment.

“It suits you,” Aemond finally said, as if it took all his effort.

“A collar always does, does it not.”

She thought then she had pushed too far. He did not appreciate the comment nor the manner in which she delivered it. Aemond sighed and leaned back against his desk, but did not challenge her view on this absurd possessive nature he had imposed upon her.

She bid him good night, thanked him for the necklace and made her exit. If she was to wear this collar to prove she was his property then so be it.

But let them wonder who truly held the leash.

Alicent will be furious, she can envisage it now. Not only will she be traversing the aisle to her union alone, without a father at her side, the first act of individualism that the Dowager Queen did not want. Now she will be doing so, wearing a piece of the Queen’s jewels.

Jewels her late daughter would most certainly have worn. The Queen before her.

She exhaled slowly, and looked upon herself once more. The same necklace sat snug against her collarbone, the memory of that night, of Aemond fastening it, was clearer now, like the touch of a phantom.

Alysanne smiled, “you wear it.”

“Of course I do,” she responded to her cousin. I must.

Arianne joined at her side, adjusting a crimson sleeve. Both cousins voiced in their heads what they could not out loud, not yet.

That Rosaleen Blackwood looked every bit a Queen.

There was no time for nerves. If she was to walk this short but painful path to stand beside her betrothed alone, she would do it as a Blackwood. With squared shoulders, an iron grip on her emotions and a temperament to match the fated Targaryen she was to wed.

A knock came, familiar, and Lyla poked her head around the door. “My Lady,” she began hesitantly, “it is time.”

“I fear, Lord Larys.”

“Fear is the fool’s concern. We must keep our heads about us.”

Alicent glanced over at him, sat spread out in the armchair by the mantle. His hand rested lazily on the handle of his cane, as if he anticipated getting up to stand but could not find the will nor strength to do it. His eyes were already on her. The eyes of a man who acted in service to his Queen once, and sent his house into near-extinction to do so. Though merely Dowager Queen now, one rut on the ladder below Aemond, soon to be Rosaleen too, Larys operated as if nothing at all had changed. She and all her whims were his purpose, if it meant securing his place at Court, and Lord of Harrenhal. A title he clung to.

Alicent’s hands fiddled nervously with her necklace. Her neckline was high today, guarded. Her dark, chestnut hair braided away from her anxious face. Dark, brown eyes staring ahead at Larys Clubfoot, as if desperate for a way out of the horror she was soon to find herself embroiled in, no doubt.

“How must I keep my head about me when my son is to be wed. My last child.”

“He is to wed,” Larys reasoned, “not leaving for battle.”

At this moment, the two felt the same.

Alicent turned away, her heavy skirts near taking her off balance. She had not worn anything of this weight for a long time. It felt familiar, but not in the way that warmed her heart. From this feeling alone, she could almost feel the cold bite of the shackles around her wrists as if she were a girl again.

His eyes were like those of a predatory bird, always searching for its next meal. Except he did not possess the claws to reach out and grasp.

“There is no need to fear,” he added, “Aemond was certainly not hesitant when it came to dismissing the opinions of the gentler sex at the Small Council when he grew displeased. I doubt this girl will receive different treatment.”

“This girl will be his wife,” Alicent near-spat, “her kin are impetuous, rude and incautious. Who is to say she will not be the same once the crown is placed upon her brow?”

Larys shook his head, almost displeased, “she will not. She is gentler than her Blackwood counterpart, we reasoned this when we suggested the match. Aemond may go to her for council regarding the Riverlands, yes. But she will not have the knowledge nor wisdom of those who have sat at that table since the late King Viserys ruled in peace.”

Alicent knew this, of course. But it did not mean Aemond would turn to her for help either, should he need it. He believed everything need only be thought about if he personally gave any merit or importance to it, anything else was secondary. She could not for the life of her wonder where he inherited such pride. Viserys was never a slave to it. Yes, her late husband had oftentimes waved away the little matters, but in her eyes, the ones still clouded with grief, the realm needed wisdom, something Aemond, still so young and reckless, did not possess.

“Marriage will change him,” Larys offered, though he did not look at her. It was like he was willing his words into existence, as if he did not yet believe it himself, “with characters like him it always does. This Rosaleen Blackwood might just quell his flames, just enough for him to lend his ear to us.”

Alicent glanced back at the servant who pried the doors open, “Prince Aemond, Your Grace.”

And there, he entered, the dark of his green doublet so dark it was near-black. This was the way he preferred it, since the war was done. Loyal to his family, of course, but edging dangerously into neutrality, favouring his own cause above the welfare of the little members of his house he had left. His details were intricate, winding and choking against his chest in an array of deep golds and shimmering yellow. He wore his hair as he always had, but Alicent could not only see, but smell the way oils had been lathered to his lengths. It was a scent she could not place, one that did not feel like Aemond, but one she was willing to accept as the Aemond he wished to be from now on.

Her expression gave away little, as usual. He walked like he had nowhere in the realm better to be, and she as his mother could see the tiredness in his gait. He hadn’t slept. And if he had, it had been restless and fitful. He was like that even as a babe. Alicent looked him over head to toe, and let her chest deflate. It was indeed a day of happiness, of stability, but confronted with the idea of letting her last child slip away, she felt a dead heaviness in her chest.

She gestured for Lord Larys to leave with an annoyed gesture of her head, aggravated he had not taken the hint yet already and pulled his broken body to his feet. And it was only when the doors were closed behind him, and mother and son were left alone, that she spoke.

“How do you feel?” she asked, forcing a brightness to her tone.

Aemond seemed to search the walls for the words, “I feel we are preparing more for a funeral than a wedding.”

Alicent sighed, lips pulled into a thin line, “do you think she feels the same?”

“How am I to know.”

Aimless, he gravitated towards the pitcher of wine, pouring himself a cup and swallowing with a determined gulp in less than a second. She watched him, thinking at that moment, he looked so much like Aegon it hurt her heart to see.

Alicent stepped forward, reaching up to pull a loose strand of silver from his shoulder, “you did not sleep.” An observation, not a question. One Aemond did not deny.

“It is an important day.”

“You think of her,” Alicent noted, “the witch.”

“You would rather I didn’t,” he turned his face to look down at his mother, the muscle in his jaw tight, “then I will disappoint you, mother. Not an unwelcome feeling I am sure.”

She sighed, having hoped for a different outcome. How long had it been since Aemond had been snatched from that lake? How long since Alys Rivers had fled? Had the child existed at all, or was it a cruel twist of the truth to ensure her safety alongside tumultuous Targaryens.

“There are still whispers. Still speculation. Some say she bewitched you. Others that you fathered a child by her. And now, you’re to marry a daughter of the Riverlands, while rumors from the Riverlands remain unburied.”

Alicent’s expression flickered, pain, maybe, or guilt, but it passed quickly. She turned from him, walking slowly across the room to a nearby chair but did not sit. “I had hoped,” she said quietly, “that you would bury her with the war. That when the Gods Eye consumed her and all that madness, the last thread tying you to her would burn with it.”

“She is gone.”

“There was no corpse. No other-wordly scream. Only blood and ash. And you, dragged half to death from those wretched waters.”

He said nothing. He had no desire to recount that night, not again.

Alicent continued, her voice trembling slightly with restrained contempt. “And if there was a child, Aemond–”

“If there was,” he cut in sharply, “it is gone now.”

Silence fell. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. And for the first time he was thankful for the servant’s interruption.

“My Prince, it is time.”

Aemond held his hand up, a rare gesture of deference. His mother looked up also at the young servant, as if remembering when one had said those same words to her all those years ago, when she was wed to a Targaryen. As if by looking their way, she could erase the moment and spare her son this day. He was to be a husband today. She had attended one wedding before for her children, and Aemond would be the last. And that alone was enough to make Alicent Hightower’s heart ache with loss.

Aemond hated that look. One of pity that he didn't need. As if he were still a boy who needed her touch.

“She will walk alone,” Alicent began in a tired breath, “her father should be here. It is a failure on his part.”

Aemond's jaw tensed. “Lord Blackwood is ill.”

“It does not change how it will be perceived,” Alicent fiddled with her sleeves, “she walks unaccompanied, you do not think some will see this as some sort of…revolt?”

Revolt? As if Lady Rosaleen walking her last short path of unmarried life alone would incite rebellion? He had never heard anything so foolish.

“Better she walk alone than invite some lesser male escort to do so alongside her. Would you rather have Benjicot fucking Blackwood come? A mere child who weeps at the sight of war.”

She sighed, closing her eyes as if to find the will. “That is not what I mean and you know it.”

“And must there always be some ulterior motive?”

“You are young. Too willing to overlook the meaning behind her actions.”

Aemond hummed. “Or perhaps you see threats where there are none.”

He watched her carefully, as her fists clenched, golden rings digging into the meat of her palm. She was frustrated. What a way to begin his wedding morning.

“You have always underestimated the gentler sex around you, Aemond.”

He raised his hand to adjust his eye patch, ensuring it would not budge during the ceremony, letting out a humourless laugh. “And yet you expect me to control this one? A stiff backed Blackwood?”

“She is to be your wife,” Alicent replied, “that must mean something.”

It means control. Aemond knew that better than anyone. Was this truly the only way she knew how to love?

Perhaps this indifference he was to be offered through Rosaleen would surely be better than the iron grip of his mother's so-called ‘love’. And now she wishes for him to do the same to a woman who is not yet his wife.

You have always underestimated the gentler sex around you, Aemond.

Unbidden, his mind thrashed with another dark haired woman he had taken to bed. It felt like a lifetime ago now. She had told him he would rule. And he had believed her. Believed he had rewarded her with taking her to his bed, for her protection of course. Nothing more.

Not because he felt as if he would die before fucking another woman.

His mother said nothing more as she followed him to the Sept, once arriving at the front before the Septon, every now and then she adjusted the collar of his doublet. Her protective instincts high and alert. Clinging to her only surviving child as if he could give her all the validation in the realm. The Sept was alive with whispers, murmuring of the colours the bride would wear, the temperament of the husband to be and the grandeur of the ornaments and decoration.

The great doors opened with a long, exasperated groan. Mirroring what Aemond himself felt. The golden light that was so hidden away suddenly flooded all those in attendance, and their silence was all that was needed. Murmurs quieted to nothing. Only the ruffle of clothing, the soft, unsure footsteps of light footed ladies and the clinking of the Kingsguard armour were heard.

Aemond had prepared himself, schooled his expression for this moment. Or so he'd thought, as he turned halfway to glance down the great, cavernous hall. Yes, Alysanne and Arianne were stood before her, but even he could not deny as could anyone else, Rosaleen Blackwood looked beautiful.

She was draped like artwork in pure crimson. Dark hair was pinned with silver and pearl. And at her throat, rested the necklace he had gifted her, proud and gold.

Her two cousins lead the ceremony before her. Alysanne was dressed in a pale grey, embroidery adorned with silver. However her expression, as usual, was proud and unbothered, reflective of her tight, dark Blackwood curls. She barely spared Aemond a look as she floated past, though he had no doubt that she would have made some snide remark had the situation allowed.

Ever proud and unbothered.

Arianne followed, meek and softer. Her steps lighter and more graceful, almost too carefully taken. Her bright blue eyes flickered to Aemond for a moment, wide, searching, but looked away almost as quick with a brief, but polite, nod of her head.

And the truth of the matter could no longer be ignored, this union to Blackwood blood his offspring would also share. He had agreed to this match because it had been necessary. Because the Riverlands needed to be brought back into the fold. Because the council had forced his hand. But he could not ignore the truth of what it meant. The Blackwoods had been loyal to the Pretender.

Alysanne herself had fought against him at Battle at Lakeshore. The girl had fought, bow and arrow in hand, with all the ferocity of a true Blackwood warrior. She had killed for Rhaenyra. She had stood on the losing side and refused to bend the knee until she had no other choice.

And now, she walked down the aisle before him as part of his wife’s retinue, her chin lifted, her loyalty forced by political necessity, but her spirit unbroken.

Perhaps this unyielding ferocity is what made the Blackwoods as they are today. Perhaps this is what made them worthy.

And finally. Rosaleen.

The absence of her father or any male relative did not sit at her back like a shadow, rather it made a silhouette of her, cutting through the atmosphere in her gown as bright as a blacksmith’s iron. And yet she moved with practised grace. Those deep eyes never strayed from him, not once. She must have heard as he did, the whispers of Lords and Ladies as she made her journey to him.

She wore deep red, as he would have expected no less. Red, yes. But which. Was it Targaryen crimson, a surrender to her circumstance? Or Blackwood blood. The appearance of a docile wife, while inside she clung to such pride of her birth, no matter her husband.

Whatever it was, it unsettled him. But all the same, she looked striking, commanding.

Why does she walk alone?

Where is her father?

Surely there was a male relative to escort her.

If Aemond had glanced behind him, he would see his mother’s discontent. He knew her good opinion, that this was rebellion of sorts. That she was displaying that even if she joined her house with his, that she would always be her own.

But if this was rebellion, Rosaleen Blackwood made it look like a coronation.

Aemond extended his hand as she reached the small steps to ascend beside him, and her eyes did not waver as she slipped her hand in his. For Aemond knew the look of fear well, how it lowered their gaze, bent their shoulders. He had seen much of it. Blackwood and Targaryen stood facing, finally. Aemond’s single eye took her in fully, the faint flush to her cheeks, the way her lips flattened in an attempt of holding composure and how she took a deep, measured breath.

Rosaleen was unafraid, and perhaps he feared that most.

He turned towards the Septon who had been waiting, and gave a small nod. The man was thin, his voice reflecting his reedy stature, rising barely above the hushed whispers.

“Today, before the Seven and in the sight of gods and men, we unite Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, blood of the dragon, and Lady Rosaleen of House Blackwood, blood of the First Men. May their union bring strength and prosperity to the realm, and may their vows be honoured for all time.”

He felt the twitch of Rosaleen’s fingers.

And as if reading her mind in a manner to make her discomfort worse, the Septon turned to her. “will you swear before the gods to honour and serve your lord husband, to share his burdens and stand beside him through illness and hardship?”

She wet her lips before responding, clear, “I will.”

Then Aemond. “And will you swear before the gods to honour and protect your lady wife, to stand beside her in strength, to bind your fates as one?”

“I will.”

The vows hung in the air, but both understood it was only merely half over. And yet, they could not be taken back. The cloak Aemond had made for the ceremony complimented her gown well enough, enveloping the scarlet against deep Targaryen black and crimson. It darkened her figure with weight at her shoulders.

The Septon’s wrinkled hands lifted, gesturing for the ceremonial ribbon that would bind their wrists together. The ribbon was deep red, interwoven with threads of gold and black, a tapestry of legacy and tradition. As the Septon began to wrap it around their joined hands, Aemond caught the faint flicker of something in Rosaleen’s eyes but could not say what it was.

As the final knot was tied, the Septon raised his voice once more. “In the eyes of the gods, let this union be made whole. By oath and honour, let no man set asunder what has been joined here today.”

The ribbon fell away, but their hands remained entwined.

And when the old man instructed that he might kiss her now, to seal their sacred bond, Aemond felt his blood rush to his ears as if he were once again drowning in Gods Eye Lake. He does not know why his throat constrained so at the thought, Rosaleen was not his choice, of course, but equally not unattractive, even when he looked upon her lips, framed by that quiet defiance.

The kiss was neither hesitant nor overly gentle. And she met it with the same.

And when they drew apart, the Sept erupted with applause and cheer. When was the last time they had heard such happiness? To Aemond, she was his wife, and that could not be undone. Yet, to Rosaleen, she was not yet his wife until she bled on the white sheets of his chambers. A mark that would need to be seen, and at the same time, scrubbed off in shame into insignificance.

Allowing the rush of applause to weaken their hushed voices, Rosaleen exhaled, “how do you feel, now it is done?”

However innocent the question, she was prodding. Measuring him, already. He felt, bound, wed. Uncertain. None of which he wanted to voice. “I feel the court witnessed exactly what they wished to see.”

A non-answer. An answer that communicated more to her in that moment than any of what he’d said before. He did not think about them, he thought only of what everyone else had perceived of them. What this would mean for the realm. Perhaps he thought she was prodding, too deeply and close to his core. When really, she had only wished to peer into the mind of the man who was now, in name also, her husband.

Whether he saw it in her face or not, he said nothing more. And his hands slipped from hers without effort.

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 9 days ago

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Aw thank you for reading! ♥️ I always love writing billy 🥰

Private Screening

23/12: Home Videos and Voyeurism - Billy Washington Word Count: 1.5k~ | Warnings: masturbation (m), voyeurism, home videos of sexual acts, smut

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

Fuck work Christmas parties, Billy thinks with displeasure as he slobs across the sofa, half a can of Stella in one hand, the remote control in the other.

He felt a bit pathetic missing her after only a few hours. Suppose that was the worst bit about having a girlfriend that was also your best mate. But it did sound a bit precious when he thought about it like that.

The choice in TV shows didn't exactly sour him to pass the time either. It was that crappy few days between the last of the working year and Christmas, and there was sweet fuck all on tele.

Turning the volume down on a Christmas special of First Dates he glances outside, seeing that it's just begun to rain and he pulls lazily at one side of the curtains just enough to obscure his flat from passersbys on the street.

Propping up to fish his phone out his pocket, he scrolls mindlessly for a bit on Instagram Reels. But even then, the doomscrolling and repetitive music his algorithm thinks he likes gets boring fast.

A messenger bubble pop up on his screen.

‘missing me baby? 😘’

He huffs a short laugh, typing with one hand.

‘Bored out of my mind’

She reads it immediately, and the three bubbles feel like edging.

‘I’m sure you'll find a way to entertain yourself 😉’

Cheeky, he thinks with that warm feeling in his stomach. She knew how bricked up he was when he saw her leaving, in that velvety dress he always likes her to keep on when they come home and pull each other needily to the bedroom.

With a heaved sigh, he uses one hand to pull the buttons of his jeans apart, then the zip and slides his hand into his boxers, stroking his currently soft member while he found something to ‘entertain’ himself to.

The locked folder in his photos app was a godless place.

He blinked as the face recognition granted him access, his cock stirring in his palm when he was greeted by video after video and photo after photo.

Some, just her.

Some, both of them.

His breath hitches at some of the previews. It was something he started getting into to about six months into dating her. She was much more willing to discuss what she was into sexually than his other girlfriends, and he supposes it rubbed off on him.

And when he suggested if it was okay if he recorded them during sex, he'd never seen that naughty gleam in her eyes so bright before.

Like most things it was awkward at first. The first time they tried, she kept laughing nervously, her cheeks flushed as she covered her face and body with her hands. “I feel weird,” she had said, glancing briefly at his phone camera in one hand.

But when he reassured her that the videos and photos he had of her went absolutely nowhere beyond his eyes only, she was more...confident. She'd tease him when he started recording, cast sultry glances over her shoulder and pull him close to whisper ungodly things for his ears only.

His heart rate kicked up as his thumb hovered over one video in particular, remembering how she’d looked that night. Her skin glowing in the low light, her lips parted in soft moans, her eyes locked on his like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He tapped on the video, and immediately the screen came alive with her image. The frame started with her face, soft and radiant, her lips curved into a teasing smile as she leaned closer to the camera. Her eyes, half-lidded and filled with mischief, sparkled as she adjusted the angle, her voice a low murmur, “You better enjoy this later.”

She laid back, clad only in the lacy black bra and underwear set he loved so much. The fabric was so delicate it barely covered her entirely, teasing more than hiding really.

She was looking up at him, the movement of the camera making it obvious he was on top of her. The video caught the slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips moving against hers. Her body writhed beneath him, her chest rising and falling with each deep, shuddering breath.

Her moans were soft at first, little gasps and whimpers as she adjusted to the fullness of him. “Billy, you feel so good,” she whispered. His pace quickened slightly, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room alongside her cries of pleasure.

He watched the video as his hand made its way down her front, kneading one breast before travelling downwards, his breath catching slightly as the angle caught a glimpse of the way he disappeared inside her over and over.

He adjusted slightly, pushing her knee back to change the angle, and the gasp she let out was enough to make his breath catch as he watched. “Right there, baby,” she murmured, her voice breaking into a moan as he thrust deeper—

Fuck.

That's where the video ends.

He'd clearly been so caught up in the moment that he'd abandoned the video.

But keen to keep up the building heat in his stomach, he swiped to the next. The feeling coiling tighter at the new video.

This time she was on her hands and knees, the view was tantalising, the curve of her spine leading down to where he was behind her, his hand firmly holding her hip. Her body moved in time with his thrusts, rocking forward with every deep push, and the sound of her breathless moans filled the otherwise quiet apartment.

Her head turned slightly toward the camera, and her eyes were glazed with lust, her lips parted as she gasped his name. “Harder,” she whispered, her voice raw and needy.

He stroked himself tighter, harder. So fucking close.

On the screen, she reached back, her fingers brushing against his thigh, urging him on. “Don’t stop,” she gasped.

And her voice was what finally sent him over the edge.

As the video reached its peak, he pulled back slightly, his hands sliding from her hips to the small of her back as he drove into her one last time. Her moans hit a crescendo, her body shuddering as she buried her face into the pillow.

His own hips stuttered, squeezing himself hard towards the tip, warmth coating his knuckles as he came.

The last few seconds of the video showed him pulling out, her body still trembling as he finished on her lower back, his pearly release glistening on her skin. She turned her head toward the camera with a sly, breathless smile, her voice soft but teasing as she said, “You’re cleaning that up, you know.”

He looked down at himself, chest heaving, and thought with a soft, tired chuckle, ‘yeah, no shit.’

He let his phone flop against his stomach as he laid his head back against the sofa, spent, boneless, with his softening cock loose in his palm.

“Am I interrupting something?”

He nearly jumped out of his fucking skin. His hand pulling so quickly out of his boxers out of sheer reflex, he was immediately brought back to the heart-wrenching moments his mum would enter his room without knocking.

But luckily, it was her.

She was smiling against the doorway, arms crossed and smug, her coat over the hook in the doorway.

“Fucking hell, babe, how long have you been there?” his voice was shaky, trying with sheer willpower alone to reduce his heart rate.

“Long enough,” she said, her voice dripping with teasing satisfaction.

Her gaze flicked down to his lap, and he followed it instinctively, moving quickly to pull his boxers back up, but too flustered to do up the buttons of his jeans. There was something both embarrassing and exhilarating at the prospect she'd been at the door, quite blatantly, watching him pleasure himself to her image.

She huffed a laugh and stepped into the room, deliberately swaying her hips, eyes darkening slightly as she stood in front of him. He could tell she was flushed from a few drinks, but not enough to be drunk. Just enough for her inhibitions to waver, and her confidence skyrocket.

“I’m guessing you were watching one of those videos,” she mused.

He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very exposed. “Maybe.”

She smirked, pulling the hem of her dress up so she was able to straddle his lap, relishing the hitch in his breath. “Which one?” she asked, casually, her arms slung over his shoulders, as if she were just taking a seat.

“The, uh…” He cleared his throat, trying to focus. “The one where you’re on your hands and knees.”

“Oh,” she teased, drawing the word out. “That one.”

She placed the phone on the coffee table. “Well,” she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest, “since you clearly couldn’t wait for me…how about we make a new one?”

He felt his body zing with excitement, but his cheeks quickly flushed at the realisation he'd only just…

She caught the look, “or do the soldiers need time to recuperate?”

Billy snorted, a boyish, albeit, embarrassed smile lighting up his face. “Uh, give me like…five minutes.”

With a barely suppressed smirk, she clambered off him and made for the bedroom. “I'll be waiting!”

“Keep the dress on!”

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