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When You Were Mine

Summary: You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter, the proprietor of one of the most frequented pleasure houses on the street of silk. On Prince Aemond’s thirteenth name day, you strike up a friendship that is everlasting, developing into something far more sweeter as you grow into adults.

Read on Ao3

Warnings: smut (p in v sex, oral- f receiving, female masturbation), mentions of sex work, loss of virginity, angst, talk of character death, MINORS DNI, 18+

Word Count: 8K+

Author’s Note: First time writing in second person. I always felt a little unsettled on how Aemond lost his virginity. This is a more tender take on it. This also got a little away from me, so the length is just a bonus. I may write again in this world if anyone is interested!

You are the daughter of the madam.

Everyone in the pleasure house has respected the presence of your tender life running about the house asking for sweets and spinning about in your silk dresses. You have many mothers here who dote on you. You are a prize, a little sweet prize pulled from your mother’s womb when she was just aging out of tending to the needs of the gentlemen in this place of pleasure..

Your mother makes sure you are in bed before anything truly lewd begins during the evening, but as the years weigh on she can not keep you still. You are too curious about the work she does. Of course she keeps you safe in her chambers. Her services have not been called on for many many years, whatever that is to mean.

You play alone at times, though the younger girls seem to be keen to keep you company between their little dances and performances. Your mother checks in on you making sure you are fed and well taken care of. That you have enough toys to play with or sheets to color on.

You are brushing your doll’s hair under your mother’s bed. Sometimes the candlelight is too bright and warm. Underneath the bed feels like a little cave for you to hide yourself.

The curtains flutter, you can see it from your cozy position. You can hear the soft music drift through. The curtains expose the darkness outside your mother’s room. Part of you wishes you could watch what happens outside these walls, but you know it isn’t safe.

She has said it is not safe.

The boots are heavy on the ground, dragging like the steps of boys. Your mother’s delicate laced up flat sandals also peak through, stopping steadily in the room.

“I shall return soon, my prince.” You can see her lean close to the black clad leather studded feet. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

The curtains flutter again as your mother’s quickened steps leave. You are left alone with the shifting boots and the prince attached to them. You lay on your stomach tucking the doll with pretty knotted hair close to your heart as if shielding her from the dirty feet. You try to control your breathing so as not to alert the boy who now is pacing back and forth at the side of the bed. He settles on the bed, close to you swinging his legs nearly hitting your forehead.

You give out a small whimper when he does make contact with your curious skin.

He stops.

He settles to the floor.

He looks under the bed lifting up every silken sheet.

He is a Targaryen prince.

He is the very definition in the stories the young women have told you when your mother is busy entertaining and you require a bedtime tale.

He has pale freckle peppered skin. His hair is a blinding white blonde that is nearly silver. You can see one eye, a lucid liquidly blue, but the other eye is covered with a brown leather eye patch.

This is Prince Aemond Targayen.

“What are you doing under here?” He demands in a voice most princely.

You are annoyed by how he is treating you in your home.

“What are you doing here?” You hiss with narrow eyes. You hold your doll closer.

Immediately you see him flush. His face reddens bright as the summer sun. He stammers, but can not seem to muster words that make sense. His grip on the sheets speaks for him.

He is nervous.

“Come under here. You can hide from her.” You say pulling at his shirt feeling only a little sorry for him.

He folds into the suggestion quite quickly.

You suspect he does not want to be here.

He perhaps would like to be anywhere else in the world.

The young Targayen prince shifts closer to you under the bed. His breath is hot and bothersome. It smells like cake, sweet strawberries and strong vanilla. It makes you wish you were a princess. They must get all sorts of sweet treats every day.

“I didn’t want to come. He made me. My brother.” He nearly pouts, tucking his hands under his head as he lays on his side looking at you. “Is the madam your mother?” You merely nod. “Did she forget you were here?”

You look over the prince.

The young prince is your age.

Perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age.

You smile as you shake your head.

“She knows I’m here. She never brings anyone here.”

It takes a moment for him to realize what it all means because he does not know your mother as you do.

He is meant to be your friend.

“Hold, Nymeria.” You thrust your dark haired doll at the prince as you crawl further under the bed.

There is a small stack of tomes you have kept here. You pull one forward tickling the well worn pages full of colorful illustrations about war, love, and dragons. You pull it to the princeling who is running his fingers through the doll’s knotted hair.

“Will you read to me? Or better yet teach me to read for myself? I want to know what’s in these books.”

His eye brightens, exchanging the doll for the tome. He struggles to open it under the bed, but manages. He thumbs through it as you watch with rapt curiosity. Many of the women that work here do not know how to read and make up tales from the pictures inside. You know this because the stories are different then when your mother opens the tomes.

She can read quite well.

“Yes, of course.” He looks over the words and begins to open his mouth. He squints at the page. “It is dark down here. Perhaps,” He looks upward then to you with a small glimmer of happiness in his bright eye. “We can read by candle light. Above?”

The question is one of asking. He wants to know if it is safe to return to the world outside your secret cave. You are so desperate to hear the stories your mother has not told you yet that you scurry to leave the darkness and head into the light.

You both settle on top of the bed.

Sometimes you forget how hard the floor is when you are on the dipping mattress. The princling takes off his boots slowly, careful to put them side by side. Before he settles on top of the bouncing bed as you eagerly await him and the tome, he pauses.

“I am Prince Aemond Targaryen.” He holds his hand out to you very formally.

You shake it stating your name. When he hears it he smiles.

Perhaps he would like a friend as well.

He crawls to the bed, settling the book heavy between you, spread out wide in yellowed dog eared pages. He runs his fingers over the words indicating to you that it is a table of contents meaning it is a list of all the stories within the book. He reads out all the story titles to you, making sure you see each word and letter. He speaks slowly as well, not in a way that is to make you feel inferior, but a way to ensure that you may soon be able to read along.

He is teaching you.

He is allowing you to select a story to read, together.

“That one!” You declare when he reads out a title about an ancient warrior queen. Your mother always told you that tale was too violent, but you always secretly looked at the pictures. They were red soaked images featuring bodies being ripped apart or drowning in sea battles.

“I thought you may like that one.” He smiles as you hold your doll close to your chest, the namesake of the tale Prince Aemond is about to tell.

He turns to the middle of the book. The pages are heavy, but he seems not to struggle. Perhaps he reads all the time. He seems very good at turning pages and reading the words on each page. Even the most difficult ones you do not know the meaning of and ask about each time. He seems to have an explanation ready at hand. He seems very happy to explain the words to you.

You decide you like Prince Aemond very much when he does not mind explaining to you the meaning of ancient words for different weapons. You even grab some paper to allow him to draw what they look like. He seems very engaged and elated to draw you a morningstar. You decide that if you were going to go into battle that would be your weapon. It is very pointed.

Page after page you are taken over by the story and transported to ancient times with long fought battles. The prince interjects his own insight as he has begun to train himself. You are convinced he will make a fine warrior someday. He down plays himself saying he is still learning.

“I will not be as grand as Nymeria.” He flushes a bit running his fingers over the beautiful illustration of the fair and fierce queen.

“But you have Vhagar.” You point out. “The largest, oldest dragon, nothing would stop you in battle. You have fire at your command.”

He blinks at you swallowing.

You wonder if you have said something wrong.

Perhaps he does not want to be reminded of the dragon. Maybe he is afraid of the beast. She is quite large and fierce. She can not even be contained in the confines of the dragon pit; she is so cumbersome.

You think that could easily be a lonely life for her.

“Does Vhagar get lonely?” You ask tilting your head so your hair falls sideways. “Like us?”

“I am not lonely!” He starts to close the tome, but you stop him.

“Wait, apologies, my prince.” You pull the cover open. He does not stop you. “I didn’t mean to think you were lonely, I was merely wondering if . . . well . . . Vhagar is different. She is large, too large for the dragon pit so perhaps she is sad without other dragons.”

“She has me.” The princling confirms pressing the pages flat. “And I have her. We are not lonely because we have each other.”

You think that is sweet. That a dragon and a boy can find comfort in each other. You look to his eye, the one covered in leather. There is a rumor that the Gods took Prince Aemond’s eye and replaced it with a dragon.

“Do you miss it? Your eye?” You are thirteen and do not care if you are asking too many questions. You are truly curious.

“Sometimes, yes.” He shrugs. He runs his fingers over the bottom of the patch, over the reddened scar. “Hmmm,” He looks at you. “You won’t be scared I think.”

You are not confused by what he means. You immediately know. He holds the patch itself. The prince hesitates as if thinking better of himself, but then continues. He pulls it off revealing the scar fully. It travels through the eye socket in a red meaty scar. In the eye’s place is a perfectly reflective blue sapphire. You blink, a smile spreading across your face as you shift closer.

You do not think it grotesque as many maidens would.

Instead you think it -

“It’s beautiful!” You say it louder than you meant to. Your heart warms at his tender and relieved smile.

“You really think so?” Prince Aemond asks so tenderly you are sure they are the sweetest words any boy has ever formed together.

“Of course. It suits you.” Your fingers twitch to feel.

“Yes, please, go ahead.” His words stumble out.

You are unsure. You suddenly remember yourself in this moment.

You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter.

You are not meant to intermingle with princes. To ask to be taught to read. To listen to his perfectly crafted voice. You are not meant to demand things like seeing his worst moment etched in a devilish scar. You are not meant to be so taken by the placement of the sapphire in his missing eye you feel giddy.

You certainly should not be touching his face.

But he asked.

He begged you to touch his scar.

So you do.

Your fingers run softly like a ghost, a whispering wind over his brow. The wound is deep. It is healed in ridgid places feeling like little bumps and tears. The skin feels cool under your fingers. Your pads are about to fully trace the dip to his socket when the curtain flutters.

Your mother says your name with a shout.

“You should not be touching the prince!” Your mother pulls her robe tighter around herself marching to the bed.

“I asked her too. She was only obeying me!” The prince is quick to defend you.

His new friend.

Your mother looks between you then at the book on the bed. There is a ghost of a smile that comes to life fully at seeing you and the prince behaving as children should.

“Have you found friendship in each other?” Your mother sits in front of you on the bed looking at the pages of the story you should not be reading. You flush in apology, eyes downcast. “I am not mad. You are thirteen. You will know of violence in this world. That I can not shield you from my precious dove.” She plays with your hair, sharing a soft private moment with you.

“Prince Aemond was teaching me to read.” You say fluttering your lashes innocently. Your mother continues to stroke your face, contentment on hers.

“Is that so?” She asks and gives you, her precious daughter, a sweet kiss on the forehead. “It is the young prince’s birthday. He is now thirteen. His brother believes him to be a man today.”

You see your mother purposely not looking at the prince, but you do. You see him look down shifting uncomfortably. He plays with his fingers, lacing them then unlacing them, together then apart.

“Is that why you smell like cake?” You ask with a tilt.

It seems to melt his nervousness.

“The maids made me strawberry and vanilla. A small one just for me. Mother forgot I do not like chocolate. Aegon likes chocolate.” He is ready for an explanation.

“I like strawberries and vanilla too.” You declare exchanging a smile with the prince.

“Madam Sylvi?” The princling asks lacing his fingers together.

“I will tell your brother lies. You only need to confirm it.” Your mother says.

He nods.

You are unsure what it all means, but you know you will understand this someday.

“I shall stay with you two a while longer to keep up appearances, but please, my prince, continue to read to my darling daughter.” Your mother brushes her fingers through a chunk of your tangled hair. “She has a sharp mind that is not meant for this life.”

There is a sadness in your mother’s voice as she looks upon you.

She has always told you she wishes for a better life for you.

She wants you to read, to explore, to be doted on by someone special who loves you.

“What shall we read next, little dove?” Prince Aemond shifts closer to you.

You smile at your new friend as he smiles back proudly showing his unclothed eye.

“Read me a tale of dragons.”

***

Aemond is a frequent visitor of your mother’s house of pleasure as the pair of you grow into adults. His brother thinks he has clung to the taker of his virginity when in truth the middle prince has not lost it.

He did not lose it that night to your mother like so many whisper over. He does not lose it anytime he comes to the pleasure palace. The prince remains chaste and a gentleman. Instead he comes seeking a different kind of pleasure.

He comes seeking you.

His little dove.

At first he would bring books and ancient tomes from the library in the Red Keep. He would read you stories about ancient battles and prophecies. He would teach you how to read out the simplest words aloud and sound out the more difficult titles. When you have mastered the skills of reading he listens to you read aloud. He is prone to putting his head in your lap as you play with his growing long straight strands. Most nights he falls asleep listening to you name dragons and their riders aloud sometimes sleepily listing them along with you.

When you have mastered the common language, he begins to teach you High Valyrian, the ancient language of Old Valyria. It is a difficult language to learn especially since it takes you so long to learn how to roll your tongue with the exotic words. He has squeezed your face so many times to assist you in the language that your jaw has begun to hurt.

You began to learn a few words and even some phrases.

Every time he hears you speak in the ancient lanaguage he swells with pride.

It is much like every time you read a story to him.

He has taken to removing his eye patch every time he enters the room, your mother’s room which she keeps you hidden away in. It has become your hide away with Aemond. He has only recently insisted you drop the prince title when referring to him.

“The whole world sees me as a prince, little dove.” He touches your face as he says this. “With you I wish to be Aemond. Only Aemond if it pleases you.”

You are not sure he knows, but it does please you.

It pleases you greatly to be his friend.

It pleases you greatly that he wants to share his singular name with you.

While Aemond has grown into a talented, well educated and well trained noble prince, you have developed into a lively beauty prone to intelligent conversations and feeling music enrapture you. Your body is now well settled from growing your lush curves and bountiful bosom. You know yourself greatly and have confidence in your looks. It causes some patrons to ask your mother for you.

“My daughter is not a whore.” Your mother tells them.

They keep asking hoping for a different answer.

One day the prince hears someone ask for you.

They offer a hefty sum, a giant coin purse.

“She is mine.” Aemond tells the man asserting himself forward in a way you have never seen him.

He pulls you quickly into the privacy of your mother’s quarters. There is bubbling rage that makes his fists open and close. It is similar to when he was a boy, lacing and unlacing his fingers.

“Aemond.” You call out settled on the bed.

“No man will ever touch you.” He says through gritted teeth.

He is pacing. The anger makes your body hum with gratitude. He has protected you. With his declaration he has ensured that no one will ever ask to bed you again. You are still pure. Your mother has made sure of that and now so has Aemond. Your prince.

“Someone will touch me someday.” You inform him.

His head snaps to you. His eye is wide with sudden realization. You are not an innocent little dove anymore. You are a woman grown. A beauty that is sure to bring a kind and gentle man to your door. If not your beauty, your beautiful curious nature is too sweet not to have a man falling in love with you so surely he would do anything for you.

“Do you want to be touched?” He looks you over. There is a shiver that runs through your body to your core.

You want to say you want him to touch you.

“I want you to touch me, Aemond.” You were never good at keeping your thoughts to yourself.

It is like the first time you met.

You forget yourself.

You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter.

You can not demand to be touched by -

“Where?” You see him. You truly see him now. His living eye begins to tear. The joyous kind of an echo of a tear reflects in his eye. His sapphire eye nearly comes alive as well as he kneels before you. “Where do you want me to touch you?” It is a near panic as if you will change your mind.

Your heart is caught in your throat as you hear his needy question.

You do not know.

You do not know the answer, yet it floods out of you like a possession.

“Everywhere.”

The panic rolls off of him still. He does not know either where he wants to touch you. You part your legs for him wearing a lovely white silk gown that looks nearly grey in the fiery candlelight. He slots his head and torso between your thighs. Aemond’s hand moves the soft fabric on your right thigh up to reveal plush dips and curves of your skin.

He runs his hands over it squeezing you gently before he dips his lips to kiss you.

There.

On the softest part of your legs you feel a prince’s lips, your prince’s lips tickle you.

They are wet.

You are wet.

“Aemond.” You say his name as his kisses trail upwards. He is giving your thigh open mouthed kisses as he kneads your flesh, hungry and thankful.

“Ñuha jorrāelagon.” You are taken over by how good his kisses feel running up your thigh. It pierces straight to your core that your mind struggles to translate the phrase.

My love.

It is not right.

But it seems so very right.

Feels so very right.

His fingers tease the crease between your thigh and pelvis. He is so very hot and heavy in breath, licking at the peak of your mound. Your small clothes cover you there. You can not think if you prefer them clothed or if you would rather Aemond peel them away from your sweat drenched body.

“Ñuha dārilaros.” My Prince.

Your pronunciation is not quite right as you feel so many emotions and physical sensations right now your High Valyrian pronunciation is the furthest thing from your mind. You are trying to stop from falling back to the bed, legs spread like the whore your mother claimed you not to be.

Perhaps you are only a whore for Aemond Targaryen.

“Renigon nyke.” It is better. It is desperate.

Touch me.

“I would spend the rest of my days obeying that order.” He says smoothing his hand on your upper thigh. He peers up at you. He watches you try to catch your breath. He watches how much you want him. How much you have always wanted him.

You realize that now.

There has been a growing infactuation starting from that very day he peered under your mother’s bed. It started out as simple friendship. Two lonely little children misunderstood by the overarching world. With the years, with understanding each other, it has churned into more. It has become something grand and wide spreading, a warm feeling in your chest that is now spreading between your legs.

“Hmmm . . .you are wet.” He hums.

“I am sorry -” You flush embarrassed but his lips are on your soaked small clothes suckling before you can respond.

Instead you shutter and feel like someone has taken your breath from your body.

You have never had so many goose pimples in your life.

“Wet is good.” His fingers are now palming your core through the fabric of your small clothes.. “Wet means you enjoy what I am doing to you.” You nod.

You remember a book he brought to you about bodies, sex, and arousal. You had been too nervous to read it in front of him, but he had kept it close to his chest. You realize now he probably studied it for a moment such as this.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Your heart flutters at the question on your lips.

Surely a prince would not like -

He kisses you before you have a chance to change your mind.

You never would.

He holds the back of your neck threading his fingers through your beautiful locks. His lips are so soft and inviting. Your lips part in a little gasping breath. He moves his lips, opening and closing them to take you in. He’s so warm. His other hand remains on your trembling thigh as he kisses you with the need to never stop. You welcome him trying to meet his passion tenfold.

It is not a prince you are kissing in this moment.

It is your friend.

It is your Aemond.

Yours and yours alone.

In that moment you belong to each other and nothing else matters.

***

You welcome his small touches.

The pair of you are not as intense as the night he claimed you as his, when he kissed your thigh and kissed you with such need and fury it made your lips ache and burn red. Both of you had kissed so hungrily that night your lips were too sore to do anything else. You and he just laid side by side watching each other, giggling at the giddiness of the moment.

You hold hands as you read to one another. He takes care to stroke your cheek gently when he looks upon you. He whispers words you do not know but begin to learn in High Valyrian.

Gevie. Beautiful.

Ñuha prūmia. My Heart.

Ñuhon. Mine.

You wonder if he has always been this taken with you.

He tells you truthfully when you ask.

“I have always loved you a little. It has grown so deeply since that first day.”

Perhaps you understand this more than anyone.

He leaves you in small chunks of time when he is overtraining his body to show off to his nephews who are to return. The nephews who belittled him and gifted him a pig as a dragon. You have not ever been teased, but can imagine his pain. You see his pain in the form of a missing eye. An eye one of those nephews took from him.

You understand his desire to be as sharp as a knife.

He wants his body to be ready should they ever try to belittle him again.

You are happy to give him over to the training.

But so very sad when you do not see him for months.

You are more sad that you are missing his touch.

Instead you experiment for the first time. You attempt to touch yourself as he touched you. You start by journeying up your thigh. You trail soft kneading touches. You imagine they are his hands.

Where else would you want him?

Everywhere. You remember saying

You can not fathom him on any other part of your body that would feel better than his lips sucking on your small clothes. Perhaps maybe on your core directly. You blush thinking as you stroke over your small clothes. You bring your fingers to your lips sucking on them. It will make it easier to pretend it is his tongue on your core.

You dip your fingers under the fabric on your core laid back spread on the bed missing your friend, hoping the next time you see him you can ask for more. You stroke yourself, finding the wetness of your fingers causes you to sigh. You find a small bud between your core and tease it gently.

You arch your back at the feeling it gives you. You leak wet hot arousal between your fingers.

Your mother shouts your name entering through the curtains.

Your face flushes embarrassed as gravity settles you down from your high.

You wipe your wet fingers on your dress and squeeze your thighs together hoping it will ease the pulsing you still feel.

It helps very little.

“Do not be embarrassed of pleasuring yourself, daughter.” This perhaps makes you more embarrassed. “It is a natural thing to wish to feel pleasure.”

You look down at your fingers slightly pruned from your desire. The release you felt was incredible and exhilarating. Perhaps she is right. Feeling good, as good as this, is a marvel.

“I have come to share some news. Your prince is looking for Prince Aegon. He was just at the door now. He said he would visit soon.” She pauses looking at you, taking your hands softly. “There is a rumor the king is dead.” You feel saddened. Aemond did not speak much of his father, but the loss will surely devastate him in some way. “They speak of putting Aegon on the throne.”

You slip your hands from your mother’s. You know what this means. There is to be a war. The king’s firstborn would not stand to see her half-brother on the throne.

Battle lines will be drawn.

Houses will be fought for.

Marriage pacts . . .

He was not betrothed.

Young, dashing Prince Aemond Targaryen was a free suitor.

A pawn to be used should houses need a push from one side to the other.

It is not the thought of Aemond going to war that frightens you, but the idea that he may share a bed with another woman.

That he may take a wife.

“Oh my sweet girl.” Your mother wipes tears that you did not know were there from your face. “Come here, my little love.” She embraces you as silent tears fall from your sweet innocent face. “It is troublesome to fall in love with a prince.”

You think this is true.

***

Days after King Viserys’ death, Aemond arrives on a stormy night.

You are on the bed propped up with pillows. You read through a book on Aegon the Conqueror considering how he took two wives, both sisters. He arrives in your mother’s chambers, to you, soaked to the bone, water running off his leathers and through his long flat hair. His eye patch is already abandoned, the sapphire reflects the flickering candles.

“Aemond.” You whisper closing the book.

You have known him too long not to notice the sad confusion in his face.

“I did not mean it.” It is the boy you hear. The one who laid with you under your mother’s bed. The one who taught you how to read. That boy is scared.

“Come here, my love.” You shift to welcome him onto your lap. He crawls onto the bed in damp clothes.

“I did not mean it.” He grabs onto you as an anchor. The soft part of your thigh is so warm and welcoming that he nuzzled his face there.

“What didn’t you mean? Tell me, ñuha jorrāelagon.” You are done chasing away how you feel about him. You love him, it is too plain to see. You stroke his hair in the most loving way you know how.

“Lucerys.”

You already know what has happened.

You already know blood has been drawn in such a short time.

You do not pause as you pet his damp hair. He nuzzles you close.

“It is alright. It will be alright.” You assure him. You must assure him. Not because it is your duty as a smallfolk to bluster your prince, but it is your honor as his friend, his love. Whatever he is to you.

Your heart.

“It will not be.” He holds onto your thigh as though you might stop your sweet embrace as he speaks. “I am to be married.”

This causes pause.

Lucerys’ death was not devastating to you. He had hurt your prince so you felt nothing for the boy but disdain. It is no matter to you that he is dead.

But a marriage . . .

Your heart grieves for a future you were never meant to have.

“I do not wish it.” He says snuggling you close. He breathes in your scent. He clings to you for comfort in this miserable moment. You ease him. It is what you know how to do. It is what you want to do by petting his soft hair and pulling him closer to your body. “I want you. I only ever want you.”

Out loud he appears to be a grieving boy in need of physical affection.

In your heart, you hear it differently, you hear true undying desperation to have you.

“I want it to be with you.” He turns to lay on his back looking up at you. “My first time. I do not want it to be with the Baratheon girl. I want it to be with you, ñuha prūmia.” He reaches up to stroke your face. His thumb trails over your lower lip, plump and ready for him.

You could never deny him.

You will never deny him.

You are his heart.

He is your heart.

You reach down and kiss him. His lips are wet with need and hunger to finally take you as he wants. You want him too. You have envisioned this moment in your deep sleep. Dreams of Aemond nude and wanting before you make you wake with your hand between your aching thighs. He pushes upward, entangling his hand in your hair and one hand at your waist.

You whisper his name, eyes floating over him as he kisses you lightly then deeply as if his survival depends on making you feel so incredibly good. He strokes your hip, lifting up the side of your pale green layered silk gown. His hand strokes your backside feeling the wide curve of your ass. He presses flush to you against the soft mattress and propped pillows.

It is when you feel him.

Between his legs is a sword at the ready.

“You. Are. Hard.” You say each word with small gasps as he kisses your neck laying on top of you.

“I am.” You can feel his lips curve into a smile at your collarbone. “It means I desire you.”

You feel your body shiver at this thought.

He wants you.

You find his hand at your hip guiding it with yours to your aching core. It is as soaked as his heavy leather coat.

“I want you too.” You show him. He strokes you there and you feel too much pleasure soaking you more. “Let me undress you.”

His coat falls to the side. Your fingers slip against the buttons of his tunic. He helps you in frustration, nearly ripping them off in a harsh pull. You stifle a laugh at his eagerness. He lavishes you with kisses, open mouthed and needy. You feel his tongue slip inside your mouth. It is so hot and so is his skin. It is as if he is burning up from the inside with desire.

“I need you, my darling dove.”

Your hand palms his hardness through the leather pants. You admire his torso for a moment stroking the length of him. He is well toned, muscular. His wide pecs and deep abs make you gasp. He leans forward threatening to kiss you again, but you lean back marvelling at the site knelt before you on your mother’s bed.

“You like what you see then? I have been hoping that when we were ready to make love that my body was to your liking. It is another reason I have been training so hard.”

You feel a deep devotion to him in this moment.

That he would spend so much time on his body to please you.

Just you.

“You were sculpted by the Gods.” You trace your fingers over his abs stroking along the dips of his hips.

“I was sculpted for you and you alone, my little dove.” He cups your cheeks seeking your kiss again. He is sweet and well practiced now with how to kiss you.

He is so happy now after being so taken with guilt over the death of his nephew you wonder if he is truly okay.

You feel selfish kissing him back.

You feel wrong for wanting him to never stop wanting you even if he is to marry another.

“Say you want me ag-”

“I want you. Jaelan ao.” He says before you can finish.

You press down his trousers. He stands to reveal his naked body to you. You have never seen a nude man before, but you are sure no other man looks as Aemond Targaryen does. He stands proudly as if he knows his body is a work of art. You have already been admiring his torso.

Why not admire the rest of him?

You sit on the bed letting your eyes fall to the part of him you had been too bashful to lay eyes on. You are in the midst of exploring him fully. You must look at that part. His hardness stands straight, long and thick. You see he is smooth at his base where his balls hang low. He strokes himself proudly, smirking. The tip of his cock is leaking.

You think it is because his body needs you so badly it is weeping.

On instinct, you spread your legs.

He watches you nearly panting.

“Would you like to see me?”

It is a question you know the answer to.

You watch his cock twitch, up and down as if an invisible force is causing him to stir.

He steps forward eager, but cautious in case you are nervous about revealing yourself fully. You are nervous. You have never been naked in front of a man before. You ease yourself looking to his sapphire eye. He has exposed himself time and time again to you.

Surely you can show him your tits and not flush?

You stand and turn away from him. Your neck bends forward as you shift your hair exposing the clasp around your neck. You feel the pads of his fingers there. It is there you realize he is trembling. Uneasily with a few fumbled tries, he undoes the clasps letting the bodice of your gown fall forward exposing your tits to the cool air.

Your nipples peak to life in the coldness. You instinctively go to cover them, but he stays your hands. He is easy with them, a gentle kind of ease. He moves to knead your breasts. You say nothing because his hands, while cold from the rain, are so good squeezing at your fleshy fat before rolling your peaked pink buds between his fingers.

“Aemond,” You sigh, leaning back into him. You touch his face from behind bringing him closer as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Take the rest off.”

He kisses behind your ear, a lingering beautiful kiss.

His hands move from your well massaged breasts down further. He glides them down your torso to your hips. They still hug the silk dark green dress with little gold lace. He pulls it down over your wide hips. He pushes himself at the curve of your bottom and you feel that he is harder than you remembered.

The dress pools to the floor.

You are as exposed as he is.

You are the same in this moment.

You feel his face from behind you as he continues to kiss your neck and hold your body to his.

“I want you to be my first too.” You tell him. It is a secret you have kept close to your chest. “I dream about you, Aemond. I . . .” You can not bring yourself to say it, but you do. If you do not say it now it will fester inside you until you leave this world. “I love you, Aemond Targaryen.”

He does not stop kissing you.

He only whispers.

“Avy jorrāelan tolī.”

You turn in his arms. Tears edge his bottom eyelid. You kiss them away holding his face. You repeat the words in High Valyrian, the same tone and cadence as his confession. He leans forward kissing you. He can not stop telling you he loves you, in either language.

“Make love to me.” You instruct him feeling that his kisses are suddenly not enough. You hold his face seeing how his desire matches your own. “I want you inside me.”

He lays you down gently on the bed. His kisses press to your lips. His tongue continues to explore your mouth. Yours is eager to explore his. You are eager as you spread your legs for his member to slot between your thighs. You feel the leaking head caressing your core.

“Will it hurt?”

You do not like pain. You know that your core is tight and his thick throbbing length is supposed to fit inside you.

“It may be uncomfortable.” He strokes your hair softly. “If you need to stop, just say so. I would never do anything to hurt you, my little dove.”

You believe him.

You nod feeling ready for him.

“I . . .” He pauses looking down at your face, your body, your cunt. He teases you with long lithe fingers, stroking your slit making you whimper. “I should like you a bit wetter before I enter you.”

His face moves downward trailing feathery kisses between your breasts then further down making you shudder with anticipation. He looks up from kissing your belly as if asking for approval to journey further. You bite your lip and nod. It takes all your power not to push his face where you need him.

He is at your sex.

He is between your legs.

Aemond licks your slit long and slow. It has the desired effect. You grow wetter letting out tiny pleased gasps. Your sex pulses with need. He kisses you there where he is needed most. His tongue pushes past your folds letting his lips suckle and drink you in. The slurping noise is quite lewd, but it makes your body soak around his lip. Your hips dance upwards as his hands grip your thighs in place. He presses little circles on your soft inner thigh.

“Aemond . . .” You grip the sheets never wanting him to stop. You have never felt this good or loved in your life. You fear you will never feel this good again. “Don’t stop.” You want to beg him to keep his tongue inside you, but instead he finds that bud.

Your body quakes. The tip of his tongue swirls around the bud. You can nearly feel it throbbing. It needs friction. He wraps his lips around the little pearl suckling.

You can not see. Your eyes screw shut.

The pleasure.

The pleasure rides through your body, from core to toes to head. You cry out to the Gods. You cry out in undeniable euphoria.You feel yourself come undone and back together again. Your legs shake. Aemond holds you to the bed, grounding you as if you might float away to the heavens. He continues despite the unending pleasure you feel.

“You enjoyed that.” He is smiling proudly, his tongue still lapping against your core despite how you feel yourself coming down from the euphoric high. You simply nod. “I am glad. I believe you are ready for me.”

You shift to rest your head more firmly on the pillows. Aemond helps. He fluffs the pillows and makes sure you are comfortable. He strokes your core making sure you are slick and continues to kiss your lips alternating between sweet and searing passion.

You are ready.

You want him.

You need him.

His tip brushes the hairs at your core clustered wet in your arousal. You sigh feeling the girth of his tip. You know it may feel uncomfortable, but there is nothing more you have ever wanted in your life then Aemond Targaryen’s cock rutting itself to completion inside you.

“Hold me for comfort. I am here for you always. You are mine. Ñuha jorrāelagon.”

He is careful when he enters you. There is much discomfort, but no pain. The stretch is easy with how wet he has made you. His tip squeezes inside your core making you gasp with perfect desire. You hold under his pits to grasp his shoulders as he continues to push inside you.

He watches your face to make sure you are alright before pushing in further.

You feel him.

Gods, do you feel him.

He can not help, but ease himself further until he is flush with you. His magnificent well defined torso is crushed against your soft womanly figure. You hold him for dear life. He nuzzles his nose into your hair and neck. He bottoms out inside you.

You feel all of him now.

You nearly cry with how good it feels to smell him, to touch him, to taste him, to have him inside you.

“I love you.” You say again. “Always.”

“I love you.” He says looking upon your sweet face, innocent and in love. “I wish to move. To truly make love to you. Tell me if -”

“Yes, please, fuck me.” Your words are not sweet, but desperate.

You want him to know he can be a bit rough if he likes.

You think you may want him to be.

His thumb wipes across your bottom lip, a loving gesture.

He begins.

Aemond moves inside you thoughtfully. Out half way then easing back in. His eye is settled on your face, watching for any signs he should stop or signs of true pleasure. You know all he sees, all he hears is your pleasure settling inside you. His breath is soft and needy against your neck as he slowly fucks your cunt.

Your hips rise to meet him.

Want him.

More.

He takes the sign. Aemond begins to rock his hips deeper. His cock is moving at a much quicker pace. You stretch. You feel yourself expand around his cock. It feels like nothing else you have ever felt. You hold him close as his hips begin to snap, pounding into you. You can feel you may bruise, but you do not care. His breath is heavier now, panting as he fucks you. You cry out louder moans of pure bliss.

“Yes! Please!” Gods, he feels good. So very good.

His cock twitches inside you.

He is moaning now.

It is as if he has silenced himself this whole time, but now can not control it.

“I am there.” He calls out with a grunt.

You feel your core pulse pulling him in deeper.

“Fuck, you are milking my cock! I can not hold on. I can not hold on!” He grunts out snapping his hips like the beating wings of a dragon.

You cry out hearing him let out a loud noise, a mixture of your name and cries of passion.

He spills his seed inside you.

You feel warm as you rake your fingernails across his back feeling the wetness spill from you. You call out his name as you feel undone underneath him.

His name is like a prayer.

If you say it enough he will be yours.

He tenderly says your name against the shell of your ear as you feel him grow soft inside you.

You lay as one, he deep inside you.

You draw circles across his back in comfort.

He nuzzles against your hair. You can feel his wet lips against your neck in small kisses.

“You are mine.” He whispers to you. “Even if I am to marry another. You will always be mine.”

You think that is true. You think that has always been true.

You have experienced something special with him. You have taken the virginity of Prince Aemond Targaryen. He has taken your flower. You will never forget this moment.

As you lay there in each others’ arms you know soon you will part. Perhaps he will never return to your bed. Perhaps he will constantly return to you. He is to be married. He may be. He may break off the engagement.

It is a future not yet set in stone.

You know that you will savor this moment in time.

When you were his and he was yours.

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