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aemondsbeloved · 6 months

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𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐃𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞

Tom Bennett x female reader (third person perspective) ❖ childhood friends to lovers

Warnings: angst, period-typical sexism, Tom being a jerk, profanity, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, loss of virginity, creampie, slight possessiveness? Rating: 18+ MDNI Word count: 5,200+

Summary: She and Tom Bennett have been next-door neighbors and friends since they were children, but she's been waiting for years for their relationship to develop into something more romantic. Following an argument they have one night, Tom finds a way to make things right with her.

A/N: First fic on my new writing blog, yay! Hope you all enjoy :) Dividers by @saradika

“Sit still.”

Tom squirms beneath her gentle touch regardless, the sting of the alcohol against his bleeding wound nearly unbearable. He swats her hand away and she sits back in her chair with a heavy sigh.

“Fucking hurts, alright?” he grumbles and wipes his left eye as blood begins to trickle from the sizable gash across his eyebrow. The way he pouts his lips would normally send a warm flutter through her stomach, but not this time.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby.” She leans in again, delicately dabbing at the wound despite him trying to jerk away from her touch. Her own brow is furrowed and her lips drawn into a thin line.

How many times have they sat in this exact spot across from one another in his family’s kitchen? How many nights has he come home from the pub and dragged his feet past his own front door to stand below her window, throwing stones until she appears? Ever his guardian angel, she’s spent every one of those nights tiptoeing down the stairs, avoiding each spot that creaks, and taking a deep breath before throwing open the door to see what sort of trouble he’s gotten himself into this time.

She’s bandaged knuckles, fetched ice for black eyes, and cleaned enough cuts for a lifetime.

And tonight she’s had enough.

“What have you got your knickers in a twist for?” Tom asks bitingly. “You’re not the one who looks like they’re crying blood right now.”

She sighs. “I just… wish you’d grow up already, Tom.”

Not Tommy, like she’s called him since the day they met when they were four years old. No. It’s Tom whenever she’s cross with him.

She can’t remember a time before Tom was in her life. One of her earliest memories is of her scraping her knee in the back garden and him struggling to carry her inside to her mum. They’ve been almost inseparable ever since. Even as they’ve grown and their interests have diverged. Even as he’s struggled with the loss of his mum. Even as he’s become a bit of a tearaway and the police have come to his door more and more frequently.

It’s always been her and Tom.

Except in the ways that it hasn’t.

As he has developed from a little boy to a gawky adolescent to a handsome young man, her love for him has grown beyond mere friendship. When her girlfriends all started getting asked out on weekends - to the cinema, to the pub, to the dance hall - she held out hope that she would hear the same from Tom. But she never did.

He’s gone round with girls sometimes, flirting and taking one or two on a proper date. Nothing’s ever stuck and he has never had anything serious, but, each time, it’s chipped away at her heart all the same.

Perhaps she isn’t pretty enough, she’s wondered. No other boys have ever shown an interest in her. Or, perhaps they’ve all thought that she and Tom are something that they aren’t. He’s got something of a reputation among the local boys for his temper, after all. Too many of them have already felt the sting of his punches to play with fire by asking out his girl.

Because she’s always been his girl.

Tom has said so ever since they were six. “You’re my girl. You know that?” he said to her one day as they sat together in a tree eating ice lollies he’d nicked from the corner shop. And that nickname for her had stuck over the years. It’s one she’s heard every time she opens the front door and sees him leaning against the brick wall joining their two houses. When he beckons her to break her curfew and join him for a walk around town in the middle of the night. When he gets in trouble and he needs her.

She may be his girl, but she isn’t his.

“Grow up?” Tom repeats.

“Yeah. Grow up,” she sighs. “I can’t keep doing this with you if you’re gonna keep going ‘round winding people up and getting into trouble. You know I’d do anything for you, but… I’m not gonna be your babysitter forever.”

Tom pulls away from her, yanking the bloody washcloth out of her hand, which hovers in the air for a few moments before it settles in her lap.

“Is that you talking? Or your mum and dad?” His tone becomes particularly nasty upon mentioning her parents. They used to dote on him when the two of them were little, like he was the son they’d never had. But they’ve come to despise him. They think he’s a bad influence. Unfit to be her friend, let alone anything else. She’s spent the last few years defending him until she’s turned blue in the face.

“I can speak for myself, you know.” She stands, pushing in the wooden chair back so that it scrapes loudly against the floor. “And I’m sure as shit more grown up than you.”

He’s sitting with his head tilted back in a pose that exposes his neck. The soft, flickering fire dances off of his skin and profile in a way that she could have stared at for hours if she wasn’t so bloody frustrated with him. Swallowing hard, she turns to the sink to wash her hands furiously.

“Oh, yeah?” he starts, clearly annoyed, and she braces herself for the cutting words to come. She knows she’s exhausted the little bit of his already short temper that remained after his altercation at the pub. “Let’s see. Twenty-three year old girl. Still lives with her parents and shares a room with her little kid sisters. Works in the family shop stocking oranges, shilling newspapers, and selling lollipops to snot-nosed kids.”

“Tom…” She’s heard enough. She throws him a look that tells him to stop, but he’s still draped backwards in his chair with the washcloth over his eyes.

“She spends her days doing exactly what mummy and daddy tell her like a good girl should instead of ever thinking for her bloody self. And she can keep on pretending she’s a kid so she doesn’t have to face what goes on in the real world. Did I miss anything?”

“And what do you know about the real world?” she snaps. She would have laughed if she didn’t have tears in her eyes. “At least I have a job. Unlike one of us who’s spent more time in a jail cell these past few months than out of one. I’m helping my family. Supporting my family. That’s one hell of a lot more grown up than whatever the fuck it is you’re doing with your life.”

In the firelight, she sees Tom’s jaw clench and unclench in the way it does when he’s getting truly stroppy. It’s a cue she’s learned to notice over the years, just as she’s learned to drag him - sometimes physically - away from certain situations before he can get into trouble. But his irritability has never been directed at her before. Not like this.

“Ah, yes, the spinster daughter helping out her parents.” A vindictive smirk begins to spread across his lips. “How noble of you.”

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, in response but the painful lump that rises in her throat stifles her. Perhaps if he could see the look on her face, he’d know he’s gone too far. But with the crimson-stained washcloth shielding his view, he can’t see the way her entire body has stiffened like a prey animal that’s been cornered.

“Must feel good to know that you’re toiling away at the shop while every single one of your girlfriends is married with a family of their own. And how, soon, there won’t be anything left of you for a man to want. But at least you’re helping your family.”

A hand flies to her face to cover her mouth as a sob bubbles up from inside her chest. It’s the final confirmation she’s needed to know, once and for all, that Tom has never seen her as an object of his desire. That her love for him will always be unrequited and that, maybe, no man will ever want her. If only he could know how much it hurts her to know that.

She waits for another scathing remark from him but she reckons he’s gotten in every insulting word he’s wanted to when he falls silent.

“Be a darling and fetch us a bandage?” Tom eventually asks in a tone that’s far too casual for the tense atmosphere in the room. He’s never been one to say ‘please,’ but he doesn’t even pull the washcloth away from his face to look at her when he asks. And there is certainly no apology for the hurtful things he’s said.

Still in tears, she scoffs and grabs the roll of gauze she found in the first aid kit earlier. Instead of bringing it to him, she lobs it at him from across the kitchen. “You don’t always have to be such an arse,” she chokes out.

It’s nights like these when she wonders why she puts up with him… aside from the fact that she is so hopelessly, unequivocally, and completely in love with him. Even though it’s crystal clear to her, now, that he doesn’t feel the same.

“Bandage yourself up, Tom.”

When she storms out of the kitchen and toward the front door, he jerks forward in his chair in shock but doesn’t try to stop her. And that makes her feel the worst of all.

She is exhausted the following day when she is tending her family’s shop, the humble general store that everyone on their street shops at. She spent most of the night crying into her pillow, angry and hurt and conflicted as she was over everything that had happened in the Bennetts’ kitchen.

She is the only member of her family left to man the store by late afternoon, once her mum leaves with her sisters to begin preparing dinner and her dad has to start his evening shift at the factory. As closing time approaches, there’s only a mother and her young son left in the store. She is busy sweeping behind the counter as she listens to the boy beg his mother to buy him a packet of boiled sweets that’s caught his eye.

She has her back turned when she hears the telltale jingle of the bell above the door, signaling the entry of another customer. She sighs, hoping that whoever it is won’t take too long. If she’s lucky, they’ll have their shopping done before the mother manages to pull her son away from the candies and make her own purchases.

But when she hears a basket being placed on the counter behind her and turns to see the woman, she finally notices the other patron and her heart sinks.

Tom is milling about the store with his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself. Of course he knows that she’ll see him. But she prickles at the mere sight of him and almost forgets to ring up the woman’s groceries. As she punches the totals for each item into the till, she notices out of the corner of her eye that Tom keeps glancing at her. She hates that she can feel her cheeks grow redder each time he does.

“Thank you, missus. Come again,” she says with a tight smile once the woman pays. But her paltry attempt at a smile fades quickly as Tom steps up to the counter and places a can of peaches in front of her. She only looks at him for long enough to flash him a dirty look before she turns away to resume sweeping.

“Hey, you not gonna help me? I’m a paying customer.”

Cheeky arsehole.

“You’re allergic to peaches, Tom,” she says, barely glancing over her shoulder at him.

But she sees him extend a hand to slide the can a little bit closer using his fingertips. Scowling, she quickly rings up the purchase. No eye contact. No smile. The sooner she gets him out of here, the better.

“That’ll be 30p.” She speaks flatly above the ding of the till. “Would you like a bag?”

Tom’s eyes narrow and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Ooh, the service here isn’t very friendly, is it? Think I’m gonna have to speak to the owner.”

Usually, she would play along with this type of banter, but she isn’t in the mood for it today. She takes the money from him and gives him a receipt. “He isn’t here,” she says as she slams the till shut again.

“Good.” Tom leans on the counter with a wink and a smug grin that fails to elicit her usual giggle.

“We’re closed,” she says, taking her apron off and hanging it beside the others on the wall. “Thank you for your purchase, sir.”

“Sir?” Grinning crookedly, he raises his eyebrows and winces. Clearly the cut to his left brow is still painful. At least he’s made an attempt to bandage it himself after she stormed out last night. Though, maybe he got Lois to do it for him, since he can’t seem to do bloody anything for himself. She reckons he probably has a massive headache, too, though you’d never know it by the way he tends to mask his pain beneath his cheeky attitude.

Tom starts rolling the can of peaches back and forth across the counter, clearly uninterested in leaving. But there’s an air of discomfort emanating off of him. He glances down at his hands. His lips purse. He taps his foot on the laminate floor.

“Tom, I have to close the shop and get home for dinner,” she eventually says, stepping from behind the counter to tend to her remaining cleaning duties. She’s too busy and has too much to do for his nonsense tonight.

“Why do you think I came by now instead of earlier?”

“Because you sleep all day?”

The sound of the can rolling behind her stops. “I wanted to talk to you… and I knew you’d be here alone.”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve talked to me. You can go home now. Or to the pub or wherever else,” she says bitterly as she starts wiping down the counter beside him.

Tom’s hand catches hers, his long, slender fingers wrapping around it tightly. She looks down and sees the cuts on his knuckles from his pub fight and all the hurt of their argument the night before comes flooding back to her. But he doesn’t let her pull away.

“Please.”

Her lips part in surprise. She’s still upset with him. But that one word - the one she’s never heard him utter - sends the walls she’s built up crashing down.

“I’m sorry,” Tom continues, leaning in so his face is close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek. “About what I said last night. How I treated you. I was completely out of order.” She can tell that he’s just smoked a cigarette before entering the shop, likely to calm his nerves. She’s never been allowed to smoke and never dared, even when they’re alone. But it means that she associates the smell with him. That, and the aftershave he uses. The one he’s never been able to afford and always knicks from the chemist.

“I… said some unkind things, too...” she admits softly. Despite his own hurtful remarks, she knows that she let her own anger and frustration get the better of her. But Tom shakes his head. He won’t let her apologize.

“Nah, you were just fed up with me. And how can I blame you?” His gaze falls. “Even I wouldn’t put up with me. But you? You’re heaven sent.”

She feels her heart flutter in her chest. It’s things like this that he says to her that always gets her hopes up, only to send her crashing down to earth again. But it’s so easy to fall for him… even if it hurts.

“You’re more mature than I’ll ever be,” Tom continues, looking almost guilty about it. It’s something else she’s never seen from him. Maybe Lois knocked some sense into him last night after hearing their row from upstairs. “I’ve never deserved you. And I especially don’t, now.”

His hand in the small of her back pulls her even closer despite his words.

“But I… just couldn’t go on, knowing I’d upset my girl.”

My girl. There it is again.

She turns her head away with a sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that any more,” she grumbles.

“Why not?” He looks at her, confused.

She shrugs sadly, still avoiding his gaze. “Cause we aren’t kids any more and… I’m not your girl.”

Tom takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger to make her look at him again, his touch surprisingly gentle. “But you are my girl.” His thumb sweeps across her bottom lip. “Always have been… and always will be.”

She thinks she must be dreaming when he presses his lips to hers. It’s her first kiss. She knows he knows it is. It’s something he’s teased her about before, even offering to “borrow” the classroom rabbit to give her someone to kiss when they were about ten.

He’s gentle at first, but soon his tongue demands entry into her mouth as his arms wrap around her. Through her blouse, she can feel the warmth of his hands in the small of her back. She melts into him, embracing every millisecond of the kiss she’s waited so long for.

His hands move lower and she gasps against his lips. But before she can protest, he seamlessly lifts her by her bum and places her on the counter beside the till so they’re at eye level with one another. It feels such a delightfully forbidden, wicked thing to be here in this passionate embrace with him. Here, on this counter where she just sold apples and butter and flour to that young mother. Where her dad set the daily bunch of newspapers early this morning. Where she stands, day in and day out, serving customers with a sweet smile.

She’s dazed by the time Tom pulls back to let her breathe and, judging by the sly grin on his lips, he knows exactly what he’s done to her.

“Why do you think I’ve scared off any bloke who’s ever shown an interest in you?” he asks as his eyes study her lips, enjoying the way they look, kiss swollen and coated in his saliva. “Couldn’t have my girl dating anyone else.”

She blinks a few times while her brain struggles to formulate some kind of response. “Wh-- Then… why have you never asked me yourself?”

“It’s like I said.” He lifts a hand and tucks her hair behind her ear in an intimate, affectionate gesture. “I’ve never deserved you.”

She takes his hand in hers as his touch lingers at her cheek, pulling it to her lips to kiss his palm. “That’s not true, Tommy.”

Tom clicks his tongue, frowning. “Yeah... it is. But maybe I could. One day.”

He leans in to capture her lips once again and hers meet his as if drawn to him magnetically. They kiss again and again, hungrily, after being starved of one another for so many years. It’s head-dizzyingly wonderful and far surpasses anything she could have ever imagined.

“I wanna be better for you,” he murmurs, a promise breathed against her lips between kisses. “I’m sorry I haven’t been. I’ll try. I’ll really try.”

“Tommy…” She doesn’t want to hear any more of that, not right now. Right now, the hammering of her heart in her chest and the heat pooling between her legs tell her that all she wants is him.

The heaving of her chest only quickens as she feels his hands slowly move up her thighs, taking the hem of her pale blue skirt with them. Their eyes meet and, in his, she can see him wonder if she’d like him to stop. How could she, when she’s daydreamed about this exact moment? Touched herself more than a few times and pictured his face when she fell over the edge?

“Please, Tommy,” she whispers before claiming his lips once more.

His fingers find the waistband of her sheer tights and hook beneath it to slide them down along with her knickers. He goes painfully slowly, letting his fingertips enjoy the softness of her skin for the first time. The moment he finally rids her of the garments, he steps back in between her legs and buries a hand in her hair to hold her lips to his. The other finds its way beneath her skirt once again and his fingers soon run through the wetness between her legs.

Tom smiles against her lips and she feels her skin prickle.

“Bloody soaking…” he mumbles in amusement. But his fingers continue upward, knowing that they’ve found her bud when she lets out a stuttering gasp against his lips. He doesn’t tease her for long - only until she begins to whimper and squirm beneath his touch.

She’s left gasping when he pulls away entirely, suddenly feeling cold in the absence of his body pressed against hers. But she watches him drop to his knees in front of her and dip his head forward to begin lapping at her bud. She’s in shock at first as he pleasures her with his tongue, but soon a delicious warmth begins to build inside her.

She doesn’t even care that, given how expertly his tongue teases her, he’s probably done this to more than one girl before. Because he’s doing it to her. Right here. Right now. And she could die happy like this, with his head buried between her legs.

Tom grants her a momentary reprieve from the intensity of his attention at her bud when his head bobs forward and she feels him drag his tongue along her slick folds. Even better, she feels the soft hum that leaves him as he tastes her for the first time, a sound full of such wanton satisfaction that she knows she must taste like heaven to him.

But when his lips move upward again to close around her bud, suckling eagerly at it, she can no longer contain the moans she’s been choking back. Her hands grasp the edge of the counter tightly and her head falls back, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath she takes. Her back arches, seeking more of him - and Tom is eager to give.

The feeling of him pressing two fingers inside her is the beginning of her undoing. He curls them into her in rhythm with the movements of his lips and tongue, causing her body to tense and tremble as he sends her hurtling toward her peak. She feels her insides tighten unbearably before finally giving way, sending warmth tingling through her core and into every limb. His firm touch at her hips is the only thing tethering her to this earth. It allows her to fully let go. She melts into him and the unimaginably exquisite pleasure he has wrung from her.

And it’s his name that falls from her lips as she comes down again.

Tom stands, studying her carefully in the wake of her climax. Her knuckles are still white from gripping so desperately onto the counter. Her chest is rising and falling as she fights to catch her breath. Her body slowly relaxes again and her eyes open, only to see him watching her with a look of smug satisfaction glimmering in his eyes.

Grinning crookedly, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Cheeky arsehole, she thinks yet again. She might make that his new nickname from now on.

“Christ,” he says in a low, husky tone. His hands return to her thighs, slipping beneath her skirt once again to push it back up toward her hips. “You’re so beautiful when you cum.”

She feels her lower stomach flutter again. There is no response that she can form on her tongue after what he’s just done to her. She’s basking in a warm haze following her peak, like she’s been submerged into a hot spring in the valleys of paradise itself.

“But I’m not done apologizing yet.” Tom leans in and kisses her like she’s the only woman on Earth. She feels him smirk against her lips. “Unless you’ve forgiven me already and I can get out of your hair. Leave you to your chores.”

The sound that leaves her throat is somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. “Don’t go,” she begs, perhaps too enthusiastically. “I mean… you aren’t forgiven yet, Tom Bennett. You’re not going anywhere.”

His hands disappear from her hips. “Good.” She hears the clinking of his belt being undone and the zip of his trousers. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

“Me, too,” she breathes.

His eyes, with irises that are nearly black with desire, trace her every feature. This is far, far more than an apology; it is a culmination of years of unspoken attraction and longing and love. And it is love. He’s loved her all this time and she never saw it. Perhaps he’s felt the same. Left wondering and hoping that, maybe, she could love him, too. How naive they’ve both been.

“I’ll be gentle,” Tom whispers as the clefted tip of his nose brushes against hers. She’s so brimming with need for him that a helpless little whine leaves her at the feeling of his fingertips trailing up her thigh once again. “Couldn’t bear the thought of hurting my girl.”

His head dips into the crook of her neck and suddenly his mouth is ghosting over her skin, his nostrils taking in the smell of her. All that’s there is the powdery smell of her soap. She hasn’t worn any perfume today; she doesn’t even own any. Perfume is for young women who go dancing on the weekends and ladies of leisure who drive by in their fancy cars and wives who want to excite their husbands.

His lips finally find purchase on the delicate spot just below her jaw, where they can feel the soft fluttering of her pulse. It’s where he stays as she feels him brush the head of his exposed cock against her wet entrance before pushing inside. The sharp, initially painful stretch of his entry draws a squeak from her, but he is sure to go slowly for her. She squirms, so his hand moves past her hip to settle against the little dimples in her lower back, holding them together as he nestles completely inside her.

They still for a moment, the quiet calm of the empty shop disturbed only by their shared panting. Her, from the fullness she suddenly feels and him, from the tightness and heat that envelop his cock. She is unsure of when she had raised her hands to his shirt and balled the fabric in her fists, but she is certain that she’s ruined the perfectly crisp, clean ironing job that Lois did on it this morning.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Tom pants, his breath hot on her skin.

“You, too.” Her own voice stutters across his temple.

The feeling of him beginning to move his hips against hers, of his cock cock sliding in and out of her, is so foreign to her. And yet, as Tom settles into a steady, gentle rhythm, she knows that this is how it should be. He is the only one she ever wants to feel like this, rocking into her with his arms enveloping her and his lips kissing her neck with lecherous hunger.

Through the shop windows, she sees people walking by on their way home for the night. If even one of them dared to look through the glass, they would see the two of them entwined in their passionate dance. The shop owner’s daughter and the neighborhood delinquent. What juicy gossip that would make.

She begins to meet each one of his thrusts with ragged, needy gasps, her hand snaking around his shoulder until it comes to rest at the nape of his neck. Her fingers dig into his skin and she feels him groan roughly against her throat in between his desperate pants and soft grunts of effort. He’s hitting that spot inside her that his fingers had curled against moments ago, but with the force of his hips driving into hers, it elicits a feeling that is entirely more exquisite.

“Tommy–” she sighs, her thighs beginning to tremble as warm pleasure begins to build inside her. “Tommy, kiss me.”

Not a single second passes before he follows her command, his lips crashing against hers like he will never kiss her again. If possible, they hold one another tighter as their ascent begins. His hand at her lower back tightens almost painfully against her skin. She’s thankful that it’s a spot that will be covered by her clothing come tomorrow. The spots on her neck that he has kissed and sucked at will be a different story.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Tom breathes against her lips, his voice strained with effort. “Say it.”

It’s then that she knows she’s found heaven with him. At first, all that comes from is a soft, impassioned moan that hums against his lips. But as that moan gives way to more desperate sounds of pleasure, rising and rising and rising in pitch as his thrusts continue to bring her closer to the edge, she manages to utter the two words he wants to hear most.

“I’m yours.”

His movements speed up as they begin to crest that hill together, her soft assurance all he needed to reach his peak with her. As his breathing grows heavier and his body begins to stiffen against her, she feels the wave of pleasure crash over her. It sweeps her away, causing her walls to flutter and clench around his cock just as they had his fingers earlier. And he finds his own release, spilling himself inside her with one final thrust of his hips.

The air around them fills with their muffled, broken moans and heavy panting as the last bits of pleasure dissipate and they are left, arms still wrapped around one another with little intention of letting go. And once the sounds of their coupling die down once again, the silence of the shop is interrupted only by the occasional blaring of car horns outside.

Her nose nuzzles against his cheek, feeling the soft warmth of his skin. She feels his eyelashes brush against her brow as his eyes open once again, his gaze entirely different than it had been mere moments ago. And it’s one she’s never seen from him otherwise.

His eyes, now back to their usual blue, hold in them tenderness, vulnerability, devotion. It’s a look she’s seen the couples in romance films give one another when they’re just about to profess their love for one another. Love.

Tom kisses her one more time, not out of desire or passion, but with such affection that she feels her head spin. And her smile is all he needs to know that all is forgiven.

“My girl,” he whispers.

#this ATE #fic rec

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aemondsbeloved · 6 months

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the urge to write has returned after seeing Ewan for 5 seconds in the Saltburn trailer. if I wrote a Michael Gavey oneshot would anyone wanna be tagged??

comment if u do!!

#michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #yes I have not posted a fic in 3 months and this is what has urged me to write again. I can't explain lolol

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aemondsbeloved · 7 months

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Hello darling, how are you and what have you been excited about recently?♥️🌟♥️

hi!! fandom related– I'm excited about my rewrite of from the tides, I've been rewriting and I'm happier with it. hoping to start reposting the chapters soon! other than that I've been really excited about a book I've been writing. it's a huge work in process, but it makes me very happy to write about.

this is also so kind of you to even ask me especially because I've been incredibly inactive <3

#asks

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aemondsbeloved · 9 months

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Hi I just wanted to let you know that a large amount of your fanfics have been posted into a book on wattpad and I wasn't sure if you were aware as they don't seem to have permission from the authors. /1287730945-dragonseeds-7-aegon-aemond-hc

thanks for letting me know,, they definitely don't have my permission. this happens in every fandom I've been in and it's the worst!

#asks

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aemondsbeloved · 9 months

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dōna mandia

Summary: Her brothers convince her to play a game of hide-and-seek.

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Reader, Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Word Count: 4085

Warnings: Targcest, with she/her pronouns, MDNI, 18+ Dubcon, inexperience, fingering, implied sexual themes, oral (m and f receiving), p in v, anal, double penetration, rough sex.

Author’s Note: Thank you @hamatoanne for being my muse and inspiring this depravity. Thank you to @sylas-the-grim for beta reading and perfecting. And a huge thank you to @aemonds-fire for helping me with my Tumblr settings that had me ripping my hair out. 💜 Anyway, this is what you wanted from this poll. I hope you are all happy with yourselves. 😂

Valyrian translations: mēre, lanta, hāre is one, two, three dōna mandia is sweet sister

Tumblr kindred spirits: @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii

Keep reading

#fic rec

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aemondsbeloved · 10 months

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From The Tides [Part 6]

summary: a feast, a tourney, and Aemond's accusations about Daemon throw your wits off kilter. attendance at the tourney is unavoidable, as is the inevitability of running into Aemond again (8k).

pairings: aemond targaryen x reader, (platonic) lucerys velaryon x reader

warnings: violence (brief), show canon aegon, familial death (mentioned), less angsty than previous chapters imo though

notes: it's been a while. hoping to update this more often in the future. I recommend reading this on ao3! the formatting is better there

He wanted us all dead, did you know that?

Aemond’s words plagued you that eve of the feast. All throughout your company with Lord Cregan Stark whomade you feel like the person you were before you met Luke was difficult to enjoy. You might have enjoyed his company more, maybe even craved it for how lighthearted you felt as he told stories of Prince Jacaerys during his time at Winterfell. But Aemond’s poisonous words ruined everything.

You had never seen the snow in the Stormlands where you hailed. Cregan insisted that you should visit Winterfell to see it one day. Smiling at his words, you were mimicking true joy all because of Aemond Targaryen’s words. The Queen’s Consort was a rogue, you knew that. But it was difficult to believe he would want little children dead. And Aemond seemed assured of it. You could not trust him but you could not believe he would lie about such a thing.

“I told him it was impossible to hit the stag from as far away as we were, but he didn’t listen!” Cregan laughed. Jace was leaning over your shoulder and you heard his chuckle at Cregan’s words, already knowing where this story was leading. “But that’s a Targaryen for you. I suppose Dragonriders always have to learn the hard way!” Cregan slams his cup down and the dark wine splashes onto the table.

The scene is reminiscent of your uncle’s tales of taverns during his travels and the raucous men can cause, which makes you join in the laughter. You could almost imagine how rowdy Winterfell was compared to the Red Keep with his presence.

“I did get the stag eventually,” Jace says pointedly after taking a sip of his wine.

Cregan coughs a laugh and sensing another bout of japes was coming, you grinned at the Lord of Winterfell. “Did he now?'' Your words sound sweet and teasing. Cregan seems to enjoy this just as much as he stifles another laugh.

“Eventually,” he said with emphasis. The three of you laugh loudly after the fact. How long eventually had been you never did find out.

Jace returns to the imposing high table where the Queen and her family sit in front of the Iron Throne. The look his mother seems to give him is stern and with a clap on Cregan’s shoulder he departs quickly to take his place next to Luke and Daemon.

“The lot of them are imposing,” Cregan remarks, flitting a glance at you after gazing at the many Targaryens sitting above you all.

“They are not all so bad,” you say smiling at him before looking back at The Queen’s family. You did not only think of Jace and Luke along with their cousins, but also of Helaena.

“Lady Alicent does not wear green now?” he asks gruffly, curiously looking at Lady Alicent. There is a glint of judgment in his gray eyes, not one to forgive so easily. If he is truly Jace’s closest friend, then Jace might have told Cregan what Luke had told you. The knowledge of Alicent Hightower and her sons labeling Jace and Luke as bastards was too vile a cruelty to ignore, but you pitied her in a strange way. Cregan did not seem to share your sentiment.

He was right about her dresses, though. Her dresses had grown lighter shades of green in recent past weeks but now it was a shade of blue. “In certain lights I am certain that blue might look green,” you quip. The thought of saying horrible things about the former Queen did not tempt you, surprisingly.

There is a long, comfortable silence that seems to stretch between you both. “Jacaerys has told me you hail from the Stormlands.”

He does not mention that you were born a commoner, the daughter of a fisherman. How unlike a certain silver haired prince he is. “I do. A very different land than this.” There is a faint smile on your lips as you recall your village.

“You must miss it,” he comments, taking another sip from his cup. This time he does not slam it down. He is every part the kindly lord that many ladies form noble houses adore, if not rather gruff.

His kindness is not unusual to you, having long since become used to such kindness from the dark haired Velaryons. To receive it from another noble blooded man who had no reason to be courteous to you was another thing altogether, though.

“I can never be parted from Winterfell for too long,” he grinned and a look crossed his eyes as he remembered something unknown to you. Maybe the snowfall of the North.

“We all long for home,” you concede. “Yet I do not know if I could ever tear myself away from the Red Keep now.”

He tips his head in a nod, understanding your reasoning in a way.

Then, Rhaenyra rises from her chair and her crown glimmers on her head in the candlelight. Your eyes are drawn to her as are the rest of the people around you. Whatever conversation you had with Cregan fades away.

“Today we celebrate the beginning of my reign. House Targaryen is stronger than ever. The tourney on the morrow and feast will show the realm how united we are,” Rhaenyra looks down the table and smiles. Even in her action full of warmth, there is an air of a ruler and strength within her.

You want to absorb every moment of her speech and catch a glimpse of Luke’s family healing except you cannot. All you can see is Aemond’s lilac eye and the way even now, he is looking at you from his place at the high table. It unsettles you, pushing your mimicked figure of a composed lady off kilter, and seeing the satisfied look on Daemon’s face looking upon Rhaenyra is no better. He is looking at his wife, seeming as pleased as he could be.

Was it true? Would he have killed Helaena’s children? Impossible. No one kills another family member.

The voices in your mind battle as you barely hold a grimace off your face. The other voice tells you that this is not your village and greed makes monsters of men. The Targaryens are hardly a united family at all. With the way the usurper looks at Aemond, grins maliciously before glancing at you, there is certainty that there are both men and monsters in this family.

Rhaenyra’s speech is over before you can grapple with your own thoughts. After a moment, you clap hastily. The smile you wear on your smile is fake, but your worries are old. Cregan does not notice the falsity of your pleasure. It’s better that way.

The Lord of Winterfell disappears back into the crowd of dancers and you retreat, finding comfort in the edge of the room. You could not dance for long. You were no learned dancer like the ladies in court. The thought of peril on this night had slipped your mind as you stood by a wall past the many tables.

“You dance well for a commoner,” an irritating voice murmurs near your ear. You didn’t need to look at him to recognize Aegon by voice alone, or rather the smell of wine.

He stands behind you, leering over your figure and you tilt your head away from him, trying not to grimace. “Did you not hear me, hm?” he asks again, not bothering to conceal his laughter.

You search the room, hoping to see someone. You would take Daemon’s intervention that would undoubtedly lead to violence over being near Aegon. But no one can be found. There was no one keeping you near him, though. You could leave.

Aegon tuts, grabbing your wrist harshly and tugs you back when you start to leave. Only now you are much closer to him than you were before. For a drunken man he has surprising strength, but you do not say this aloud.

“My little brother would be so envious if he were here now,” he mused, faking a sense of intelligence as he mocked your stiff body with lecherous interest. “You never do stop talking according to dear Aemond. Asked him if he was deaf, I heard.”

Aegon shakes his head slowly, drinking in your uncomfortable body with leering eyes. “And you told me you wanted to gut me like a fish. How vile you are and yet my wife does seem to adore you. Aemond never fails to mention how irksome your presence is, but I am sure there are some good parts to you, at least.”

Once your father said that the best of sailors can sense when a storm awaits them. They either flee it or fight the waves themselves. The sailor could drown either way. Best to fight, he always told you, but flee all the same.

You roughly bring up your knee to his groin, kneeing him hard. He keels over from the force of him with a large groan of pain before mumbled curses at your person. Before he can say anything coherent you pinch his chin with your index finger and thumb, pulling his face to look at you.

“Threaten me again, usurper, and I will go to the King Consort and he will make you wish I had gutted you like a fish. Your screams would be most pleasing to my ears.”

Releasing his chin, you look up, panting a heavy breath. Behind Aegon now stands Aemond and though he looks at you with a scrutinizing gaze, he does not reprimand you nor does his hand ghost over his dagger. Aegon sneers at you but his brother makes no move to help him steady himself.

You huff a heaving breath of air and turn on your heel. As luck would have it no one saw the altercation between you and Aegon. Any that looked now would see the prince who is always drunk in his cups too deeply. Only Aemond knew the truth.

Your chest tightened at the thought of Aemond having something over you and being the lone person knowing what had happened. Quickly, you turned away from them both and stalked over to the other side of the hall, anywhere that was far from the Targaryen princes.

You didn’t even notice you had left the hall all together until you were in a quiet corridor far from the noise of the feast. It is there that you brush your thumb over the wrist Aegon had grabbed roughly. Bruises are not new to you but you hoped this one was different than the rest and come the morning there would be no evidence of his cruel behavior. The questions would bother you and there was enough to worry about as it is.

_______________

The bruise had blossomed around your wrist in the morning to your annoyance. Years of knocking into the wooden boat your father would fish on and being careless had led to a lifetime of bruises. You weren’t clumsy now and a bruise around your wrist would only cause questions. Questions that you did not want to answer.

You only allow yourself a moment to close your eyes and deeply breath in and out, because there is much to do today. Hastily you dress knowing that the Queen needs you, not to mention that you must see Luke.

“Who has harmed you, my lady?” Ser Erryk asks when he sees you, briskly walking after you as you hardly gave him a moment before stalking across the castle to the Queen. “Your wrist—”

“A bruise is a bruise,” you whisper harshly, hating that your sleeves could not cover your wrist. “And do not speak of this to anyone.”

Ser Erryk is silent, but is perturbed enough to sigh temperamentally. “Prince Aemond—” he begins to accuse and all you can do is roll your eyes harshly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you bite back. “If Prince Aemond wished to harm me he would not have done so at a feast. He is not so careless or foolish.”

You are hardly aware when you felt the need to defend him nor do you recall even calling him Prince Aemond instead of Kinslayer.

“Who?” Ser Erryk insists as you both move up the stairs to the Queen’s rooms.

This will not be avoided, it seemed. “Who else but Prince Aegon?” you ask him lowly, making sure no one heard. Hearing him make a noise of anger in his throat, you turn around to face him at the top of the stairs. “Do not waste your breath on the usurper, Ser. He learned his lesson. I think that he should still feel his bruise in his groin.” You smirk at the reminder, feeling self satisfied, before turning around to reach the Queen’s rooms. Ser Erryk says nothing in return but you are certain he is smiling.

Rhaenyra breathes your name in relief when she takes note of your presence. With a wave of her hand the two maidens that were tending to her and readying her in your absence back away. She is nearly ready, half of her hair braided in twists while the rest falls past her shoulders and draped in black and deep red silks, her dress is a vision.

“I left you too long this morning, I am sorry, your grace,” you frowned as you regarded her. “It seems the feast tired me and I was late.”

She waves you off too before taking a seat in front of her vanity. “Nonsense,” she refuted your apology. “I woke early. Could not sleep well knowing my sons will be competing in their first tourney. These events get bloody so frequently and I worry for Lucerys.”

You smile softly in silent understanding before reaching for her jewels. Over the months you have discovered just what Queen Rhaenyra prefers. While there are more important jobs, knowing what she likes and preparing her for her days is a task you are well equipped with now. Gently, you put one dangled ruby earring in after the other. Only after the other maidens leave do you speak again. “There was enough violence in a war. Blood is not what today is about, but peace. Luke will be well, my Queen. Aemond would not be so foolish to harm him.”

In the mirror, Rhaenyra stares at you for a moment. There is an inner battle in her mind, one that you do not know. She thinks to mention something, perhaps trivial, but disregards it all together as she smiles at you with rare warmth. She is stressed these days, all but being pulled at the seams. “I believe you are right, but a mother still worries,” she dismisses.

Draped in jewels and lush fabrics, Rhaenyra departs for the tourney. In the Wheelhouse, she is with you, Princess Rhaenys and Lady Rhaena. With every bump in the cobblestone streets that takes you to the grand event, you can only think of how much you loathe wheelhouses. “Where is Baela?” Rhaenyra has the self awareness to ask Rhaenys.

The older women only smirks, bemused. “She insisted on flying to the tourney.” At this Rhaena shuts her eyes briefly as she mutters gods be good, but her grandmother pats her hand in her lap. “Not to worry, of course. She just has a flair for the dramatic like her father.”

Rhaenys never mentions Daemon directly and you are sure the smile on her lips is not for affection for him. But Baela was so like Daemon and her insistence to do things the least simple way had not only Rhaenyra, but Rhaena smiling as well. On cue, a roar of a dragon and the hue of Moondancer was flying over the wheelhouse, much higher above you all.

The wheelhouse comes to a creaking stop and you are sure you might have jumped out of it, if decorum was not an issue. Rhaenyra exits and the shouting and noise from the smallfolk is overwhelming. They do not sound angry but excited, yet you feel like you might just pass out. Rhaenys then Rhaena exit and at last you leave the wheelhouse.

The heat is still unbearable, despite your hair being braided in twists resting in a low bun. While you do not dress as traditional handmaidens had been, you do not look like a servant at first glance, being a companion to Rhaenyra and a handmaiden second. Still, you cannot look as grand and breathtaking as the royal family and for that you are grateful. At least the eyes of the masses do not linger on you.

You are sure that the stairs never end as you follow them up to the stand where the royals sit. Rhaenyra sits herself on a chair larger and more plush than the rest. To her right, her hand Lord Corlys, who stands and bows to her before taking his lady wife’s hand, assisting her to sit on his other side. Rhaena does not hesitate before walking down to the row below the Queen, taking her seat below Rhaenys where Baela already is sitting.

“Rhaenyra,” you hear Alicent say. Dressed in a blue much like the other night, Lady Alicent looks younger to you than the first time you saw her in the throne room. She curtsies as she stands by her seat on the opposite side of Queen Rhaenya at the very end. The empty seat besides her belongs to Daemon, though he will be competing in the tourney the consort’s seat remains in place.

The apologetic look in Alicent’s eyes catch Rhaenyra’s attention as she looks at the lady. Her eyes glance at the empty seat below. “Where is Aegon?” she asks, but seems to already know. Only Helaena sits down there, one seat to the left from the end.

At that, the princess turns around and when she sees you standing, she smiles and utters your name with fondness. “Sit with me,” Helaena insists, patting the empty seat at the end. “Come, Aemond will not be needing his seat. It would be a shame if you should not have such a magnificent view for your first tourney.”

You cannot resist her and Alicent offers you an albeit tight smile as you pass her.

“Have you brought it?” Helaena asks in hushed tones. You do not roll your eyes, but it is only because she is such a kind soul. She leans in, brilliant violet eyes wide as she regards you curiously.

“I did,” you admit in a whisper, pulling out the favor Helaena had insisted you make a few nights ago. Besides trying to knock competitors off their horses, knights, lords, and even princes that compete in tourneys ask favor from ladies and princesses. Helaena had insisted you should make one.

“Let me see it!” she nearly begged but she need not have as you laid it on your lap. It was made with yellow flowers and green leaves as it reminded you of the wildflowers at home. She gasps, reaching to delicately hold it in her nimble fingers. “This is most lovely, I should say,” she smiles in her rather dreamy way before setting it back in your hands. “Whoever asks for your favor will be most lucky indeed.”

You don’t have the heart to tell her that you doubt anyone will ask the Queen’s lowborn handmaiden for favor. The double meaning in her last words goes over your back like water. You ignore the way she smiles like she knows someone will ask for your favor.

You know four men who are competing in the tourney: Lucerys, Jacaerys, Daemon and Cregan. Luke and Jace will ask for their betrothed’s favor, Daemon will ask his wife if not one of his daughter’s and you are sure Cregan will ask for someone’s favor, though it should not be you. Nonetheless, you cannot ignore Helaena’s kind words.

“Thank you, Helaena,” you say instead of anything else, but you cannot help but overhear Alicent behind you.

“He went to Flea Bottom again,” Alicent whispers, still speaking to Rhaenyra. “He has not left bed for hours. I worry for him. It has only gotten worse. This is a fine day and we should be glad he is not here, but I worry what he might be inclined to do when he leaves his chambers.”

You worry too and are glad you don’t let the grimace on your face show. The only distraction is when the tourney begins. Daemon has a flair for the dramatics as Rhaenys said when he lines up all the knights participating in the tourney. Besides his stepsons and nephew, there is no one he could not choose from the ranks. He takes his time as he looks at each of them, moving down the line on his black horse. You think he might be making a show of himself, enjoying the attention, but you would never voice that.

“Quite the peacock,” Princess Rhaenys comments, loud enough for everyone in the royal stands to hear. Baela laughs louder than the rest who are content to hide their chuckles. “Consistency was always Daemon’s strong suit.”

You make no noise of amusement at her quip, though an amused smirk lifts the corner of your lips. When he chooses Cregan Stark, your eyes widen. Perhaps it is because you had begun to know him last night that leads to a wave of nerves in your stomach. But the Lord of Winterfell only smiles, looking content with going against the Daemon Targaryen.

Dressed in the dark gray of his house colors with glinting silver armor, Cregan Stark moves on his dark brown horse to the other side of the arena. Even from a distance he appears self assured, almost nonchalant about facing a battle worn Prince.

When the horses kick off dirt and charge towards the opposite opponents, you consider that this is the excitement tourneys are about. The moment Daemon attempts to strike Cregan only to miss narrowly has you on the edge of your seat, but when they go for another bout a gasp passes your lips as Cregan nearly falls off his horse. Sliding alongside the railing while he horse runs he might have fallen if not for his determination as he sat upon his horse again.

The entire stand is full of excited whispers at this and Daemon is quick to ready his joust, charging towards Cregan Stark for the second time. Things are fiercer this time around and it is clear Daemon did not think the Wolf of the North would be such an equal contender. The movement of Daemon’s joust is swift, deceptive as he pretended to move it to the side only to strike under Cregan’s horse. As Cregan falls there is little blood, you note there was no animosity between the two. Daemon goes to the Lord of Winterfell and brings him to his feet. What words are said behind their lips you could not tell, but the resentment that Daemon had when looking at Alicent Hightower and her sons is nonexistent.

Helaena claps her delicate hands besides you, though the noise from her movement is quite loud despite the nimble touch. Turning your head, you catch a glance at her and you feel lighter at the sight of her toothy smile and enjoyment of the events below you both. Baela is standing a few seats down, clapping loudly in the most undignified way she could, though the smile on her and Rhaena’s faces are identical.

When Jace appeared and Cregan climbed atop his horse again you could not be surprised. Jace’s dark horse moves to the stands and the bright smile that always errs on boyishness, a contrast to Luke’s trepid smile that always appeared like he was figuring out if he was able to smile, is directed to his cousin. Already standing, Baela walks over to him and leans against the railing. Jace does not mind as he regards her.

“If I had your favor my lady I know there is nothing I could not accomplish,” he says. Baela smiles coyly, enjoying the attention and not hiding it as you hear Princess Rhaenys make a humph under her breath. Baela’s favor, bright blue and white flowers falls down his joust. “I wish you luck Jace,” she says with a pleased expression. Jace’s smile does not falter as he moves to the center of the arena.

You turn to Helaena about to say something about how lovely Baela’s favor was to distract yourself from the onslaught of competition to follow when you heard your name from a deeper voice strung with the address of Lady ever in front of it.

Cregan Stark sits atop his dark brown horse, tall and stately, although like many men in the Keep, he does not look arrogant or proud. He has an easy way about him, not smiling but not as stern when he looked your way. “I would be honored to have your favor, my lady. It would serve as the final stroke for my triumph in this tourney.”

Feeling several eyes on you at once, you rise from your seat beside Helaena and walk forward with the favor of white and yellow flowers in your hands. Not as naturally nimble as Helaena or Rhaena, you are making a herculean effort to not hold it too tightly. This gesture is a kind one from him, you think, and try to display some semblance of gratitude when you smile softly at him. “I wish you luck, Lord Stark,” you slide the wreath down his joust.

“I thank you, Lady,” he smiles and looks boyish as Jace had done but a moment ago. Striding off on his horse to face the competition, you turn and move to your seat.

Rhaenyra and Alicent wear expressions of surprise with Alicent’s raised brows and Rhaenyra’s parted lips while Baela and Rhaena only smile at you knowingly. What they think they know is unknown, but when you catch Helaena’s fallen expression, you sit by her side again with haste, worrying over her.

Her toothy grin has fallen and by the twitch of her eyes, you can only assume she is perplexed over something. “Is something wrong, Princess?” you ask quietly to be sure no one else would hear you.

You hardly pay mind to Jace and Cregan kicking their horses and charging at one another. Nor do you notice when Jace hits Cregan with surprising force before they go for another bout. You can only look at Helaena as she recovers.

“Nothing!” she says hastily, pulling her lips into a pleasing smile. “I did tell you to bring favor and it is a good thing that I did.” Helaena laughs lightly in a way most of the ladies of the court do, but it only worries you further. This is not the light laughter she lets out in the gardens but something false.

“I would have thought he would ask for your favor,” you wonder aloud. “You are a princess, he is a traveling lord. It makes sense.”

“I am married and it would be improper,” she says with no real determination, shrugging at the thought. “Besides, Aemond will ask for my favor when he jousts against Lucerys.” Her clipped tone betrays any show of happiness at this, but for the first time you do not have the will to ask her if she was being honest.

Cregan Stark might have been bested by Daemon, but after a few rounds he has knocked Jace off his horse. The men both laugh like this meant nothing, and perhaps to them it was inconsequential, but then they left the field and two others entered.

Surely your heart had lodged itself in its chest as you saw Lucerys on his horse that was white as snow. He might have begun growing in the many moon cycles since you met him but when his uncle sat on his black steed it was no use. This was a horrible idea. Aemond’s heart was as black as his riding leathers he frequently wore and whatever peace Rhaenyra and Alicent had achieved was nothing to Aemond.

This was a ruse to him, an excuse to finish the job he had failed to do at Storm’s End. He was vile, truly, and how you had felt the need to defend him when Ser Erryk assumed he was the culprit behind your bruised wrist as if he had not sent Lucerys to the waves of Shipwreckers Bay? You felt the fool in the present, feeling sick to watch Aemond take his vengeance on Lucerys and show you who he was, and unable to look away from the scene.

Helaena’s fingers squeezed the top of your hand. A breath was released from your chest and with a heaving chest and wide eyes, you glanced at her.

“Are you well?” she queried, eyes scanning your face with worry.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask harshly, more so than you meant to be, but Helaena smiled softly.

“You are gripping the chair so tightly I might think you mean to break it.”

Her eyes moved to the wooden arm of the chair and you followed her sight, mouth falling open when you saw the leethal grip you had on it. “Oh.”

“Oh,” she repeated, more amused than anything.

“Sister, I wondered if I might have your favor,” a voice usually chilled down to the bones spoke with something that might be warmth if it were not for who said it.

Helaena looked away from you to Aemond. As you followed her line of sight you took in the prince who wore armor without a scratch, all with the regalia of House Targaryen and their dragons.

This was all for show, a mere falsity all to prove that House Targaryen was united.

Helaena rises from her chair looking angelic as she moves towards her brother. From the side you can see how she smiles and it is similar to the way she looks when you are with her in the garden surrounded by bugs and flowers. She does not look like a princess, a former queen even, but a sister.

“I wish you luck, valonqar.”

The favor falls down his joust and you wonder what the word means, though it must mean brother. Helaena flounces back to where you sit as Aemond moves to the center of the arena on his horse. She says nothing, smiling at you warmly before setting her eyes upon Lucerys on his white horse.

Something has changed in the past few moon cycles and he is no longer quite the same as the boy you met one fated dawn. As Rhaena rises to go to him, you follow. His cousin is all warmth that a betrothed must be, but you only lean over the partition still every bit a fisherman’s daughter that is pretending to be a lady.

“Good luck,” you murmur, eyes flickering over to where Aemond is atop his horse waiting. For what you are unsure, vengeance or a show of false amiability. “Knock Prince Aemond off his horse, I would enjoy that.” The words are teasing with the intention to make him laugh.

He huffs, shaking his head. For a moment he looks like the boy he was, not the man he was growing into. Briefly, you wondered if you had changed that much too and you suppose you had. “You overestimate my abilities,” he raises his brows. “But my uncle off his horse and on the ground would be amusing enough.”

By the grin he wears you know the mere thought made the worries leave his mind, if only for a short time. Without saying anything else, you turn from him, returning to Helaena once again.

Lucerys asks Rhaena for her favor and the wreath and flowers slide down his joust. As young as it is you can see the love there in her lilac eyes to his brown ones. “Can you see it too?” you ask Helaena in a whisper.

Her eyes follow yours to where they both stand. Rhaena returns to her seat and Lucerys meets Aemond, but she seems to understand all the same. “They will be a fine Lord and Lady of Driftmark one day,” she agrees. “It is easy to see.”

You can almost forget the fears you had of what Aemond might do and how he would strike, but when the princes move, white and black horses charged forward. For a moment you can see the end— Aemond’s vindictive strike, Lucerys fall and the heir to Driftmark’s failure to rise after Aemond’s stroke, Daemon’s vengeance taking over Aemond’s. You can taste the bloodlust on your tongue before Aemond even strikes.

A white horse passes a black horse and Aemond’s joust comes down on Lucerys, but your weary eyes catch the direction of it. The wooden joust hit the white horse, but not hard enough to spook the animal or send Lucerys crashing down. It made little sense to you and the relief you feel as you grip the arms of the wooden chair is short lived.

Violence you could take. You might have welcomed it from Aemond if he matched the version of himself you had imagined the days after Lucerys told you everything so long ago. If Aemond gave you blood there could be comfort in that but this ruse of pretending to strike Lucerys only to strike his horse in a way that was clear the prince would never fall— well that you could not take.

His mercy was ill fitting. On Lucerys off all people you were certain was the last one he would bestow it on.

The horses go around again and this time as they charge, neither hits the other atop their horses. Lucerys tries, at least that is what your eyes believe they see, but he only hits Aemond’s black stead shortly, before each prince rides the other way.

“I do not understand,” you murmurs, worrying your lip so much that it might be bitten bloody if this goes on much longer.

But Helaena is still beside you and turns, disinterested in the joust. Her eyes, large and alight with some unknown emotion you could never identify, but one that seemed to know more than others could, fell on your anxious frame.

“All will be well,” she affirms, but your eyes cannot fall on her relaxed figure, not when Aemond is there, able to harm Lucerys at a moment’s notice. “No one will be harmed.”

Saying nothing, you want to laugh at that. There is no humor in the thought of it but Aemond could kill Lucerys if he liked. He did not need protecting but in your mind, Lucerys still did.

“Your brother rather enjoys hurting Luke,” you bite out. If you could have stopped the thought from leaving your lips you would have, hating to cause Helaena harm. But like Prince Aemond you could not seem to help yourself from insults and impulsive actions. “I doubt you can stop him if you’ve forgotten what he is capable of.” Now, your words come out softer, more regretful.

Helaena does not react at first. There is no sharp intake of breath or the opening of her mouth for some refusal of your words. He is her brother, after all, and a part of you imagines her defending him.

“No, I have not forgotten,” she says at last, head still facing yours, and the words are as soft as the glades of grass brushing against the back of your hand. Unlike yourself, she does not have to practice her gentleness and hope it is believable.

“It is not possible to forget.” She is solemn, eyes drifting downward to the tourney field.

As she says the words, Aemond and Lucerys have come to meet one another on the jousting field for the third time. Both of their jousts are facing the other and in a blink of an eye, both young men hit the other. In a mere moment, Lucerys is thrown off his horse, unmoving as you see the blood trickling down his face.

From the side of your eye, you see Rhaena jump up from her seat and it is only Baela’s hand holding hers that steadies her.

Helaena’s breath then leaves her when Aemond’s back hits the railing before falling down. Unlike Lucerys he rises, though he visibly winces. Helaena is not the only one who is affected. She turns, consoling her mother who shakes her head, murmuring affirmations that Aemond will be fine.

You can barely hear anything over the dull noise in your ears. The blood rush to your head and your rapid heartbeat sends your worries for the past days into overdrive. Aemond and Lucerys are gone from the field, having been carried to tents to be healed from their injuries. The thought sends you over the edge, making you turn around to the Queen.

“Your Grace, might I see Lucerys? To check on his injuries?” Rising from your seat, you barely notice her solemn nod, approval written on her features because you scurry away down the wooden staircase down to the ground.

Several deep red and black tents have been drawn up, all so grandiose that you would usually have an ironic thought of the riches of the Red Keep all down to their tents, but your mind is hazy with fear.

When you catch sight of a young man, even younger than Lucerys, with auburn hair and skittish eyes, you round on him. “Where is the Prince?” you ask with urgency, each word flying out of your mouth.

The auburn haired man blinks, confused as he regards you. “I—” he begins, red creeping up his neck and freckles cheeks before he stammers some more.

You shake your head at him, annoyed at the situation at hand. “The Prince Lucerys!” you raise your brows in frustration. “Where?” you attempt to be gentler, kinder, but even then you feel crazed.

He gestures behind himself to a large tent that looks the same as the other. Without thinking, you dash right into the one closest.

“It is only me!” you announce before evening entering the tent. Pushing past the thick material of the tent, you cannot see with clarity where he is in the darker tent. “Are you well? I feared the worst after he hit you off your horse.”

“I think you will find it was the other way around,” a familiar voice says indifferently from the other side of the room.

With the limited sunlight that pours into the room, you blink once, twice, thrice before it dawns on you.

“What are you doing here?” you spit the words, halting your steps as soon as you realized whose tent you were in.

Sitting on a table was Aemond. His arms were holding his upper body up and his silver hair, now moused and in waves from the heat and exertion, fell around his shoulders. His bare shoulders. Dried blood spotted his side from a few cuts that had yet to be clean.

“I rather think I should be asking you that,” he replied in the same uncaring tone that somehow made him sound vexed by your very appearance. Almost like the air you were breathing belonged to him and he could barely tolerate the slight of it. “This is my tent, although I suspect I know whose you thought it was.”

You met his words with a glower, your body growing rigid.

His words cut through to an unamused breath of what must be laughter to a man as sinister as he. “The boy is fine,” he said without care nor respect for Lucerys. “A scratch will not kill him.”

“You hit him off his horse,” you spat, your neck leaning forward at the force of the words you threw at his face.

He shifted his position, leaning the palms of his hands on his thighs covered in the same dark black trousers that must have been under his armor. The linens, though now filthy, hid nothing of his muscles.

For a moment too long you looked at how his fingers encompassed his thighs and knees. You had to bite your tongue to distract yourself, an action you swore never to repeat.

Aemond smiled showing teeth that looked like knives ready to aim for the kill. “You do know what a tourney is, do you not? One of us had to fall off the horse, tis how the game goes. Perhaps you never knew of such things in that wasteland village of yours.”

His words are sharper than usual, something you barely take into account because you are full of anger too and are glad to give it to him.

“Then you should have fallen off of your horse!” you hissed, stepping towards him angrily. “He is a prince who will inherit Driftmark. He is the future of his house, you are not! Why you had to throw him off his horse is unseemly.”

“Future of his house,” he mocked, shaking his head at you. “My, my, you have been listening to the words of men on the small council for so long you think you are learned in politics, do you not?”

You say nothing. A thin line pinches your lips shut in distaste, the gaze in your eyes growing heavy and hateful.

“You know nothing,” he regards you from head to toe and it is obvious he finds you lacking. “A poor girl from a village who happened to save a prince, that is all you are. You are an arrogant creature, unfit to serve a queen. What my sister sees in your distasteful person I will never know. I do not care to. I see you exactly for who you are.”

You smile and like him you are spiteful. “You see what you want to, my prince.” You see a lowborn girl and think her worthless. “Why your sister thinks you are redeemable and true I will not think to consider, for it is a wasted effort to tax my mind for the irrational. I would never forgive a brother so vile, let alone love one without conditions as she does.”

“A good thing you have no brothers,” he tells you coolly. “You are not fit to love another as a sister does, I think.”

The words pierce through you as you think of the brother you had and lost. He does not know and you are glad he does not. Aemond does not need another knife to sharpen and use on you.

You are no good at hiding how this barb was one too far, one too sharp, when your lips turn down in a grimace. Somewhere in your eyes there is the truth and he seems to see it for a moment, the ruthlessness of his lone eyes dimming for a spare moment.

He does not know the tender wound he has poked too hardly into. The flesh bleeds anyways. For the very first time it occurs for you to care what he says.

Perhaps he hit too deep. Maybe the events of this day had been too worrying. The lack of rain your village in the Stormlands had in King’s Landing has strained your mind and the heat is too much.

There is a heavy cloud that hangs upon your head, pulling you down until you can only feel the discomfort words alone can bring. The way he stands up and the purple of his eye changes into something akin to confusion escapes your notice. You never see his fingers twitch— not once thinking he might be reaching for you.

In that light his emotions in the purple of his iris might have been worry, not confusion. You notice no such thing. As quick as he stands, you flee.

By now it is habitual to flee from him. You do it in the courtyard when his eye finds yours. You left in the throne room at the feast as his brother was keeled over from your swift kick.

Why should now be any different? On all accounts it is the same feelings you leave him in a flurry of skirts— the discomfort in your chest at the way he regards you, cool and perturbed.

Yet when you leave him this time, frustration not yet pulling tears from your eyes but landing a frustrated heave from your chest all the same, it occurs to you for a moment that this discomfort is not the same as the one so keenly known before. There is no part of yourself that wants to identify it.

The curtain feels heavier this time when you push back it, nearly tripping over your own feet when you feel the unveiled sunlight beat upon your neck again. What makes you nearly fall is not just your own feet, but the two faces you are greeted by.

In front of you is head of braided silver locks, warm eyes, and a relieved, happy grin. Besides her is another silver head, this one of waves and large purple eyes you know well.

“Lucerys is well!” Rhaena beams, ignorant of your discomfort. She gestures to the tent next to the one you are outside of— Aemond’s. Her brow creases, the only moment of worry, before it too disappears from her expression. “He has not seen you. I am certain he would be eager to, though, come.” Rhaena is ushering you in the direction of the tent, the smile on her face never leaving.

She may be none the wiser but Helaena’s eyes are on you and the tent behind your body. There is no escaping her perceptive stare and what is worse, Baela appears behind them both. Her eyes immediately looking to the tent, then to your figure.

Everyone seems to know where you were and there minds must be assuming what happened behind the tent. An unbearable heat seizes your chest, making your skin feel what you can only assume dragonfire feels to the touch. It takes the breath from you and for once, you cannot look at any of their eyes, your own flitting between the three pairs set on you.

Rhaena’s smile falters, genuine concern taking its place. She calls your name, once or twice, you cannot recall. Your feet move before your mind thinks it through, fleeing the scene. It will not be until you are off the grassy field where the tourney was held, far in the castle within an isolated corridor that you can breathe.

It is there that the shame creeps up, leaving you feeling guilt that crawls under your skin and makes you want to disappear.

You had a habit of fleeing the scene.

You had a habit of fleeing Aemond at the first chance.

Never had you felt ashamed of leaving him in a blazing fury. He was vile, cruel, ill-tempered and above all dangerous. Not once had you thought of him as others had— resilient, dedicated, devoted.

The image of him moving towards you coupled with the look in his eye was all consuming to you. It was a feeling that could end your very being.

Like the very night in Dragonstone where you slept in a room too large with opportunities too noble for your blood, you feared you would get no sleep come the night.

With a heaving chest and weak arms grasping a stone pillar for support, you knew the truth as you saw it— whatever his meaning behind his eye in the tent, you knew you wanted but one thing from him.

His hatred. You could endure not much else.

note: consider reblogging and comment if you enjoyed this- that's what motivates me to post my writing here

#aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen one shot #aemond oneshot

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aemondsbeloved · 10 months

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sneak peak of the next chapter of from the tides! i am going to post a fic sometime soon I swear

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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You’re Not Like The Regulars [Part 2]

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x reader

summary: on the night his father’s health fails him, Aegon prepares the leave with the woman from the street of silk he has fallen in love with. as he leaves the Red Keep he runs into the last person he wants to see and he will not be soon to see them again. He can almost forget him as the years passed and a life with children was made with you, until someone arrives on your doorstep ten years later (5.3k)

warnings/notes: no major warnings, king!Aemond, greens win au where aegon gets on that ship, read part one here!

That night when he went to the castle to bring precious belongings and some finery he could trade for coin for his new life, Aegon had seen Aemond.

“It is unlike you to be in the castle this late brother,” Aemond said casually from the wall he leaned against as he lurked in the darkness.

Aegon was frozen in the moment, the bag heavy with belongings he would sell. Turning around he looked at his younger brother wearily.

“Going somewhere?” Aemond asked, eyes looking to the bag then back to Aegon.

The silence was thick but Aegon had enough sense to know he could not outrun Aemond should he choose to keep him here.

“Nothing to say?” Aemond asked, amused. “That is a first.”

The truth seemed the right thing for once. Aemond knew it already.

“I am leaving on a ship to Essos.”

Aemond appraised him in silence. “Why would you do that?”

“Father will be dead soon,” Aegon told him bluntly. “Any day now I’d say. Do you really think I want to be King? Do you think I should be King?”

His brother hummed, an answer in itself. “You never did care about your duty.”

Aegon briefly thought of his love who was packing to leave and wondered if his brother would stop him. He wondered what he might say to convince him to let him go.

“You know I would be a terrible king,” he sought his brother’s eye that connected with his. The brothers who had more contempt for each other as the years had passed considered each other in silence. “But you would not.”

Aegon did not know much and had been doubted by his family for his entire life for reasons that he had caused. But he knew what Aemond wanted, what Aegon had been given but never wished for.

“You know it should be you who will get our father’s throne. So take it.”

Aegon knew that Aemond was considering it but when had Aemond ever taken something easily?

“Why do you want to leave?” Aemond posed a different question than he had before.

For another time that night, the truth seemed to be the only solution.

“There’s a woman that I love,” he admitted. “I desire her beyond lust. She is meant to be mine and already has my heart. I am going to leave with her, Aemond.”

“You fell in love with a woman from the street of silk?”

Only his brother would not say the word whore. Aegon nodded.

“I have never known you to lay with a woman so dearly.”

Aemond’s words were menacing. “It is not like that,” Aegon told him tersely. Suddenly he sounded like Aemond and he hated it. So dignified, so stiff, everything he had never been. “She has made a man out of me and does not even realize it.”

And he wasn’t talking about the fact that they had laid together so many times. Aemond did not know sometimes he would just lay in bed with her as she stroked his hair, tangled limbs without seeking pleasure. Her company had always been grounding and enough for him.

“Let me leave Aemond and you will see the back of me, never to be found again. I swear it.”

The younger considered the elder, biting the inside of his cheek with thought. “Come with me,” he said, not waiting before turning on his heel and going to his chambers.

Aegon followed him without thinking about it.

He felt awkward in Aemond's rooms that were just as grand as his were, though undoubtedly cleaner. Books neatly stacked on a shelf and a sword hanging besides his bed. Typical, Aegon thought.

This could be a king’s room.

Aemond was purposeful as he went to one of his draws taking out some objects. Some jewels, fine silvers and golds, before striding over to Aegon.

He tugged the bag from Aegon’s hands, opening it and without saying a word, looked into it. Humming, he sounded pleased as he unceremoniously dumped the finery in his hands into the bag before closing it again.

“That will be enough for a modest home and to start a new life in the free cities, brother.”

Aegon stared at his brother. He had expected to fight him, tear at him even if it meant he would lose whatever battle would occur between them, but never had he expected generosity.

“Leave through the hidden passage, I trust you are well acquainted with it,” Aemond instructed. “Many of the guards are outside father’s rooms on the other side of the castle after his poor health tonight. You should leave soon, dawn will be here in a few hours.”

Aegon nodded. He had the urge to do something for his brother he never had before.

“Thank you, brother.”

It was not the first time he should have thanked him. Better late than never, he supposed.

A nod from Aemond was the only acknowledgement. He would take it.

Turning to leave he moved to look at his younger brother and tilted his head down, out of respect. It was akin to a bow to a king.

“Be a better king than I would have been, Aemond. Be better than our father.”

One last look between brothers was all they had before Aegon left. For the first time he found himself missing his brother.

That late night he had found himself at the docks of King’s Landing with you in common clothes to not draw suspicion. His hair had been shaved and no one could see his Targaryen hair thank the Gods. He was glad to be rid of it.

When you got to Essos he could grow it back. No one would care about a Targaryen in Essos as he knew another was there already. He was thankful for your hand in his the entire voyage. It was the one thing that grounded him.

He thought of the small home you could fill with children, the wedding in front of a Septon pledging yourself to each other, the endless possibilities of happiness.

“Are you frightened?” you asked him on the ship. With his shaved head and common clothes, he blended into everyone else on this ship. Your hands were holding his arms as you stood on the deck, watching Westeros disappear into the night.

The land finally disappeared from his view and all left of his old life, his family and duty disappeared too. “No,” he told you in a whisper. He looks at you for the first time in what feels like nights but might have been only some minutes. Again, he thinks of the future, the humble home, the freedom, the family he wanted. “I want to make you my wife on this ship,” he says without thinking.

You smile. “With who for our witness, my love?” you tease, though you want it too. “And where is the Septon to hold the cloth over our arms while we make our solemn vowels?”

He faces you now, turning away from the sea. “We have no need for a Septon, only one another,” he says and even now he looks desperate. You wonder if it will ever leave him, the desperation to know what he wants will never leave him. But then he is ripping off a piece of his cloak, holding his arm and waiting for you to do the same. You do.

He begins to wrap your joined hands in the woolen cloth. You look up at him and somehow understand what he will say.

Father

Smith.

Warrior.

Mother.

Maiden.

Crone.

Stranger.

The cloth is around your arms and as a light shower, a drizzle really, falls down on your cheeks, but when he leans down and kisses you, the feeling of raindrops kissing your skin do not faze you. The droplets fall past his hair that has been cut so short it seems to skid right past what is left of his silver hair.

None around you on the deck seem to notice the solemn vows you had just made. Any that do glance would only see a young man and woman embracing and foolishly being outside in the rain when they ought to be asleep. “Let us rest,” you whisper to him, tugging his hand to go with you under the deck where your meager bunk is.

The piece of cloth falls from your hands. Aegon puts it in his pocket, refusing to let it disappear from his possession.

* * * * * *

The home you found was a modest one. Small enough to be humble but with enough rooms for the children he had spoken of with you. After the first night spent in a modest inn, Aegon had left you only to return with an iron key. In your hands, he pressed the key of the home you would live in while you sat on the bed. Sitting on his knees before you, he whispered, “Marry me.” Not a question, not a demand, but you smiled before agreeing anyways, taking his head in your hands for a kiss.

“We said our vowels already,” you remind him after a kiss.

“The Gods know you are mine,” he tells you, “but I want men to recognize this too.”

You can hardly protest.

Everything compared to the Red Keep and luxury he grew up in appeared humble, but everything compared to the filth of Flea Bottom was something to be marveled at to your eyes. Both your pair of eyes who had seen to much, cruelty in both squander and luxury, made you see Volantis for what it might give you.

Soon, Volantis would recognize you as man and wife. You were commoners now and there was no grand ceremony, only an room and coins in the hand of a priestess.

Somehow, many things fell into your lap easily and Aegon had met the right people at pubs, falling into friendships with merchants and owners of bars. Being a wine merchant suited him while you redirected your efforts to lesser children. With a golden band on your finger that matched his and a stomach not yet growing with a child, life had gone on easily enough for you both. Aegon had his wine merchant business where he distributed fine wines between bar owners and wine makers. Before long he was climbing up the Essossi hierarchy, but even as his social standing grew in Volantis this was nothing the dynasty he had been born into. Then again with the wealth he brought in from being a merchant of the finest wines, he supposed he had a kingdom of his own.

Before long you were not only helping orphanages and running some of them, but had children of your own. Your modest home grew and Aegon had never realized that the home would fill up so quickly and with so many children in it, two daughters and a son. It was a home full of fine things and love, something neither of you had truly had before.

Your children did not have Targaryen names, because that would be too dangerous even in the safety of the Free Cities. Alia had been first and there had not been a babe that every cried so loudly and was as fierce. Daria had been after, coming before her twin brother Dario. They were all alike in coloring having your hair so different than Aegon’s silver tresses.

His has remained cut short, not just for the safety of not looking quite like a Targaryen but for the hot and dry weather Volantis boasted. Selfishly you were pleased they had his eyes. Purple eyes were not so strange in Volantis and they could not endanger themselves.

For many years yet they would not know that they could be dragonriders, but you and Aegon decided to protect them. In Westeros they would be bastards, nothing more than the children a Targaryen Prince had whelped off of a girl who worked in the Street of Silk. But in Volantis they had a mother and father who loved them and that was all. Dragons were the last thing on their minds.

Some days Aegon still lingered in the past as much as he would not want to ever return there. But many years ago when your Daria and Dario were babes in the cradle, the news had come: the war in Westeros had ended. Prince Daemon had died by Prince Aemond’s hand, Rhaenyra left imprisoned and eventually died in her cell. With Rhaenyra’s eldest sons dead and Aegon presumed dead, Aemond had been crowned in the Sept. Her younger sons were being raised in the Red Keep and King Aemond had made Aegon the younger his heir until he had children of his own, if the rumors were true. Prince Viserys would be his cupbearer. You would be lying if you rarely listened to these rumors, but it was only for Aegon’s sake as you knew he more eagerly listened for anything of his family.

Many years after your journey to Volantis, ten exactly, your routine and family had been set in stone. The balcony in your home at the back of the property was well used by Aegon who would sometimes look at the city and sea with a strange sense of melancholy.

“Do you miss him?” you asked him from where you both stood on the balcony overlooking the busy streets of Volantis and the water down below.

His fingers gripped yours as your hand came to rest at his side. Aegon brought your intertwined fingers to rest on his chest. “On occasion,” he admits with a trace of amusement. “He has been a good king, I have heard. Fair and strong, the words I hear, strange. Kinslayer he is called and fair in the same breath. And I will never see him again. I am uncertain if I would want to.”

“He knows you did your best,” you had whispered to him, a soft smile in his direction. “Now he has done his best as we all must.”

Still, Aegon looked across the city and the water, never looking at you and gripping your fingers all the same. “Come to bed, my love,” you urge. He complies, following you to your bedroom, his hand never leaving yours.

For the past years the news came in trickles: the war and the result of Aemond on the throne, Aemond’s marriage to a Baratheon lady, Rhaenyra’s youngest sons brought into the Red Keep not as prisoners but as the King’s heir and cupbearer, Dorne being brought into the seven kingdoms (though reasons are unknown), the children by Aemond’s lady wife, and many minor things that mean little to anyone who was not the elder brother of a king.

Aegon would have a slight melancholic expression on days where such news spread throughout the town, but your daughters and son never noted such news. All that mattered to them was what went on in the school they learned at, what they and their friends loved best at the moment, the newest treat Aegon had a habit of picking up from bakeries during the week, and so on. Theirs was a simple, joyful existence and Westeros was a world away.

Until today, it seemed. Aegon had gotten back from work of the day, but he had been tired as of late. A new shipment and another contract with an owner of several fine restaurants had him rising early this week and retiring late. So as the sun begun to set he had retreated somewhere within your home, perhaps attending to the twins while Alia was by your side as you prepared dinner.

You were cutting vegetables as she placed ingredients on the table, standing on her step stool, when a careful knock was heard against the door. “Cut these, why don’t you, my darling?” you ask her, smiling down and giving her braided hair an affection rub. She is eagerly cutting the carrots when you go to the door.

Evening visitors were not uncommon. On occasion, friends of Aegon through his business had come and over time your home been known to always have a plate for any friend of the family. Aegon’s oldest, most boisterous friend from Volantis rarely knocked and yet you could never begrudge him too much.

This is no friend on the other side of the door, you realize, but two strangers. An older man in a dark brown cape and hat with the darkest eyes and a tanned complexion is at the front, while another in a darker cape has his head bowed down, so you cannot see him at all. Feeling troubled, you look back inside and are relieved to see Alia still happily cutting carrots. “Gentlemen,” you address them wearily. “Is there something I can do for you?”

You expect the first man to answer you right away but he turns his head to the tall man behind him who nods. It is only then he addresses you. “This is a delicate matter, lady,” he says hesitantly, thinking over his next words. “Might we come inside? We are looking for someone.”

You stiffen. No one calls you lady, first of all, and you were not set upon letting strange men into your home unless you knew them. “I think not,” you tell him stiffly, holding the edge of the door. “Volantis is a large place, gentlemen. I doubt I would be any help.”

Your words hold a finality that has the first man glancing at the other again worriedly, opening his mouth to refute this. But you can hardly refuse as hands are tugging your skirts from besides you.

Alia has peeked out from behind the door. Oblivious to the tension, she smiles up at you. “Mama, I cut up the carrots. Are we going to cook? Should I get papa?”

Trying not to grimace at her intrusion, you lean down to whisper urgently, “Go to your father now.”

She crunched up her face. “But you said I could cook with you!” she protests, not letting you answer before she notices the two men. “Who are they? Are they eating with us?”

“No,” you begin to say firmly but like her father, you are no match for her persuasion.

“Why not?” she looks up at you before glancing at them. To you, she poorly conceals a whisper, “What wines have they bought? Father says the people he sells to dress finely, not like that.”

“Your father,” you remind her, brows raised as you fight to not looked peeved. “Go to him if you want to cook.”

Huffing, she turns away dramatically and stomps away to where Aegon will be, oblivious to everything you are in the midst of trying to discover. In your focus of Alia you had not noticed the tall man look up at last and were caught off guard yet again when you saw the eyepatch and what’s more, the peaking of silver hair from his hood.

As the air changes around you, the expression the first man wears changes too. The man with the eyepatch does not look at you, staring at the space where your daughter once was. He seems to be putting together a puzzle as he finally looks at you.

“Who are you?” you ask him directly, but he does not move a muscle. You hum in distaste before looking at the man with the tanned complexion. With a hand on your hip, you regard him coolly. “If he tells me his name, I will let you both into my home. If he says the name I’m thinking of then you could both have dinner at my table.”

“Lady, we came not to answer riddles,” the man says with a terse tone, but is not unkind. He moves to say something else, but the man with the eyepatch speaks first.

“I am Aemond,” he says so softly, you might not have heard it if he was not he you thought.

“Our children know nothing of their father’s birthright and their parent’s pasts,” you tell him quietly. “Best to keep it that way. Come in, I will begin making dinner. He will be on the balcony.”

Both men were silent as they walked in, the first one nodding in thanks and the one you know to be Prince Aemond, or rather King Aemond, followed behind silently.

Aemond walked in slowly as he took in your quarters. It was an organized clutter, warm and inviting, all proof of a loving family that resides here. He seemed curious more than anything else as he looked around at the cups of paint that had been living on the end of the long wooden table besides the kitchen. Aegon had gifted those to Daria for her sixth name day four moons ago and she had not stopped using them at the table since.

“I will stay with the lady while you go to him,” the other man said kindly, but with sterness, almost that of a father.

Aemond said nothing but hummed, perhaps in affirmation as he took off his hood, carefully placing the cape across a chair. He moved through the room quickly, walking out of your line of sight where Aegon would be on the balcony, most likely with Alia.

“Need not call me lady, ser,” you assumed his title with your gentle manner of speaking whilst cutting the meat into pieces for the stew. “Such niceties belong in Westeros.”

“You know I am a knight?” he asks, turning to you.

“Who else would accompany a King?” you simply ask him, placing the meat in a bowl above the stove. Reaching for the seasonings to be added to the stove, you turn from him. “I lived in King’s Landing all my life, albeit a different part of the world as Aegon. Knights are common things, Kingsguard fewer.”

He says nothing but his posture begins to relax. “Ser Criston Cole, my lady,” he says at last.

“Not a lady,” you remind him, a rueful smile peaking at your lips. Sprinkling the seasons in, followed by the addition of vegetables, you let your stew simmer. “Why have you traveled with the King to Volantis?”

The second question you gaze asks is what are you going to do to us?

You had heard tales of King Aemond, the brother of your husband before you left Westeros. Dutiful, envious Aemond, Aegon likened him as he often spoke of his distaste of his brother and how it was reciprocated well. Overtime, especially once you were in Essos the insults seemed to stop. Despite the brutality you had heard of over the war you both lef tbehind, this same Aemond had let him disappear, depositing many riches in his bag before letting Aegon leave. This Aemond had also killed their uncle to secure the throne against the elder half-sister that he had imprisoned. It was difficult to hate him.

Still, how does someone trust a person like this? You daughters and son were his nieces and nephew, but maybe he wanted to make sure his elder brother’s whore and offspring could not challenge him. It was an ugly question to ask yourself and here you are, thinking it all the same.

“The Dowager Queen Alicent has been despondent as of late,” he admits with reluctance, perhaps being sworn to secrecy.

“Her health fails her?” you immediately ask him, setting down the kitchen tools you had been washing. For all the trouble Alicent had given Aegon, you knew he loved his mother and had felt leaving her was the last time he would fail her.

“Not quite,” he says, “but the truth of what has happened has recently reached her ears. His Grace had confided in me ten years ago, swearing me to secrecy for no one to know Aegon’s fate, but he recently told her.”

You squint your eyes in confusion. “She implored her son to ensure Aegon is well,” he tells you. “Aegon was her first born and has aggrieved her most of his life, but a mother’s love is rarely rational. Aemond knew only that his brother came to Volantis with a woman he planned to wed. It was difficult to track him down until we traveled to some finer establishments.”

“Nicer pubs, you mean?” you snigger at that, leaning on the counter across from him. “You mean to tell me that he will not harm our children?”

“Never,” he said, looking offended almost.

“We disappeared for a reason,” you responded, shrugging. “The children cannot know who he is, who his brother is. They are too young. Alia loves to talk. I cannot risk her telling other children of her uncle who is a King.”

“I understand,” he says and as he does, Aegon comes into the room followed by his brother.

You would be as weary as Aegon’s eyes seemed to be if not for the way Alia trailed after him, curiously peering up at the tall man. Lacking all decorum, she opened her mouth, soon to ask another question. You doubt she had stopped since she saw him for the second time on the balcony.

“Why do you have an eyepatch?” she squinted at him. “Do you not like your eyecolor? Neither do I,” she huffed at that before beginning to tell him about how her one eye was lovely, the perfect shade fo the palest lilac, but the other was greyish green, which she hated. “I would cover up mine too if I could.”

“Alia, enough,” Aegon said, though affectionately, as he place a hand on her head.

“What?” she protested, looking up at her father. “I would! Green is a stupid color, I have half a murky lake in one eye while Dario and Dario have lovely eyes. The Gods are cruel to me alone.”

“She is often dramatic like this I am afraid,” Aegon says, smiling at her.

“She gets it from her father,” you muse, urging Alia to come to you. “Come, let us cook. Your father has much to talk about without you getting every word in.”

Huffing at your words, Alia follows you nonetheless. As she stirs the pot happily, you can barely hear the words being shared.

“She sounds ill to me,” Aegon says, looking at Aemond with strangely narrowed eyes. “How long as she been so melancholic?”

“Do not pretend you are the one who has been dealing with matters of the family instead of fleeing,” Aemond replies and though Ser Coles opens his mouth to buffer this, the two men are too quick.

“If you came all this way to tell me how I failed the family speak not,” Aegon hisses at him. “There was nothing for me there.”

“Your family was not enough?” Aemond replies, though it is obvious this is not how the conversation had been meant to go.

“Do not act as though I had ever been help to our family. It is you who kept mother and Helaena together these years.”

Aemond cannot disagree with Aegon this once. “She worries for you,” he admits after a long while. “I promised her I would go with Cole to see you, so she might be content knowing you are fine, or perhaps dead in a ditch.”

Aegon coughs a laugh. “Neither are true,” he tells Aemond. “I am neither dead in a ditch or fine. I have a family. Tell mother she has additional grandchildren, a girl of eight and twins, a boy and a girl of five. Tell her that her eldest sons affinity for wine has served him well.”

“I will not,” Aemond says snidely, though a small laugh that is but a huff of breath escapes him. You do not know him but you know this is a rare thing. The air seems to relax as you glance at them. “I will tell her you have made your place as a prosperous merchant, nothing more. The mention of honeyed wine might have her on bedrest for a week, I fear.”

Aegon laughs this time and it is louder, easier than when it came from Aemond. “I would not dream of it,” he smiles with ease. After a long moment of pause he asks, “Helaena?”

He does not need ot say more as Aemond tips his head down slightly, smiling so faintly you barely noticed it. “Married to the Prince Qoren of Dorne,” he finally tells Aegon. At last, he leans back in the chair they had been sat near. “Princess Arianne of Dorne is quite fond of her good sister. Helaena’s presence made the negotiations of peace easier before talk of marriage alliances even began. Dearest Helaena intrigued the Princess and before long Qoren Martell was besotted. They too have twins, a boy and a girl.”

You never understood what people meant when they said how the weight of one’s shoulders could be lifted but you had seen it as you left Westeros behind, entered your home for the first time, and when Aegon had held Alia for the first time. Still, it has never been more powerful than when Aemond told Aegon of his sister’s happiness.

“Good,” he says, the word sounding like he was short for breath. “That is good news,” he adds on, his breath sounding sparse. Without catching his eye you smile and turn back to Alia who merrily stirs the stew.

She peers up at you, smiling eagerly as you whisper assurances and praises of her cooking. “Who is that?” she asks again, this time truly whispering as she glances at the three men.

“Old friends of your father’s,” you say easily, the lie too natural. She nods after a moment, knowing there is more but not asking.

One day you can tell her without the flurry of questions that will follow about her father’s younger brother and the knight sworn to protect them as boys and men. One day you can tell her about the dragons they rode as boys, the home her father had grown up in full of exceeding opulence that did not fill a hole in his heart. You can tell her about how her father fell into the arms of a woman and found more than she was meant to give him, but took it anyway. You could tell her about how he fell in love with someone he shouldn’t have but fled from him family and duties for her; For you.

There is a lesson in there for her ears to hear once she was older. A lesson about love, sacrifice, how happiness is not so simple and easy to achieve.

A lesson about how two brothers you loathed each other as boys still loved another in a strange way. About how one left so the other could have what he was not meant to bear. How the younger went across the sea to make sure his brother was well. These lessons were there, but you would not tell her. Not yet, anyway.

Trying not to easedrop, you watch as Alia finishes the meal and before long you are pouring it into the bowls. A fine wine, one of the ones for special occasions is brought out and the four adults drink it as your children drink water. Daria sits at the table with her brother and sister, but like her elder sister she cannot stop from looking to the man who is her uncle. She shows him the paintings she has made after the meal, laying them across the table. Aemond smiles, compliments her in a softer tone. Daria does not know he is her uncle or that he is a King. He is simply an old friend of her father’s, one that is kind and somber and listens to her and her brother babble away.

In the midst of it all your eyes meet Aegon’s and you smile too, because it is not easy, nothing is. But his brother is here and the melancholy has left Aegon for a moment. Your children do not know what this means to him and even if the brother’s cannot say it to one another, you know that this visit was not for their mother, but for Aemond himself.

* * * * * *

note: any feedback and reblogs are appreciated for this writer!!! also, might have to add another part to this at some point who knows

#aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon imagine #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x y/n

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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Hello Lanie! 💛 if requests are still open, may I please make a request for headcanons with a reader who walks with a cane (maybe like larys strong?) with Aemond (Aegon too if you do both in one headcanon) the reason could be from an old injury or paralysis or a chronic illness but the reader cannot move without it. Thank you for considering!

Like Recognizes Like

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x disabled!reader

summary: riches cannot hide your ailment, something Aemond recognizes within you. Bonded over your similarities, you and Aemond are friends in what is a lonely court, but over a game of chess it is possible wanting something more is not as one sided as you feared (1.2k)

warnings/notes: no major warnings, I went with a one shot for Aemond for this request

The mahogany cane with delicate designs painted in gold did not alter the fact that it made you stick out like a sore thumb amongst your peers. As beautiful as it was the cane was what people were drawn to before their eyes flickered up to your face. The discomforting glances of ladies and gentlemen pondering who would want to be landed next to such a creature as yourself were one thing, but the pitying glances were harder to ignore.

There were people much worse off in the Realm and you were a noble lady. At that you had a kind father, a loving mother, a family who loved you. You would not complain because as uncomfortable as chronic illness was, you could bear it.

So when the ladies of the King’s court gave you judging glances before saying a false word of kindness, you beared that with a graceful smile. Even now walking in the garden you smiled at Lady Lannister but passed by her steadily in search of a true friend. His back was to you when you see him.

“You’re late,” Aemond comments from his seat nestled in the gardens were the stone tables remained. For someone with one eye he is astute and misses nothing, something many people in his father’s court cannot comprehend. You know better. When you have less than enough, the desire to prove your worth is that much stronger.

Saying nothing in response, you sit across from him. Save his scar, Aemond is all straight lines. His figure is long and lean, the clothes he wears always in pristine condition, his hair as straight as humanly possible and even his eyepatch sat across his face perfectly. There is nothing astray about him and each muscle is moved purposefully. The longer you look at him as you set your cane aside the stone table the longer you see him for who he is. It is not the monster some whispers at court alude to.

Aemond does not appear bothered at this staring as he never has. You were an observer, another trait you both had in common. His lone eye remains fixed on you for a moment before he hums, deep in thought of something you do not know. His arm stretches out and moves the first piece of the chessboard in front of you.

Tilting your head you consider how to make the next more. Making a show of it you hover your hand above the chessboard before picking up a piece and moving it. This is how the game goes on with cautious hands and thoughtful glances with too much meaning in the silence before Aemond does what he always does: the unexpected.

That’s the thing about Aemond Targaryen: he will always do what people expect him not to. No one expects it from him, but you suppose people see the eyepatch and the scar and nothing more. He knows how to captivate people in silence with intimidation, but he does not know that isn’t why he always wins chess with you. You just like staring at him wondering what he is thinking. Perhaps his thoughts were of you, but you wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t. But you enjoy his prolonging stares and you especially appreciate how his eye lingers on yourself and not the cane.

His fingers grasp the piece off of the chessboard and a smirk tugs at his lips when he leans back in metal chair. You suppose this is the closest he gets to being pleased, when victory is in his grip. “You distract too easily,” he tells you, voice even and cool, though distinctly pleased. “Your defeat was bound to come.”

“Well seeing as you so enjoy winning,” you trail off, raising a shoulder. “It would be cruel to deny you.”

Aemond huffs, missing the joke as he often does. “You are the most intelligent woman at court. I engage in this game with you because you are the lone opponent who rivals my own skills.”

He was dense and quick to rise to a temper, so the flaring of his nostrils at whatever he perceived your comment as came as no surprise. Regarding him with a slight smile, though lacking no warmth you tell the truth, “I enjoy a game that challenges the mind as much as you do, Aemond, but I rather enjoy your company most of all.” It is not because he does not look at your cane or view you differently as others at court do, but you will not tell him that.

His eyebrows raise and you barely notice it before he tries and fails to school his features. His palms rested on his thighs as he now regarded you with what you thought might be curiosity. “Few enjoy my company,” he says tersely after a long moment.

“I do,” you simply reply, unmoving.

“I see,” he tells you. For once his face of neutrality failed and it is clear there is a battle within his mind. An even longer moment of silence falls between you before he murmurs, “I enjoy your companionship, my lady. There is no other who would make banquets and feasts tolerable.” He gaze is over your shoulder, unable to meet your gaze as he says this. It is not shyness as he refuses to look at you directly but something else you cannot name. One might think his mind was crossing where yours frequently travelled, though you dared not ask him that yet.

“When a lady cannot dance she must make due by observations,” you inform him. His eye snaps to yours and without looking at the cane besides you, he bristles.

“This ailment of yours does not weaken you,” he insists, looking upon you as if to dare him. Without doubt having a series of arguments on the tip of his tongue should he need to prove you wrong. “Dancing is tedious. You do not miss much.”

“You rarely dance,” you recall. “Yet your ailment does not limit the use of both your legs. One might be inclined to think you merely hate the act itself and are content to sit at a table by my side. To think you might have spent your evenings on such nights with a lovely lady on your arm.”

“Most ladies cannot be by my side without staring at the monstrosity,” he gestures to the side of the face where the eyepatch is meticulously laid and the scar that peaks out. “You do no so such thing.”

“And for that you would prefer to spend your time with myself?” Your hands grip your skirts under the table out of what was nerves, but why you could not place. You were not being so obvious as to ask him directly, although the way he eye never left yours was unnerving.

“Your company is the most tolerable I would be able to find,” he quickly says, which is unlike his careful ways. Without grimacing, he closes his eye for a moment and sighs. Again he finds your gaze and again he does not know what to say in an eloquent way, unbegknowst to you. “There is no others company that I could enjoy as greatly as I appreciate yours, my lady.”

“And I yours, my prince,” you smile as you rise from your seat. Grabbing your cane, you walk to his side. “Would you walk through the gardens with me?”

If it were anyone else, he would have said no, or perhaps left altogether with no explanation. But he easily rises from his chair instead and silently takes your arm in his. Letting you take the pace you needed, he began walking with you. “With pleasure, my lady.”

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine #aemond x you #aemond x reader imagine #aemond x y/n

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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I’ve been working on a few fics (sadly none of my actual requests, sorry! will get to them soon) and want to know what y’all would like to see next :)

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #hotd x reader

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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AEMOND x OC - SMUT

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (unnamed female, can be read as self-insert)

Summary: Prince Regent Aemond surprises a lady in the throne room late at night and fucks her on the Iron Throne.

Wordcount: 3,480 words

This is a gift to you all in celebration of my 200 followers. You voted for a Prince Aemond x OC one-shot and I am delivering that to you.

I want to take this opportunity to thank the 250+ people that are following me as I write this. I see you, I appreciate you and I love you. Thank you for giving me this incredible chance to share my humble writing with you! ♥

THE THRONE ROOM - ONE-SHOT

She knows she should not be here.

The throne room is out of bounds, even to the lords and ladies of the court, and one can only enter it if they have been summoned. She has never been summoned before but she has stepped into the great hall more times than she can count. All she has to do is slither past the guard when they change shifts during the darkest hour of the night, minding her steps and staying in the shadows.

She has never been caught before, and the thrill of crossing the forbidden line is too tempting to resist. She loves to roam the great hall with only her thoughts for company, the moonlight reaching through the stained windows.

Her heart jumps in her throat as she hears a door opening and heavy footsteps resonate in the hall. She can only jump behind a pillar, holding her breath and hoping that whoever it is, they are only passing through.

—

Prince Aemond likes to linger in the throne room after dark, when the castle is asleep. He feels as though he’s alone in the whole world, and it gives him reprieve from the day’s stress. This evening's Small Council meeting lasted hours, debates running long and tempers running hot. Several times he felt as though he was about to snap and let his fury out on one of his councilors, or the Hand, but he held on tight to his iron control.

Now the crown feels heavy on his head, his neck strained and sore, and he's aching for some kind of release.

The cold air of the throne room greets him like a balm on his nerves, but he instantly notices that on this night, he isn’t alone. He can feel it as soon as he steps into the great hall - there is a smell in the air, like vanilla and other foreign spices. Sweet, with an edge of pepper. It's the smell of a woman, that much is certain, the smell of the expensive perfumes and soaps the ladies of the court buy from Pentosi merchants.

“Reveal yourself,” he commands, his voice resonating in the hall. “I know you are here.”

A sharp intake of breath and ensuing footsteps are heard - they are slow and measured, the unmistakable sound of women’s shoes on the stone.

And then she appears from behind a pillar, looking like a deer in a hunter's line of sight. Her shoulders are raised in defense as she walks toward him slowly, her hands linked together at her lower back. Her eyes are cast down in submission and her long hair hides her face, but he instantly recognizes her.

“Forgive me, your Grace. I was not aware anyone would be here,” she offers as excuses, hoping he will forgive her transgression if she sounds repentant enough.

The prince steps toward her and she watches him from below her lashes. The closer he gets the more her eyes lift until she is staring at his chest, where her line of sight naturally falls when she holds her head straight - he's that much taller than her. Still, she doesn’t raise her eyes to his. He hooks a finger under her chin and she flinches at the direct physical contact.

“You are one of my mother's ladies,” he states and she's surprised he recognizes her.

Aemond has seen her around the Keep, shadowing the Queen Mother, a sweet-looking obedient little thing. Probably one of those pious girls his mother dotes on, raising them in the Faith of the Seven and filling their heads with ludicrous ideas about purity and righteousness. Yet if that girl was as good and deferential as the Dowager Queen believes, she would not be roaming the castle late at night, slipping into halls that are out of bounds to her. It annoys him as much as it makes him curious, this spark of audacity.

“Yes, you Grace,” she says, the picture of deference. Her cheeks are flushed a lovely pink, her long lashes casting shadows on them. Aemond is curious as to why she decided to visit the throne room at this late hour, as there can't be much to do except gaze at the Iron Throne. He supposes it could be exactly why she came, for the thrill of setting her eyes on the Targaryen seat.

“I know I’m not supposed to be here,” she starts, her eyes rapidly glancing at Aemond's face, but she stops herself when she sees the look on it. There is the shadow of a smile stretching the corner of his mouth, but it's not a kind smile. There is a predatory glint in his purple eye, and it sends a shiver down her spine, both frightful and thrilled.

“What should I do about that?” he asks, speaking in a slow voice, the common tongue rolling out of his mouth like molten metal.

“Whatever you deem necessary, you Grace,” she offers, her cheeks flushing a deeper red. Oh but she is lovely and she knows it - this meek behavior of hers, it's a mask, and Aemond wants to rip it off with his teeth.

“You came here to see the throne, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“To get a closer look at power, at grandeur…” he says as if he’s talking to himself, running his hand down the strand that frames her face.

“Yes, your Grace.”

“Why don’t you take a closer look," he suggests, the hand at her chin gripping it harder, tilting her face up until she has no choice but to look at him. Her eyes widen and she flinches, her arm raising in defense but she aborts her movement, not daring to touch him and instead her hand hangs in the air between them.

“Oh no, your Grace, I wouldn’t-“

“I have a name, girl, use it,” he snaps and it renders her silent. Her eyes search his face and she trembles under his touch. She stumbles a bit but is quick to find her footing again. He feels her swallow under his hand and he extends his fingers so that they slide along her long neck. She shivers as he touches the thin and sensitive skin of her throat, a shaking exhale leaving her mouth. Her parted lips are the most tempting pink and he wants them to part on his name rather than air.

“Say it,” he hisses, savoring the way her pupils dilate at the command.

“Prince Aemond,” she murmurs like it’s the first time she says it, but there is no fear on her face. Her chest is rising up and down rapidly and the low-cut collar of her dress leaves nothing to the imagination. He wants to devour her, to taste his name on her lips and hear it vibrate in own mouth.

Aemond lets go of her chin and she gasps at that, as if the sudden loss of contact startles her more than his gripping her chin has. He rounds her, coming to stand a step behind and pushes her with a hand at her back and they take the dozen steps leading toward the throne. The more they approach, the more he can feel her tremble beneath his hand. Her long mane tickles the back of his knuckles and he has the urge to grip them, to twist the long strands between his fingers and pull her head up, holding it into place.

“How is it?” he asks as they reach the first step leading to the Iron Throne.

“Tell me my lady, don’t be shy," he presses, and there is a dangerous edge to his voice. She shivers, knowing there will be retribution if she doesn't - she cannot imagine what he would do to her. It makes her core grow warm and her cunt grow wet. She shifts her weight, a dull ache starting between her thighs.

“It feels… It feels powerful,” she says louder than she means and the word resonates around them. The sound here is different than down the hall, and the approving hum he breathes at her answer makes her shiver in delight. She dares turn her head and glance at him over her shoulder, and she gets a lungful of his scent. He smells of smoke and ashes, of clean sweat and leather, and she wants to chase that scent with her lips, to search every inch of that pale neck for the source of it.

With another push to her lower back, dangerously close to being indecent, he guides up the steps and her heart races faster and faster as they approach the throne. She had never thought she would ever find herself so close to it and it makes her head spin - that of the intense presence of the Prince Regent behind her.

“How does power feel, up close?” he croons as they climb the last step, walking around her and sitting on the throne carefully. He moves with a grace she has rarely seen in a man. There is caution to his movements and she can tell each is measured and calculated - there is an edge to them, she can tell how tense he really is. She doesn't have the time to answer before he speaks again.

“Disrobe,” he commands, the word rolling slowly on his tongue. She flushes red, a delicious blush that spreads from her high cheekbones all the way to her neck and the top of her breasts. She licks her lips, looking a tad nervous, but her hands are steady as pulls at the buckle of her wrap dress. She pulls the fabric off of her shoulders, exposing her corset and shift. She has a plump figure and he can guess the generous curves that are hiding under her remaining clothes.

“Beautiful,” he croons and she smiles, sweet and innocent, as if she doesn’t know exactly what she is doing to him, the effect she has on him.

The prince raises an eyebrow at her, his eye roaming her frame from shoulder to waist, and her cunt throbs at his dark gaze. "I told you to disrobe," he reminds her as she loses herself to the sight he makes. He looks both elegant and dangerous, sitting on the throne, more regal than anyone she has ever seen. His long legs are splayed open, the lapels of his leather doublet leaving nothing to the imagination - she can see the outline of his heard cock in his trousers.

"Forgive me, Prince Aemond," she murmurs, the hint of an impertinent smile tugging at her lips. "I got distracted."

He hums a dark laugh at that, his stance widening even more, getting comfortable on the iron seat. His fingers clench and unclench as she pulls at the laces of her corset, releasing her chest from its tight confines. She removes it with practiced ease and hooks her fingers in the waistband of her shift, stopping to look up at him in question. He hums his approval and she pulls the cotton down her hips, letting it fall around her feet. She steps out of her shoes, her frame shivering as she is fully exposed to the cold air of the throne room and to his gaze.

His eye falls to the apex of her thighs and she shifts her legs, her hands curling at her sides as if she's aching to cover herself. His cock throbs at the sight of the patch of curls through which two pink folds peek, and he doesn't have the patience to wait. The sight of her cunt is too much for him to take - he wants to bury himself in her, now, and release the tension that's been eating at him for the past weeks.

"Distracted by what, girl?" he asks, his cock twitching as her gaze falls between his splayed thighs.

She licks her lips again, and whispers, "I got distracted by- by-"

"Say it girl, or you won't see it," he commands, but he knows it's an empty threat. He's too wound up to refuse himself the release.

"By your cock, Prince Aemond," she breathes, her cheeks flushing a violent red. Her breasts tremble as her breath rattles and it makes him groan aloud. That's what he needs right now, her tight cunt and a face full of her tits. Gods and propriety be damned, he is Prince Regent and she is his to command and his to do with as he pleases. His for the taking.

"Good girl," he croons, unlacing his trousers with trembling hands. Her eyes move frantically between his face and his cock as it is revealed to her, and she bites her lip as he wraps his hand around it, giving it a slow, tight pull. She whines at she sees a drop of pearly liquid pearl at the tip and she cannot help the whine that escapes her, her hands trembling at her sides. She grips her own hipbone to hold herself back, her core throbbing in neglect.

"Want do you want, girl?" he hisses through gritted teeth, his hand moving slowly up and down his shaft. "Ask for it properly and you might get it."

"I want your cock, your Grace," she stutters. "Prince Aemond, I-"

He hums, gripping his cock tighter, his thumb teasing the underside of its tip. "Is that what you call the man who wears the crown and sits on the throne?"

She shakes her head, making herself dizzy with how much she desires him. The inside of her thighs is growing wet as her cunt clenches around nothing and she aches to put her fingers inside of herself, but she knows it wouldn't compare to his cock. "No...," she whispers, the treasonous word climbing out of her throat almost without her consent, but she is willing to pay the price if it means he'll fuck her. "No, my King."

He visibly shudders at that, the tip of his cock turning a dark red and twitching above his closed fist.

"Good," he hums, "Come here, my lady. Come sit on your King's lap."

She almost sobs in relief as she climbs on his lap, hissing as her naked skin comes in contact with the cold metal. His free hand instantly grasps her ass, kneading it firmly. He pulls her close to him, the back of his knuckles brushing against her sensitive nub. "Please, my King", she begs.

"Please what, my lady?" he asks, sounding both smug and strained.

"I need your cock inside me, my King", she mewls, gasping as he surges up against her, capturing her mouth into a dirty kiss. His tongue is hard and clever against hers, conquering and demanding and she can only surrender to him. He pulls away before she's had her fill, making her whine in frustration. He smirks at that, proud of having made her feel as frustrated as he is.

"Tell me girl, are you a maiden?" he asks before licking a hot strip across one of her nipples and sucking it into his mouth. It only stokes the fire in her belly even more, and he can feel her shaking over him, splayed as she is over his lap.

"No, your Grace," she whimpers, to which he grunts, his mouth still full of her tit. He releases it to look up at her, his eye looking dark and wild.

"Come sit on my cock, my lady, and I'll make you forget any man that's ever fucked you," he hisses, and it feels good not to be so mindful of his language. She doesn't seem to mind, quite the opposite, and she breathes a relieved sigh as he guides his cock between her wet folds.

She cries out as he enters her in one firm thrust, not stopping until he's fully sheathed inside of her.

He didn't take any care to prepare her or make sure she was ready, and at this point he's too wound up to care. She's like a vice around his cock, soaking wet and scalding hot. Her flesh yields to him deliciously and her tits bounce in his face as he thrusts up into her in long, precise strokes. It can't be the most comfortable, the Iron Throne isn't made for fucking but she doesn't seem to be complaining - instead she throws her head back and clamps down around him.

She is a thing of beauty, not only from the way she looks but the way she feels, and when she brings her head down again to look at him, there's a wild look in her eyes, one he's never seen on a lady of her status. She doesn't look like a refined lady but she doesn't look like a whore either, she looks like a wild beast being tamed, like a free spirit caught in his web. Soon the throne room is filled with their frantic panting and the wet sounds of their flesh.

"How well you take it, little lady," he grunts. "Tell me, how does it feel to have your King fuck you?"

She mewls like a cat in heat at that, her walls clenching deliciously around him. Her grip on his shoulder tightens and some strands of his hair get caught between her fingers, pulling at his skull in a delightful twinge. Suddenly he's reminded of the crown that sits on his head, and of the burden it really is, because he's king in all but name. But tonight he wants to seize what is rightfully is, and she's the first thing he can grasp at.

He slaps her ass once, the sting making her yelp and the sound of both her cry and his palm colliding with her flesh echo in the grand hall. "Answer me," he commands, and she removes a hand from his shoulder - before he can wonder why that is, she slithers it between their bodies to palm at herself, clenching again as soon as her fingers touch her wet flesh and tender nub.

"It feels good," she moans. "It feels so good," and he's too far gone to care about how common and unoriginal it sounds. Because he knows it's genuine, from the way she frantically draws tight circles at the place where her folds meet, on the hard little nub he'd love to suck on, and from the way she grips his cock like a vice, like he's splitting her open with each thrust.

"Come on, little lady," he groans again, feeling his peak approaching. "Be a good girl and scream for your king."

She sobs at that and he feels it echoing in himself. His thrusts grow sloppier and he feels the pulls of release dragging him toward the edge, relentless and irresistible. She throws her head back as she starts shaking, her hips grinding into him more and more, and he feels the tension is about to snap. He slaps her ass once again and this time the ensuing yelp is a scream being pulled out of her, followed by a broken sob as her peak rushes through her.

"Aemond," she cries out, throwing her head back, her voice breaking on her desperate moans and whines. She clenches around him in rhythmic, yet inconsistent wave and the urge to follow her is almost stronger than him. He pulls out as soon as she's done shaking, barely making it, his cock pulsing hot, white strips across her belly. His own grunts of ecstasy echo in the throne room as she falls forward against him, burying her face into his shoulder as the last waves of peak wash through her, her fingers easing the pressure on her now oversensitive nub.

As her breathing settles slightly, she pulls away, the cold stones a balm against the soles of her feet. She sways on the spot, her legs made wobbly by the intensity of what has just occurred. Sprawled on the throne, the Prince Regent looks utterly spent, yet both satisfied and hungry for more. His wild gaze roams her naked body and it makes her want to preen for her achievement. She managed to render the cold-hearted prince undone, his hair in disarray and the crown sitting sideway on the top of his head.

Her knees are rubbed raw from the Iron Throne, her eyes wet and her cheeks flushed. His spent is dripping into the patch of hair at the top of her mound, leaving thick white streaks on her stomach. As he bends forward with the intent to lick at her folds, chasing the taste of her peak, she reaches up to his crown and he feels her readjust it. She's looking at him seriously again, deferential and respectful of his station, as if she isn't bare before him and covered in his seed.

"There, my King", she whispers, and the Conqueror's Crown doesn't feel so heavy anymore.

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HotD taglist. Comment to be added to it. Reblog to show love.

@hb8301 @serrhaewinn @mariannnavao @castellomargot @pasta-rask @svtansdaddyx @avengingangelfanfic @bellameshipper @its-sam-allgood @amarillys92 @beaconofthehightower @i-mushi @namgification @anditsmywholeheart @dahlias-and-marigolds @itscatlien-blog @elleclairez @esmeralda-tupi @merovingianprincess @marvelita85 @bbvrnskycspn @kateris-world @elleclairez @watercolorskyy @darkenchantress @yentroucnagol @cardi-bre91 @avengingangelfanfic @malfoytargaryen

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#GIRLLLL. This fic. one of the best Aemond smuts I’ve read recently #fic rec

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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for my readers of From The Tides, what would we think of a chapter from Aemond’s POV? This wouldn’t be for a few chapters but I honestly think we need Aemond’s internal dialogue LOL

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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From The Tides Masterlist

Summary: You are the daughter of a fisherman in a small village of the Stormlands, uncaring of the impending civil war amongst the Targaryens until one day when a boy floats to to the shore of your village. Except this is not ordinary boy; Riddled with nightmares and loss of memory, Lucerys cannot remember who he is, until he does. From the moment you hear of Aemond Targaryen you are consumed of hatred for him. Aemond Targaryen is a near kinslayer grappling with his position. For him it was simple: align with Rhaenyra after Lucerys was heard to be living or lose his head, let his entire family lose their heads. He does what he must, as he always has; Just as he tolerate his nephews presence he tolerates the lowborn girl turned handmaiden to the Queen who looks at him like he is a monster and does not fail to express her mind no matter the time of day or what decorum allows. His grandfather thinks she is a lowborn upstart who would take any power she is given. His mother looks at her with trepidation and worry. His sister enjoys her company too much and might even consider her a dear friend. Aemond does not know what to do with her.

Pairing: Lucerys Velaryon x reader (platonic), Aemond Targaryen x reader (eventually romantic)

Series Warnings: incest relationships mentioned (daemon/rhaenyra, helaena/aegon), except canon aegon in this series, threats of violence against women, enemies to lovers, canon divergent, Queen Rhaenyra AU

[ao3 link]

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | more to come!

#about time we gave this series a master list :)))#lucerys velaryon x reader #lucerys velaryon x you #lucerys x reader #lucerys x you #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x you

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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thank you sm! there’s going to be so much not so unfriendly banter in the future chapters hahah

From The Tides [Part 5]

summary: as you do your best to avoid Aemond Targaryen, you realize you cannot avoid everyone in the castle you distrust. To your dismay a tourney is announced and your luck with avoiding the silver hair prince runs out (8k)

pairings: aemond targaryen x reader, (platonic) lucerys velaryon x reader

warnings: none except Aemond and the reader enjoying hating each other a little too much, lots of foreshadowing to the next chapter if you look close enough…

notes: sorry for not posting for like 2 weeks?? my personal life has been so busy and I’ve had my spring break all of this week. I’ve also starting working on a novel so was focusing on that instead of the some fics (don’t worry I literally have no plans to stop writing for hotd hahah)

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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thank you !!! :D so glad you enjoyed reading it <3

An Unworthy Hand

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x blind!reader

summary: Aegon wishes to read to you but cannot make up his mind. The histories of his ancestors is too vain and poetry is not right, either. Unfortunately, he has to enlist his younger brother for help (1.9k)

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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whenever you have time, i NEED you to write something based on that ask you got about vhagar being super attached to aemond's girl 🥺

These requests are from November, so yes I am still working on the messages I have received! Thank you for them :)

I would love to expound more upon Vhagar bonding with the reader (you) especially after you and Aemond get married. The idea of dragons being intelligent enough to feel/recognize the bonds their riders have with other people is something I'd love to be canonized.

When Aemond could not find you within the walls of the Red Keep or honing your body in the training courtyard, he knew by now you were well outside the confines of King’s Landing, spending quality time with your newest best friend.

“I thought I would find you out here.”

You looked up with a smile at Aemond’s familiar velvet voice. Your back was pressed against the iron dragonskin of Vhagar’s neck, a book of Targaryen history propped open upon your knees as you had been regaling the dragon with tales she would’ve been well familiar with.

“I needed to escape the stuffy sitting room for a while.” You agreed, feeling the rumbling purr growing within Vhagar as she acknowledged her rider’s presence.

You scooted into Aemond’s embrace as he took a seat on the soft earth beside you, peering briefly at the book you had been reading. “And what does Vhagar think about today’s reading material?”

You looked sideways up along the endless expanse of Vhagar’s neck to where her yellow eye watched the two of you. You caught Aemond’s eye with a smirk. “No complaints so far.”

“Hmm.” Aemond took the book from you, closing and setting it aside before taking your hands in his. He leaned into your space, brushing his nose against yours before finding your lips in a chaste kiss. “One day I’m going to seek you out and find you’ve taken her out for a ride.”

Your heart stuttered in mild fear at the very thought. “That’ll be the day.” You laughed as Aemond breathed a soft chuckle, tucking your head beneath his chin, his warm breath rustling your hair.

He held you for many moments as you basked in the warmth of his body and the continual rumbling of Vhagar as she shifted slightly at your back.

The three of you were alerted to the sound of many hooves thundering upon the earth as several riders cleared the hill. Upon seeing the massive island-sized dragon laying before them their horses reared in fear, nearly sending several soldiers toppling to the ground. Vhagar’s head became visible from your periphery as she growled low and deep, moving to position her snarling teeth in between where you and Aemond sat and the newcomers.

“Vhagar, gida.” Aemond calmed the dragon with a word, though Vhagar did not move her head from its defensive position.

Aemond gave you a strange look which you mirrored right back at him. “Has she acted like this before?”

You shook your head, glancing to where you could see the sun glinting off dragon teeth the length of a man’s body.

“My prince!” The leading rider called, unwilling to come any closer. “The king requests your presence at once!”

“Duty calls.” Aemond sighed, rising to stand and brushing sand off his clothing. “Would you like to remain here or accompany me back to the city?”

You took his proffered hand and he helped you rise to your feet. “I’ll come back with you.”

At your movements Vhagar grumbled another deep sound of displeasure, her tail this time slithering around to block your path forward, even separating you from where Aemond stood.

“Vhagar!” Aemond said almost reproachfully, looking to where Vhagar’s gaze was still fixated on the soldiers. He shook his silver head in annoyance. “Seems she has become incorrigibly possessive of you overnight.”

“Vhagar.” You called to the ancient she-dragon gently. The yellow eye flicked briefly to you. “Nyke ȳgha.” She seemed to relax at your Valyrian reassurance, allowing you to take Aemond’s hand again and proceed closer to where the soldiers waited.

“I haven’t a clue what’s gotten into her.” You muttered to your husband.

Aemond shook his head in agreement as he glanced back toward where Vhagar still was growling low. “Perhaps she decided to take you on as a sort of dragonling…” He stopped mid-stride, color draining from his face as he turned to face you. “A child.”

“I am hardly her child, Aemond.” You snickered, your smile dropping when his expression remained serious. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you…” Aemond shot a look to where the riders were obviously trying to listen in, he lowered his voice and leaned closer to you. “Are you with child?”

Your stomach swooped as shock coursed through you. “I-I don’t know.”

“Let’s pay a visit to the maester after dealing with whatever my brother wants.” Aemond squeezed your hand briefly, unable to keep an excited grin off his angular face. He looked again at Vhagar, this time in mild wonder. The grumbles and groans of the dragon faded away as the riders escorted the two of you back to the Keep.

Nine months later the kingdom welcomed the birth of their newest Targaryen princess.

She grew to be very much like her father, in mannerisms and visage. When she was old enough Aemond didn’t waste any time in introducing her to Vhagar.

The old dragon seemed to already know who she was.

#i love this #fic rec

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aemondsbeloved · 1 year

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An Unworthy Hand

pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x blind!reader

In the library was Aemond sitting in a chair near a window that overlooked the training yard. In vain Aegon had hoped his brother would not have been here.

Aegon thinks that out of everything in his life that this might be the most fearsome task.

Aegon walks as silently as he can into the library and thinks about how to best evade Aemond, who was shockingly aware of his surroundings for someone with one eye. While he found himself admiring his betrothed for her heightened senses in absence of sight, Aemond’s ability to sense Aegon before he was there irritated him.

“Not like you to wander in the library, brother,” Aemond comments softly. There is only a Maester pouring over some texts for company, though he was on the other side of the sprawling library. “Here to pour over some texts of our ancestors?”

Aemond might not have looked up from his book but Aegon knew contempt when it was spoken. Usually Aegon had something nasty to say to his brother and then Aemond would be able to voice his distaste for Aegon. It had been a lifelong tradition for as long as Aegon did not care for duty and Aemond lived for it.

This time Aegon said nothing of the kind and turned his head to look at the shelves of books. Aemond was right enough, it was unlike him to wander in the library. He would be seeing you in the gardens tomorrow and thought he might read to you.

Not that he wanted to tell his brother any of this. Aemond’s watchful eye had rested on Aegon since you had come to King’s Landing, waiting for Aegon to ruin things as he always did. Aegon thought everyone was expecting the other shoe to drop, except you.

You seemed to always take him at his word, trusting him wholly. Maybe that is why he was in the library searching for a book you might like to hear, and why he was not being crass to Aemond.

Reading you a history text, especially one on his ancestors sounded vain, Aegon thought, but reading poetry felt cheap. He could not read you poetry that does not remind him of you and he cannot read you histories like a Septa.

“I came to choose a book I would read to my lady tomorrow,” he absentmindedly says in a clumsy, hurried tone, forgetting it is Aemond who he speaks to for a moment. He does not even realize that he has called you his lady, which feels too intimate to say aloud even if you will be married. “Reading her history or poetry is not right.”

Aegon is anxious, skittish even. It is a behavior that the lack of wine for weeks has not subdued. Your presence had begun to soothe him but the threat of making a misstep or choosing wrong makes him feel weaker than he should. His downfall is that he cannot say something untoward to Aemond, at least not when Aemond was the one who he needed assistance from. For as much as Aegon found annoyance in his younger brother, you had occasionally taken joy in Aemond’s presence. Your fondness of his siblings made no sense to Aegon but had regrettably been unable to loathe Aemond’s presence nor could he think everything about his sister an annoyance these days.

Aemond closed his book and is silent as he looks over Aegon with a cursory look. “There are stories of the fictional sort with characters as interesting as the kind in the historic texts of our ancestors but completely made up. Yet they are not as trite as the characters in the romantic tales most ladies of the court seem to care for.”

His brother seems uninterested, almost like this was too unimportant for him to fully commit to but still, Aemond jerks his head to the corner of the library near the doors where such tales must be.

Aegon turns his body to look at that part of the library and finds himself drawn to it in hopes there could be a book that could please you. At the same time Aemond is up and out of his chair, moving out of the room with an unaffected air as he holds a book under his arm. Aegon might have thanked his brother, a thought he had never had before, if Aemond had not left so quickly.

Instead he finds himself in the corner of the library. His index finger traces the leathered covered books. For some time he was reading through some until a tale with dragons and adventures to a world through an unknown land piqued his interest. He left silently, the book tucked under his arm and he meandered through the corridors.

He had discovered in the weeks since you’ve found a place in the Red Keep with his family that his own family has treated him strangely. Where Aemond once told him he was due to disappoint his betrothed now he silently watched him, his brother’s lone lilac eye becoming less focused on him by the day. His mother did not seem what to do with him and sometimes he wants to ask her if she wanted him to be a drunkard again.

But he does not think on it too long, not when wherever he traveled in the castle walls he knew he would be welcomed by you once he saw you again. Selfishly, he was not aware of the other people in the castle and was uncaring of the whispers about him.

When he knocks on your door and your handmiaden opens, he briefly notices her smile. It is not one of surprise or nerves like the first one she had given him. “Princess Helaena is still with the Lady, my Prince,” she tells him as she opens the door, beckoning him in.

Her words were true. There on your sofa that was near the window, Helaena sat close to you and to Aegon’s surprise, her head was tipped down as she read from a book. He did not have an original idea in him it appeared.

“Brother,” Helaena greets as she looks up from the leather bound thick book and her smile is light and pleasant, but does not seem forced. Out of all his siblings, Helaena had never begrudged Aegon for his ways despite the words that tended to fall from his tongue when he was in his cups. He thinks that maybe she is pleased to see him but he knows you are by the way you smile.

“I asked your sister to read to me about your ancestors. She has a most lovely voice and I did not think it courteous to ask a maester to read to me of your family’s histories,” you explained softly. When you turned to give Helaena a gracious smile, thanking her quietly she beamed. “Would you read to me of Maegor next time?”

“With pleasure, sister,” she seems ecstatic to say the words and though you are not married yet, calling you her sister seems final. “I promised mother I would go to her rooms today. Until supper this eve, my lady.”

Helaena is barely out of the room before you are patting the seat next to you, beckoning him to sit by you. Aegon does not need telling twice and strides forward, sitting himself next to you. He leans in his chair like a cat as he sprawls himself out. Somehow he knows even if you could see him you would not begrudge him this. “You do not have to learn about my family’s ancestors, you know,” he tells you softly as he often does when speaking to you. “No one in the court will test your knowledge of the Conqueror.”

You hum and you turn your head in his direction. The sun from the afternoon hits your hair, allowing Aegon to see every strand of color there and finds himself admiring. “My father taught me of the histories of my people and I would like to do the same for my children one day. If I am to have child of Old Valyria then I want to be able to tell them of their father’s ancestors.”

You seem pleased with your words like the question of his children was not some duty but something to be excited for. Maybe he was imagining that too as he often imagined you feeling a yearning he had begun to stop pushing down. Silently, without asking, he reaches out across your lap into his and his fingers brush against yours. He might have pulled away but then your pinky fingers looped around his. The hands, not quite joined together layed halfways between your laps. He would take this affection and any other he might have from you so long as you were willing to give it.

“I would read to you the histories,” he says, forgetting how he hated learning of them in lessons as a child. But for you, he found himself ready to do just about anything. “If you should ever want me to,” he amended.

“Your sister says you used to sleep through lessons on occasion,” you say teasingly and what he imagines is fondness.

“All true,” he admits and reluctantly, he smiles. “Aemond used to say I was not worthy of the Conqueror's name seeing as I slept through learning of our forebearers so often.”

“He is quite harsh on you I think,” you say softly and Aegon’s head snaps up. He is not angry, no, not in the slightest, but if you were to ask any in his family how Aegon might have been treated — well, it would not be in his favor.

“He assisted me earlier before I came to see you,” Aegon begins and he ignores how he is perhaps trying to praise Aemond, defend him even. “I wanted to find a book to find you, but to read you poetry felt wrong. If I were to read to you poetry I would want it to be my own words. And I did not think it right to read you history of my ancestors, though now that I know you wish to learn I would read to you whenever you wished no matter the hour.”

You cannot see him and yet you possess an emotion on your face that speaks of fondness and perhaps even love. It is too soon for that, Aegon knows, because he has not earned your love. He wants to desperately, though.

Shifting your body, you lean your head on his shoulder and it is intimate, perhaps too intimate Aegon thinks to himself. But it seems that you have found a comfort in him and seek to curl yourself into him, proprietary damned. He thinks that your head fits perfectly against his shoulder.

“Read to me what you brought today,” your gentle voice brings him back to the land of the living. “Anything you read would do. The sound of your voice alone is most pleasing to me, my prince.”

Your words make Aegon nearly choke on air. The teasing cadence of his title, the reminder of how you both promised to call each other by your names alone; He could never stop calling you my lady though, the fondness growing inside him every hour and the fact that he wanted you to be his lady was too strong to ignore. You seemed to enjoy teasing him. He was ready to take your teasing every day, Aegon decided.

Without another word, Aegon opened the story and began to read. He was so engrossed in the feeling of you near him, your hands almost holding each other and your head on his shoulder that he could not pay attention to anything besides you and the words on the pages.

Neither of you noticed when your handmaiden peeped in hours later to see the scene for herself before carefully closing the door again.

#aegon x reader #aegon x you #aegon x y/n #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon imagine #hotd fanfiction #hotd x reader

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