flower-cage
flower-cage
Sometimes, I write. 18+ only. HoTD. Follow back from lost-and-founds.
On Flower's Fic-Rec Fridays, we update my personal library.
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Writing tips for long fics that helped me that no one asked for.
1.) Don't actually delete content from your WIP unless it is minor editing - instead cut it and put it in a secondary document. If you're omitting paragraphs of content, dialog, a whole scene you might find a better place for it later and having it readily available can really save time. Sometimes your idea was fantastic, but it just wasn't in the right spot.
2.) Stuck with wording the action? Just write the dialog then revisit it later.
3.) Stuck on the whole scene? Skip it and write the next one.
4.) Write on literally any other color than a white background. It just works. (I use black)
5.) If you have a beta, while they are beta-ing have them read your fic out loud. Yes, I know a lot of betas/writers do not have the luxury of face-timing or have the opportunity to do this due to time constraints etc but reading your fic out loud can catch some very awkward phrasing that otherwise might be missed. If you don't have a beta, you read it out loud to yourself. Throw some passion into your dialog, you might find a better way to word it if it sounds stuffy or weird.
6.) The moment you have an idea, write it down. If you don't have paper or a pen, EMAIL it to yourself or put it in a draft etc etc. I have sent myself dozens of ideas while laying down before sleep that I 10/10 forgot the next morning but had emailed them to myself and got to implement them.
7.) Remember - hits/likes/kudos/comments are not reflective of the quality of your fic or your ability to write. Most people just don't comment - even if they say they do, they don't, even if they preach all day about commenting, they don't, even if they are a very popular blog that passionately reminds people to comment - they don't comment (I know this personally). Even if your fic brought tears to their eyes and it haunted them for weeks and they printed it out and sent it to their friends they just don't comment. You just have to accept it. That being said - comment on the fic you're reading now, just do it, if you're 'shy' and that's why you don't comment the more you comment the better you'll get at it. Just do it.
8.) Remove unrealistic daily word count goals from your routine. I've seen people stress 1500 - 2000 words a day and if they don't reach that they feel like a failure and they get discouraged. This is ridiculous. Write when you can, but remove absurd goals. My average is 500 words a day in combination with a 40 hour a week job and I have written over 200k words from 2022-2023.
9.) There are dozens of ways to do an outline from precise analytical deconstruction that goes scene by scene to the minimalist bullet point list - it doesn't matter which one you use just have some sort of direction. A partial outline is better than no outline.
10.) Write for yourself, not for others. Write the fic you know no one is going to read. Write the fic that sounds ridiculous. You will be so happy you put it out in the world and there will be people who will be glad it exists.
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i had a dream someone close to me wanted to name their child “Aemond” and ended up going with “Almond” instead for a modern twist and… I can totally see celebrities doing that yk
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Marthaaaa oh my gawwdd
You know I like to hide in the shadows and pop back here only when I can add to the conversation...
thank you for validating me with your lovely lovely words as always
To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, humiliation kink, voyeurism.
A/N: Here's that random smut I was talking about (two weeks off-schedule rip). It is not as edited as my other pieces, thus much cruder, and I enjoyed not stressing over every single word on it. I just let the story guide my writing hand and had fun with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
He had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step away from his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you past it.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now; no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base, running your nose along the shaft, and then unbuttoning him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake, and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were still a palace maid.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks into you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you on your best behavior,” he warns, teasing, “just like this.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
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Want some easy tip to make your characters 100% more believable??
I learned this some time ago, and wanted to share it because it has really helped me A LOT.
Think of your characters and imagine how they would be in their best moment and in their worst. But not like, happiest and darkest moment. Think of it as their healthiest and most toxic moments. Everyone is healthy sometimes and toxic sometimes. USE THAT. Write a about it, describe them and their actions in both situations.
Maybe you have a character that can be crazy possessive when toxic, but really supportive when healthy. Who knows?
Once you write that, chances are you already know how their gonna behave in almost any situation that pushes them to be healthier/ more toxic. Plus, you can also use it for your characters' positive/ negative arc or to develop relationships with other characters.
Happy writing!! 😙😙
Other tips for writers: next
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Thank you so much for letting me know how much you liked this!!! This is one of my favorite parts too 🥰
To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance.
A/N: Here's that random smut I was talking about (two weeks off-schedule rip). It is not as edited as my other pieces, thus much cruder, and I enjoyed not stressing over every single word on it. I just let the story guide my writing hand and had fun with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
He had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step away from his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you past it.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now; no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base, running your nose along the shaft, and then unbuttoning him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake, and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were still a palace maid.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks out of you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you on your best behavior,” he warns, teasing, “just like this.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
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I am DEAD 🤣🤣 Thank you SO much for letting me know just how much you enjoyed this. I hope my other works live up to your expectations as well. And happy vibrator day!
To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance.
A/N: Here's that random smut I was talking about (two weeks off-schedule rip). It is not as edited as my other pieces, thus much cruder, and I enjoyed not stressing over every single word on it. I just let the story guide my writing hand and had fun with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
He had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step away from his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you past it.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now; no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base, running your nose along the shaft, and then unbuttoning him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake, and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were still a palace maid.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks out of you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you on your best behavior,” he warns, teasing, “just like this.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
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I need him so bad 😭😭😭 Thank you for letting me know you enjoyed this 💚
To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance.
A/N: Here's that random smut I was talking about (two weeks off-schedule rip). It is not as edited as my other pieces, thus much cruder, and I enjoyed not stressing over every single word on it. I just let the story guide my writing hand and had fun with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
He had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step away from his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you past it.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now; no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base, running your nose along the shaft, and then unbuttoning him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake, and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were still a palace maid.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks out of you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you on your best behavior,” he warns, teasing, “just like this.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
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Thank you for leaving your thoughts! I’m so happy you enjoyed it!
To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance.
A/N: Here's that random smut I was talking about (two weeks off-schedule rip). It is not as edited as my other pieces, thus much cruder, and I enjoyed not stressing over every single word on it. I just let the story guide my writing hand and had fun with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
He had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step away from his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you past it.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now; no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base, running your nose along the shaft, and then unbuttoning him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake, and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were still a palace maid.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks out of you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you on your best behavior,” he warns, teasing, “just like this.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
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Is it too much to ask to be ordered around by deranged Aemond 😭😭😭
Thank you so much 🫶 I’m so glad you liked it!!
To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance.
A/N: Here's that random smut I was talking about (two weeks off-schedule rip). It is not as edited as my other pieces, thus much cruder, and I enjoyed not stressing over every single word on it. I just let the story guide my writing hand and had fun with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
He had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step away from his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you past it.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
���Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now; no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base, running your nose along the shaft, and then unbuttoning him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake, and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were still a palace maid.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks out of you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you on your best behavior,” he warns, teasing, “just like this.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
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To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, humiliation kink, voyeurism.
A/N: Here's that random smut I was talking about (two weeks off-schedule rip). It is not as edited as my other pieces, thus much cruder, and I enjoyed not stressing over every single word on it. I just let the story guide my writing hand and had fun with it! I hope you enjoy it too!
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
He had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step away from his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you past it.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now; no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base, running your nose along the shaft, and then unbuttoning him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake, and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were still a palace maid.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks into you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you on your best behavior,” he warns, teasing, “just like this.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
#hotd fic#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen x you#hotd fanfic#aemond x you#aemond x servant reader#hotd smut#lol not me posting another one at 3am on a sunday#work is going to suck tomorrow i guess
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A new part of scratch that right around my birthday? You are such a ray of sunshine hon <3
aaaaa noo YOU ARE
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Heyyy coming back from an unofficial, unannounced hiatus :3
I'd been taking time off and focusing on friends and family, but now I'm back home and to my routine and want to pick up on writing again.
Here's what's coming next (tentatively and to the best of my abilities hehe):
Week of March 11th: brand-new smutty one shot
Week of March 25th: Third Part of Scratch That miniseries
Week of April 22nd: Chapter 8 of The Wolf And The Dragon
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The TikTok-fication of Tumblr and why it needs to stop before your fave writers are gone for good:
1. “Part 2??”
Unlike TikTok, writing 5,000 words for a fic does not happen in 6 seconds or more. Weekly updates are from a writer who spoils you and is passionate about their story. Don’t kill the passion by demanding for more and not appreciate what’s already given.
2. The DC Conundrum
Many writers on this platform hail back from the ff.net days where dark content is a norm, not like TikTok where even death has to be censored or you could get flagged.
Despite that, writers are doing you a service by sharing fic warnings despite how it may take away from a plot twist or a big reveal. However, there’s a fine line between sharing warnings and downright spoiling our own work. Heed the warnings, don’t be a dick. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Learn how to filter your own content, too, while you're at it.
3. The Wild Algorithm
Unlike TikTok, Tumblr’s FYP is not in your face and you have a choice to not view it. Content often gets buried a few days after it’s posted without reblogs or comments to keep it alive.
4. Passive Content Consumption
Ties back with point #1. If you’re only sitting back and reading works without supporting the writers, they can’t spend 6 seconds to conjure up a fic. Writing takes time, editing, proofreading. Tumblr is a book club, not a delivery service.
5. De(constructive) Criticism
If an opinion isn’t asked for, don’t give it. Many writers choose this craft for their own enjoyment and to share a thought or story about a beloved character to those who love them, too. If an opinion is asked? Be kind when you share it across to them. No one likes their hard work to be shat on by someone who doesn’t understand the time and effort it took to create this piece.
6. Are You My Content Machine?
Again, back to point #1. Writers have busy lives. There are days when we want to scream into the void about our favourite characters. We want to share our thoughts about them or sometimes, we just want to talk about what happened during lunch break. Demanding and expecting that a writer post content without giving a shit about the soul behind the screen? Dehumanizing.
Don’t ruin the experience for those of us who are still here. Do your part to make fandom better for everyone.
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Hi love,
Love your fics, I found Scratch that on ao3, and I've reread those two chapters countless times, and was just curious if you were planning to make a part 3, or no. No pressure, just curious <3
Hello!! Thanks for reading and letting me know how much you like my lil series <3 I intend to write at least one more part for it, but my main focus is finishing TWATD, so it might still take a while. But thanka again!
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Make Aemond Targaryen more stupid in your fanfics, he did not spend half the Dance making things worse just to be written as an intellectual
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I hope you have a safe and lovely holiday 💖🎄
Thank you so much lovely ❤️🫶🥹 I hope you’re having the best holidays
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The Wolf And The Dragon | Chapter Seven
by @flower-cage
Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader
Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.
Ao3 | Main Masterlist | TWATD Masterlist | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | NEW Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 coming soon
Chapter Seven: The Wolf and The Dragon II
Chapter summary: The several days that make up your recovery are bright and fanciful like this in his company, despite the looming promise of battle.
Words: 6,192.
Warnings: 18+ only; explicit sexual content, mentions of blood.
A/N: This is such a filler chapter - all fluff and longing and smut, barely any plot. Smut has entered the chat. Minors, do not interact.
Tall, warped, and grey is the world that enshrouds you. It flashes past your eyes as you pierce through it unwaveringly. Towards where your legs take you, you are unsure, for an innate calling takes the lead and you trust it fully, you trust it blindly. Thick and hot as it drips down your flushed flesh, flying off and fouling the air with the taste of iron is… your blood? Pain is there too within your bones and desperate agony thrums and stings in your gut.
When it all stops, you know not where you stand, only that it grants you relief so great you surrender yourself to your exhaustion. The world that was once frantic turns void and silent.
When you wake up next, it is to the warmth of the sun licking against your cheek. It melts away your heavy drowsiness slowly and, gently, you stir your limbs to wakefulness, relishing in the silken linens and in the satiation of a full night of rest.
The low murmur of the comings and goings of the palace and the city below have long become a constant comfort, and this room, whose purpose you initially suspected was that of a glorified cage, has become a home in this land of treacherous politics.
Even if your wishes were to rise and soak in such sunlight, however, or watch the capital buzz or the sea lap its shores from your lavish balcony, a twinge in your chest reminds you there is little movement you can undertake without splitting it anew. The sting of it steals your breath so immediately, it awakens you to the ache that also persists head to toe. Alas, solemnly you lie still and impatient despite the medicine-induced lethargy that slows you, tolerating the dull throb until a maid finally disturbs your empty contemplations.
“Oh!” she gasps in delight. “Good morning, my Lady!”
She is quick to open your curtains further and bring forth a dress and jewels, now accustomed to the commanding presence of your wolf, and prance about rummaging through the many items Queen Alicent has donned you. You take the scene quietly, yet reluctant to join in the busyness of the royal palace.
“Now then,” she claps her hands together once, eyes running across your chamber disorderly, likely cataloguing her duties of the day, “I’ll request your breakfast and summon Prince Aemond,” she announces as she curtsies and turns to exit, not quite meeting your eyes as she dashes through her own actions, her disposition much too chirpy for your still dazed mind.
“The Prince?” you break your silence, finally, when her words settle in. “What for?”
“He demanded to be informed when you rose, my Lady,” she smiles like she knows more than she should.
Heat rises to your cheeks, then, and your heart skips a beat only to kick off at full force when you are flooded with the memory of the night previous, of your unpremeditated, timid admissions.
“Wait!” you yelp as she turns to speed off once again. “Assist me in looking presentable, then.”
Your hairdo and the discrete jewelry the lively maid prepares in no time, but it is a true effort to help you into a tight bodice and a hefty, courtly gown in your state of fragility. Thus, when Aemond strides into your chambers, you are still gasping for air and in pain, sitting on the chaise in your modest living room.
“Rough start?” he quirks an eyebrow as he approaches.
There is a beat to his step and a levity to his brow you don’t think you have previously witnessed. It is but a faint trace of joy and tranquility on his typically stern countenance, one a stranger would take it for granted. You are far from strangers, however, and you cannot resist when your own expression softens at his easy disposition.
“My body is still awfully weak,” you grimace, a palm pressing below your bust, grounding you in your laborious breaths.
“It needs time to recover, is all,” he murmurs when he reaches you, towering over you.
Your heart gets caught in your throat when he bends to your height, holding your gaze, terrified to think he will claim your lips in front of the servants who set the table. In a startling motion, however, he takes your waist in his strong hands and brings you to your feet. Hardly a gesture proper between an unwed pair, his touch elicits shame to burn your face and desire to tickle where his fingers had gripped.
He allows you a moment to recover from the abrupt movement, hands steady at your quivering waist and oblivious that you take it to recover from the effect he has on you instead. His dark velvet vest glares back as you regain your grip on reason, keeping at bay the impulse to simply take him.
You have accepted your undeniable, burning passions, had a glimpse of his carnal pleasures, and admitted he has unequivocally conquered your regard. Whatever lies beyond is muzzled, indiscernible, and scares and excites you in the same breath.
His firm grip on your elbow pulls you toward breakfast as much as it pulls you from your uncomfortable wonderings.
It is another difficult, glacially slow feat to eat on your own, but you insist your body needs the practice and Aemond sits with you patiently, briefing you on the latest developments of the council and picking on your fruit. You note, without deliberation, his taste for the sour: green apples, green grapes, the slices of lemon on the lemon cakes.
It is immensely strange to have him there in your chambers, simply keeping you company, under no pretense of duty whatsoever and of his own volition. It is immensely contrasting to the image of the Dragon Prince you know he works so hard to sustain, and it invades your chest with a tickling warmth you never knew could be attributed to him.
“Any news of my father?” you ask him when his short reports lull to a halt. He hums through a pout, a quick frown, peeling an apple. His long fingers, roughened by the sword, cut the fruit gracefully and meticulously - delicate yet sinister.
“The last we heard of the Northern army was several days ago when they were set to cross The Trident,” he tells you, unaware his every movement grasps your full attention. “The last raven has gone unanswered.”
The Trident - in between The Eyrie and Riverrun, one a sworn enemy, the other an inconstant party.
“A messenger was sent to find what has happened-”
The clattering of your silverware against fine porcelain interrupts his foreboding tellings. A shuddering breath escapes you and you stare at the delicate tabletop in search of reassurances for which you are scared to ask aloud.
Punching through your gut, stealing your composure, your icy fear flies through your veins, freezing your blood and hopes alike.
“I promise you,” he states firmly, promptly, taking your hand in unexpected sympathy and recapturing your attention. He is so warm the cold never truly reaches your fingertips. “If something has indeed passed, I will fly to them on Vhagar at a moment’s notice”
His eye is gentle yet fierce, tempting you with trust and affection.
“A letter arrived from my lord uncle in Old Town just two nights ago,” he tells you, clearing his throat and sitting back, releasing your hand and taking with him all warmth. “Though his fleet will join us, and some of his men, he is to ride to Highgarden.”
“Highgarden?” you repeat, the strategist in you instantly, thoroughly engaged. “But the way from Old Town is far too treacherous for an army,” you argue, “they could easily be stranded-”
“Not for a dragon,” he cuts you short, smirking like he had wanted for this reaction. For a moment you think he intends to forsake your plans and fly to the Reach on his own. Affronted, feeling strangely betrayed, you ready yourself to passionately oppose him.
Then it dawns on you-
“The Blue Queen,” you conclude in awed breath.
“My brother Daeron will keep the Tyrell and their bannermen from advancing on King's Landing,” he explains, taking his cup between his smirking lips, holding your gaze and most unquestionably taking pleasure in your befuddlement.
“Do not tease me…” you mutter under your breath, huffing as you recollect yourself. “Seems most unlike this court to commit to such clever schemes,” you stir the honeyed wine in your hand, avoiding his mocking gaze, “rather than to plunge into battle.”
He hums in return and you hear, too, the smile that paints his amusement.
“We have recently learned a thing or two,” he tells you.
“Is that so?” you raise your eyebrows, meeting his eye and hiding yourself behind your own chalice.
A sweet sparkle ignites in his eye, likely meeting its twin in yours, but he is quick to turn his face and bite into his cheeks not to unveil it entirely. And you… you try not to get lost in the sharpening of his most beautiful features, in the tantalizing column of his neck that he exposes to you or the masculine lines that make his profile.
Easily you fall back into comfortable silence, picking on the remnants of your meal and enjoying each other’s, for once, easy presence. He goes to excuse himself for a council meeting from which you had been excused when your cups are nearly empty, but you insist on accompanying him.
It is a laborious task to help you to the council chamber. Your body can scarcely hold itself upward, your chest can barely bear the movement of your breaths, with each movement threatening to bleed it anew. Even so, Aemond takes up the task with patience, stopping every few steps to guide you to steady your breaths before you can even wince in warning. With an arm curled around your back and a firm grasp on your elbow, he becomes your steadfast support.
The gown that grazes the tiles and catches the sunlight does not cover your collarbones, so that your still-healing gash, too sore to cover in close-fitting dresses, is on full display. It catches the eyes of the nobility on your way through the Keep, but, perhaps for the first time, you do not feel cruelly scrutinized.
The indistinguishable chatter that bubbles from the council can be heard many feet away, though its door remains dutifully shut. When it is pushed open for your entrance, the room becomes silent for no more than a heartbeat before it erupts again in renewed, vigorous cheers. It startles you - the claps, the hails, the cries of your name.
You look at Aemond in search of answers, finding nothing but admiration in the gleam of his eye, in the smile on his lips. The effect is so alluring, dizzying, that you force yourself to turn quickly back to the members of the council, before the craving for his full attention - his touch, his lips - traps you in immodesty.
“Hail Captain Stark!”
“Great to see you standing, Captain!”
Polite nods and smiles are all you manage in your startled state. Soon, the uproar dwindles with a stern word from the Hand of the King, allowing for the session to take place as usual. Only this time your word is not once taken for granted and Aemond does not join his mother’s side.
He comes to you often, now. Every time the thought of him is accompanied with longing, he shows up at your door, at the library, at the gardens, wherever it is you are.
Every day he comes to you, sometimes in the morrow, sometimes at tea, each time a different excuse on his lips, a different activity on his mind. It is not difficult to see right through them, but you don’t dare teasing him so he is not discouraged from pursuing you, for you crave his company just as eagerly.
“Allow me to accompany you to the shores of the river,” was his first cover, “the maester says fresh air and light walking will help you regain your strength.”
You hummed in delight, gladly abandoning the embroidery you had taken up at the encouragement of Queen Helaena to take instead his arm.
Every night you sit in a small clearing you have claimed in the woods just outside the city walls, watching and instructing him as his fists fly, his eye veiled, against a bag of dirt that swings from a tall tree. You chuckle every time it hits him powerfully in the back of the head because he allows you the trust to do so.
The several days that make up your recovery are bright and fanciful like this in his company, despite the impending promise of battle. He is silent and intense and rigid as has likely always been his nature, but he no longer assaults and insults you.
In these days of your recovery, he is generous with his amiability and his tenderness which were once rare and quickly followed by hatred. And for the most part, you enjoy the comforting quietness you have found in one another, not knowing how long this deception of peace will last.
Before you know it, his friendship becomes a grounding force in this land you still don’t belong in, in the face of duties still greater than what you were ever meant to shoulder. It brings you relief and room to breathe, but it also dulls the ardent fire that would once burst into impassioned moments of affection or aggression. Now he grants you himself so freely, all your urges turn into potent longing, ever-pounding in your ribcage and stretching on and on as it is scantily fed by lingering touches, soft smiles, gentle gestures.
The longer you spend in his presence, the more you truly see him - the mere man he lets slip from the cracks in the shell they call Prince Aemond One-Eye, the Kinslayer - and you yearn for him ever just as ardently. Yet the lack of angry, adrenaline-filled rushes turns rational the mind that granted you the courage to deliver yourself so effortlessly to your base desires. The same effect has overtaken him, you imagine, for he, too, has not taken that dangerous leap again.
He takes you flying when your wound is but a long line of red, taut skin stretching from shoulder to shoulder.
“Vhagar needs the exercise,” he explains as he pulls on his leather riding gloves, “and you need the sunlight.”
You get sunlight from your balcony.
Even so, you join him, and he takes you to an island perhaps an hour from King’s Landing, forgotten in the Blackwater Bay. It is but a couple of grassy hills and dried acacias, deserted of wildlife but abundant in sunlight and cool, salted winds.
Just before you land, he veers Vhagar so that her wings graze the ocean, spraying you with saltwater, and freely relishes in your surprised yelps. It is in a dream-like, high-spirited state that you dismount his dragon to stand on a hilltop and enjoy the whimsical beauty that stretches on before you.
Across the vast expanse of deep blue, you see the Crownlands for the first time in a long while like the history books and fantasy stories always described it - sun-soaked and plentiful. You close your eyes and pretend you are a simple lady who enjoys the luxuries of the capital and the attention of a Prince who courts you. You enjoy the tall grass as it grazes your ankles and the breeze that flutters your silken skirts.
What if your interests had been simpler from the start? Would you have been content with a caring husband and a simple life like your sisters? Would the duty of motherhood suffice your ambitions?
Dull, your mind corrects you immediately. It is not your nature and has never been, but you delight in the glimpses of a different life you get in these escapades you enjoy at his side.
But they don’t last long, not at the brink of war.
Though council meetings are shorter and scarcer as the weeks pass, though your days are mostly filled with quiet joy, letters from all across the Kingdoms become more frequent. Though they mostly bring good news, they also make each day heavier and darker, luring war to break out.
Our fleet has joined the Hightower’s at the Arbor, whose succor we have finally secured. We shall sail with care and wait for Prince Aemond east of the Sea of Dorne, though I fear only a fool could hope for secrecy now, writes Jason Lannister.
We have made a small siege around Highgarden, but the Blue Queen suffices in terrifying the Roses back into their walls, writes Gwayne Hightower.
Corlys Velaryon’s fleet has now fully impeded trade into the Crownlands, confirms Borros Baratheon.
Some of the men from the Stormlands have made their way into the city four nights past, the men from Harrenhal six, and Lord Borros awaits with his fleet at the ready to join the advance coming from the west, awaiting you.
And yet no word from the Northern Army.
“There is no cause for alarm, yet,” Aemond often reassures you, “this wait is not unprecedented.”
But there is much uncertainty. This quietness before the storm does not sit well with you. No dragon has been sighted flying off Dragonstone, but you cannot help but wonder if this is all part of a ruse. After all, you had been spotted that night on Dragonstone and, for every bit of undisciplined, Daemon Targaryen is also known to be exceedingly sharp and tenacious. What if he had preemptively relocated the beasts?
These doubts and more haunt your dreams the closer you are to setting off for battle and, on the eve of the first strike, they grow so great they threaten to rip you apart at the seams.
You sit with them and allow them to consume you, under the eyes of the Weirwood Tree of the Red Keep, under the light of the new moon. For long you had engaged in silent devotion, searching for peace, protection, counsel, but it does little to soothe your disquieted mind.
No word from the enemy, no word from your father, and no word from the Riverlands. Their silence deafens you.
Resting upon a log, face to face with the image of the Old Gods, you close your eyes and revel in the warm breeze you seldom get in the North. It ruffles fallen leaves and twigs, seeps through the light fabric of your nightdress, and promises an unattainable liberty. In another shot at distraction, you listen closely to its path - northward - but the sound of crunching leaves a few steps behind you promptly awakens a feeling of foreboding.
Your hand tightens around the dagger on your waist. Something creaks a step closer. Without preamble, you jump and twist, your blade finding perfect lodging against his jawline, not for the first time.
He smirks, head tilted backward, hands in the air.
“I’m beginning to believe you take joy from having me under your blade.”
“Damn you, Aemond,” you hiss, stowing away your knife and releasing a shuddering breath that, predictably, does nothing to relieve you of your torments.
His very sight aggravates your affliction, when you take note of his rare dishevelling. Similar to you, only a cloak hides the cotton chemise he should be wearing exclusively in the privacy of his apartments, and his loose hair parts in the middle to frame his amused countenance. Both reflect the brilliance of the moon to don him an ethereal glow, and his casualty tempts you to believe he has invited you into his intimacy.
“How predictable is the troubled wolf who trails the woods in the shadows,” he mocks.
You award him a hard gaze, not partaking in his light jesting when your shoulders clench in distress.
“How despicable is the dragon who slithers in silence after her,” you bite, regretting it immediately when his smile drops and his eye softens.
He has learned your moods and attitudes as much as you have his.
“What is it that ails you?” he asks so softly you wonder when his instinct has become to extend his care in place of retaliation.
And his softness, akin to how his mother had once received you, waters your eyes in a heartbeat. You bite your cheeks, looking away so that your tears are not encouraged to fall.
“This tranquility does not sit well with me,” you whisper.
“You question yourself,” he concludes with a tone of realization, watching your lips tremble, your hands clenching closed.
“Something is amiss,” you beg, predicting his denial. Indeed, he shakes his head and takes a harsh breath as if preparing to fight you tooth and nail.
“But it is, Aemond!” you insist before he gets his chance, recapturing his attention and astounding yourself with how swiftly you lose composure.
“This silence is most unnatural,” you tell him gravely. “We have had an army on the move for months, Highgarden is under siege, Daemon saw us!”
He stares at you, jaw tight, gaze hard, and unmoving.
“And they are- what?” you lick your lips, staring back with equal vehemence, but if he is shaken by your reasoning, he does not convey it. “Sitting and waiting?”
You had not known how terribly these thoughts had rotten within you, garnering a great fear furtively until this single stab allowed it to burst and eat away at you.
“We knew from the beginning they would be ready to meet us in battle,” he counters with a placidity you would never have expected just two moons ago. “We have prepared for it accordingly.”
“There has been no word from my father, Aemond,” your voice breaks, your eyes truly tearing despite your efforts, lips trembling with the toil of keeping composure. “Chances are at least one dragon has survived-”
“No,” he takes you by the elbows as you hiccup through tears, through dismay. “We would have seen-”
“And they will descend upon you and Vhagar first,” you lament, wet, glimmery eyes meeting his worried look, “and it will be my fault,” you finish in a whisper.
Your desolation takes effect on him finally, and he takes your damp face in his hands to force your attention, to force you to trust him. He brings you so close, so quickly, your hands land on his chest for balance. His fine chemise is so delicate you feel every hard line of muscle underneath and his warmth seeps in slowly through your fingertips, flaring your feelings yet further.
“That will not happen,” he emphasizes, enunciating each word carefully and surely, so that they may weigh and impress on you. His hands brush your hair from your wet cheeks, his calloused fingers wipe your tears, then descend to your chin, tilting it so that he may secure your attention.
It takes your breath away, that passionate spark of his. His diligent care - perhaps his passion - alights a warmth that fills your chest to the brim and you feel seen, wanted, cherished. And you want more of it, you want all of it.
“You will not lose me,” he whispers, almost an afterthought that betrayed him when he allowed himself the gentleness. “I will not lose you.”
Your lips part in surprise. You did not expect him to interpret your words in this way, but the tightening in your chest only confirms his bold suppositions.
“How can you be so sure?” you whisper back, afraid of breaking the delicate exchange. “How can you trust that when so much is uncertain?”
He hums, smirk pulling on his lips and trapping you deeper in your desires.
“You are certain. Nothing else needs to be.”
Driven wild by his affectionate words, your heart beats harshly in your chest, ailing your breaths and ringing in your ears. Your fingers tingle against his solid chest where they rest and refrain from bringing him closer. His gaze is firm and allows no challenge as you look at him in amazement.
“You think chance alone brought you to King’s Landing at the exact moment we needed you?” he asks though he evidently wishes for no answer.
“My father-”
“What sense does it make for the Gods to place us in each other’s path-,” your knees buckle when he grazes the lowest dip on your bottom lip, “- and achieve what we have so far, against all odds, only to fail at the very end?”
At a loss for words, you revisit the chain of truly unlikely events that have led you to this very moment. It is not that you accept his reasoning, but rather that you are overtaken by a desperate desire to acquiesce to him, to be in harmony with him now that he so eagerly seems to seek that himself.
“The Gods play cruel games, too,” you try meekly, but in the back of your mind you hear his mother's words:
The Gods have only destined us to achieve that which we are capable of achieving, and that is an encouraging thought.
Just as they did then, they compel you to give in and simply… believe.
“The stubborn Stark and her almighty direwolf,” he starts, smirking when he senses your resignation, fingers gliding softly against the side of your face, gaze admiring the skin they trail, “and the bad-tempered, one-eyed Prince, rider of the largest dragon in the world…”
One of his hands leaves your face as the other cups the side of your neck, eliciting sparkling goosebumps to travel down your spine.
“Heirs to little more than what they have made of themselves,” his fingers travel down your arm to wrap around yours, “they seldom seem the types to end consigned to oblivion.”
You soften despite yourself, huffing good-naturedly.
“You read too much,” you whisper.
He places your knuckles on his smiling lips, stealing your breath entirely.
“Trust your capabilities,” he insists against your skin, prompting a sob you didn’t know you still held, “as I trust your role in the great scheme of history will be equally as grand as you.”
“Aemond,” you choke around his name.
It has become easy to regard him and see past his dragon features, past his titles, his prowess and his sins, to see a mere man. It makes you adore and yearn for all of him, in all his ordinary manners and his human insecurities and all the facets he hides from everyone else’s eyes.
“Often I have read about the heirs of the dragon,” you start, swallowing the heaviness that fights to leave you, turning your hand to hold his face in your palm, “of their bloodlust, their beasts… their pride.”
Your fingers trail up the scar that splits his brow, ever so lightly delineating its cut.
“Little did I know they could be so kind,” his one eye hardens when the tip of your thumb hooks underneath his eyepatch.
His instinct is to flinch, but you give him your best reassuring, pleading look, and when his eye softens again you know he, too, wants to give himself to you entirely, undividedly.
“And so warm,” you take off the binding leather, “so beautiful,” you gasp.
A hand curls on your hair, fingers weaving through your loose strands to hold the back of your head.
“There is nothing cold about the daughter of the great, white North either.”
He pulls you in gently, but you reach for him all the same, and this time you meet his kiss with the same eagerness.
When your tongues embrace, his heat melts you to the core. He is not forceful, but his hunger is evident, for he kisses and takes you as though his sole purpose is to drive you delirious with pleasure. He is urgent as if he has long thirsted to have you on his tongue again, yet slow and deliberate so that he may truly savor you. It is sensual in its pace, passionate in its depth, and makes you crave for more until your head spins with your sensations.
You pull on his silver strands in response to his squeeze on your waist, and you break apart in a gasp which alleviates your haziness enough for a single trickle of rationality to defy your actions.
“We shouldn’t-”
“Then why does it feel so good?” he grunts and licks into your mouth too quickly. “Why does it feel like the best thing I’ll ever do?”
He sucks your bottom lip gently and you shudder at the sparks of pleasure that descend through you.
“Tell me you don’t want this, then,” he murmurs against your slickened lips, eye glued to them like he wishes for nothing but to devour them.
“Tell me this doesn’t feel right,” his nose brushes against yours teasingly and your mouth waters. “Tell me-” his thumb leaves a trail of goosebumps as it caresses the hollow of your throat, “-it doesn’t feel as though every path you’ve ever taken has led you here to me.”
He rests his parted lips so lightly against your own, you are nearly convinced you have conjured the feeling yourself in your crazed yearning.
“Go on and tell me you don’t want me.”
They say that none can tell lies before the Weirwood trees of the Old Gods. And you find that you really, truly, cannot.
“I-I do,” you breathe. “Aemond, I want you.”
His every move is calculated, as though he has thought this through meticulously, has always known how he would like to touch and pleasure you. He leaves you dizzy when his mouth leaves yours at last, your lips hanging open in search of his tongue again, but through them escapes a gasp when his hot lips suck on your neck instead.
Gently he pulls on the hair at the base of your neck, exposing more skin to his wandering tongue. His kisses clouded your mind, warmed your body, drove you to hunger… But this positively electrifies your skin, pulling pleasure from every inch of your body, from your fingers to your toes, from your chest to your tingling spine.
You feel his hunger on his tongue as it tastes you persistently. His utter devotion you feel on the fingertips he presses against your waist and his desperation you hear on the breaths he takes against your skin.
Just as sure and seamless as his every touch, he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly and bending his knees to lift and deposit you on the cold grass beneath him. He recaptures your lips when he settles between your legs, but when he grinds his hard member against your core, you part in a broken moan.
It is most unnatural, you think, how your body reacts promptly and desperately to his every stimulus. It doesn’t make sense, you think, that you find yourself so soon at the very end of your wits.
Your hands paw at his soft shirt in renewed desperation, finding his hot flesh beneath it. His own hands deftly work to lift your skirts and venerate your bare thighs. And then the world slows down to a halt, if only because you need it to finally, truly feel him.
You close your eyes at the feel of his warm, naked back, your very soul re-energizing at the bare touch. A large hand travels to your shoulder blades, underneath your gown, sparking goosebumps in their path along your spine as your flesh desperately tries to cling onto its heat. His own skin does the same as your lips stroke reverently against his collarbones, up his neck. You take in his lovely scent and he takes your lips again, kissing you at the pace that the Earth spins, grounding you in the present, in his heartbeats, in his caresses, in his warmth.
Your wandering fingers cannot help but stroke though his lush strands, nor can they stop searching for the taut softness of his back as it ripples beneath them. You tease yourself by gliding your thighs along his own and settle around his waist, getting both lost and trapped in the tantalizing caresses and the promising heat of your close embrace.
It is with a gasp that the spell of leisurely touches shatters, when he lowers his hips and presses his hardness against your exposed sex. It all too suddenly makes room for an intensity and a want that had laid dormant in your gut.
His hands journey further south and you moan into him when he squeezes and pulls on the back of your thighs, parting the lips that progressively slicken between your legs. It makes you ache for him, makes you moan and grip his hair a bit harder.
“Aemond,” you whine against his ruddy lips, when he moves you against him, building a pulsing pleasure deep within your cunt that strikingly resembles a desperate calling.
“I have wanted you,” he murmurs into you, blue eye made dark with lust, “direly,” he rolls his hips again, “fiercely.”
“Then have me,” you whisper, begging him as you shiver in desire.
He holds your gaze with unwavering determination while you feel him reach between you. It is as if he yearns to watch every muscle on your face twitch and slacken in pleasure under his lustful ministrations. He gets his wishes when he lodges his leaking tip between your slick lips with a hiss, and you gasp when his thumb presses against the pearl of pleasure between your thighs. He gives you no time to decipher what he will do next, stroking you in earnest and grunting as your cunt flutters and squeezes around his most sensitive tip.
The pleasure builds far too quickly - you have craved him for far too long. You feel the heat and elation travel through your flesh in all directions before you truly peak. When you do feel it, it is immediately insufficient to satiate you, and your cunt contracts hungrily against his tip, begging for more while you deliver yourself to pleasure with deep gasps.
He answers your sinful cravings before you have to utter it, before you even stop quivering around nothing, sliding in easily, deeply, stuffing you to the brim.
You yelp around a gasp when he does so, immediately delirious in your arousal, immediately and incredibly close to another peak.
You never stood a chance - he has impregnated your senses with himself, driving you to s concupiscent frenzy; his masculine scent of sandalwood is intoxicating now it is spiced with the sinful scent of your sex, his warm, soft lips lick and suck until your thoughts dissolve to smoke, his thunderous grunts shudder you to your core when he sheathes himself inside you.
His gaze has never been more penetrating, regardless of how passionate it had always been. With his sparkling sapphire eye, lips red and abused by your urgent tongue, and fine silver hair clinging to his glistened skin, he finally conquers the parts of you that had thus far remained untouched by his alluring spell.
“Aemond,” you whimper, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, breathtaking desire and realization battling inside you.
When he finally moves, he does it studiously, coercing you to feel his every inch. There is so much of him, he drags and teases all the spots that make your knees part further for him. When he pushes back in, your eyes roll back and a moan breaks apart the sloppy snare of your tongues.
“Nothing will take you from me,” he admits in a rough whisper, amidst a hiss and a gasp. “Not a thing will part us.”
His weight grounds you to him, protects you from all that isn’t bound to the space between your heated flesh. His freed hair shades you from the exposing light of the moon. He takes your hands from their eager exploration of his back to lace your fingers in his, restraining them against the ground.
He entertains these luscious, languid movements for the short time it takes for your slick to soak his cock, until your knees come up to wrap high and wanton around his torso. Then, with a grunt, he awards you with thrusts so powerful they punch your breaths out of your lungs, so precise they wet your eyes anew with tears of pleasure.
“Aemond,” is the only thing you can say.
“There?” he asks softly, nearly patronizingly, and redoubles his efforts.
You burn from the inside, from the mouth-watering sensations he evokes unforgivingly in your deepest, most pleasurable spot. You sweat through your clothes and your hair clings to your sticky skin. When one of his hands uncurls from your hold and gently wipes your weak tears, takes your jaw, and pulls you into a searing kiss, you think you might burst aflame, but you welcome it like you have been waiting for him to thaw you your entire life.
“I won’t be going anywhere,” he whispers against your mouth, incredibly gentle despite the rough thrusts that still deliver you closer and closer to insanity, “not without you.”
And then all your pleasure snaps like this: with your eyes locked to his, with your lips grazing his, and his words weighing heavily on your chest.
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