#Death Notes To Joffrey | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fioiswriting · 6 months

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Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew.

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded. He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt. It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation. A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges. And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled. Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it. He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell. Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost. King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you. Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor. You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back. It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead. It must have been your imagination. You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest. Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets. And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal. You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him. You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be. You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you. You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin. Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall. Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench. You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him. A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly. Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind. A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy. Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion. You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit. He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him. He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence. You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious.

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.

He doesn't let go of you.

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him. It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him. You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other. Your hands are buried in his long silver hair. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry. You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.

You need him.

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears. You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him. It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting. For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth. You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie. You know you should lie. To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years. You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not."

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye. It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words. You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath.

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe. It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity. Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him. You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know." Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence. He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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cvspians · 5 months

Text

the great war | aemond targaryen (part one)

part 2

Summary: The night Aemond Targaryen lost his eye he gained two things. A dragon and a wife.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

Warnings: Show spoilers, cursing, mild angst, the word bastard, terrible description of a traditional Valyrian wedding, a terrible attempt to write a prediction, suggestive language, not really much dialogue until the end, mentions of blood, death

Word Count: 5.9k words.

Notes: This is my first work on this app, so excuse me for any mistakes! I haven't written an imagine in so long so this might be a bit awkward, sorry. This is part 1 of 2. It got so long that i had to cut it in half omg. Aemond is still himself, he’s just only sweet to the reader. The man’s in love. There is no smut in this, sorry. The ages are really confusing due to the time jumps and I tried finding a reliable source but they all say different things so for the sake of the imagine and my peace of mind, reader is 18 during her wedding and 19 during the dance! Aemond is 21 and then 22 since it says he and Jace have a 4-year age gap!

Comments, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

The night Aemond Targaryen lost his eye he gained two things.

A dragon and a wife.

You were Rhaenyra’s eldest and only daughter, born an hour after Jacaerys.

Although your hair was brown, a trait your brothers also had, you had inherited the violet eyes and the delicate Targaryen beauty that could captivate the attention of any that laid their eyes on you.

You were intelligent but also quiet, the opposite of your loud and playful brothers.

While your twin and younger brother ran around Kings Landing pulling pranks with your eldest uncle and spent their time at the dragon pit, you often chose to spend your time either at the library or stuck by your mother’s skirts.

Because of this, Aemond didn’t really know you.

You were honestly a mystery to him.

Your brothers filled their days terrorizing him and he despised them for it, and anyone would assume that by default, he would despise you too.

But Aemond couldn’t bring himself to hate you, let alone dislike you.

Although the only time you guys crossed each other’s paths was during the rare family dinners and your even rarer visits to the dragon pit when you wanted to see your dragon, you were kind to him. You didn’t really speak, as you were painfully shy, but the sweet smiles you threw at him and the soft ‘hello’s’ you muttered when he was near was all Aemond needed.

One could say that he even developed a small crush on you. He found you pretty and he knew you were different from your brothers. He always looked forward to the next time you would cross paths.

After Joffrey’s birth, your parents decided it was best that you all moved to Dragonstone and sadly that was the last time Aemond saw you. He was saddened by this but didn’t try to show it for fear he would disappoint his mother.

He knew of Alicent’s distaste when it came to his half-sister and her children for obvious reasons.

In the days leading to Laena’s funeral, Aemond found himself growing excited despite the circumstances. He was looking forward to seeing you and perhaps even attempting to talk to you.

But unfortunately, that wouldn’t happen.

The morning you and your family were set to embark on your journey to Driftmark, you woke up with a terrible fever that left you bedridden.

Rhaenyra was distraught with the thought of leaving you and even contemplated skipping the funeral altogether but you had convinced her to go, knowing that even if she did have a valid excuse to miss it, people would whisper about her more than they already did.

You might’ve been young but you weren’t stupid. You knew of the whispers that circulated about your and your brother’s parentage and felt the piercing stares.

You also knew how this was all eating your mother alive, how she would cry herself to sleep at night when she didn’t think anyone could hear her. You couldn’t really bring yourself to hate her for it either, also knowing that your “father's” tastes were for the same gender.

After some reluctance from your mother, she eventually left you with promises to come back as soon as the funeral was over. A teary-eyed Laenor had left you with a kiss on the forehead, promising to bring you back sweets since you would hopefully be better by then. Jacaerys and Lucerys had also bid you goodbye, promising to tell you all about it when they got back.

Aemond had frowned when your family arrived with no sign of you. He had been tempted to corner Jacaerys, or even Lucerys, and ask about you but fortunately, he had overheard his father ask Rhaenyra where you were.

It wasn’t a secret that Viserys had his favorites and he was smitten with his only granddaughter. Rhaenyra had told their father of your sudden sickness and he could see the distraught in his half-sister’s face.

This left him worried, hoping that it wasn’t serious and that you would get better soon.

That night, after finally claiming his own dragon, he lost his left eye at the hands of Lucerys.

“He called us bastards!” Jacaerys spoke, face caked with dirt and dry blood, as he stood near a shaken Rhaenyra. An equally bloody Lucerys stood on her other side, hands clutching hers in fear. The room grew tense at the revelation and an injured Aemond wanted to shout that when he had called them bastards he didn’t mean you.

His lip twitched but he kept his mouth shut as his sewn eye throbbed, and in that moment he was thankful for your absence at Driftmark. He was glad that you weren’t present to witness the fight or his gory injury. You were too kind, too innocent and this would’ve broken you in some way.

He hated your brothers but he didn’t hate you.

Viserys had shouted at him and asked where he had heard such lies. His gaze immediately flickered toward his mother. Alicent was already tense but as his eye met hers, her body grew rigid. Her glossed-over eyes bore into his and for a moment he wondered what his father would do if he told the truth.

But Aemond loved his mother despite her faults and she loved him. So, after a few tense moments of silence, he blamed it on his older brother who was taken aback at his lie. Viserys anger was now directed at Aegon, who was also questioned about the origins of this lie.

“We know Father,” Aegon’s voice wavered. “We all know. Just look at them”

The obvious was finally pointed out in public but Viserys still refused to see it. In his eyes, Rhaenyra’s children were true Targaryens, and Aemond agreed with him to an extent.

Your brothers were the bastards, not you. You might’ve not had the silver hair but you had the same eyes he had and the angel-like features that your brothers lacked. It didn’t matter that you shared a womb with Jacaerys either – in his mind, all the bastard blood had gone to him.

The rest was a blur to Aemond, the pain in his eye was growing to be unbearable even after the milk of the poppy had kicked in. He hadn’t even registered the moment his mother had run at Rhaenyra with a knife, the shouts and Lucerys’ screams were what brought him back.

“You’ve gone too far!” His half-sister shouted at his distraught mother as she held her back by her arm and shoulder. Alicent stared back at her in disbelief, the knife still in the air. “I? What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law” His mother spilled her frustrations as she ignored the shouts from her husband and father to release the blade.

Aemond could only think of you as he witnessed the scene unfolding in front of him. He was once again thankful for your absence, for he knew you would be weeping for your mother in fear, just like his nephew Lucerys was currently doing.

He knew how much you loved Rhaenyra and a part of his brain whispered that you would’ve probably begun to hate him right then and there due to his mother’s actions and that scared him.

Would you begin to hate him and his family when news reached you? No doubt your annoying brothers would tell you all about it as soon as they arrived, probably even lie about the whole thing and blame him for it.

“ENOUGH!” Viserys voice brought him back to the present and he noticed that his mother and half-sister were no longer against one another. His half-sister was clutching her arm and he realized she had been bleeding profusely from it. The knife his mother was holding now lay bloodied on the ground.

The room was staring at the scene in shock, not quite understanding what had just happened. Aemond immediately stood, ignoring the fresh wave of pain that shot through him.

His father was livid, he could see that as his chest rose and fell rapidly, but Viserys managed to calm himself down. “What happened tonight was terrible but it was a mistake!” He gave Alicent a hard look as he said the last word and Aemond could see the fight drain from his mother’s body.

“We’re meant to be a family! I will not have fighting between us!” Viserys continued, arms flailing as he tried to get his point across. “Because of that, I hereby declare that Aemond and [Y/N] are betrothed to each other, this way we can finally unite both sides of this family!”

Aemond froze at this, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He felt like he was dreaming. You were to be married to him!

Gasps filled the room at Viserys’ declaration and Rhaenyra immediately stepped forward, panic written on her face. “Father, you can’t possibly be serious?” his half-sister shook her head, tears clouding her vision. His own mother opened her mouth to protest but Viserys was hearing none of it.

His father shook his head, hand raised up in a way to silence both his wife and daughter. “You all have given me no choice! This is the only way we can finally be a united family. I will not hear any more of this. My word is final!”

And with that, Viserys stormed out of the room leaving a helpless Rhaenyra and a defeated Alicent behind. Aemond on the other hand fought to keep his smile from his face.

He might’ve lost his eye but he had gained both a dragon and your hand in exchange.

For a split second, Aemond thought about thanking Lucerys.

The second time you and Aemond cross paths again is years later at your wedding. You were past your eighteenth name day now and had long flowered into a woman before that. If it weren't for your mother's stalling, you would have married as soon as your first moon blood had passed.

You remember the day you were told you were set to marry Aemond.

Three days after your family had gone to Driftmark, your mother had barged into your room and pulled you into a bone-crushing embrace. You were feeling better now, the fever was long gone but you still felt gross and slightly achy. You were looking forward to the promised snacks that your father had told you he would bring, but instead, you were given terrible news.

A solemn Rhaenyra told you that your father had died, killed by a man he trusted. Although you knew the truth of your parentage, you had wept into her arms, mourning the loss of the man who treated you and your brothers like his own.

It took you an hour to calm down but once you did you finally noticed the bandage on her arm. You had questioned her about it, immediately worried for her safety considering your father had just been killed, but she assured you that she was fine and it was an accident. She then told you about the betrothal your grandfather set upon you.

“Your grandfather…” your mother began to explain but had to stop to swallow the growing lump in her throat. You noticed the tears well up in her eyes once again and your heart rate sped up. “What? Grandfather what?” You asked, bloodshot eyes full of worry. You were gripping her hands tightly now, scared of what she was going to say next.

You already lost a father, you didn’t want to lose your grandfather.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath and squeezed your hands. “Your grandfather announced your engagement to Aemond” she revealed and you felt your world stop once again. The color drained from your face as different thoughts swirled inside your head. You knew you were going to be married off one day but you thought it wouldn’t be until years later.

You had nothing against Aemond, he was surprisingly nice to you considering how much your brothers loved to tease him. You had also never held a conversation with him, save for the brief ‘hello’s’ you managed to squeak out.

You just had hoped you would be able to choose your own match, your mother had promised.

At your silence, Rhaenyra engulfed you in another hug and ran her fingers through your hair in an attempt to bring you comfort. “I’m so sorry. I had no say in this. I promise I’ll find a way to stop it. I’ll talk to him, beg him if I need to. Don’t you worry my darling girl”

You wept twice that night.

One for the loss of your father and the second for the loss of your freedom to choose.

But despite your mother’s efforts and promises, your betrothal was never broken. Rhaenyra feared you would grow to resent her for it but you had assured her you didn’t blame her. Your grandfather was a stubborn man and after what Jace told you about what happened the night of Laena’s funeral and how your mother came to sustain the injury in her arm, you knew Viserys was not going to budge.

You were angry at Alicent for hurting your mother but you couldn’t find yourself angry at Aemond for uttering the words he did to your siblings. He had simply said the word that he had learned from the adults around him – the same adults who had been saying it from the moment you and your twin graced the castle with your dark hair.

But this didn’t mean you weren’t hurt though. Although you weren't present to receive Aemond’s curses, you were now set to marry him, and the thought of him thinking you were a bastard hurt.

Jace had also told you about the fight and you had scolded him, telling him that although you were sad for Baela, an unclaimed dragon was free for anyone to claim. You had paled at the mention of Aemond almost bashing his head with a rock and paled even further when he had revealed that Lucerys had taken one of his eyes in his defense.

“Are you with me sweet girl?” your mother’s soothing voice filled your ears and you came back to your senses.

You were standing in the middle of your mother’s old rooms, dressed in a white dress similar to the one she wore to her own wedding to Laenor. A full-length mirror was a few feet away from you, giving you a full view of the jewels she was decorating your braided hair with. You mustered a small smile and nodded which caused her to sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around your shoulders, pulling your back to her chest. You could see the tears gathering in her eyes and immediately began to attempt to calm her down. “Don’t apologize, Mother, it’s not your fault. It’s okay, I’m alright” you assured her as you brought your hands to grasp the arms holding you.

You could feel her shaking behind you as she tried to bite back her sobs and squeezed her arms tighter.

“I can take you away. There is still time. Gods, I should’ve done that ages ago. Come on” She began to make an effort to pull you away but you shook your head, letting go of her arms and turning to face her causing her to release the hold she had on you.

“Mother, no” you shushed her as you reached to grab her hands, giving them a firm squeeze. “Grandfather loves you but you don’t know what he might do if you disobey his orders” Rhaenyra opened her mouth to protest but you shook your head again, a sad smile on your lips.

“I’m okay. I’ll be okay. They can’t do anything to me as long as I have grandfather’s protection and you do know I’m his favorite” you joked in an attempt to ease her worries and it (somewhat) worked. Rhaenyra sniffed and quickly wiped the tears that escaped her eyes. She brought that same hand to cradle your face, eyes full of pride and sorrow.

“When did you get so big?” she questioned herself and you offered her a bigger smile, snuggling closer to her touch. “I did not want my fate of marrying someone not of my choosing to befall you. I just want you and your brothers to be happy” she confessed and your heart clenched.

You cradled her face this time and she smiled, more tears escaped her eyes. You wiped them away with your thumbs. “I’m sure I’ll grow to be happy in this marriage,” you told her in an attempt to comfort her – but also to comfort yourself.

In the end, your mother hadn’t smuggled you away and you had gone through the wedding.

Much to Alicent’s displeasure, Viserys wanted you and Aemond to have a traditional Valyrian wedding.

Your mother tried her best to keep herself composed throughout the entire ceremony while your brothers – Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey – watched the entire thing with sad eyes. You would not return home with them after this and that pained them, especially your twin. Your stepsisters, Baela and Rhaena, offered you encouraging smiles when your gaze fell on them and that brought you some comfort.

Your aging grandfather on the other hand was ecstatic. He had a huge smile on his face he watched as you walked into the room and couldn't help but tear up. You looked so much like your mother and he found himself wishing Aemma were alive to witness this moment.

Alicent stood next to him, a poker face on her face whilst your uncle Aegon seemed to be drunk as usual but delighted. Helaena had been mumbling something next to him, eyes glazed over as she stared at you make your way to an awaiting Aemond.

Per tradition, your stepfather Daemon was escorting you to your future husband. You had grown close to him and his daughters during the last few years and just like Laenor, Daemon treated you as if you were his own child.

A few feet away, Aemond had found himself speechless. This was the first time he was seeing you after all these years. Although you had arrived a few days ago, your family had found a way to keep you from his eye and that frustrated him.

But as he took you in now, he couldn’t find himself to be annoyed anymore.

You had grown and matured greatly. You were taller, reaching just under his chin, and your hair had gotten lighter. The white dress you wore fit you snuggly, revealing curves that weren’t there the last time he had seen you.

He could see that you were nervous as your body slightly trembled when Daemon finally let go of your arm when you stood in front of him. Aemond could sympathize with you as he himself was also feeling the same but hid it.

He wondered what you were thinking as you stared at him, growing self-conscious as your eyes lingered on the dark eyepatch covering the place his left eye once used to be. The scar was now fully healed and wasn't as gruesome as it once was but he still thought it was unpleasant to look at.

But the smile you gave him a few seconds later as you stood next to him was all the answer he needed. It was still the same smile, full of kindness.

He had worried you hated him for a second and much to everyone’s surprise, as well as your own, he reached out and gently grasped your hand in his.

As you felt his hand grasp yours, you grew confused. You were sure he hated you after what Lucerys did but as he stared at you, a kind smile on his own face, you couldn’t help but think you were worried for nothing.

Your families watched you two with bated breaths, no one had seen Aemond smile in years.

The rest of the ceremony became a blur as you and Aemond cut each other’s lower lips, gathering and smearing each other’s blood on each other’s foreheads with your thumbs. Your palm throbbed as you sliced the fine blade of dragonglass through it before bringing it to hold his awaiting bleeding one.

Before you knew it, the cup was being placed in your free hand and you were made to drink. You grimaced at the metallic taste and forced yourself to swallow before handing it to Aemond.

You had watched your mother’s and Daemon’s own ceremony years ago and always wondered how she kept a straight face as she drank from the cup.

Aemond’s smile remained on his face even after he finished drinking from the cup, handing it back to the Septon. The man said a few more words before you both were told to recite your vows.

“You may now kiss,” the man announced as you and Aemond finished. Your heart rate picked up at this and Aemond squeezed your hand, waiting for you to give him permission. Realing this, you shyly nodded and he leaned in to connect his lips to yours.

The first thing you felt was the sting of your lip due to the cut but it was quickly replaced with a metallic taste of your blood mixing with each other once again. Desire brewed inside Aemond and he wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you flush to his body. This startled you and you gasped into the kiss, giving him the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth and explore.

You felt your body grow hot in response, not only was this all new to you but your families were currently watching.

Aegon’s whistling broke Aemond from his lust-filled state and he finally ended the kiss, his own cheeks red in embarrassment. You offered him a shy smile in response and Aemond swore to himself that he would do anything in his power to ensure it never went away.

The first year of your marriage felt like a dream that was too good to be true.

The month following your wedding you had worried that he would wake up one day and begin hating you for having to marry the daughter of a woman who the court whispered was unfaithful. But Aemond never changed and was nothing but sweet to you.

He always accompanied you on your walks when he was free, often glaring at those who even dared to look at you in the wrong way. He read to you when you had trouble sleeping, helped you practice your high valyrian, went on dragon rides with you, and even commented about how much he loved your hair.

You would always blush and thank him, not quite used to the attention.

Aemond was attractive in your eyes. He was tall and strong, something you noticed during your wedding night and then when you watched him train once. He was also smart, the piles of books he would bring to your shared chambers so he could tell you about them.

You also loved his scar – something you knew he was self-conscious about but you always made sure to tell him it was beautiful. One night, you had finally convinced it to stop wearing it to bed, assuring him that nothing would be able to scare you away from him and Aemond conceded.

The blue sapphire that rested underneath the eyepatch never failed to take your breath away. The first time you saw it, you gasped – not in fear, but in awe.

Aemond had been stiff, scared of rejection but it never came. Instead, you had reached out and softly traced the scar and shyly leaned up to press a kiss beneath his brow. Aemond had practically melted, the tension in his body bleeding out.

After that interaction, the man had become like a lovesick puppy.

Aegon loved to tease him for it every chance he got.

At the news of your pregnancy three moons after your marriage, Aemond grew even more loving if possible. He refused to leave your side unless he truly had to. He was glued to your side and always made sure you had everything you needed and wanted.

Alicent, who was wary of you at first, grew to love you as well after she saw how happy you made her son. You were still careful around her, as well as her father Otto – your mother’s and step-father’s warnings ringing in your head.

You barely interacted with Aegon, Aemond refused to leave you around him. Your husband always claimed that his brother was a "drunk who didn't know better".

Helaena and you grew close though. You missed your stepsisters and the quiet girl brought the same comfort they once did. You also saw how much Aemond cared for her and you hated the way Aegon treated her.

Helaena was an angel in your eyes. She might've come off as a bit odd due to her nonsense rambling and love for bugs but she was harmless!

She had been delighted at the news of your pregnancy, beaming up at you as she talked about how the twins would love them before she abruptly stopped and fell into one of her episodes.

“The third will fall and the second will follow” She had mumbled loud enough for you to catch, eyes looking into yours. Goosebumps rose on your arms but you didn’t question her on it, used to her confusing riddles.

Aemond had told you to ignore it when you first asked him about it, telling you that his sister didn’t mean anything by it.

Your grandfather was happy at the news of your pregnancy but grew terribly ill as the months passed.

Your mother had sent back a raven, telling you how much she loved you and how she would visit as soon as she could. She said your siblings were also happy and although they wished to visit you, they couldn’t for obvious reasons.

Rhaenyra had kept her promise and had arrived a few days before your due date. You were nervous, the thought of dying like your grandmother Aemma scared you and you confessed your fears to Aemond, who kissed them away and promised you would be fine.

You had heard stories and even witnessed your mother give birth to Joffrey but nothing could prepare you for the actual labor.

It was exhausting and extremely painful. You had cried and shouted multiple times that you couldn’t do it. Your mother and Alicent had seemed to set their differences aside for a while and tried to comfort you but it wasn’t until Aemond barged into the room and held your hands that you found the strength to push again.

“Come on ñuho glaeso hūrus, you can do it” he encouraged, wiping the sweat from your brow with his hands. (moon of my life)

After ten grueling hours of labor, you had given birth to a son, whom you named Laenor after your father. Rhaenyra had wept as she kissed your sweaty forehead, overwhelmed with the sight of her baby bringing her own baby into the world.

Baby Laenor had inherited the typical Targaryen features much to Alicent’s relief. He had the striking silver hair that Aemond had, as well as the violet eyes you both shared. Your grandfather, still ill, had gathered the strength to visit you and see the baby for himself.

He had also wept at the sight.

Aemond was immediately taken by his son, his eye never left his face. He thought the baby was the perfect blend of you both.

You both spent the next few moons falling into the role of being new parents. You chose to keep Laenor close, refusing to let him sleep at the nursery like the rest of the children.

You didn’t let him feed off of wet nurses either, wanting to bond with him and keep him safe despite knowing all of the wet nurses were trusted. Aemond was also very hands-on, when the baby woke he would already be up tending to him, telling you to go back to sleep.

You felt like you were on cloud nine and hoped this feeling would never go away.

A few weeks after Laenor's fifth moon, news of your Velaryron grandfather's grave injuries that he sustained at the stepstones reached Kings Landing.

A few days after that, a raven sent by your mother arrived. She had told you that Vaemond was calling Lucerys' claim to Driftmark into question and they would be arriving at the castle in a few weeks to settle it.

You couldn't help but grow worried for multiple reasons.

First, your mother was currently pregnant with what she claimed was going to be your baby sister and you feared the stress would do her and the baby harm.

Secondly, your parentage would once again be loudly questioned through this and you feared that this would finally make Aemond hate you.

You kept these worries to yourself, not wanting to worry your husband. Instead, you focused on taking care of Laenor and spending as much time as you could with Aemond, savoring the moments as if they were your last.

If Aemond noticed your sudden clinginess, he didn't comment on it.

Your family arrived a few weeks later as promised and you were the only person to greet them. Everyone, even your loving husband, seemed to disappear at the announcement of your mother’s arrival, and deep down you knew why.

It hurt you and the negative thoughts you tried so hard to push down came pouring to the surface. But you brushed it off, standing at the castle steps with Laenor bundled in your arms as you watched the carriage pull in.

You noticed the confusion in your family’s faces at the lack of people around but it was quickly replaced by joy as they took you in. Your pregnant mother had been the first to reach you, tears already in her eyes, and pulled you and your son into a hug.

Believe it or not, Rhaenyra rarely cried but she had such a soft spot for her children. No doubt the pregnancy hormones had something to do with it as well.

Jacaerys had gathered Laenor in his arms after your mother pressed a kiss to his forehead. Your twin brother cooed at the sight of his nephew, who was owlishly blinking up at him. Lucerys and Rhaena had gathered you in a hug each and Joffrey was practically buzzing with excitement as he tried to get a glimpse of his nephew.

Your younger brothers, Viserys and Aegon were being carried by their nannies. Your stepfather pressed a kiss on your forehead before smiling at the bundle in Jace’s arms.

“Where is everyone?” Daemon asked after a minute, his tone disapproving as his eyes skimming the almost empty steps save for the guards standing watch. You flushed red in embarrassment and although it wasn’t your fault you still felt bad. Rhaenyra chided Daemon and whispered something to him before she turned her attention back to you and looped her arms in yours.

“Come, we’ve had a long journey,” She called out and began walking toward the now-opened door. The rest of your family followed behind, Laenor was now in Rhaena's arms. “How are you, Mother?” You questioned her, free hand reaching down to caress her bump as you walked the empty halls of the castle.

“A little stressed but fine, darling” She confessed and you couldn’t help but pout. “Grandfather isn’t even dead yet. I don’t understand why Vaemond is acting like this. What did grandma say?” You asked but Rhaenyra gave you a smile in return. “Don’t you worry about it. Now, Daemon and I should go pay our king a visit” She changed the topic and you pouted even more.

You all stopped by the stairs and you let go of your mother’s arm. “I must warn you, Mother. Grandfather’s illness how gotten significantly worse than the last time you saw him” You revealed, eyes falling to Daemon who seemed to frown at this.

With that, Rhaenyra pressed another kiss to your forehead and grabbed Daemon’s arm before making their way up the stairs. You watched as they reached the top before you turned to your siblings, a smile on your lips.

“Who’s hungry?”

The next day you had woken up to kisses being pressed to your collarbones. You had gone to bed a few hours after you had finished catching up with your siblings and settled Laenor into his own crib at the foot of the bed. Aemond had been MIA the entire time so you had fallen asleep alone for the first time since you got married.

“I’m sorry for disappearing on you yesterday,”

Aemond.

His voice was gruff, still laced with remnants of sleep. You hummed in response when he planted a kiss on the side of your neck, slowly blinking as you tried to get used to the light inside the room. “I had many duties to attend to, I couldn’t ignore them” He explained further, finally reaching your face and planting a kiss on the corner of your lips. You offered him a smile as your answer, letting him know that it was okay and you weren’t angry.

You leaned up to kiss him, running your hands through his loose hair and you both sighed into it. You loved kissing him. His lips were always soft on yours. “We should get dressed” You mumbled once you both pulled away and he pouted down at you, causing you to giggle. “Can’t we stay in bed a while longer?” He whined like a child and you huffed out a laugh at this.

Laenor’s babbles filled the room and you quirked a brow at your husband. “There’s your answer dear husband” You smiled cheekily at him and Aemond playfully groaned before rolling off the bed and walking toward his son. “Good morning byka zaldrīzes” Aemond cooed as he scooped up the smiling baby. (little dragon)

Your heart melted at the sight, your smile widening.

God, you loved your little family.

A few hours later, you and Aemond found yourselves standing in the throne hall to listen to Vaemond’s petition after leaving Laenor in the nursery with his cousins under the supervision of your trusted maid. You stood with Aemond’s family due to you being married to him and offered your nervous mother a reassuring smile. You noticed Baela standing with your grandmother and couldn’t help but smile wider as your eyes met.

Your attention was taken by Aemond who reached to grab your hand in his and gave it a squeeze. You looked at him but his eyes trained on his grandfather who had begun the hearing. A few seconds later, Vaemond stepped forward and began to state his case and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. The man was making digs at your mother and her children, making digs at you.

You felt Aemond tense next to you and your heart rate picked up. He didn’t let your hand go though, something that comforted you a bit.

After Vaemond’s petition, your mother stepped forward to give hers. Just as she began to speak, the doors to the throne room opened and the guards announced the arrival of your grandfather, the king.

Everyone watched Viserys with wide eyes. Alicent gasped in front of you at the sight of her weak husband and your mother seemed to be in disbelief.

You were in disbelief yourself, you hadn't seen your grandfather up on his feet for months now.

Viserys made his way to the iron throne slowly, refusing help when he began to ascend the stairs. His crown fell as he neared the throne and you watched as your stepfather left your mother's side and quickly went to help his brother. Daemon picked up his crown and set it back on his balding head before stepping aside and returning to your mother.

Your grandfather finally reached the throne and practically threw himself on it, his chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath. The walk had taken much of his energy. "I must... admit... my confusion" He rasped out, pain written on his face. "I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession"

Your grandfather called his cousin, your grandmother, up to the floor to give insight into your Valyrian grandfather's succession in case he passed. She had confirmed that Lucerys was still set to inherit Driftmark as its Lord. She had also revealed that your mother planned to marry Jace and Luke to Rhaena and Baela, which didn't sit right with Vaemond.

"You break the law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon?" Vaemond spat out in anger, body tense. "No. I will not allow it"

Viserys scoffed, ""Allow it"? Do not forget yourself, Vaemond" The ailing king warned but Vaemond ignored it.

"That! is no true Velaryon and certainly no nephew of mine" The man shouted, finger pointing to an uncomfortable Lucerys who your mother attempted to shield. Anxiety filled you as the tension in the room rose. Dread pooled in your stomach, fearing what was coming next. You hadn't even realized that your grip on Aemond's hand had tightened until your own fingers hurt.

Vaemond's tirade kept on going, words laced with venom slithering out of his mouth. "My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And gods be damned... I will not see it ended on the account of this--" He was red in the face as he stopped himself from uttering the words you had grown accustomed to hearing behind your back.

"Her children..."

You held your breath as you watched the man begin to speak again, your rosy cheeks gone pale.

"ARE BASTARDS!"

You recoiled as he shouted the words, hand releasing Aemond's. You felt as if you had been slapped, eyes wide and heart pounding. Tears gathered in your eyes and you began to feel hot as eyes landed on you. Aemond was quick to wrap his arms around you in an effort to comfort you.

You didn't seem to grasp what was happening until you heard a thump and saw the semi-decapitated head of your grandfather's brother. A choked sob escaped your lips at the sight and Aemond attempted to shield you away as the rest of the crowd gasped and screamed.

Your ears were buzzing, your heart hammering painfully inside your chest. Your surroundings became a blur to you as the panic kicked in. You didn't even realize you were crying until you were back in your room, in Aemond's arms as he attempted to calm you down. He had rushed you out of the throne room as soon as his grandfather was escorted out, ignoring the calls from both his family and yours.

"I'm sorry," You sniffed once you stopped crying. Aemond wiped the tears away, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Why are you apologizing?" He was lost. You hadn't done anything wrong.

Your lip trembled and fresh tears made their way down your reddened cheeks. "B-because you had to marry me. B-because I'm a bas--" He didn't let you finish the words as he moved your body to face him and he planted a kiss on your wet lips.

"Do not repeat those words" Aemond hissed, his grip on you tightening. He was staring at you, expression serious.

"You are not what people claim you to be. You are the granddaughter of Viserys Targaryen, the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. You are my wife, the mother of my child. You might not have the silver hair but you possess everything else that a Targaryen does. You are a true Targaryen"

Aemond hated to see you sad. It broke his heart.

Your heart fluttered at his words and in that moment you wondered how you had become so lucky.

You prayed to your ancestors and the Gods above that nothing would change.

But you should’ve known things were too good to be true.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #prince aemond targaryen #cvspians

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its-actually-minicika · 1 year

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Hi, love your works so much! Can't wait for more updates 🥰🥰 I was wondering maybe you'd like the idea where book!Aemond and Velarion!(Strong?)Reader are in an arranged marriage. But Reader just knows what to say and how to act so that Aemond is wrapped around her finger (kinda thought of Margaery and Joffrey situation, she was such a talented schemer, worthy of winning the Throne 😭). I don't really know about the setting, like if it's before, during or after the Dance... just thought it'd be interesting to see this kind of plot with our beloved Prince 🤴🏼🐉

If you don't like it, just ignore me 🙈

Dragon Sickness (18+)

Pairing: bookcanon!Aemond x Strong!Niece!Reader

Warnings: No usage of (Y/N), Greens win AU, bookcanon Greens, the obvious Targaryen incest, mentions of major character deaths (we're entering spoiler grounds, but not really), blood, gore etc.

Word Count: 3.5K+

Author's Note: I fell in love with this idea the moment I saw it! I ended up altering the plot line for this one-shot a little bit - the reader will definitely grow into the Margaery architype, but today you shall see her as she was when she just learned how to make ends meet with her newfound life at Court.

I don't know if I should turn this into yet another series, but if you guys enjoyed this, let me know

Also, thank you so, so much for your kind words ♡ i'm hugging you to the moon and back!

PART 2 IS OUT NOW ♡♡♡

Who could ever blame you for your indiscreet acts? Alliances change when the world you know suddenly turns upside down.

She remembered how weak she was. How scared she had been.

How her eyes widened into two brown specs of uncertainty, how her mouth fell agape, as she mulled over Alicent’s words.

‘You shall marry Aemond within the next moon turns. For the good of the Realm.’

The Dowager Queen had openly admitted to being against the match – of course, the prospect of her perfect son, married off to a lowly bastard of Rhaenyra's (otherwise said, her last surviving child), didn’t specifically thrill her. Much less her demanding and scornful father.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. And if the Velaryon wanted to keep her head away from a spike, she had no other choice but to comply.

Although… she wasn’t a Velaryon now, was she? Aegon the Usurper made sure of that.

His final gift to her was to strip her of all her titles. She had been openly declared a bastard – before the masses, before the Court.

With a wide smile upon his burnt lips, the “King” had told her she’d be a Targaryen instead. Driftmark wouldn’t matter, her legacy wouldn’t matter. Aemond would inherit the seat with the Usurper’s blessing, as a homage brought to his able fighting and his shown bravery on the bloody battlefield.

Never mind that he’d never partaken in a fight; save for the one that killed her stepfather, Daemon, and sent her poor mother in a downward spiral. Aemond had chosen his adversaries wisely, and managed to go through the whole war without as much of a scratch upon his silver armour.

‘I shan’t marry your son. Not now, not ever.’ Her own voice rang out.

‘You will do exactly as demanded.’

‘I would rather die than bear the treacherous children of that monstrous beast.’

A monstrous beast. That is what Aemond was.

And that is what he shall remain. No matter how many gifts he brought to her. No matter how many hours of their days and days in their weeks and weeks in their months they spent promenading those ghastly gardens.

‘You will if you know your best interests. Your own head may hold no value to you, but a single swing of my son’s sword would be enough to bring forth the ruin of House Blackwood.’

At first, she’d been restless in her attempts to escape the Keep. Her every waking hour was spent shamelessly inside the Sept, where she prayed not for the safety of her brothers’ souls, but for revenge against the mutted Greens.

The slight breeze of the cathedral mended her flesh from the heat of summer. And no one dared to approach or talk to her. The quietness was a welcomed deed.

During the first night of their betrothal, her glossy eyes scanned Aemond’s face. His hands wantonly gripped at his thighs and a slight twitch of his mouth, accompanied by an elongated hum escaped his lips.

There was no other discernable expression. And when he led her to the chambers of her early girlhood, he merely bowed and kissed her hand.

She spent the first night of their betrothal scraping her knuckles so harshly, that they broke and cracked under the stimulation of the cold water.

Her thirst for vengeance ceased after the first two months. Her wedding date was approaching swiftly, and she found herself faced with the abhorrent truth. She had no allies. No more friends at Court. The girl had shut herself in her tiny room, losing her mind with the pain and grief that flooded her at night: the faces of her mother, her brothers, her father. The sound of their screams and their endless pleas for help.

Every night, without a fail, she woke up tormented by nightmares – her throat burning with absolving shrieks of fear, exacerbated breaths of air and flimsy nightdresses, damp throughout by breaks of sweat.

The first night she lashed out onto her bedding was the night she found out Aemond had moved his Quarters next to hers. He yanked the door open and stepped into the light of her candle – looking ravished, completely out of breath and startled. Started not for his own accord and safety, but for the state that his future wife had been in.

‘Shit, it’s alright, I’m here–’

The echo of his mellow voice deterred her to let out a blood-curdling scream, that would have rivalled even the one of the late Queen Rhaenyra, after Aegon the Usurper ceased her at Dragonstone, and reeled his dragon to eat her whole.

‘Get the fuck away from me! Get the fuck out of my room!’

Her sobs pierced into the man’s heart, but his hurt expression was masked quickly with one most bitter and taciturn. He clenched his fists ruefully by his side, and spat out an apology in a low and dangerous tone.

‘As you wish.’

And how dearly he loved those words:

‘As you wish.’

'As you desire.’

Even though nothing had been, or ever will be, as she achingly wished them to.

“You could at least attempt to look happy.” His chastising tone rained upon her, as his Lady remained hammered in her seat. Maids flocked to her like lost chickens to their cock, arranging her hair and picking out dresses fit for their engagement parade.

Her face contorted into the mirror, and a faint sigh beleft her lips. Carefully she turned around, reflecting his stance with a subtle arch to her shapely brow.

“It’s bad luck to see your bride before the wedding ceremony.”

“An old wives' tale. And one that applies only on the day itself.”

“Perhaps we should encourage tradition more. Make it so we don’t cross paths at all til then.”

Just as fast as it came, the feral look dissolved over his tired face. Aemond heaved out a heavy exhale and merely settled to growl at her maids.

“Leave us. Now.”

A discontented look painted over her fair features. His niece opened her mouth in protest, to try and stop the fleeing girls from truly making their escape.

“I must remind my Prince that the engagement assembly will be held in less than an hour. I believe I should like them to stay.”

The gathered women exchanged lost and protruding glances, until the former King Regent spoke again.

“They will leave us at once.”

“They’ll do no such a thing. They must make haste to get me ready. We wouldn’t want to upset your mother.”

“I’m more than capable of lacing up a loose bodice.”

The tight expression on her face deserted her features with the leave of his smug retort. She swallowed thickly in enraged abandon, and silently beseeched her ladies not to leave her all alone.

Still ravishing her with his bold stare, Aemond stepped another foot into the cosy confinements of her tidy prison. “If I’m to turn around now and find any of you standing before me, I’ll arrange that you’re all flogged and defiled beyond the utter of salvation.”

Brisk footsteps swallowed the room, echoing wildly through the narrow dark hallways. The former Velaryon shook her head in disarray, and graced her soon-to-be-husband with a tight smile and a nod.

“Congratulations.” She uttered humorously, “I should enjoy looking like a fool tonight much more than being proper by your side.”

As if drowned below a trace, Aemond took another step in the direction of the frowning Princess. His face remained impenetrable, but as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice ran meek, unsure and hoarse.

“Turn around.” He commanded her gently, whilst grabbing a deep green garment from the cluttery made on her bed. Despite her lack of desire to abide by his request, the woman turned her back to him and muttered slowly, though much softer than intended.

“I don’t like that one. It’ll make the skirts look out of place.”

“Which one do you want, then?” His whisper had made her draw in a sharp gasp; the warmth of his breath fell soothingly over the nape of her neck, caressing her delicate skin in a way she hadn’t known was possible.

“The red one with black lacings.”

His hand came to spin her back around, and their noses nearly touched together. A smile tugged at the ends of his upturned lips, but the look inside his eye remained frigid and unforgiving.

“Your petticoat won’t be those colours.”

A conceited scowl graced her face. She reached her hand behind him and skillfully snatched one of a different design. “Fine. I want to wear this one, then.”

The obnoxious blue and silver danced across her paling skin. And if Aemond weren’t so dazed by their proximity and lack of air, he might have laughed at her feeble attempts of vexing him.

“Those are Velaryon hues.”

“Perfect. I shall honour my house well.”

“You are not a Velaryon to grace them with such a feat.”

“No, you are absolutely right. Your brother did name me a Targaryen.”

Their faces were so close to each other, that their moving lips were almost touching.

“Yet I can’t wear black and red either.” A prompted look disarmed the Prince, “It is all very confusing.”

His lone orb descended to her puffing bosom, but Aemond soon directed himself upon a more elusive image. His fingers twitched with the need to grab a hold of her – to pull away those last pieces of cloth that shielded her away from view.

“You know full well why I can’t allow that.” He hummed in unmoving disapproval, “As much as I enjoy your voice and the raptures of your closeness, I must say this conversation bores me.”

“I should be able to wear what I want.” Came her prompt and swift reply, “But of course, Your Grace, forgive me. ‘Tis not for men to pounder on laces and brims.” Her palms took to rest upon his bulging chest, and the girl nearly removed them at once, as the thrumming of his heart enterlaced with her slim fingers. Still, she furrowed her brows in a most perplexed of mockeries, and insatiably drove on, “Indeed resilient men such as yourself occupy their time much better.”

The callouses of his hands fell heavily upon her cheeks.

“Fucking their ways through brothels, getting their pricks wet, and fantasising about wars.”

The harshness of his next tug nearly broke her brave facade – her eyes widened in mistrust, and a slight recoil braced over her straightened back. Her small fingers clasped over his shaking wrist, which held onto her face with a gentleness untoward; one completely mismatching with the predatory glimmer in his eye.

The man he was, and the man he was trying to be would surely never mend to one.

A Kinslayer. A monster. A divergent freak.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

His thumb played absent-mindedly at her lower lip, and the young Princess tried her damnest not to bite him. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?”

“You are as imprudent as you are beautiful. A family trait, I assume.”

“You have my gratitude for the flattering commentary. I’m very proud of my heritage.”

His lilac orb bore into her, and the man let out a reserved laugh, “Your bastard brothers were ample proud. Look where that brought them.” The rough end of his hand gripped her own painfully, before she could make for a swing at his handsome face. “Lost in the seas, rotting at the bottom of an ocean, nestling inside Sunfyre’s belly.”

While her hands were clasped together, her mouth wasn’t sown shut. With a single and effective move, she spat harshly in his face, eliciting a groan from her broader perpetrator.

Though his nostrils flared up in disdain, the man graced her with a calculated smirk. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?” He mocked her with feigned interest.

“Fuck you,” She hissed out slowly, “Don’t you dare talk of my family – my brothers were ten times the man you are.”

“Oh, but I have every right to talk about your family. Given that I will be all yours shortly.” Once more he forced her to turn around, and kneeled over to her spasming form, to begin dressing her up; in nought else, of course, but the mundane silks of his choosing.

"Doesn't the prospect thrill you? To become my lady-wife, to finally bear a true Targaryen inside your royal womb?"

So hopeless and defeated she felt, that the youth jerked herself relentlessly, while repeating him the same plethora of words. “You cannot force me to be your whore. You cannot force me to wear this. I will not bear your Hightower green.”

Aemond could feel his patience running thin – and when her foot came into contact with his setting knee, the man let out a ferocious growl, and promptly trapped the girl in his arms, with the aid of a nearby wall.

“So you want to be difficult? You don’t want to wear this? Hmm? Well, who am I not to abide my Lady’s burning wishes?”

The sharpness of his dagger came into quick contact with the milky skin of her thighs. And she might have almost screamed, if Aemond didn’t immediately pull himself away. His hard chest grazed hers for but a moment, as the Prince cast his attention to her moving shadow.

“If you wish not to attend our engagement parade wearing the clothes I’ve chosen for you,” He muttered against her face, a scorned look adorning his own, “Then you won’t be wearing anything at all.”

She huffed out a dispensing pant and pursed her lips into a tight line.

She remained rigid and poised, until a spark of amusement swirled into her eyes.

The first crack was that of a lax smile. The next, a tremor to her lips. The calm before the storm approached, until all rattled down with a mirthed laugh cascading from her reddened lips.

“Do you mean to frighten me with this promise?” She asked through the arch of an uncertain brow, “As if every man in this cursed Keep won’t get to watch me whore myself out to you anyway, when our wedding night will come?”

His face suddenly hardened at the notion of their reality – as if he didn’t give much thought to the bedding ceremony. To his Lady being watched by a thousand other eyes but his.

Aemond suddenly darkened, and his fist came into contact with a near spot on the wall, so awfully close to her frightened, paling face.

She watched with wide eyes how his stare contorted from one of realisation to one of fury. He stiffly peeled his body away from hers, and strained himself to leave her be. The jealous and possessive knots that churned painfully inside his stomach burned his skin upon the surface, and constricted the air he brashly took in.

He nodded to her in a spry and calloused manner, and brought his hand out to touch her cheek. His knuckles had begun to bleed, busted by the force of impact that his fist had faced for him. Behind his eye danced a look of seldom shame – he gnawed harshly at his bottom lip, and pondered, for a while, on apologising to his niece; for his lack of princely conduct, for his show of impropriety – for his inability to keep himself at bay.

Still his thoughts failed to merge to words, and so the man ran his eye one final time over her defensive pose, and merely left her standing there.

As if turned into a statue, the girl barely registered the lethargic closing of the door, the hurried and heavy footsteps that travelled further and further away from her quaint and cluttered space, and the animated curse that slipped past her uncle's throat.

Did he just dare to leave her there, with her petticoat half up her legs, in nought else but a flimsy nightdress?

At first she thought that his avoidance was a blessing in disguise.

For after clashing wits with Aemond, and after his swift hurried departure, the man had barely graced her with another word.

His hand held onto hers for the whole duration of the procession. He wordlessly forced her to dance two dances, and led her to her Quarters as soon as she mentioned that she was tired.

But his palms didn’t linger on the shape of her narrow waist – his lips barely grazed her knuckles, and Aemond turned with lest a word to add after their fake sympathies were exchanged.

Had he gotten bored of her? Realised what a terrible match they made, and begged his mother on his hands and knees to break off their ill engagement?

For the first time in a while, a new notion of fear engulfed her.

The Greens couldn’t kill her. Of that, she was almost certain. It wouldn't be a wise move, and it would anger the North beyond the power of salvation. The war had had its say on every army that fought into it, yet the Crownlands were especially weak.

But if Aemond were to sever their solidary alliance, then her future would be most uncertain.

Otto Hightower would make her join with an old and withered Lord, no doubt – one with more than enough sons to further on his pesky line. One who couldn’t even get it up to her, who’d never procreate and mend their blood, who’d make sure Rhaenyra’s line would end with her.

Or perhaps she’d be sent to join the Faith – become a Septa or a Silent Sister, among the infamous Maris Baratheons of the Realm. Yet another girl who wouldn’t keep her tongue when asked.

And history might remember them as ‘the women who couldn’t be tamed’, but their lives would be thrown to ruin. Their existence would remain a sham.

No, she had whispered to herself, as she writhed into the soft bedding. If she still thirsted for revenge, she would have to marry Aemond. Keep him interested and relaxed – yearning for her voice and company.

… And if she had to whore herself to him to do it, she would obediently assume her role.

“I beg your pardon?” Aegon asked through another gulp of bitter wine, “Gods be good – I believe that now I’ve heard it all.”

Aemond paced about his brother’s room, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his face set into a deep grimace. He hummed in admission to his brother’s words, and glanced his way with the instance of a hooded eye.

“There is to be no bedding ceremony.” He repeated himself with ease, “I frightened her enough already. The girl will be plenty uncomfortable without the aid of chafing eyes.”

His brother smiled and raised his brows in nothing else but blinding wonder. A small shake of his head indicated his perplexion, and a sharp inhale his drawn decision.

“Mother insisted upon it. You know that well.” The man steadied himself in his chair as he spoke, whilst letting out a small grunt at the contact that the wood made upon his burnt remnants of skin. “I don’t see any reason to annul it. Especially now, an eve before.”

Another sip of the stinging liquor interrupted his smooth and ready trail of thought. The Targaryen brushed off Aemond’s concerns, and gleefully bided his teasing.

“It’ll do the two of you good – you’ll get to see she’s as pure as a bastard girl can be; and she’ll have no deniability that any of her future heirs are yours.” He pointed his weary digit in the direction of his stiffened form and swallowed down a hefty laugh. “Not to mention that Lord Redwyne and Tarly already placed bets on the state of her maidenhead. Would be a shame to disappoint them both, don't you think?"

“What mother thinks is of no consequence. And the amusement of the Realm matters not to me. There will be no bedding ceremony.”

“Nonsense, Aemond. It is our duty to upkeep the Realm – and to entertain its inhabitants if need be.”

When his reckless teasing was met with glacial silence, Aegon sighed as he briskly leaned forward. He watched his sibling with an indiscernible expression across his scorched veneer, and yawned greatly at his indisposed behaviour.

“Of course, we’re here to talk it out. But after so much time spent in your company, I fail to see the necessity for such a thing.” A sly smirk danced across his puffy lips, “Are you concerned that she won’t bleed? Or that you’ll be too cunt-struck by her to last enough to make a statement?”

Aemond’s fists descended upon the polished wood of Aegon’d desk. He thrashed his brother with a defiant glare, and hissed through his gritted teeth, and tight-set jaw.

“There will be no bedding ceremony for my niece and I. Tell that to every Lord that wishes to glance upon my wife – if they do so much as to cast their hands on her, they’ll be fucking their own wives with a wooden cock.”

Amusement laced with grave concern – the finality of Aemond's words ought to have vexed him, irk the King in his sibling's weighty insolence. Instead Aegon nodded, pushing back the feeling of dread that settled deep within his bones. His head jerked towards his closed oak door, signalling to his brother that his visit had been overstated. “What sort of brother would I be, to not grant you with this simple whim?”

The younger Targaryen mirrored his stance, and turned abruptly on his heel after a low grunt of gratitude.

His hand reached for the golden handle, but Aegon's words deterred him to a halt.

“But be careful with that one, Aemond. She’s brash and wholly unpredictable. Make sure the blood that stains your sheets come morning isn’t somehow your very own.”

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catsteeth · 2 months

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The Caged Bird and The Leashed Dog

+:✿ Chapter - 1 ✿:+ New Pretty Cage

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Summary: You are the daughter of Jon Arryn, you and your father travel to King's Landing with the intention of arranging a marriage for you. You catch a glimpse of The Hound during your first night in Kings Landing and it creates a mutual fascination even if he won't admit it.

CW: slow burn, angst, emotional unavailability, emotional vulnerability, The Hound being abrasive, mention of animal death, alcohol consumption, mention of infant death, mention of parent(s) death, loras being very lgbtq , mention of arranged marriage.

Leaving the Eyrie at first was exciting. You hated to admit it, you screamed at your father for even suggesting it, you cried like a child, but it was. The Eyrie was hardly a home, It was cold, isolated, and a constant reminder of what you’d lost. Kings Landing was warm, crowded, and offered a future outside of living in the past.

Your father, Jon Arryn, was more than optimistic that you would find a suitor worthy of your name. Your aunt and now step mother, Lysa Arryn was elated at the opportunity of ridding her and Robin’s lives of you.

After the death of your mother, Aemma of house Tully, your father married her sister, your aunt. You could have stomached it, you could have even forgiven it, if it weren’t for the fact your mother died during her labors of childbirth.

As you and your father rode in the carriage, your mind couldn’t help but think of it. You’d spent your mothers entire pregnancy hoping she’d bear a son. You even prayed, prayed to the seven Gods whom you didn’t even believe in. You had hoped if the child was a boy, you wouldn’t have to be wed off to the best house name possible.

What's worse, not only did the labors kill your mother, but it also killed your brother. You’d prayed for a brother and the Gods gave you a brother. But they took him away and your mother with him.

You had spent days sulking, wallowing in grief. Unbeknownst to you, all the while your father was arranging his own marriage with Lysa. A son followed behind soon, Robin, the brat. You hated him, even if you were the same blood.

“We approach,” your father said under his breath. It was enough to bring you back to reality.

“How long will I be here?” You asked, knowing the answer. Your father shot you a look with a furrowed brow, as if to say, “You already know.” You nodded as your concerned gaze turned to a glare as you looked out the carriage into the city. You lost your sweetness after your mother died, you were in no rush to get it back.

“Who am I to wed?” You asked flatly, your stoic expression and eyes filled with venom shot outside of the carriage and away from your father.

He sighed and looked upon you softly. “The Baratheon boys are eligible I suppose,” before he could finish you began. “Blondes, I have a distaste for blonde men.” You say as you rest your chin on your fist, still staring outside of the carriage. Your father let out a sigh about to lecture you on the importance of uniting families and the unimportance of such trivial things like personal happiness. But you cut him off, you look at him with eyes filled with venom, “I know you’ve a plan. You don’t go into anything blind.” he let out a small huff of a laugh as you arrived at the impressive castle. Your eyes did move from your fathers however. “You are just like your mother. Filled with angry eyes and hard questions.” Your eyes narrowed a bit, as the door to the carriage opened.

“Welcome Lord Arryn, welcome Lady (Y/N)”

Later that evening, you met the Lannisters and Baratheons over dinner.

You took note of the “Baratheon boys” your father mentioned. Sons of the King. From all those story books you'd read as a girl you would have thought that Princes’s would be handsome, kind, gentle, and brave. However you weren’t a naive child anymore. So the scrawny and boyish looking Joffrey didn’t surprise you, but did disappoint you. And Tommen was boyish too however Tommen was just that, a boy, a child. You found yourself praying again, praying you wouldn’t be subjected to an arranged marriage between either of them.

The dinner was mostly spent with your father and Robbert yammering, and occasionally people needing to remind you that you were being spoken to.

It was strange, on one hand you were excited to be out of the isolation of the Eyrie, on the other hand you couldn’t care less about the people around you. That was until the royal family's guard stepped into the room. The man was giant, standing at least 6 '6, his shoulders were so broad he had to step into a room at an angle. You felt your eyes linger on the figure just a second too long. Reverting it back to your hands in your lap.

You felt her cheeks blush, you felt yourself get embarrassed by this. But the thing is you’ve never seen a man like that. You never saw a man that big, a man that broad, ever. The Eyrie was secluded and maybe men from the vale were just shorter. Maybe this was a southern thing. Before you could roll the thought around your brain for long, the hulking figure walked to the opposite side of the room, it was only then when you noticed his face lit by the candle lights.You saw the left side of his face first. His face was masculine, there was nothing about his appearance that was feminine. As you analyzed his face, he turned it towards you which is when you saw the opposite of his face. It was horribly scarred, all the hair on his face was burnt off and ribboned in scarred tissue.

It was beautiful. You’d never seen anything like it.

You didn’t break your gaze as it was intertwined with the giant in the room. His deep brown eyes seemed somewhat confused with something about you. You felt the blush returning to your cheeks and nose as you studied him. You only broke your improper gaze once you felt the dread you feel everytime your fathers gaze comes towards you. You were able to look away before he noticed. He grabbed ahold of your hand and shot you a half hearted smile hoping your sour mood would magically improve with this minimal affection. However the daggers in your eyes did not surrender.

You spent the following days walking around the castle, hoping for another glimpse at the man everyone feared so terribly. You asked your father about him, “He’s the royal family's dog, both the Cleganes are. They are not the kind of people I wish for you to be around.” You rolled your eyes, but the information you got from anyone else was no better. His monstrous and vile actions. His temper is so fierce he’d kill anyone without a second thought. But when you saw his eyes, those deep brown eyes, they weren’t mean or angry they were sad. They were scared.

Days in this shit city were long, and often just as boring as the days in the Eyrie. Only instead of a shivering cold there was a sticky warmth. Instead of Lysa and Robin there was Cersei and Joffrey. At least Robin didn’t kill little creatures and beat girls for fun.

There were some advantages to living here however. There were more books, more food, more drinks, more dresses, more music. Living so high in the mountain such luxuries were sparse. Luxuries like friends, of which you felt you gained a few. The Tyrells for example were the only people you felt you could be truly honest with. Specifically Loras, there was a sense of vulnerability you two shared with each other. Both of you are unhappy with the prospect of marriage, arranged specifically. You remember the time he confessed to you that he was in love with a man. You walked through the garden together, those times became special. The only times when you and he could speak plainly. You always thought of how lovely it would be to have a friend, someone to trust solely. You always thought it would be a woman but you couldn’t complain.

You held onto his hands as he confessed. He said he wished he could change, to not be what he was.

“Never,” You held onto his hands tighter “Never wish for such things. Change even a single thing of you and you aren’t you. And you are my friend, my dearest friend.” You whispered, he embraced you tightly. You however had a slight growing distaste for Renly, a man who brought such tears to your friend.

To anyone secretly observing, it was courting. To you and he, it was friendship. In its purest way.

Maybe your father was true to his promise, he’d find you a man whom you’d love, a man who was brave and gentle. Only this love was different. As he was the only person you could trust.

The two of you thought of a plan for you and the wedding of one another. It was a good plan, the two of you would be bound by love and respect of which you both shared for the other. And the two of you would be free to find romantic, and sexual love freely. Loras teased you’d be able to fuck all the KingsGaurd if The Hound did not please you. It made you giggle but blush in embarrassment like a little girl.

Honestly you and he would have had the most healthy relationship of all the realm, and the only difference would be the two of you never consummated. But who would need to know?

You almost went through with it after the death of your father. If it weren’t for the fact Cersei forced her company upon you so much, you could have ran to the nearest septon and made your marriage official. But Cersei never left you alone, you were either with her, or one of her ladies. And, and you hated to admit it, you’d miss those butterflies in your belly anytime you caught The Hounds gaze. It makes your cheek red and your belly burn. And you loved it, it might have been the only reason you could have lived during those days. You spent anytime you got alone with Loras talking about The Hound, a topic he grew bored of quickly. So you also spoke of your marriage.

However these plans changed at the arrival of your cousin Sansa. Upon her arrival you saw a girl who would never handle the city she was stepping into with such naive big eyes and fairy tale fantasies of her future. You agreed with Olenna that Loras should attempt to court Sansa prior to her wedding with Joffrey, one last attempt at her freedom. You began to care less and less of your own.

Selfless yes, but stupid.

During the tournament you sat beside Sansa, and her father Nedd Stark who had such an affinity to your father apparently it was transferred to you now that he was dead and gone. She begged her father to stop the tournament. You wanted to roll your eyes at it, but you also wished someone would stop it as well. The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, scared you. He was different from his brother. The Hound was almost as big but he had a stoic and sad nature to him, even though everyone told you to beware. The brother you feared was Gregor, he was unstable, rabid, and frightened you to no end. You’d hoped your plan of him using your mare, who was in heat, would work.

It was a trick, but a good one, if it worked. And it did, it upsets and confuses Gregor's mount. Gregor was thrown off his horse. You felt a wave of relief as Sansa stood and cheered. What you didn’t account for was Gregor's reaction. Gregor, absolutely furious, decapitated his own horse. You, still seated, grabbed ahold of Sansa’s arm as Gregor made his way to Loras. You sat and watched, you hoped someone, anyone would intervene. Renly, Nedd, the King, anyone.

Just as you were sure that was the end, “Leave him be!” The giant man behind you roared. The Hound swung his sword blocking a fatal blow to Loras. You sat there, your eyes not wide but narrowed and brows furrowed. You studied the battle between these two brothers. You wondered why, why would this man risk his own life just to save one of Loras? If he was the merciless monster that everyone had claimed, why do this? As you watched these men fight you noticed, the noble men all fought as they were trained, this man fought as he knew would kill. He fought with experience.

You couldn’t help but find it exciting.

As The King called off this fight, The Hound dodged a fatal blow he simultaneously bowed to the King. This made your lips part slightly as you struggled to conceal a smile.

As Loras named The Hound champion everyone stood and clapped, but not you.

You sat and stared at the man, your cheeks with a renewed blush on them. You smiled softly at him, his gaze soon met your own. Once met, it was hard to break.

You managed to weasel your way out of the sight of the Starks and Lannisters to check on Loras. As you made your way to the stables you didn’t find Loras but The Hound. You felt like you walked into a brick wall as you saw the Giant drinking from a wine skin sitting against the stable that held your own horse. He didn’t look at you as he said “Your pretty boy isn’t here, girl.” as he took another long swig of the wineskin in his fist.

“I’m sure I don’t know who you refer to.” You lie as you slowly walk over to your horse.

“Fuck you don’t.” He hissed “Dirty trick you and that boy pulled.”

“No honor in tricks.” You say feeding your horse some feed from your palm.

“Honor,” He scuffs “only cunts believe in that shit.” your brows raised, you’d never heard a man curse so much. They rarely did in the company of a Lady.

“There was honor in what you did, It was quite brave, Ser.”

“I'm not a ser, I already told your pretty boy that.”

“Loras is not my ‘pretty boy’” you said in a mocking tone making the hound crack a small smirk.

“Fuck off,” He scuffed, “Round that boy you’re as in heat as that bitch mare in that stable.”

“Is that why you came here? You sit in front of my mare's stable because you wanted to accuse me of having relations with a friend of mine?” You eyes shift from your mare to glare at him with disgust. His eyes locked with yours. He hardly needed to look up at you to see your eyes.

“I don’t like the way you look at me.” He said flatly

“I don’t like the way you talk to me.” Your eyes went back to your mare. “Don’t talk to me like that and I won’t look at you like that.”

“Don’t matter how you look at me, just that you do.” He said as he took another swig.

You looked down contemplating what that could have meant as you looked over to him.

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ tell ya not to do that?” He growled however your gaze did not falter.

“You did not, you said you don’t like it.” You asserted mockingly, not at all scared of this man beside you, even though you maybe should be.

He stood, showing just how small you were in comparison to him. As he loomed over you, his eyes raked over every part of you, avoiding your eyes.

“It will serve you well to listen to a man. Save yourself some pain. Some men, like to hit stubborn girls like you. Men who like to beat them.” He said in a somewhat more gentle tone than before.

Your eyes met him once more, as you looked up at him, you realized he’d never been so close to you.

“And what of you? Are you one of those men?” You asked teasing him, testing his patience

“Maybe,” he rasped “You don’t know the things I’ve done,”

You turned your body towards him to face him completely.

“You should be scared of me, of any man in this shit city.”

“I should be, but I’m not. I tried to be, but I can’t make myself feel frightened by you.” You said fidgeting with your necklace.

“I’m a killer,” He wrapped his fingers around your throat, but his grasp was hardly there at all, almost like he was hovering his hand there. “I could crush your pretty throat.”

“Do it.” You said quickly, His brows furrowed, “You think I want to live here? Do it.” you held onto his wrist, needing both hands to grasp his thick wrist fully. “No, you won’t hurt me.” You say softly.

His hand runs down your throat and lays flat engulfing your chest in his palm as his fingers laid on your collar bone. He felt your heartbeat for a moment, savoring it. “No, no little bird, I won't hurt you.” He conceded painfully, the name he called you made your cheeks blush. With that he turned away from you and stomped out of the stables.

You felt yourself release a breathe, fuck, you thought to yourself.

Few questions remained in your mind, ‘Why was he so gentle?’ and ‘Why did he make you feel this way?’

NOTE: Hi, this is my first time writing any fanfiction- believe me it will get better. We will be fuckin I promise we will be laying it down girls!! This one is mainly just world building. Let me know if there's anything you’d like to see going forward!

Xoxo

Bambi <3

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daemonsdivorcerock · 1 year

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THE HEIR WHO NEVER WAS || d.Targaryen

IN WHICH: a decade after the two rogues of house targaryen run away, they live a content life in pentos until they are invited to laena velaryon’s funeral on driftmark and are forced to reunite with their dysfunctional family.

REQUESTED: yes/no

PAIRING: daemon targaryen x fem!reader

AUTHOR’S NOTES: sequel to “taming of the shrew”. i advise that you read that first. also reader is described as having silver hair. meraxes, the dragon of the first rhaenys targaryen, is alive for selfish reasons/j. sorry if this is shit.

WARNINGS: incest (bucket loads), westerosi shenanigans, mentions of death, childbirth, children, daemon being daemon, otto hightower, maiming/bodily injury, angst, fighting, dysfunctional family, targaryen shit etc

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

“THAT’S IT, PRINCESS, ONE MORE PUSH!” the young Pentosi midwife joyfully encourage, crouching at the end of a double bed, the white sheets tarnished with the crimson blood of the Heir Who Never Was.

(Name) panted, chest heaving. Sweat clung to her brow, eyebrows knitted, eyes closed and nose scrunched as her features contorted with pain. Her hands were occupied. One gripping Daemon’s alarmingly pale one in a vice-grip and the other holding her swollen baby bump.

“I AM PUSHING YOU CHILD-LOOKING CUNT!” (Name) shrieked hysterically. Daemon covered his mouth in a failed attempt to conceal his snicker, “DAEMON, SHUT THE FUCK UP! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOU ARE NOT BEDDING ME EVER AGAIN, YOU STROPPY SMALL-COCKED GIT!”

The room was soon filled with the loud set of shrieks that the whole castle could here. (Name) began to son happily as Daemon kissed her sweaty brow. “A boy, my Princess,” the midwife happily said, holding the naked, squirming, blood-stained babe in her arms.

“It is all over now, my shrew,” Daemon softy whispered, kissing her temple lovingly, “The babe is safe. He is healthy. He is kicking like a goat. Our son,”.

Minutes later, the Rogue Prince and the Shrew of King’s Landing sat on the bed, doting on their new son. The sound of subtle whispers, odd for their daughters, came from the corridor. The door softly opened, revealing their brood of silver-haired daughters in tow with a servant, Elaine.

“Come here, girls,” (Name) beckoned, smiling happily at her daughters, “Come and meet your younger brother,”.

Their eldest, Daenerys, was mature for an almost eleven-year-old and led her younger sisters. After an encounter in a brothel in the weeks leading up to Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor Velaryon, (Name) refused the Moon Tea from the Grand Maester and she hadn’t regretted it.

Daenerys was the eldest of now six children. Aemma, Rhaenys, Alyssa and Rhaella followed their eldest sister. “Girls, this is your brother,” Daemon said, holding three-year-old Rhaella on his lap, whilst five-year-old Alyssa climbed onto the bed with the help of nine-year-old Rhaenys.

Seven-year-old Aemma sat closest to (Name), doting on her brother. “This is Baelon,” (Name) told the girls, gesturing to the slumbering babe in her arms, fondling smiling at the sleeping baby boy.

The girls gushed over their new brother, each getting a turn to gently hold the babe. For none of them knew what the future held for them in the days coming.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Laena Velaryon was dead. Set herself aflame after failing to give birth. The funeral was in to be held on Driftmark, as she had wanted. She’d left behind her husband, Ser Harwin Strong, and their twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena.

The funeral was teemed with tension and was a sombre occasion as Laena’s stone coffin was lowered into the sea. Laena’s mother Rhaenys looked devastated. Ten years it’d been since (Name) had seen her family. And much had occurred in ten years.

Alicent had bore her father two more sons, Aemond and Daeron. Rhaenyra had bore three sons, Jacaerys, Lucerys and the infant Joffrey, who were in no method possible Laenor’s biological children and had an, as Daemon put it, “entirely coincidental and unmarked resemblance to the Commander of the City Watch”.

After the initial funeral procedures, (Name) had noticed how the girls had made Baela and Rhaena smile a little and how her daughter Rhaenys had taken a shining to Aemond. Daenerys and Aemma were in deep conversation with Helaena. The interactions made her smile.

The girls had yet to meet their cousins, Jace, Luke and Joffrey. Or their aunt, Rhaenyra. Rhaella clung onto (Name)’s skirts, hiding behind the thick, black velvet of the dress’ material.

Baelon was a heavy sleeper, currently residing in his mother’s arms, his chest rising and falling with each breath he took and gave. She’d reunited with her cousins, Rhaenys and Corlys Velaryon, offering her sympathies for what happened to Laena.

As children and teenagers, (Name) had shared a sweet friendship with Laena, comforting her after the events at the Heir’s Tournament all those years before. They’d danced at the celebrations for Laenor and Rhaenyra’s wedding ceremony.

Her father looked terrible. His hair had thinned and he looked frankly horrible. Yet, he somehow gave his eldest daughter a smile. “(Name),” Viserys spoke. His voice sounded heavy as if it pained him to utter the word, “It is…good to you, my daughter,”.

(Name) gave him a half-curtsey, careful not to wake Baelon. “As it is equally good to see you, father,” she spoke, half-smiling, “Ten years. It certainly has been a long time,”.

Daenerys, Rhaenys, Aemma, Alyssa and Rhaella trailed behind their rogue of a father. “Brother,” Daemon greeted, “Time hasn’t been too kind on you,”.

(Name) thought he’d be upset but Viserys laughed slightly at Daemon’s comment. “These are your granddaughters,” (Name) said, “Daenerys, she is ten. Rhaenys is nine. Aemma is seven. Alyssa is five. Rhaella is three,”.

Viserys fondly smiled at each of his granddaughters. “They have their mother’s beauty,” the King mentioned. (Name) noticed how he’d visibly tensed at hearing Aemma and Alyssa’s names but smiled, “Is this my grandson, who cried a little during the precessions?”.

Daemon smirked. “His name is Baelon,” he casually mentioned, causing the king to visibly tense again, “After Father. He was born but three weeks ago,”.

“That was around the same time as when Joffrey was born,” a voice chimed in. Rhaenyra, with her sons,“Sister. Uncle. It is good to see you both again. And meet my nieces and nephew,”.

(Name) was elder than Rhaenyra by a year. Their relationship soured when Rhaenyra was named the heir to the Iron Throne, despite (Name) being Viserys’ eldest child. “Sister,” she smiled, “Those must be my nephews. Jace, Luke and…Joffrey, he’s inside, is he not? They will be good knights, so…Strong,”.

Viserys’ face blanched. Rhaenyra glared whilst the boys looked confused. “Do not take is as an insult, boys,” (Name) spoke in a manner that bordered on mocking, “It is good to be Strong, is it not, sister?”.

Daemon began to snicker. (Name) handed Baelon to Viserys, who held him in his remaining arm. (Name) sharply elbowed Daemon in the ribs, causing him to spill his cup of wine slightly.

Rhaenyra huffed, walking away to speak to Laenor. Luke followed Rhaenyra suit. Jace lingered. “Aunt,” he asked, catching (Name)’s attention, “May I ask you something?”.

“Of course, dear boy,” (Name) spoke, smiling at the brunette boy, “You may ask me whatever you wish,”

“Mother will not be honest with me about this matter��” Jace spoke, nervously fiddling with his fingers, “Am I a…bastard? Is Ser Harwin my father?”.

(Name)’s eyes widened in horror. Was Rhaenyra truly planning to put a bastard on the Iron Throne? She always knew her father was metaphorically blind, but not this blind. She was blatantly aware of her father’s favouritism to Rhaenyra. But she never knew it was this bad.

“Yes,” she spoke quietly, “I cannot believe your mother is not being honest about this to you. Harwin Strong is your father. Laenor is not your father. Nor is he Luke or Joffrey’s father. I am so sorry, dear boy,”.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Earlier in the day, whilst Daemon was holding Baelon, (Name) found herself skulking around in black velvet after Laena’s casket had been lowered into the ocean.

“Hand turns loom…” the dreamlike voice of her younger sister, Helaena Targaryen, uttered, letting a spider crawl across the skin of her hand, “Spool of Red…Spool of Black…dragons of flesh…weaving dragons of thread,”.

(Name) crouched next to Helaena. “Sister,” Helaena greeted, smiling at her older sister, “May I tell you something?”.

The older woman smiled at her younger sister. “Of course, Hel,” (Name) spoke, “Anything,”.

As an infant, Helaena was restless and cried with her whole being unless she was held by (Name). “I have…strange dreams,” Helaena confessed, “And those dreams…become real as time goes on…do you think that is normal?”.

(Name) placed a hand on Helaena’s shoulder. “My dear Helaena,” she spoke, catching Helaena’s attention from the spider, “It is. You see…many years ago, before the fall of Old Valyria, our ancestor, Daenys, had a dream. She dreamed of the fall of Old Valyria two and ten years before it actually happened,”.

Helaena’s eyes widened, beckoning her sister to continue. “As Targaryens, we are known for our ability to ride dragons. Some Targaryens had the ability to dream of the future. Dragon Dreamers. I am a Dreamer, just like you. My sister, don’t ever let Aegon make you feel inferior without your consent. You are a marvel,”

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

The sun was barely setting when she discovered a horrific sight. Otto Hightower, who’d been reinstated as Hand of the King, was roughing up Aegon, who was half-drunk and slumped against the wall.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Lord Hand?” (Name) spoke, glaring at hole into Otto Hightower’s soul. Her voice had a frightening steeliness to it.

Otto bowed. She truly resented Otto, as a man and as Hand of the King. “Princess,” he greeted, “There is nothing to see here. I suggest you rejoin Prince Daemon inside,”.

She scoffed. “I would rather feed myself to Meraxes than listen to a word you have to say,” (Name) spat, folding her arms, “I know a few dragons who would gladly set you alight, akin to a torch. Caraxes, Meraxes, Vermithor and Silverwing, for instance,”.

Otto visibly tensed. He bowed and walked past her. “Sister,” Aegon drunkenly slurred, as (Name) heaved teenager up from the ground, “-Nice to see you again! I missed you!”.

“I missed you too, Egg,” (Name) smiled to the boy, placing his arm across her shoulders for support and guiding him up the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed, sweet Prince,”.

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

It was the late evening when (Name) had been approached. The events following Laena’s funeral had been drastic. Young Aemond had claimed Vhagar as his mount, causing a fight between him, Jace, Luke, Daenerys, Rhaenys, Aemma, Baela and Rhaena.

It was an honest accident when Daenerys maimed Aemond and caused him to lose and eye. Alicent understood that. What she did not understand was that it was in defence of Jace and Luke’s legitimacy.

It’d blown up into a full-blown fight between Rhaenyra and Alicent, one of which had come at the other with a Valyrian Steel Dagger belonging to Aegon the Conqueror. (Name) had stepped in and gotten cut across the bridge of her nose.

There was a sharp knock at the door, catching both the attentions of the Rogue Prince and the Shrew of King’s Landing. “Enter,” (Name) spoke. The doors opened, revealing the visage of Otto Hightower.

Daemon blanched. “Lord Hand,” he bitterly spoke, “Have you come to darken our door for the ordeal earlier?”.

Otto sent a steely glare Daemon’s way, causing the Rogue Prince to mockingly smirk at him. “I have not, Daemon,” Otto spoke. Alicent stood behind him, guiltily staring at (Name), “I have come to speak to Princess (Name),”.

This caught (Name)’s attention, who was rocking Baelon softly in her arms, their daughters had since retired to the guest chambers with Baela and Rhaena hours prior. “Speak plainly, Lord Hand,” (Name) commanded coolly, briefly making eye contact with Ser Criston Cole, “What brings to you my chambers at this time of night?”.

“I believe we are…aligned,” Otto mused, adjusting the pin on his emerald-coloured lapel, making Daemon scoff, “In our beliefs in regards to the legitimacy of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons and the line of succession,”.

He was putting salt into the all the right wounds. (Name) was still evidently bitter about her younger sister being named heir over her and her plans to put her bastard son on the throne.

“My father is a fool,” (Name) confessed, softly stroking Baelon’s silver-coloured tufts of hair, “Nothing would change that. He is blind to the truth. Rhaenyra is his favourite child and nobody can deny that. He cannot accept the truth that Jace, Luke and Joffrey are bastards,”.

Otto smirked. “What if it did not have to be that way?” Alicent asked. This made (Name) glance at her stepmother, “What if another were to inherit the throne after the King’s passing?”.

“How would you like to be Queen, (Name)?” The Hand of the King quickly asked, making (Name) glance at Daemon, holding Baelon closer to her chest.

#house of the dragon #hotd #asoiaf #fanfic #daemon targeryan #daemon x y/n #reader insert #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon x you #daemon targaryen #matt smith #xreader #targaryens #house targaryen #a song of ice and fire #the shrew of king’s landing

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kingsanddragonsandgods · 7 months

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Even the timeline of Harwin Strong's death was changed to benefit Rhaenyra and team black in the TV show... In book-canon Harwin is alive at the time of LAENOR's death, he's at the funeral, he is there when his biological children maim their uncle. Funny enough, book!Aemond does not use the word 'bastard' he does not call Jacaerys 'Lord Strong', they are fighting and it's not even because Aemond 'stole' Vhagar but because while 'stealing' Vhagar he pushed Joffrey in dragon's dunk, and Jacaerys and Lucerys show up to BEAT him with their training swords, and Jace deliberately, knowing who was there, brought with him his knife, during the fight, three to one, Aemond call them 'Strong', and this is it. Harwin was there when this all come to light, can you imagine this in the show? Harwin by Rhaenyra's side, their bastards around them, and everyone else looking at them, taking note of how much the boys look like their mother's sworn protector...out of all that happens, from the whole ordeal, Viserys only real attitude is to dismiss Harwin from his daughter's service and send him back to Harrenhall...in the books Daemon, Viserys, Corlys and Lary's are all rumored to be the supposed responsible for the fires that kills Lyonel and Harwin, but in the show, somehow, it is Alicent who unwittingly order the arson?? Really?? Daemon would be more believable honestly, more in character...

#aegon ii targaryen #house of the dragon #team green #anti team black #rhaenyra targeryan #harwin strong

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asumofwords · 10 months

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: You know I can't resist... So here is another chapter! Hehe, thanks for the love and kind words as per usual! I wonder what the reader is going to do now heheh <3

Chapter 82: The Cracks

A letter sat in the centre of the table in your chambers. Its soft yellow parchment was rolled neatly, a black, three headed dragon wax seal holding the fine paper together. It had been untouched. Unread. Unopened. The seal still in its whole form.

A letter from your family.

Its soft gentle sloping the telltale sign of your mothers handwriting. Small and gentle, feminine slopes, no harsh ’t’s or sloppy ‘y’s. It was her. And you let a small sigh of relief escape from your lips.

The letter began as most did, a greeting, a comment about Daemon to let you know it was your mother, despite you knowing her writing by heart. But then the letter became more anxious. Asking about your wellbeing, stating that it had been too long since they had last heard from you.

How long had it been?

Was time running away from you? The days bleeding and blinking together.

When was the last time that you had written?

Aemond had held the parchment out for you and you had taken it wordlessly, bitter resentment still curling in your gut. You took your time walking to the chaise and moved to sit by the light and warmth of the fire to read, the hearth crackling softly as Aemond sat at the table, quill in hand. Quiet gentle scratches of ink rose in the air as he wrote, having been writing all day after you had spent yours in the Gardens.

‘It has been too long, we fear you have fallen ill. Are you well? Must we come visit to see for ourselves? Alicent has corresponded to let us know that you are well, but we wish to hear from your own word. Have you lost yourself amongst the library? Or have you run out of starfruit and are desperately in need of more?’

Alicent?

Your mother had written to Alicent?

You smiled at Rhaenyra's script, bringing the parchment to your nose and inhaling deeply. It smelt of her. Her subtle oils that she rubbed into her skin, the soap she used to wash her hair, and the ever so faint smell of smoke.

‘Jacaerys and Baela were wed in tradition here at Dragonstone.’

A stone sank in your stomach.

‘It was a beautiful day, no winds, nor rains, nor a cloud in sight. Baela was a vision, a beauty of Valyrian blood, and Jacaerys as handsome as ever. His hair has grown longer, it curls above his shoulders now. He misses you terribly. We all do. Your absence was noted at the union by all present.’

A tear fell from your cheek.

You had missed it.

Baela and Jacaerys’ union.

A union of love.

A union of respect.

Something pure.

And you had missed it.

A day like that would never come again.

You felt sick to your stomach as another tear fell from your eyes, stomach turning painfully as you thought of it.

You thought of your father, proud and smiling at his daughter and step son. Of how Rhaneyra would have beamed, and fretted over Jacaerys’ hair and clothing. Of how Rhaena would have been glued to Baela’s side.

You wondered what Joffrey, Little Viserys and Aegon the Younger had worn. Of what they looked like. Of how it had been.

Would you have smiled brightly at the union, filled with joy at seeing two people you love dearly be wed to one another?

Or would have cried, overwhelmed by it all and what you had missed out on in life?

You sniffed, and Aemond’s head lifted from his page to look at you. You roughly wiped your eyes with the back of your hand placing the parchment in your lap as you tried to steady your breathing.

You had not forgotten the dinner that the two of you had. Nor of Aegon’s confession of Aemond’s deceit.

But you swallowed it as you did everything else, and made priority over what you could and could not feel for. And soon the sadness that ate at you turned to anger, and you began to think more on when the perfect time to strike is.

Aemond stood from the table, shoes barely making a sound as he came around beside you, one hand on your shoulder as he reached forward for the letter.

If Aemond so wished it, he could sneak anywhere without being seen or heard.

“May I?” He asked, and with shaky fingers you lifted the parchment to give to him.

“Jacaerys and Baela were wed.” You spoke dully, pushing down the tide inside of you.

Stay strong.

Aemond hummed, eyes skimming the pages, “I am sorry to have missed it.”

“As am I.”

“Perhaps when Rhaena is wed-“ Aemond stopped himself.

Rhaena.

Rhaena was betrothed to Lucerys.

But now she would not wed him.

You would never get to see Lucerys be married to someone who would have loved him just as fiercely as you did. You would never get to see him grow, or start a family of his own. You would never get to see him grey with age. Lucerys would always be a boy.

You stood on stiff knees, brushing down your skirt in habit.

“Excuse me.” Was all you said as you moved yourself away from your uncle and the fireplace, and across the room to leave the chambers, leaving Aemond behind, needing a moment for air.

Needing a moment to breathe.

A moment to be away from it.

It was overwhelming, and you fought the urge to cry.

You slowly made your way down to the Gardens, neither walking fast or slow, but taking your time with each step as you tried to steady your breathing and tame the tides that surged within.

“It has been a while since I saw you here.”

You turned your head slowly, looking behind you.

Aegon sat in your usual seat in the Gardens, looking at you with a lazy grin. He did not wear his crown today, and despite him being alone and you with him, your heart did not race.

“I have been thankful.” You responded, moving to continue on your walk down the Gardens to the shore of the beach.

Aegon’s footsteps clunked against the stone ground loudly, heavy on his feet where Aemond was light, as he chased to catch up with you, your hands held together at your front.

It was a fine day in King’s Landing. Small clouds littered the skies, and a gentle breeze rolled through the trees and plants of the Garden, wafting the sweet aroma of the flowers around you.

“Might I join you on this walk?” The King asked, no tone of mocking in his voice.

You turned your head to look at him, eyes roaming up and down his body.

Aemond would be furious.

“You may.” You said stiffly, turning your head away as you strolled together past bushels of lavender and rosemary, their gentle scents curling around you.

“And how is my brother today? Has his temper been soothed?”

“He is in our chambers, attending to your duties.”

Aegon hummed in agreement, a high pitch noise where Aemond’s was deep. Aegon’s came from his throat, Aemond’s came from his chest.

“Aemond does love his writing and his books. Best to keep him preoccupied.”

“And you love your drinking and your whoring.” You replied primly.

“And what if I told you I have turned a new leaf?” Aegon’s tone lightened, head turned to smile at you in your periphery.

You kept your eyes ahead on the path, “I would not believe it.”

Aegon laughed heartily, "I suppose you may be right. No harm in trying.”

“There is plenty.”

“Did Aemond ravish you after the council dinner? I have never seen him so fiery as he left to go after you. I can’t imagine it had been fun.”

“It was perfectly enjoyable.” You sighed.

I hate him, Aemond’s voice echoed in your head, He should beg for my mercy.

“Aemond does not leave much to be desired.” You continued, insinuating Aemond’s skills.

“Though I am thicker. You said so yourself.” Aegon waggled his brows at you and you fought the urge to not gag.

“Aemond is longer and simply reaches places you could not dream to reach, where you are thicker. Though the thickness does not stop at your cock.”

“Such a tart mouthed woman.”

“A brainless, whore of a King.”

“Be nice, or I may bend you over that rose bush.” Aegon pointed jovially at a bush you remembered Helaena getting caught in as a child.

Your stomach roiled and your heart rattled against your ribs.

“Perhaps I should bend you over it.” You quipped back, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat.

Aegon laughed sincerely as you began to walk down the steps towards the water, “I would not be adversed to it.” He smirked, hands tucked behind his back.

The walk down to the water was quiet, and as you got to the bottom, the two of you looked out at the rolling waters, soft fluffy white tips peaking over the waves, wind brushing over it softly, making the water look like diamonds.

You stood side by side for some time, counting your breaths in your head as you realised the risk of being with Aegon alone where you were.

But it has already happened.

What is another time more?

You turned your head to look at Aegon, who still looked out at the water, face still. His nose sloped softly where Aemond’s was harsh. Aegon looked more like his mother than Viserys. Soft cheeks and pouted lips, and a perpetual sadness that lingered behind his lavender eyes.

“I miss her.” His voice broke the silence.

You blinked.

“I know that you would not believe me, but I do. She was my sister. My wife,” He turned to look at you and you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes, “The mother of my children.”

You swallowed as you looked at him, brows furrowed.

My children.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The King sighed.

“Do you know?”

Aegon shifted on his feet sighing, looking out at the water for a moment, letting the unanswered question wrap around the two of you coldly. His jaw clenched.

“They’re not your children.”

Aegon huffed, “Vicious little thing aren’t you.”

“Aemond and Helaena-“

“Loved each other in their own way. I know this. Anyone with eyes would know this.” Aegon began, brows pulled down, “But he was good to her. Kind even, if you can believe Aemond is capable of such qualities.”

“You are brothers.”

Aegon laughed humourlessly, “That we are.”

Silence.

“They are my children. My heirs. Maegor will sit the throne after me. And his children after him.” Aegon’s tone was brittle and stiff, an iciness that wrapped around each syllable.

“They ask after her, especially Maegor. But Jaehaera has gone quiet, so quiet since…” Aegon trailed off and looked back at the water, “She asked for you once.”

You blinked, “Jaehaera?”

“Mother is in charge of raising them now.” Aegon’s violet eyes met yours.

“My condolences."

Aegon turned on his heel and offered and elbow for you to loop your arm through. You looked at it in question. When had things gone so wrong? Why did life find a way for ruining connection and families? You thought for a beat, looking at your eldest uncles arm, and swallowed the fear that clawed at your throat.

Slowly, you looped yours through his as you began to walk back up through the Garden together, step by slow step as you both looked at the flowers in bloom. Your skin prickled in disgust and nausea ate at your stomach.

As you passed the Monkshood, your eyes darted to it and then back to Aegon who turned his head to meet your gaze.

“Remember when you caught me and that servant girl in the Gardens?” Aegon smirked, “I don't think I have ever seen you so red.”

There he is.

Fucking prick.

You hummed, “I could not think of a worser fate than having your cock in my mouth.”

“Ah, but you did say perhaps.” Aegon paused, letting go of your arm as he reached an arm forward, plucking a bright red rose from its bush. You watched as Aegon stepped closer to you, his scent closing around you as he lifted both arms.

You flinched at the movement, but Aegon did not stop, instead pushing its stem into the back of your braid, a thorn catching a strand of your hair as he pushed it down. Aegon stood back and smiled at his handy work.

“I did.” You swallowed, “Though I worry for your ability to actually please.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, I’m a quick learner.”

Aegon grinned, from up ahead, the greying head of Otto Hightower came into view and Aegon sighed loudly, letting his head fall backwards on his neck as he looked up at the sky.

“Duty calls.” Aegon griped, searching your face. “Until ‘perhaps’?”

Bile rose in your mouth as you stared at him.

“Perhaps.” You said coyly.

A wide smirk pulled on his lips before Aegon turned away from you walking lazily up to Otto, whose gaze flicked between you and the King, his voice hushed as he spoke to his grandson. You watched the two of them walk from the garden out of sight before you released the breath that you had been holding, heart racing.

When you arrived back in your chambers you moved straight to the table, retrieving a blank piece of parchment and writing back to your family. Apologising for not being there, assuring them of your wellbeing, telling them of the gardens and the new books you had been reading. Each swipe of your quill caused heat to bloom in your chest.

Perhaps.

You were disgusted in yourself. But you knew it had to be done.

The sound of the chamber doors alerted you to Aemond’s entrance, but you made no move to greet him nor even acknowledge him, your eyes still on the parchment as you wrote. His footfall stopped beside you as he looked at you writing your letter.

“Where have you been?” Aemond asked, tone pressing.

“The Gardens for a walk.” You responded tonelessly, looping a ‘y’ with care.

Silence wrung out in the room before you felt the gentle pull of your hair at the back of your head, Aemond held the red rose in his hand as he turned it over, your eyes still on the page as you told your mother of some of the new tomes you had received, as well as the Black Stone.

“I did not know you were fond of roses.” Aemond mused, turning it over in his hand.

You paused your writing to dip the quill in the ink pot before you lifted your gaze beneath your lashes at Aemond, “I’m not. It was a gift.” You said dully, scraping the quill against the ink well, thick drops of black ink sliding back inside its holder.

A beat.

“A gift?”

You pressed the quill back onto the parchment, “Aegon joined me on my walk.”

“Aegon?” Aemond’s voice was dangerously low.

“Do you know of any other Aegon’s in the Keep?”

“Did he touch you?” He all but growled.

“He offered an arm.” You drawled, signing off your name at the end of the letter.

“An arm and a rose.”

You dropped the quill into its holder unceremoniously before turning your upper body to look at your uncle, who’s face was pulled into a frown.

“An arm and a rose are far more respectable than a bastard given to your whore.” You spoke cooly, tilting your head down to blow on the ink lightly before looking back up at him.

“You provoke me.” He grunted.

“I do no such thing.” You countered, “Merely a friendly walk and talk with my dear uncle.”

“When has he ever been dear to you?” Aemond snipped.

“When have you ever been faithful? Honourable? You wish to question me and my honour when you have fathered a bastard. Not only have you fathered potential others," You hissed, "With this one, you did not even think to tell me, your brother did. Your ‘pathing a path with good intentions’ has been trodden under your boot.”

Your words hung heavily in the chambers as Aemond looked at you.

“I’m sorry.”

“Good.” You snipped, pushing the chair out from beneath you as you handed Aemond the scroll, “Feel free to read it if you like before sending it out.” And with that you left the chambers again, needing to cool your temper.

Over the next few days, you and Aemond danced around each other, barely speaking except for your snips and snarls, Aemond returning it with little patience and immediately apologising afterwards. And Aegon took advantage of that.

And you took advantage of him.

The King begun to hang around you more often since the walk in the Gardens. His presence appearing like smoke, seemingly out of thin air. He would find you everywhere.

Anywhere.

The Godswood.

The Library.

Even in the halls and corridors as you walked aimlessly, not wanting to be found by Aemond and his incessant presence.

And you let him.

For humouring the man brought you an advantage that you hadn’t had before. You answered his questions earnestly, and responded to his flirting with playful jabs in turn. You made quick work of it, for though you had told Aegon his cock was thicker, which was true, he was also the thickest brother. Not as smart, nor as cunning as Aemond, and it showed.

Each time the King found you, you would indulge him, little by little, and by the fourth day of his small rendezvous, you even offered him a smile, something you had previously only reserved for Aemond. And with each day coming to an end, spent by the side of the whoring and drunken King, you ended your conversations with the same echoing ‘perhaps’, and the promise of something to come.

It angered Aemond to no avail.

Each time you returned to your chambers, you would mention in fleeting passing that Aegon had found you again. That he had spoken with you. That perhaps he brought you a gift, or complimented your dress, brining home more roses, or in one instance a silk chemise. And Aemond simmered with anger each and every time.

He fucked his anger out into you and you revelled in it, coaxing it from him. Making him believe that you had no play in it. That you were not repeating ‘perhaps’ to the King. That you were not letting your eyes linger on his breeches for fleeting moments. That you were not egging the King on. That Aegon was seeking you out, that you merely had no choice but to endure his presence, that you had said no once before and Aegon had not listened.

It also left him with the possibility that you were encouraging it. Though he had no evidence of such.

Aemond saw his brother pursuing you, and you played the innocent dolt. The One-Eyed Prince’s resentment to his brother was building, and you were ecstatic.

I hate him.

That morning as you and Aemond dined together, he asked you of your plans. You told him that you would be going to the Gardens to read the rest of your book in the sun, and had plans to even have your lunch there. At the mention of the Gardens, Aemond informed you that he would be joining you.

“And is a certain King the reason for this sudden declaration of company?” You questioned, lifting a brow at the Prince from across the table.

“No.” Aemond said all too quickly, “I have finished my duties ahead of time, and wish to spend my day with my wife.”

You hummed, chewing on a small piece of toast.

Aemond wanted to make sure Aegon didn't get you alone.

When you walked down to the garden together it was a quiet affair, the only sounds being your foot steps and the swishing of your skirts. When you arrived to your usual spot, you were surprised to find it empty, but felt a small piece of disappointment knowing that the two brothers would not use you as a weapon against each other.

You sat and read for a time, though you felt the constant subtle gazes of Aemond as he looked up at you.

Sensing his unease, you sought to work on it. Tucking the book at your side you chuckled softly and looked out at the water, Aemond following your line of sight.

You needed to bite your tongue about Alys. For now.

You needed to play to your strengths and his weaknesses.

Your shared childhood.

“Do you remember when the Sea Snake told us that there were dragons in the sea?” You coaxed, letting a small smile rise on your lips as you looked back at Aemond, who’s gaze was on you, and not the water.

“Hm.”

“I remember being so excited, and you were terrified.”

Aemond huffed, “I was not terrified, I simply did not believe it.”

You grinned at him, “And why is it so unbelievable?”

“Because who would claim them?”

“Perhaps the sea people he spoke about.”

A wry grin pulled on Aemond’s lips, “Again with your tales and stories. You always did love fairytales and mystical creatures.”

“I remember you loving to hear about those stories. Besides, who is to say they aren’t real? I’m sure the people in Westeros had stories of Dragons before, and they exist, do they not? What is a tale without a little truth to it?” You turned your head to look back out at the water, Aemond’s not committal hum beside you.

You paused a moment or two, looking at the water in mock thought before you opened your mouth to speak.

“Aemond,” You asked again, looking back to find he had not taken his eye from you, “How did you remember I liked lemon tarts? Did you remember when we snuck into the kitchens?”

“I remember you running into a passage to eat them greedily. You even stole mine.”

Your mouth dropped open, “I did not. You gave it to me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and you know it to be true. You stole armfuls of them and only had two by the end. A terribly bad thief you make.”

“My apprentice was worse. You got caught the next time by the Septa.”

You winced at the memory, the sound of her shrieking voice as she screamed at the both of you, dragging you to your respected mothers and telling them that you were sneaking out of your chambers together.

“Not my fault you weren’t listening for footsteps. You were too busy complaining about Aegon.”

Aegon.

Aemond shifted at the mention.

“He was a twat.”

“Is.” You corrected him, "Do you remember when I hit him in the shins in the training yard?” You laughed loudly, enjoying the small smile that wound on Aemond’s face, “He really thought that he could best me with a sword just because I was a girl.”

“He underestimates a lot of people. Especially you.” There was a dark undertone to his words, but you chose to ignore it.

“Seeing him fall to the floor, clutching his shins was better than any lemon tart or star fruit. You should have seen Ser Cole’s face! I've never seen him so appalled.”

“Not even in the library?” Aemond teased, and you blushed.

“You’re cruel.” You teased, “But Aegon deserved it.” Your tone hardened, “I couldn’t stand to see the way he treated you. How he pushed you around. How my brothers joined in.”

Aemond stayed silent as you continued.

“When I found you that day in the tunnels, after they gave you the pig…” You looked back at the water, “I wanted beat them bloody. I’ve never felt rage like that before, I wanted to-“ You paused taking a deep breath, “I know that you think I betrayed you.” You said quietly, looking at the soft white peaks on the waves below, not daring to lift your gaze to Aemond’s piercing one, “But I didn’t have a choice. Rhaenyra would have never let me stay in the Keep, and seeing your mother come after Lucerys with a blade? I was terrified.” You swallowed, thinking of that fateful night.

“I stepped in front of Lucerys, I think I was ready in that moment.” You explained, your breathing uneven, “I was ready to die for him. And then I saw you, and you were looking at me, and then I saw your eye.“ You swallowed again, “I never forgave Luc for what he did to you, just like I will never forgive you for what you did to him.”

You finally turned to face Aemond, who’s face was carefully blank, “But know that if Alicent had not come at us all with that blade, I would have run to you. I wanted to see if you were okay. I wanted to make sure that you were alright, I-“ You paused, reaching your hand out to touch the scar that split through his cheek, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You were just a boy. And you were my friend. All we had was each other, and I left you alone.”

Aemond’s eye searched your face before his hand gripped your own, pulling it into his lap.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Aemond and your heads flicked to the noise, seeing Aegon standing at the entrance of the sitting area, Ser Cole behind him. Aemond’s hand gripped yours tightly, and you soothed over his knuckles with your thumb.

“It's not hard to find someone in a place they cannot leave.” You quipped back.

“Merely came to see if perhaps today was a good day.”

“Clearly I’m here, brother.” Aemond growled.

“Like I said, you could watch.” Aegon teased.

Aemond moved to stand, but you tugged him back down with his hand.

“When the sun rises in the West and sets in the East, Aegon.” You sighed, keeping a firm grip of Aemond’s hand.

Aegon smirked, looking down at your hands and then back up before bowing his head to the two of you. As he left, escorted by Ser Criston Cole, Aemond kept his eye on his brother the entire time, whilst you kept your eye on him.

“Aem,” You brushed his cheek with your hand, coaxing his attention back to you, “Hēnkirī hae mēr.”

Together as one.

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claymoresword · 4 months

Text

Where's My Love

Cersei Lannister x Stark Fem!Reader 🐺

Prompt: I was wondering if you could write a Cersei x Stark!fem!reader where she's Ned's youngest sister and Cersei's ex-secret lover. Reader is a rebel like Arya and never married but she's very protective of her nieces/nephews. She and Cersei had a bad breakup and are finally reuniting during the events of the first GOT episode when the king's court goes to Winterfell. You could write reader backing up Arya again Joffrey and Cersei seething 😂😂😂 you can include g!p and smut if you want.

Wordcount: 5.8k

Pairing: Cersei x Stark Reader

Warnings: g!p reader, smut, power play, depictions of physical abuse, cheating , very toxic , references to alcoholism, breeding kink if you squint, emotional manipulation, did i already say this was toxic ?

Note: thank you so much 🐑 for the prompt! i actually had a lot of fun writing this one. also important to note this is my first time actually publishing something y'all have requested me to write so hopefully i got this right.. i know i tweaked and added a couple things but i hope you don't mind! and if you hate this i'm sorry lmao i tried <33

(smut after asterisks)

Bouts of laughter erupt from your nephews as Bran once again misses his mark, the arrow flies way over the target.

You glare at the older boys, in response Robb places a hand over his mouth, Jon instead chooses to avoid your gaze entirely focusing his stare at the ground beneath.

All dirt and sleet on the base of your boot, the ground squelched with every step you took.

“Try again, Bran. Take a deep breath, aim properly.” You order placing a lingering hand on his shoulder.

The young boy nods obediently as you step back once more, he raises his bow arm.

He aims, soon releasing the string, and once again, he misses. The arrow pierces the edge of a barrel on the far left, leagues away from his actual target.

Once again the boys burst into fits of laughter, this time is it not you who reprimands them.

“And which one of you was a marksman at ten?” You follow the sound of your brother's voice, he is standing on the balcony above, Catelyn by his side.

“Keep trying, Bran.” Jon decides to cease his teasing, he encourages his half-brother.

A sudden gust of wind tickles your face, the cold breeze permeates the air, bleeding through the thin fabric of your doublet. You immediately regret not putting on more layers this morning. You have lost track of the days, but there is no doubt that winter is coming.

“Robb, make certain your brother continues practicing. I am going back inside, but remember– your father is watching.” You warn your eldest nephew, as stern as you can manage.

Shaggy streaks of red hair fall over his eyes as he nods.

You wrap your arms around yourself as you start up the stairs, but your plan to slip back into your chambers unnoticed fails.

“Y/n.” Cat appears next to you.

“Are you alright?” The Lady of Winterfell asks, and you force a sweet smile, one to disarm and hopefully quell her worries.

Catelyn didn't exactly warm to you at first, and neither did you with her, but over time you both grew to truly care for one another. She was like an older sister to you, the void left by your late sister Lyanna did not seem so large with her around.

“I'm fine, I just needed to fetch something from my bedchambers, that's all.” You lie. However, the older woman somehow always manages to see right through you.

She gazes upon you skeptically only to eventually release your arm. She takes a step back, allowing you to take your leave without further interrogation.

In truth, you were far from alright.

Despite yourself, you have been on edge since finding out that the King is on his way to Winterfell with his Lady wife and all of their children.

This visit is a sudden one. Upon the death of Jon Arryn you had expected things to be different, knowing how much the former Hand meant to your brother– but you never anticipated a visit from the King himself.

You hadn't seen Robert in nine years, and his wife for longer than that.

It is not by accident.

If it was up to you, things would be different. You would still be in King's Landing today, perhaps serving as Knight– or as Cersei had once intended, a personal guard for the Queen.

You were once certain that you would spend the rest of your days by Cersei's side, no matter the circumstances, but you merely held the high hopefulness of a young girl.

Since then have been forced to accept that life is nothing like the tales and songs you were fed as a child. The Gods are not always merciful, things rarely ever go to plan and love most certainly does not conquer all.

Life got in the way of your love, and pride did the rest.

You have not spoken to Cersei Lannister in a decade, yet your entire being continued to ache with every day that you have spent apart. Time does not heal the type of hurt that only yields to resentment.

When the King and Queen arrive for their visit on the morrow, you intend to avoid her Grace at all costs, for her sake and your own. Above all, you will have no choice but to grit your teeth and endure what you must.

You haven't seen Cersei in years, but you were bound to slaughter each other given the chance.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

“Come in!” You beckon whoever was on the other side of the door as you fastened the clasps on your doublet.

Ned ceases his knocking, pushing the door open, he looks upon you in a way he knew you hated, but your brother can hardly help it.

He worries about you. When you returned home all those years ago, you were inconsolable.

You are a Stark, not made for the South. Your brother tried in jest, but he knew it wasn't the weather, or even court politics that despaired you.

It was Cersei, it had always been Cersei.

"The King was seen riding up; he should be arriving any moment.” Ned states.

“Right, I'm almost done here.” You quip, but the man takes it upon himself to assist you with your sheepskin cloak, draping it over your shoulders.

He keeps his hands on you, his brows furrowed with evident worry, and for some reason you can't help but find it all a bit silly, you chuckle lightly. “I will be fine, Ned.”

Your brother appears less than convinced, you shove him playfully. “You worry about me too much, brother, it’s beginning to age you.”

Ned scoffs. “Aye, try being in my position for a day and you'll understand why I worry so much… but it is time that's aging me, little sister.” Ned quips in response and this makes you pause.

You notice the streaks of white, scattered across his dark locks. As the morning sun peeks through the window, catching his face, you observe more of those streaks in his beard.

Where has time gone?

Ned steps closer, it seems that he has mistaken your silence for something else. Your brother plants a quick kiss on the crown of your head as a result.

In times like this you can't help but feel like a girl of thirteen again, looking to her older brother for protection.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You watched as the Kingsguard rode through the walls of Winterfell, Lannister banners in hand. It unsettles you more than you thought it would. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek, turning to Sansa, her younger sister still nowhere in sight.

“Sansa, where is your sister?” You question and the girl only shrugs dismissively, but you aren't left wondering for long as Arya can be seen pushing through the crowd, quickly settling next to you.

The young girl was wearing an iron helm you had never seen before, her once pristine dress now ornamented with specks of dirt and grime. You shake your head disapprovingly, an effort to suppress your amusement.

Sansa scoffs at the sight of her younger sister, while you snatch the helm off Arya's head, she looks up at you with a scowl.

“Where did you even get this?” You ask, your tone manages to match the look on her face.

Arya gives you no response, and you aren't allowed the opportunity to press her further as you feel a nudge against your arm. Ned forces you to look ahead as the King can be seen dismounting his horse.

Ned kneels, and you and everyone else follows suit.

After a beat, the King's command all of you to rise, and soon you spot the carriage halting a few feet behind him.

You involuntarily held your breath as the door opens. The Queen emerges, she keeps her gaze ahead as she climbs down the steps.

Cersei looks the picture of poise and grace. She seems older, and somehow even more beautiful than you remembered. It knocked the wind right out of you, you had to look away.

Your eyes are no longer on the Queen, but your chest aches all the same.

“Cat!” Your attention is pulled to the display before you as the King addresses your sister in law, pulling her in for an embrace that she doesn't appear to be prepared for.

“Nine years. why haven't I seen you, where the hell have you been?” Robert addresses your brother once more.

“Guarding the North, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.” Ned replies, practiced and noble as he always was.

Robert then turns to you, a scowl upon his face, one that stuns you slightly. Your mind turns to Cersei, you consider what she might have shared with her Lord husband in your absence.

She must have told him the real reason you left King's Landing, no doubt the King will want you punished for repeatedly bedding his wife all those years ago. but then the King's frown turns, and your mind ceases its torment.

Robert lunges only to pull you in for an embrace, a gesture that startles you, your body remains tense until he releases you from his hold.

“I expected better from you, Y/n.” The King narrows his gaze in a puckish manner.

“Unlike your damned brother here I thought you enjoyed the Keep. I was sure you wanted to serve in my Kingsguard.” He adds, and you force a grin, gallant yet strained.

“I admit that was a different time, Your Grace. These days, my passions lie elsewhere.” You reply, and you can hardly prevent the way your gaze flits towards the Queen for a moment.

Cersei has been stood beside her husband, staring at you relentlessly for the entire duration of this interaction. If the Queen has remained the same person she was all those years ago, then you know for certain this was her attempt to intimidate– but you were not so keen on letting her have the upper hand.

You drill your expression, unfazed.

The King snorts derisively at your answer, but says nothing more.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You had spent most of the afternoon, drowning in your cups. The knowledge that Cersei was only a few doors away was aggravating, everything you thought to have successfully repressed has now resurfaced.

Every inch of you calls out to Cersei, your very soul yearns for her. You craved the unbearable pain, and blinding pleasure that came with being around her.

You have laid awake many nights picturing the ways you would confront her. The things you would say to her.

You fantasized about the possibility of finally being rid of all of your pain. To hurt her the same way she hurt you. Your heart, dense and cold, obstructed by all things Cersei. Within you, you carried everything you despised about the other woman– and all the things you adored.

The Queen was a mistake you couldn't erase, and simultaneously the best thing that has ever happened to you. You hate her, but you cannot stand to be apart from her.

The sound of commotion snatches you out of your thoughts. The voices that permeate sound vaguely familiar to you, but you are only able to place them once you take a glance out your window.

You spot Arya and Bran in the courtyard. Prince Joffrey standing over them, your face falls as you spot his steel unsheathed from his scabbard and in his hand.

Without another moment's thought you rushed downstairs towards the training yard, prepared to pacify the affair, however dire it may be, but it seems Arya has taken the situation into her own hands.

Bran is gone, but the Prince is now on the ground. It seems that Arya has managed to disarm the older boy, his steel thrown to the side in the dirt.

Now she is threatening Joffrey with a wooden practice sword, her direwolf beside her, growling with intent at the Prince.

“Arya enough!” You intercept the blow, forcefully dragging your niece away from the boy.

“What the seven hells do you think you're doing?” You bark, and Arya drops the sword, her chest still heaving.

A young girl seething with unbridled fury was such an uncommon sight that it makes you grimace.

“He was trying to hurt Bran! I had to protect him.” Arya gestures to the Prince, the boy still whimpering in pain.

“Damn you and that stupid dog! I am telling my mother! I will report you to the king!” Joffrey hurls his threats, and Arya makes the juvenile decision to respond.

“Nymeria's a direwolf, not a dog!” She shouts and you sigh, placing a hand over your niece's mouth to silence her, an action Arya fights but your grip on her doesn't relent.

“My Prince, I am sure my niece meant no harm–” You try but the boy interjects.

“No harm?” The Prince hisses. “She nearly sliced my arm off!” Once again he whimpers like a pup that had just been trampled.

You take a step forward to examine the cut on Joffrey's arm, and it was only that– a minor cut, one that will heal without leaving as much as a scar.

Large footsteps approach, the Prince's sworn guard comes rushing to the scene, Sandor Clegane scowls at you before assisting the boy to his feet effortlessly with one hand.

“Some protector you are, dog. I almost died!” Joffrey then redirects his frustrations towards his guard.

He continues muttering insults as he retrieves his sword from the dirt, strutting out of the training yard.

Nymeria doesn't cease her growling until the boy was entirely out of sight, it was also only then you remove your hand from Arya's mouth.

“Have you completely lost your wits?” You gape, looking down at your niece disapprovingly, before kneeling to be at eye level with her.

“He was–” Arya starts, but you interrupt.“–I don't care what he did, Arya. You never attack a Prince.” You state firmly.

“You do something like this again and I will make sure you never get the chance to wield a weapon again, do you understand?” You assert, and your tone is harsh enough to make Arya wince.

She doesn't reply with words, she continues looking down at her feet as she nods.

“Let's go and get you cleaned up.” You state, you try to pull her by the arm but Arya doesn't budge.

“I was trying to be brave, like you.” She mutters under her breath, and you turn to look at the young girl once more.

“What?” You ask.

“Don't be upset with me, please, please. I'm sorry.” Then Arya states frantically, her voice small and frail– it shatters you.

“Oh, Arya– my sweet girl.” You say, kneeling once again. “I'm not upset, I was worried.” You pull her in for an embrace, your niece clutches you tightly in return.

After a prolonged moment, you cease the hug, wiping away some of the dirt from her face with the pads of your thumbs.

Then you took a quick scan of your surroundings, to ensure that you were alone before speaking again.

“Our Prince is a bit of a cunt.” You finally quip, earning a chuckle from Arya.

“He is.” Your niece beams at you, in turn this makes you fill with relief.

“I am proud of you for disarming him. but next time, leave it at that. Do you understand the consequences that come with attacking a King's heir?” You ask, and you watch as a realization graces the young girl, she averts her gaze, this time with guilt.

“Never again, do you hear me?”

═══════════════════════════════════════════

You were exhausted from the events of the day, and yet it was not close to over.

You decide to retire to your chambers, aiming for at least a few hours rest before the King's welcome feast later this evening.

Resting your hand on the pommel of your sword, you take large steps through the gallery. You crave the horn of ale waiting for you on your nightstand, the comfort of your warm bed.

You turn the corner, a figure appears before you and you swerve out of the way quickly enough to avoid whoever it was that decided to walk toward you in this exact moment from the opposite direction.

As you gather yourself to take a proper look at the woman who you nearly bumped into, your blood runs cold.

“Your Grace, forgive me.” You state curtly, inclining your head at Cersei.

Your hand remains resting on the hilt of your sword as you attempt to slip past her, but before you can successfully walk away, she has a hold of your arm, dragging you backwards to where you stood.

You yank your arm out of her hold, a scowl covers your features, but Cersei ignores your visible discontent as she speaks.

“That niece of yours tried to murder my son.” The Queen accuses.

“What?” You can't help the half-laugh that slips out of you. Cersei takes offense to this, her expression hardens.

“Joff will bear those scars for the rest of his life.” She is not backing down, and you can't pretend that you possessed the will to deal with her theatrics.

You only roll your eyes, finally slipping past her and into your chambers.

You step inside your room, but before you can close the door Cersei intercepts, forcefully pushing it open to let herself in.

She slams it closed behind herself.

“You dare walk away from your Queen?” She bellows.

This time you groan, collapsing onto your bed.

You ignore her statement, rubbing your hands over your face in frustration. “Oh, Cersei, it is a cut, it'll heal!”

A prolonged silence from the Queen, she only speaks again once you sit up in your bed.

“You've not changed a bit.” She remarks, treacherous emerald gaze meeting your pale greys.

“Neither have you.” You retaliate boldly.

More silence until Cersei is first to look away, clasping her hands infront of herself she assumes an impassive stance.

“I will have that girl punished.” The Queen threatens, her tone sounds spiteful. but you don't hide your incredulity.

“For what?” You ask, and Cersei's jaw clenches even tighter, you wonder if she might lunge at you.

“She attacked my son. the King's heir.” Cersei retorts, and you scoff.

“Is that what Robert’s teaching his sons? How to lose to a little girl?” You taunt, not backing down.

You knew Arya should receive consequences for her actions by right, but giving Cersei that satisfaction is the absolute last thing you plan to do.

“Or is it not the King's doing at all?” You ask again as Cersei fails to respond. You rise from the bed, stepping closer to the Queen.

“Is it Jaime's fault?” You tilt your head inquisitively, mockingly.

You are close enough to smell the lavender oil on Cersei's skin. Her eyes flit to your lips for a fleeting moment, and yours do the same to hers.

Then a madness overcomes you, prompting your next choice of words.

“I expect it is him you've been opening your legs for these days–” You utter, but you are swiftly silenced when Cersei's palm makes contact with your cheek.

She slaps you across the face, your head turns slightly from the force of it. Your face is now throbbing, raw and red with traces of Cersei's wrath.

She goes to strike you again, and this time it is intercepted by your firm grip on her wrist.

A fury reignites within you as Cersei tries to fight out of your hold, entirely allowing your emotions to guide your actions, your hand finds her throat. Before your rational mind can mitigate it, you have your fingers firmly wrapped around her neck. The back of her head slams against the wooden door as you forcibly pinned her upon it.

The Queen is clawing at your hand, struggling to take a breath as you restricted her airway. A real fear flashes across Cersei's face, and a part of you wants to watch her fall limp within your grasp, to quiet her once and for all, to destroy the cause of your agony. but you don't– instead you take a step back, releasing her.

Cersei gasps as air sharply re enters her lungs, roughly wiping away the tears that have made it down her cheeks.

The Queen attempts to regain her resolve the best she can, and the look she gives you is not one of shock, instead it is pure disdain, and you look at her the same. Cersei doesn't speak, she merely shoves you harshly with both hands against your chest, as you stumbled back, she turns to open the door.

You collapse on your bed once more as Cersei dissapears into the hallway, the door shutting behind her.

“Fuck.” You cursed under your breath. It seemed the Queen will never fail to elicit the worst from you– to make you act like an utter lunatic.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

The welcome feast has been dragging on now for what felt like an eternity.

The King was no longer seated as his high table, instead he was in the center of the hall, shamelessly flirting with some of the servants.

You roll your eyes, reaching for the flagon of ale infront of you, as you attempted to lift it, it doesn't budge. You fleetingly wonder if the liquor had caused you to lose all strength in your arm, only to realize your brother was holding the jug firmly on the table so it wouldn't move.

You squint at Ned, and he glares at you in return.

“Enough. You'll drink yourself into an early grave if you keep this up.” Your brother warns and it makes you snigger.

“That is the plan, brother.” You slur slightly, but Ned makes the deliberate effort to ignore you.

You slump backwards in your chair, when you've realized you lost this argument, as you often did when it came to the lord of Winterfell.

You eyes fall upon King Robert once more, he is still in the middle of the room, surrounded by maidens and even more whores.

This time he is no longer flirting with them, he is in a full lip lock with one of the women. He does this in the presence of the Queen, dishonouring her for all to see.

You grimace at the sight, an unwanted rage overcomes you. You can hardly believe this lecherous drunk was King of the Seven Kingdoms. Married to the most beautiful woman in all of the seven kingdoms, the only woman you have ever wanted.

You can't bear to look at Cersei's reaction to this, in fact you can hardly remain at this feast for a moment longer. You abruptly rise from your seat, Ned looks up at you, puzzled.

“May I please be excused?” You asked formally for the rest of the table to hear and your brother hesitates before nodding curtly in response.

As you walked back to your chambers you can't help but invision what your life would have been like if your brother had taken the Iron throne instead of Robert Baratheon. If you had remained in King's Landing– if you had wedded Cersei instead.

Perhaps in a different life.

You and Cersei would be married, and you'd rule together. In another reality Cersei would be your Queen and not Robert's. She would bear your children, your heirs. You would grow old together and live out your days by each other's side. In a different life, you would have remained faithful to Cersei, you would have given her everything she desired and in return, Cersei would offer you her heart.

You would have been happy.

In another life.

By the time you reached your room, the tears had stopped flowing, but the collar of your shirt remained drenched.

As you shut your door, you unclapsed your doublet, lifting it above your head, tossing it aimlessly across the room.

Now only in your tunic and breeches, you feel the urge to weep some more, but you refuse to allow your tears to fall this time.

You take a seat on the settee, head in your hands. The effects of the ale already wearing off, a headache rapidly setting in, you realized that you needed another drink.

You get up to fetch the flagon from the small table but as your door flings wide open, nearly hitting you in the process, you freeze where you stand.

A familiar golden haired beauty emerges through the doorway, and you allow yourself a deep breath. Clutching your chest slightly to calm yourself.

“Your Grace, the hour is late.” You state dismissively, starting across the room to fetch your goblet.

“If you have come to order my execution for my behaviour this afternoon, best get it over with.” You quip, the liquor in your system doing all of the talking for you.

You hear the door shut, without looking back you assume Cersei had taken her leave but you are perplexed when you turn to see her still standing by the door, watching you set down your goblet.

You walk across the room once more to take a seat on the settee, you remove your boots, setting them aside.

Cersei has remained silent for long enough that you nearly forgotten her presence entirely. Her next ask startles you.

“Look at me.” Her commanding tone leaves no room to argue, you glance at her.

Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks flushed. It is clear to you that she has been crying as well.

You rise from your seat abruptly, approaching her. “Are you alright?” You ask, and again the Queen says nothing.

She merely stares at you, hopefulness at your concern and despair at the fact that you needed to ask.

She lunges forward, before you can fully comprehend it, her lips crash against your own, she kisses you deeply, pure anguish and want. It snatches the air right out of your lungs, but you have no desire to pull away.

Your tongue makes contact with her own and Cersei moans, pulling you impossibly closer by the nape of your neck.

Your body pressed up against hers as she leans against the wall. You were now both panting into the kiss, all aggression and desire.

You had not been with Cersei like this in a decade, and yet there was a complete lack of uncertainty. It felt right, you were certain that you are meant to be with her like this, until the end of your days.

However, there still exists voice deep within you, whether it is pride or reason, you cannot say for certain. but it urges you to pull away, so you do.

The Queen chases your lips eagerly, but you pull back even further. “Cersei, stop. What is this, what are you doing?” You ask, every moment you spent without your lips on hers felt like pure agony.

“I just need you– please–” Cersei replies with a desperation you have never heard before, and this was enough to break you.

Any semblance of dignity vanishes into the very depths of yourself, all that's left is your deep and tortuous want for Cersei.

You kiss her again, rough and urgent, you are panting and groaning into each other's mouths. Cersei's hands immediately move to the hem of your breeches, she unlaces them in record time, slipping her hand inside.

You nearly lose it all when she wraps her fingers around the base of your cock, stroking it with such dexterity you fear your knees may give out.

“Gods–” You grunt, bucking your hips embarrassingly into her touch.

You find the strength to remove her hand from your breeches. Soon enough you slip them off, your slacks pooling around your ankles before you kicked them to the side.

You swiftly remove your own tunic as Cersei's trembling hands struggle to undo the laces of her dress.

Your patience wearing thin, you flip her around, indecently ripping the fabric open with one swift tug.

“Y/n–” Cersei scolds in response to your eagerness, glancing back at you with dissaproval, but her dress easily slips off her shoulders after that, her smallclothes follow suit.

The Queen is still facing away from you as you part her hair away from her neck, trailing open mouthed kisses against her hot flesh, as you reached a certain familiar spot, your teeth grazed the skin, before biting down on it briefly.

This earns a louder noise from Cersei, she is still trembling as she turns back around to face you, grabbing you firmly to pull you in for another sloppy kiss.

Lips still interlocked, the Queen walks you backwards onto the bed, Cersei doesn't waste another moment, straddling you as soon as you settled your rear on the edge of the bedding.

Your cock now stiff as a rod, poking at Cersei's entrance. The other woman begins moving her hips as you kissed, rubbing her cunt on the length of your shaft, coating it with her slick.

Your breath quickens, the sensation was maddening, you needed to be inside her now.

“Gods, I missed you.” You let it slip as your lips parted for a moment, but Cersei doesn't respond.

The Queen's grip on the nape of your neck moves to your hair as she grasps a handful of it, tugging your head back slightly. Her other hand travels south, she grips the base of your cock once more, this time lining it up to her entrance.

She begins lowering herself onto your length, Cersei moves quickly, with every inch that enters her, she lets out a gasp at the sensation. Soon you are sheathed inside of her to the hilt, and Cersei throws her head back, she releases an unrestrained moan, her hands now firmly on your shoulders.

She attemps to push you back against the bed, but you refuse to budge. Cersei relents, kissing you again as she moves her hips up and down the length of your cock. With every moan from Cersei you retaliate with a groan.

The feeling of her walls fluttering against your girth made you dizzy. The Queen felt so unbelievably good wrapped around your cock, you had forgotten just how intoxicating it was.

Now that you were experiencing it again, you never wanted it to end.

Vulgar noises of your coupling filled the room as Cersei moved herself desperately against your lap, your cock hitting just the right spots within her.

The Queen can feel her release already approaching, entirely overwhelmed by this she falls limp against you, but you manage to support her weight with minimal effort. Her hips still moving at a steady pace until it finally hits her, her orgasm washes over her like a wave.

Cersei cries out in pleasure, partially muffled against your neck, she holds onto you for dear life as her peak overcomes all her other senses, relentless and unforgiving. You feel her cunt clenching painfully around your cock, her short shallow breaths against your neck, she is trembling helplessly, and you never want to let her go.

“Seven hells.” The Queen breathes out, finally lifting her head to look at you.

Cersei's eyes were nearly glazed over, her chest heaving violently, but you were far from done with her.

You capture her lips with your own again, earning a content moan. You remained sheathed inside of her as you flipped your positions, now Cersei laid on the bed, with you on top of her. The other woman's gasp in surprise is muffled by your own mouth against hers.

Once again she moans into your mouth as you began your thrusts, deep and slow, you aim to feel every inch of her. Cersei wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you in even deeper.

The Queen gasps as your mouth found the swell of her breasts, your tongue leaving a trail of saliva as you expertly moved from one nipple to the other.

Your thrusts grow harsh and inconsistent as you felt your own climax building. Cersei's back arches, a deafening moan rips out of her.

You roughly placed your hand against her stomach, pinning her down against the bed as you continued to rut into her. Cersei was mewling and panting like a whore now as you used her for your own pleasure, heightening her own in the process.

The Queen finds just enough strength to pull you closer, her lips now against your ear.

“Tell me you love me.” Cersei pleads, and this takes you entirely by surprise, you slow your movements but you don't stop.

“What?” You ask, shaky, breathless.

“Just say it.” The Queen repeats amidst another moan, she clenches around your cock and the sound that emits from you then is guttural, primal.

You oblige without asking further questions.

“I love you, Cersei” You speak, from the heart, damning the consequences.

With that, Cersei reaches her peak again, her nails digging into the flesh of your back as she comes. The feeling of her perfect cunt milking your cock, accompanied by her writhing body underneath you was enough to push you over the edge.

As you attempt to pull out, Cersei kept her legs firmly wrapped around your waist, holding you in place. You are not given the opportunity to question it as it was already too late, you moaned as you released your load deep inside her, painting her womb with your seed.

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Nearly a candlemark has passed since your coupling and neither you or Cersei have said more than a few words.

Simply embracing each other under the sheets, she rests her head against your shoulder, tracing circles absentmindedly with her finger against your abdomen.

This position was achingly familiar, almost as if no time had passed.

Cersei soon moves her hand further up, she traces her fingers across your bottom lip before running her thumb down the bridge of your nose. The sensation earns a chuckle out of you, you finally had to reach up to remove her hand, guiding it away from your face.

Cersei's stare betrays an intensity that makes your heart constrict painfully in your chest.

Still unspeaking, it was your turn to explore her body, but you don't get very far, your fingertips trace the faint bruising on her neck, the marks left by your own cruelty.

The Queen then shuts her eyes, she doesn't allow herself to look upon your guilt any longer. Wrapping her arm across your torso, nuzzling her face against your shoulder.

“I'm not letting you go– never again.” Cersei mutters, and the smile that tugs on your lips is one of relief and acceptance.

You don't supress the urge to plant a lingering kiss on her temple, one the Queen allows herself to melt into.

#cersei lannister smut #cersei x reader #g!p reader #cersei lannister #ned stark #stark reader #fem stark reader #ned stark x reader #catelyn stark #g!p

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knightsickness · 6 months

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Who do you think from the main series would be canonised, if anyone?

!! thank you for this one i had to think about it. this is assuming the organised faith persists in westeros past the end of ados

it’s been said but cat is a nobrainer dutiful wife and mother pious had a sept built at winterfell died trying to protect her son saint of the mother immediately. that time she prayed in the sept and then tried to settle the stannis renly clash by appealing to their fraternity is basically already a sermon on the Love of a Holy Mother. i will say lady stoneheart’s riverlands reign of terror IS damaging her campaign idk what the seven’s stance on revenants is but the medieval church thought specifically that saints’ bodies were purer and couldn’t be puppeted by demons as a lesser person might be + saints’ souls go directly to heaven and would not be bothering the living

brienne joan of arc figure maid of tarth etc. doing riverlands charity work with clergymen famously chaste and good does depend how her story ends but she’s a contender. unfortunately the church would definitely depict her conventionally attractive saint brienne patron of maidens oathkeeping and the isle of tarth would not look like brienne

massively depends how the sparrow storyline ends but if cersei blows up the sept with a lot of them inside that’s a literal martyr explosion i could especially see the high sparrow with his Eating Sparingly Out Of Love For The Poor. also the last high septon cersei had killed. lancel contender i’m not sure the faith is too hot on lannisters rn but there’s something there w him he’s got the born again convert and aceticism. being a lann traitor might work for him

related + also massively depends how she dies and how the trial by seven goes but i think marg as a saint of the maiden could be fun. married three times never consummated once (officially), cruelly slandered as a whore by the most significant enemy of the faith since maegor but all the testimony against her was false. she doesn’t have her physical maidenhead apparently but it’s said multiple times most noble girls don’t bc horseriding can easily break it. beloved by the smallfolk prays in the public sept very into giving alms. even if the faith can’t get past the maidenhead could definitely see blessed margaery. consider sansa for similar reasons esp assuming organised faith still exists after cersei’s death being a pious long-suffering maiden personally victimised by cersei lannister feels like a canonisation fast track

davos has a lot going for him as a saint esp if you polish the onion knighting into a parable instead of savvy business (you can charge starving people whatever you like) but his blasphemous allegiance to noted heathen stannis makes it less likely. unless he kills stannis in which case his saint cred shoots back up. a troubled youth then refinds the seven to combat a wicked heathen sorceress because he knows it to be right despite his love for stannis etc the faith could spin it

the idea that after joff died cersei immediately tried to have him canonised bc he’s her specialest boy is very funny. it’s also fun bc even though i’ve seen some people pull for saint robb robb is wayyyy too much an old gods pagan worshipper despite having every opportunity to follow the faith so saint joffrey the just is significantly likelier. robb is a sad footnote in the Life of St Catelyn

#not exhaustive list but some of the first i thought of #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #catelyn stark #brienne of tarth #lancel lannister #margaery tyrell #sansa stark #davos seaworth #joffrey baratheon #robb stark

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jaeedraszaerysz · 11 months

Text

YOU CANT EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED ☆ JOFFREY BARATHEON

Masterlist

Warnings: joffrey obviously, swearing, mentions of murder and war, mentions of incest.

Summary: being joffrey baratheons cupbearer as the last targaryen in Kings landing was bound to be eventful, just not in the way that pleases you. Until...

Notes: reader is FEMALE also to fit in with the context of this fic, joffrey is around 17-18 and the reader is 19 ish making her 6 years younger than viserys and 4 years older than daenerys in season 1

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Being born a targaryen was like a game of Russian roulette. You were either blessed with great kindness and gentleness or cursed with madness and cruelty. In your case, it had been the former thankfully.

According to the maesters and other occupants of Kings landing you had been the most peaceful of the three targaryen babies to have been born of aerys II, the mad king. You had never cried or wailed or screamed, only smiled and attempted to befriend any lord, lady, knight or servant who came to cross your path.

But when the rebellion came and your father was dethroned and executed by jaime lannister your life had been flipped. Your brother rhaegar was dead along with all of his children, your other brother viserys and your mother, pregnant with another targaryen had fled, leaving you.

You didn't know why. You were still only a child of 3. No one else seemed to know either. So, Robert baratheon, the new king of the seven Kingdoms, decided to keep you. You were to be raised in Kings landing by a nurse and tywin lannister, having worked on your father's council before his death, made sure that you were educated properly.

By the time you had turned ten years of age, it was almost that your taragryen lineage had been forgotten, except for the obvious snowy hair and violet eyes. But no one that actually mattered seemed to pay attention to it any more.

You had grown close to cersei lannister in your teenage years, despite her being almost twenty years older than yourself. She was nice to you and as you grew, so did her eldest son, Prince joffrey. And then her others, princess myrcella and Prince tommen.

You were a bright girl, smart and kind. You had even been known to summon a smile from the Knight commonly referred to as the hound, sandor clegane. However, you had very little friends and were often seen wandering around or sitting by the flowers in the gardens, staring out into the sea or the city below.

By the time you had turned ten and seven you were truly a sight to behold, having inherited the targaryen beauty of your ancestors. But, as the small council came to realise that marrying off the only targaryen in westeros to a rich or powerful lord may not have been the most amazing idea, the king decided to appoint you as joffreys cupbearer.

You were good for the job, you listened attentively, you were smart and quick. And most importantly there wasn't anything distinct about you that joffrey could complain of and have you removed for.

So that's what became of you. You became his cupbearer and followed him around the red keep, accompanied him on his hunts or his short journeys and poured his wine, brought him his food, or anything else he asked for. Of course you were not immune to his cruelty, the opposite actually. He often mocked your unnatural eyes and Strangely perfect competition, he called you a witch, trying to enchant the castle and accused you of whoring about with the knights although you had never been with anyone.

He overworked you and reprimanded you but you were always there to listen, happy to be given a chance. He noticed this and it aggravated him. To see someone who was supposed to be miserable so joyous at the idea of bringing the king his meals and wine and suffering his abuse day and night for the rest of his or her life.

It confused him, how he had his ways so easily with you but not through fear, anger or blackmail, but through pure loyalty and gratitude that your life had been spared and you had been given a chance and something other than death or imprisonment.

He wasn't stupid. He heard the Lords and ladies whisper as you walled behind him. He heard the knights mock as you passed by. Eventually it grew to anger him slightly whenever your name was put down or insulted.

Only he was allowed to do that. And that in mind, joffrey became rather possessive of you in a way.

You listened to him rant. Listened to his drone on about his parents or the peasants or his siblings. About the food and the weather and the sheets. About everything.

And that is how you ended up here, stood in his chambers, listening to him speak of the lady sansa stark and his new betrothal to her. And listening to him rave about how he was still expected to marry the traitors daughter. And you knew ned stark was no such a man, and you were sure he did to, but you listened all the same.

He paced quickly around the room, hands behind his back, until he was called for a meeting of the small council. He was quite busy as of late, what with stannis baratheons army, renly baratheons army aswell now. And the north's new rebellion, robb stark, son of the late ned, proclaiming himself king in the North and marching closer by the day.

Joffrey was the king now, and he was much more cruel as of late, and you thought about it on your way back to your chambers that night. They had been decent enough to give you a separate room in the servants quarters, what with your family name and the risks of you forming alliances that had become more prominently discussed in the recent months you had noticed.

You had heard that viserys was marrying off your sister to the dothraki khal in exchange for an army but the conversation was dropped a while ago.

You had changed into your nightgown and were now stood, brushing your hair gently and staring out of your window to the crashing waves below. They calmed you, but that calm was interrupted by a harsh collection of violent knocks at your door.

You had set aside the brush and quickly gone to answer. Noticing it was joffrey which was unusual as he always sent someone for you, never venturing anywhere near the servants end of the castle.

"Whatever is the matter, your grac-"

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his head into your neck. He held you in an embrace and you were stunned for a moment, eyes wide and staring at sandor clegane who stood across the hall and shrugged and you.

You had slowly and anxiously returned the hug, moving your hand gently up and down his back as he slowly began to cry. It was almost silent hut you could feel him shaking.

"Your grace, do you-" you let out a breath. "Do you want to come in and sit for a moment?"

He nodded into your shoulder and you guided him into your room, ignoring the silent laughs from the hound as you closed the door, sitting joffrey down on your bed, he rested himself against the headboard, on the side closest to the window.

You had quickly grabbed him a cup of water and offered it to him, he took it and you stood infront of him cautiously.

"Are you alright, your grace?" You asked quietly.

He stopped his slow crying for a moment and looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'm a terrible king. I don't know what to do about all the stupid Lords and ladies constantly wanting my attention. I don't know what to do about uncle renly or uncle stannis, about robb stark or my mother or anything."

Your face softened with sympathy for the boy king slightly as you replied.

"You are no such thing, your grace. War is a strange and chaotic thing, no one ever really, truly knows what to do. You're handling it well I'm sure of it, your grace."

He looked down into his lap and them out if the window and into the dark sky.

"Do you really think so?"

"I do, your grace."

He paused and and studied your face, your beautiful eyes and hair, your skin and lips, your figure and everything else about you.

"Why are you nice to me? I am nothing but cruel to you and yet you are happy to serve me. You listen and you don't tire of me. Why?"

"Because, your grace," you spoke softly. "I cannoted ever repay the generosity your family had shown me and I do not find it a chore to listen to you. I do not have any friends, I do not have people to speak to for no one ever wants the risk of speaking to the mad Kings Daughter. But you, your grace, you speak to me, about everything. About your problems, about your feelings. You don't see me as the targaryen girl, you see me as your cupbearer. Nothing more, nothing less, your grace."

You say nervously on the end of your bed, gazing at him. He gestured for you to sit closer and so you shuffled up the bed until you too were leaned against the headboard.

"Your grace, it is improper for someone such as yourself to be laying in such a room, are you sure I cannot escort you back to your chambers, get you some food or some wine?"

He didn't not reply, he just yet again stared out of the window.

"I think of you as much more than that you know." He mumbled.

"I'm sorry, your grace?" You asked, confounded by the statement.

"I think of you as much more than just my cupbearer. Much more."

"Your grace, i am afraid I do not understand quite what you are implyi-"

He lent forward slightly as cupped your check with his hand, his beautiful brown eyes staring into your own vivid, violet ones. He tinged his head slightly and kissed you.

His lips were soft and warm, his kiss gentle. Not at all like you had expected. He pulled away slowly, still keeping eye contact.

"Your grace, i-"

"Joffrey."

"I, I'm sorry i-" he placed a finger over your lips, shushing you softly.

"Just joffrey."

And he kissed you again, this time much more passionately, your lips moving in sync with each other and your heartbeats rising, bodies getting closer and closer.

And that is how you stayed until the morning when cersei found you both, but she never said a word, to either of you, instead choosing to leave quietly.

As she walked back down the corridor, she was joined by tyrion lannister and she looked down at him.

"Well that certainly was not expected to happen any time soon." He stated.

"Well, dear brother, you can't expect the unexpected, can you?

#joffrey baratheon #joffrey lannister #game of thrones #got imagine #joffrey baratheon x reader #joffrey #game of thrones x reader #imagine

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justagirlwholikesadam · 1 year

Text

The Wolf Among Men

WARNING: RATED M, smut, death, mention of almost SA, act of violence, Themes of Religion, alcoholism

A/N: This will be my first GOT fanfic, I will being going along with the plot on the show with my own twist. I haven’t read the books so if I get something wrong or the plots are all over the place. Let it be. My story my rules. Please note comments are welcome. Enjoy! -L

Summary: Jon was told that his eldest sister, Y/n arrived to Castle Black. He was surprised when Y/n arrived with The Hound, Sandor Clegane.

Word Count: 11.9K

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Chapter Two

Months Later After The Fall

A cup of ale was given to Sandor by his father when he killed his first man. Sandor was only 12 and he gagged at the taste of it but his father told him to drink up since he was a man now. Sandor did what any 12 year old would do. He listened to his father and drank it all. He was 15 when he noticed the drinking was the only thing that helped him sleep. It helped him ease the nightmares he had of his older brother. As Gregor grew, the maids in their house disappeared along with a sister, he doesn't recall.

He has a rough time remembering anything before Gregor did what he did. It was like he had lost his memory after that but it came back in nightmares. Nightmares of his older brother shoving his face in the fire, horrible screams and sounds of a girl choking echoing in the hallways of their home. The news of his father’s death was said to be a “hunting accident”. When he was told of his father’s death it scared him because Gregor stood behind the maesters with a stone cold stare. No one mentioned the blood stain on Gregor’s trousers, no one even dared to say what they were thinking.

The drinking helped Sandor sleep and not care. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him anymore, not like when he was a kid. He didn’t mind the names or the snickering behind his back but he did have his moments. Sandor was just 16 when he was in a tavern minding his business and drinking by himself. No one dared to bother him but a drunken knight decided to bully him. He ignored the warning and walked towards Sandor shouting about his face. The knight was so drunk out of his mind that he didn't notice Sandor had a knife in his hand. The people in the tavern screamed while others stared in horror as Sandor rammed his knife at the knight's face repeatedly.

Sandor was on him, pinning him to the ground with his weight. He noticed the blood and chunks of brain had stained the white cloak the knight wore. Sandor scoffed at the sight of it. White cloak, a knight’s garment. The white signifies purity, virtue, and innocence. Knights are supposed to be good but all the knights around him were pieces of shit who used and abused their powers on the weak.

Being a knight was a dream for him when he was small. That dream broke and disappeared when Gregor was knighted by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Sandor didn't understand it.

“How can he be a knight?’ He asked himself. His brother is a monster, evil with legs and a face.

The awful truth that Sandor learned was knights protecting the good and the unfortunate were all fake. In the real world it’s the strongest who survives, the strong prey on the weak to live. You need to kill to survive.

Sandor stopped when the knight's head was completely smashed. He wiped his knife on the knight’s cloak and rose up from the ground. He ignored the people around and sat back down to finish his cup of ale.

He learned that day he was pretty good at killing and he liked it.

When he became Joffrey’s guard, he started drinking more. Since he was paid well, he drank wine. Wine made him feel good and yearn for a woman's touch. He would spend his nights at a whore house where some rejects from little finger’s establishment stayed. He drank until he couldn’t feel the tip of his fingers anymore. He drank until he couldn’t see the woman’s face and paid for her time. He kept it simple and quick. Bend them over then have them bring him a pitcher of wine when he finished.

He would wake up the next day with a slight headache and cotton mouth but he slept the entire night without any nightmares. His eyes would open and stare up at the multicolor fabrics hanging from the ceiling of the establishment.

Sandor never told you but when he first talked to you when you arrived at King's Landing that night he drank and he dreamt for the first time in a long time. He dreamt of you and your sweet smile that you had given him when you saw him. The dream became a nightmare when Gregor appeared behind you. Gregor was going to kill you and Sandor without a thought grabbed his sword.

He shot up in a sitting position when he sliced Gregor’s throat wide open in his dream. It was the first time in his life he had dreamt or even thought of killing Gregor. Sandor was now bigger and stronger. He had more experience in fighting now. He knew if he tried his hardest he might be able to win against his brother. The only thing that was lingering on his mind was, when will it be his chance to get his revenge on Gregor.

Sandor found out that he might be able to defeat his brother when he protected Loras Tyrell from him during the Hand's tournament. A rush of energy came at him when he saw Loras on the ground, his brother was about to strike the younger man.

He did hold his brother off and King Robert commanded them to stop. Sandor was the only one who obeyed and kneel, showing his loyalty to the King. Loras thanked him graciously as Sandor stood up. He raised Sandor’s arm up declaring him as the winner. He saw you quickly rise from your seat beside your father and clapped for him. You cheered his name loudly, not caring who was looking at you. The crowd followed and cheered for him as well, making him tense up since these were the same people who ridiculed and despised him are now cheering for him.

He made a decision as he walked up the steps to take his place behind Joffrey. He was going to kill his brother and get revenge.

Sandor started to gain consciousness and he thought he was back in the whorehouse. He will wake up like always and see the multicolor fabrics hanging above him. Sandor opened his eyes and stared up and saw a wooden ceiling. He let out a hiss when he tried to get up, he couldn't do it. He looked at his surroundings for a moment. He realized he was inside of a wooden shack. Everything came rushing back in his mind at once. He fell off a cliff and you were crying over him as you tried to pick him up.

Y/n. He thought to himself. He let out a grunted as he tried to get up again but it was no use.

“You’re up.” Sandor's eyes widened at the sound of a man’s voice. He tried to sit up on the bed to see who it was but fell back down on the makeshift bed. An older man with a beard walked inside the shack with a small bowl and a cup.

“Y/n?!” Sandor called out in a raspy voice.

He looked down at himself to see his clothes were gone. He wore a brown tunic shirt. He was bare from the waist down under thick blankets.

“Wow! Relax.” The man said putting the bowl and cup on the small table near the makeshift bed when he saw Sandor trying to get up again.

“Where is Y/n?!” Sandor shouted as the men sat down on the bed with his hands in front of him showing Sandor he meant no harm.

“She’s eating supper now. She’s done with work.” The men helped Sandor sit up as he spoke.

“What?” Sandor said not understanding as he leaned against the wall.

“You should eat too.” The men said, grabbing the bowl.

“She will be happy that you’re awake. Poor thing was starving and tired. Told her I’ll feed you today.” Sandor watched as the man took the spoon from the table, he was about to feed it to him like he was a baby.

“I can fucking do it.” Sandor said, grabbing the bowl from the man’s hand. The man laughed while Sandor gave him a glare.

“She said you were a mean one.” Sandor quietly moaned as he drank the warm soup straight from the bowl. He was starving.

“Who are you? What’s this place?” Sandor asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m Ray. Some people call me brother Ray. We are here building a sept in the hills. We found Y/n in the mountains. Poor thing was crying and asked us for help. She offered to work in exchange.” Ray said with a smile as he looked around the small shack. Sandor frowned.

“What is she doing? What kind of work?” Sandor asked. Millions of thoughts were running inside of his head. Sandor didn’t believe Ray. He knew men like him. Sandor has always been good at reading people. Ray seemed to catch on what Sandor was implying and frowned.

Ray shook his head. “No! We really are building a sept. At first she would cook and clean. Clean clothes of the people here but some people thought it wasn’t fair because food and shelter was being given to you.”

“Y/n is something. She yelled at men twice her age and said she will work with them, cutting trees down just to shut their mouths.”

Ray rose up then made his way to the table filled with bowls and candles. Sandor watched as Ray started to mix some powder and made a paste. Sandor continued to finish his soup as Ray kept talking.

“Never seen a girl her size cut down wood before. I think she has been through a lot, she hasn’t said much about herself. Every time she’s chopping wood she said she imagines it’s the face of the people who hurt her.”

Sandor was lost for words. You haven’t left him. You kept your word and stood by him. You worked for him. Sandor felt his heart was about to burst as Ray kept talking about you.

“You gave us all a fright.” Ray said as he lifted the blanket up to Sandor’s knee. Sandor saw his leg was straightened out. He can see the nasty large scar across his knee. His knee bone was pushed back in and he was stitched up. The stitches looked red and angry but Sandor was happy about that. It means the wound is fresh and healing. Sandor held his breath for a moment when he tried to move his toes. Ray let out a chuckle when he moved them.

“Scared the fuck out of Y/n when you started to move them in your sleep.”

“You were in and out of death so many times. Never seen a woman pray so much like Y/n did by your bedside.” Ray said as he carefully spread some of the paste on Sandor’s knee. Sandor tried to keep a moan of relief when he felt the cool paste on his stitches.

Ray wrapped some cloth around his knee and covered him back up with the blanket.

“I’m glad you’re up.” Sandor watched as Ray grabbed the empty bowl from his hands and started to walk out of the shack. He looked over his shoulder at Sandor and told him he will tell you that he's up.

Sandor was left alone and he stared at his hands on his lap trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’s alive thanks to you. He looked up at the sound of someone running. He froze when he saw you by the door. You stared at him with wide eyes and a big smile. You looked different. You wore dark trousers with a beige tunic instead of your usual dress. You looked slimmer, and you looked like you had been out in the sun for too long.

“Sandor.” You cried as you walked inside and sat on the bed close to him. Sandor didn’t say anything when you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and hugged him.

“I’m so happy you’re up.” You said looking at him, cupping his face with your hands. Sandor tried not to cry, he really did but you were there in front of him, alive and he was alive too.

“It’s okay, my love.” You whispered as you kissed his cheeks. You caressed his burned cheek while he looked at you.

“Thank you.” He softly said.

“Thank you.” He repeated as tears ran down his cheeks.

He kissed you gently and laid his forehead against yours. You pulled away when you heard him let out a sharp breath, he bore a grimace look on his face.

“Are you in pain? Ray said he put the paste on your leg. I’ll give you some milk of the poppy.” You said leaning forward to the table, grabbing a small vessel and the cup Ray had bought.

“Where did you get that?” Sandor asked as he watched you put a few drops in his cup. Medicine is not cheap.

“Ray took me to a town a few miles away. I have been chopping wood and selling them there. I got enough money for medicine.” He was about to take the cup from your hands when he froze at the sight of them.

He grabbed one of them when he noticed the bandage wrapped around your palm. Your hands were different as well. Not the hands of a lady anymore. Your hands were rough and you had dirt underneath your fingernails.

“It’s just a cut. It’s healing.” You told Sandor as you gave him the cup and removed your hand from his grasp.

“Let me see.” You shook your head.

“Drink first. Please.” Sandor didn’t say anything.

“Please. I’m alright.” You said pushing the cup towards his mouth. Sandor didn’t want to anger you so he did what you told him. He was ashamed that you had to work to take care of him.

You told him about Ray and the group as you helped him lay back down. You told him how Stranger was outside as well. You didn’t have the heart to sell the horse and his sword, you thought if Sandor died then Stranger and the weapon would be a reminder of him. However you did have to sell his armor for a maester to come all the way up the hills to check up on him.

Sandor was drifting into sleep from milk of the poppy when he noticed he took almost the entire makeshift bed. He wanted to ask where you slept. He was going to ask when you started to hum softly to him. He felt your hands on his head, you brushed his hair with your fingers as you continued to hum.

Sandor got his answer in the middle of the night when he woke himself up from a cough. He opened his eyes slowly, still feeling the effects of milk of the poppy. He saw a small candle on the table near him burning. He looked around as best he could. He stopped when he saw you on the ground sleeping. He wanted to get up to get you in bed with him but he winced at the pain in his knee. You were in the corner with a pillow under your head and a blanket over you. Sandor can see you were holding one of his knives in your hand while you slept.

He tried to call your name out, trying to fight back the sleep but he lost and shut his eyes. Days passed and Sandor got better and stronger. He was in a foul mood every time you left for work and came back. You spoke to him telling him you did this for him because you love him.

“I know you would have done the same for me if I was the one in that bed.” You told him. Sandor nodded as he agreed with you.

Sandor tried to have you sleep in the makeshift bed with him. He had shouted until you laid with him every night. As soon as you heard him snoring, you carefully got off. You didn’t want to tell Sandor the real reason why you chose to sleep on the ground. Some nights you would sit on the ground by him and stare at the entrance of the shack.

Days turned into weeks and Sandor was finally able to walk with the help of Ray and a teenager boy named James who wasn’t afraid of him.

Sandor already had a reputation among the group and they weren’t to kin at the idea of the tall man with half of a burned face around them. Sandor walked a few steps before sitting back down. Ray told him it was normal and to have him walk more to get the strength of his legs back up again.

Sandor was up and walking in no time. The sept you were helping build was done. Sandor and you went with Ray along with his group to another place to do the same. Since the group changed location it wasn’t too far from the shack. Each morning, Sandor and you rode Stranger to work then back again in the afternoon to the shack to rest.

You ignore the talk and the stares people did whenever they saw Sandor and you. Sandor impressed many when he was able to carry a log by himself, a log that took at least five people to carry. Sandor began to chop wood and he made you get a job that didn’t require so much manual labor. You didn't want to at first, since you got used to the work but Sandor pleaded with you. You started to help the other woman with the cooking and the cleaning.

You ignored the snickering you heard behind your back from the women who talked about you being with Sandor. Some were afraid of him, while others were repulsed by his face and some were jealous of you for having a man like Sandor. Tall and strong is what you heard from them and for the first time it made you feel jealous.

Sandor and you have been traveling alone for so long that there weren't other people to make you feel that way. You knew Sandor wasn't like that, talking to other women or even looking at them. Even on the road and going inside of a tavern he never once looked at women.

The woman in the group wore dresses while you wore trousers and a shirt that Ray had given you. Your hair that was once brushed and braided is now tangled and greasy from being out in the sun and working. Insecurity and jealousy seeped into your body.

You were unaware that Sandor heard how the men spoke about you. Just like you, Sandor knew the rules not to fight and not to steal from each other. Sandor didn’t want to be the reason to be kicked out of this place. It was good, no one knew who both of you were, both of you had somewhere to stay and had food.

Sandor was surprised when Ray came around the corner and spoke out when he heard one of the men start to speak about you. “Perhaps if you pray hard enough to the gods, they will bless you with a lass like her. Hardworking and pretty.”

Ray looked over to Sandor who walked away to get another log.

“Y/n didn’t tell me what happened to you.” Sandor heard Ray behind him following him deeper into the woods to his chopping area.

“It was a fight.” Sandor replied.

“Wow, I don’t want to see what the other guy looks like.”

Sandor shook his head. “It was a woman. A tall, big fucking woman.”

Ray chuckled. “She wanted to take Y/n away from me.”

“Well, I’m glad she didn’t.” Ray walked closer to Sandor. “Me too.” Sandor said as he sat on a log stretching his leg.

“Many people say you came back from the dead. Some said it was fairies that healed you.” Sandor scoffs at the idea of little fairies over him.

“I know Y/n helped but it was up to you to survive. What made you survive? I didn’t have the heart to tell Y/n that you were done for. No man can come out of the state you were in.” Ray said.

Sandor thought about it for a minute, why was he still alive? Perhaps it was for you, to keep you safe. Before you, he was alive to have his revenge on his brother. “Hate or maybe I’m just a hard fucker to kill.”

Ray shook his head not believing him. “No, there's a reason. Gods aren’t done with you yet.”

“Heard that one before.” Sandor said as he remembered Beric telling him that the gods wanted him alive before leaving with you after his win. Sandor didn’t believe it at all.

“Why would the gods want me alive? I have done hateful shit before. You don’t know the things I have done.”

“If you are what you say then why is she with you?” Ray said, looking behind Sandor.

Sandor followed his gaze to see you walking towards them along with two bowls in your hands. “I believe you're alive for a reason.” Ray said, patting Sandor on the shoulder then left.

Ray greeted you as you walked past him.

“Hey.” You told Sandor as you passed him a bowl with rice and meat.

“Thanks.” Sandor said while you took a small leather wineskin off your shoulder.

“Your favorite, water.” You told him before giving it to him. Sandor snorted a chuckle, he was telling you this morning how he would chop every fucking tree in the forest for some ale.

You used your fingers to grab the meat and rice as Sandor took a drink of water. It’s been a while since he had ale or wine. He was alright without it just as long he was with you, he thought to himself. He closed the wineskin and looked down at the bowl. He was still thinking about those men talking about you. It wasn’t the first time he heard men speaking about you. In King’s Landing, he saw how men looked at you. He heard what the knights and lords said about you. The Lords were all over your father asking for your hand but your father kept telling them how you were already promised to another. He never found out who it was though and he didn't want to think of it. Another man with you, another man touching you and looking at you. He was able to give one look at the knights and scare them off but he didn’t know what to do about the men here.

He didn’t want to cause a problem. He didn’t want both of you to get kicked out. Ray seemed nice enough. Ray never looked at you like you were a piece of meat.

Sandor trusted Ray with you, he knew why Ray helped you heal him. It was after a tale Ray told to the group one afternoon. Ray had told the group that he had gotten into a fight when he was still in his misfit ways with a couple of smugglers. At the end, the smugglers sought out where he lived and killed his daughter because he wasn't there.

“ I can not bring back my daughter. I regret that fight so much but I know I can make a difference now. I can bring back a bit of good into this world.”

His story was cut short when three men rode into their camp looking for trouble. Sandor had gently pushed you behind him when the men started to stare at the woman of the group. He knew who they were, they were from the brotherhood and followed the Red God. They didn't recognize him, Sandor had longer hair that touched his shoulders and was much lighter in color. The beard that he kept short was now fuller. You hid behind Sandor, your forehead was pressed against his back as you listened to the men asking Ray if they had any gold or weapons. You gripped the back of his shirt when the leader of the men told Ray to be careful because the night is dark and full of terror.

Sandor didn't sleep that night, he stayed up with his sword in his hand in case they came. Ray told him that he wouldn't fight them because violence is a disease. He kept looking at the entrance of the shack. Sandor knew Ray was right about violence being a disease but it was the only way to make sure you were safe.

Ray helped you because you remind him of his daughter. Ray couldn't do anything to help his daughter but he was going to make sure to help you and he did. Sandor was alive, breathing and walking again.

Sandor swore to himself that he was going to do the same as you did for him. You helped him, you saved him from death. He wasn't going to let anything or anyone hurt you. You showed how much he means to you. You showed him everyday how much you loved him.

“I love you.” He mumbled without a thought. His eyes widened at his confession, he quickly turned away from you.

“What?” You asked when you heard Sandor mumble something. You were too busy eating to hear what he said.

Sandor shook his head and kept eating, avoiding your gaze.

“I want you to tell me if anyone is bothering you. Alright?” Sandor finally spoke after a few minutes. You looked over at him with a strange look. Did he find out?

“What are you talking about?” You asked softly, trying not to panic.

“I heard some of the men talking about you.” Sandor said, looking over you as you wiped one of your hands on your pants. You let out a small sigh of relief.

“I don’t know if I��ll need you to save me. I’m pretty good with an ax.” You said, giving him a smile. He didn't need to know, you thought to yourself. It was over, he’s safe. He is alive, that's what matters.

Sandor grinned at you. You were good that he had to admit, he had seen you chopping wood. At one point he had to leave when he got a hard on from just watching you. He got aroused by the look on your flushed face, the sweat dripping down your forehead and neck. He liked it, it reminded him whenever you rode him. Your body would be covered in sweat as you moved your hips, your breasts bouncing. Your sweaty face reminded him of the time he pounded you from behind. Your pretty face looked at him over your shoulder mewling with each thrust.

“The women talk about you too. You know?” You said as you brought a piece of meat to your mouth. Sandor shook his head at you as he ate.

“He’s the tallest man I've ever seen in my life. He’s so strong.” You said mimicking in a high pitch voice making him chuckle.

“Pretty soon I'll have to swing my ax to keep them away from you.” Sandor chuckled looking at you. He stopped when he noticed you looked a bit annoyed. This was new for Sandor, he had never seen this side of you before. You’re jealous and he didn't like seeing you like this. He didn't know what to do to make you stop feeling this. Sandor wasn't good with emotions, he knew that. You were the first person to ever make him feel something that wasn't hate. He was nervous about what to say, last time the words came out of his mouth without a thought. Those words back in the barn, he regretted because of the face you made when he mentioned your family.

In his mind he wanted to say, stop being stupid. I don't want those broads.

“There's only you, Y/n. I only want you.” The words that came out of his mouth washed away the insecurity and jealousy you felt. You looked at Sandor and saw he was being sincere, you looked away licking your lips.

“Y/n. Look at me.” Sandor spoke, you looked over at him. He had gotten closer to you.

“I only want you. You’re all I want.”

You bite your bottom lip as Sandor kisses your cheek. It’s been so long since you felt him, since you felt his touch. You wanted him so bad but you knew he had to heal. You didn’t want to hurt his knee but your fingers weren't the same as his, your cunt was used to his rough and large fingers. Your body craved his touch and cock. You yearned for him. It’s been months without him.

You felt Sandor kiss the corner of your lips. You dropped your bowl to the ground to kiss him on the lips.

Sandor dropped his bowl as well to grab you, he wanted to be closer to you. He wanted to feel you. “Are you sure?” He heard you asked him as you kissed his neck.

“Aye.” He said standing up from the log, pulling you up to follow him further into the forest. He didn't want anyone seeing you.

“You?” He asked. You nodded, “Yes please” He grins at your response.

He found a large enough tree to keep both of you hidden behind. He pushed you gently against the tree as he leaned down to kiss you on the lips. His hands grabbed your ass, squeezing it over your trousers. You let out a moan as he nipped your neck.

“Sandor.” You cry his name. His large fingers made their way to the rope tied around your trousers to keep them from falling down. He untied it and pulled your trousers off along with your boots.

He let out a moan when he came close to your mound, he kissed it. Enjoying the scent of your musk. He was about to eat you out when you begged for his cock.

Sandor felt himself grow hard at your words. You told him how much you missed his cock, and you missed how he fucked you. He quickly pulls his own trousers down, jerking himself a bit.

Sandor manhandled you and picked you up roughly. Your back was against the tree, legs wrapped around his waist. Your fingers digging into his shoulder as he slipped himself inside of you. He groans as he feels your cunt on him. You were so tight, it’s been so long since he felt you. He was shocked how wet you were. You were wet just by kissing him.

He held you tight as he thrust inside of you. He held your ass in one hand while his hands held onto the tree.

“F-F-uc-k.” You cried into his neck as he fucked you. You heard Sandor grunting as he thrust into you hard and rough.

“You’re mine.” Sandor moaned into your ear. “You hear me?”

“Mine.” Sandor said as he felt you clench around his cock by his words. He hated hearing the other men talk about you. Didn’t they know that you were with him, that he’s yours and you’re his.

“You like that? Knowing you’re mine. You’re fucking mine.” Sandor grunted as he felt you cum around his cock.

“Yes.” You moan as he kept fucking through your orgasm. You held him tight as he reached for his climax. He let out harsh grunts against your neck as he fucked your cunt. Thrusting in and out rapidly, the sound of your ass hitting against his thighs can be heard.

“You little minx.” Sandor tells you as he feels your wetness dripping down his balls. Letting out a whine when you felt your clit against his stomach. The feeling of his happy trail rubbing against your throbbing clit made you lightheaded. You were about to cum for a second time.

“Say your mine.” Sandor cries out about to cum.

“I’m yours. I’m your woman.” You tell him out of breath.

“Only yours.”

You kissed him harshly and sloppy. Your tongue slipped in his mouth as you moaned. Sandor bit your bottom lip when he felt you cum again on his cock. He grunts as he pushes you completely against the tree. His hand leaves your ass to hold both of your legs open as he cums deep inside of you.

You ignored the pain of the tree bark digging your back as you felt Sandor cumming inside of you. You felt him thrust softly making you whine while he grunted.

“Fuck, Y/n.” Sandor says as he holds you. He moans as he kisses your neck. He held you against the tree for a moment. He held you, enjoying your warmth and scent. He had to stop to admire you. Your eyes were bright and your lips turned upwards in a smile.

He wanted to remember you like this. He wanted to say those three words again so you could hear him but fear filled him. What if he said it and he would wake up in that place again. He didn't want to wake up to see the multicolor fabrics on the ceiling.

He winces as he pulls out from you softly so he doesn’t hurt you. He brings you down to your feet. You lean against the tree, your cunt throbbing and legs wobbly. Sandor quickly pulls his pants up. He grabs his handkerchief from his back pocket to kneel down in front of you.

He looks up at you as he wipes his cum dripping out of you, he’s so tender as he wipes. Grabbing your discarded pants, he helps you to put them back on.

“Thank you.” You said as you sat down on the ground to put on your boots. He waits for you as he catches his breath while leaning against the tree. He looked around for a moment, he hoped no one saw. He knew he was going to kill someone if they mention seeing him with you fucking.

“I missed you.” Sandor heard you say as you got up and walked in front of him.

“Me too.” He said as you leaned against him, hugging him. You laid your head on his chest, he wrapped his arms around you placing his chin on top of your head. Sandor had come to be comfortable doing this with you, hugging you.

He wanted to tell you that you were the first person to ever hug him. He thought what his brother would say if he saw him hugging right now. Gregor, without a doubt would’ve punched him in the face and called him a pussy.

After some time both of you walked back to retrieve the bowls then back to the main camp. You talked to Sandor about what the people from the group wanted to build next.

Sandor nodded when you mentioned their plans, walking back to the main camp to bring the bowls back. You froze when you saw the body of a woman a few feet away from you laying on the ground. You looked over at Sandor who began to look around for anyone else when an arrow was sticking out of her chest.

You quickly began to sprint further into the camp and cried out when you saw the group was dead, all of them. Their throats had been split open, others had an arrow in their chest or in their head.

“Sandor!” He heard you cry out as he walked towards you. You were kneeling over James. The teenager had an arrow in his chest. He was gurling blood out of his mouth as he tried to speak. “They came back.” You looked up at Sandor who’s eyes darkened at his words.

“The men on the horses?” You asked as you held the boy's hand.

“Y-y-ye.” James tried to speak but his eyes closed. You looked up at Sandor and your face fell at the thought of Ray. He was the one who spoke to them.

“Ray.” You shouted looking around. Sandor quickly walked further to find Ray as well. You got up to follow him, you looked ahead to see Sandor standing still in front of the unbuilt sept.

Sandor heard you behind and turned around. “Don’t look.” He told you but you didn’t listen.

You cried as you saw Ray hanging from the half build sept. Sandor continued to stare at Ray. He didn’t deserve to die. He looked away from the body and kept looking around in case the bastards were still around. He had to keep you safe.

“We have to go.” Sandor told you as he grabbed your arm. Sandor needed to take you back to the shack, he will stand guard all night again.

“Aren't we going to find them?” You asked him, making him stop in mid step.

“What?” Sandor asked.

“I want them dead for killing Ray.” You told Sandor as your face grew angry with furrowed brows.

You wanted revenge. Sandor nodded, he wanted the same thing. Ray did not deserve it, not after everything he did for you and him.

“Let’s get our stuff first.” He told you.

Packing as fast as you can while Sandor got Stranger ready to ride, making sure his sword along with his ax was strapped on the horse. You wiped your tears quickly and walked out of the shack. You handed Sandor another pack. Sandor was about to help you saddle when you did it all by yourself. He sometimes forgets that you have changed. You weren’t the same lady that he left King’s Landing with. He noticed a knife strapped by your belt.

Sandor rode behind you on Stranger who let out a neigh as it began to walk out of camp. Sandor knew they couldn’t be far. The wounds on the people were still fresh. It was 20 minutes later when both of you heard people talking.

“Is it them?” You asked Sandor as he got off the horse first a few feet away from. Sandor grabbed his sword.

“Stay on the horse until we know for sure.” Sandor told you before walking towards them.

“Oh shit.” You heard from the other members of Brotherhood without Banners. You looked around to see them staring at you and Sandor.

“Clegane. What the fuck you doing here?” Thoros said, looking at him then at you.

“My lady.” You didn’t respond to him.

“Chasing the men who killed the group that was building the sept. We were helping build it. They killed a friend of ours.” Sandor told him.

“You have friends, Clegane?” Thoros asked, surprised.

“Not anymore.” Sandor snapped back.

“No need to chase.” Beric said then looked back at the three men about to be hanged in front of them.

“They did it. We are going to hang them.” Beric said. You grabbed the reins on Stranger, signaling the horse to walk forward.

“I’m surprised you’re still with Clegane, My lady.” Beric said as you got off Stranger and walked towards them ignoring Beric.

“Who killed him?” You asked the three men.

“Who the fuck killed the man in charge?” You yelled. The left one shouted it was the one in the middle.

“You fucker!!” The middle man shouted as he looked nervously at you and Sandor.

“I want him.” You told Beric who looked shocked.

“Give me this one.” Sandor said, pointing the one to the right since the man was eyeing you.

“My lady.” Beric spoke but you cut him off. “I want him. I’ll slit his fucking throat.” You grabbed your knife from your belt and Sandor was about to swing his sword.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Thoros said to both you and Sandor, stopping both of you.

“It’s the brotherhood's good name-“ Beric said standing in front of Sandor.

“Fuck your name. They are ours to kill. I have killed you once before. I’ll be happy to do it again.” Sandor cut him off quickly and got close to him, staring him down.

“These are our men. We will kill them. Lady Stark, this isn’t you.” You frowned at Thoros.

“These men killed our friend. Ray helped us, feed us and cloth us. These fuckers came and killed him.” You hissed looking back at the middle man who looked like he was about to shit on himself.

“Alright, we will give you two out of respect for your friend.” You looked over Sandor who gave you a nod.

Sandor raised his sword but was stopped by Beric who told him not to chop off a body part. Only hanging. You continued to stare at the man as Sandor cursed them out about being weak and how he would have killed everyone just to kill the three how he sees fit.

You sighed as you pushed the barrel softly so it could be longer for him to die. Sandor did the same, you heard Beric and Sandor talking behind you while the three men hanged to their death. All you did was watch them. Their faces turned red while their legs swung around. Sandor looked over at you when you didn’t move or even flinched when the legs of the middle guy got close to you.

What made you change? He thought. This had to be the first person you killed, right?

“Y/n?” You turned around at Sandor, he gave you a look.

“You alright?” He asked. You nodded.

He watched as you walked back to Stranger, the nod you gave him made him feel unease. He looked back at the middle and started to rip his boots off along with his belt so he could have his sword strap to his hip. He knew both of you would need better supplies for traveling up north. Both of you decided to continue the journey again to see Jon. He took the cape from the man next to him as well. Winter is coming and both of you have to be prepared for the cold.

Beric was kind enough to spare some food for you and Sandor. You kept to yourself as Beric and Thoros spoke to Sandor about the gods bringing them back together for a reason. Thoros looked over you and passed his pouch full of rum towards you. You thanked him with a nod and took a drink.

“What about you?” Beric said, looking over at you. His eyes watched you carefully then at Sandor. He was a bit worried that you had been this long with the hound. He noticed you looked different as well.

“What about me?” You asked, passing the pouch back to Thoros.

“You’re alive. Most highborn ladies aren’t cut out living like this.” You sighed at his words.

Sandor looked at you as you stared at the fire when you didn’t reply back to Beric. His words cut deep into you, you knew if it wasn’t for Sandor you would have died or worse kidnapped and raped. You would have been at the end of the cliffs sitting next to Sandor’s corpse if it wasn’t for Ray.

You shut your eyes as you kept seeing Ray swaying back and forth from the half built sept. You missed him. He was the only one who talked to you when Sandor was still sleeping. He stood by your side whenever you tended Sandor’s wound. He stood up for you when the group threatened to kick you for not contributing more when Sandor was still injured.

You felt so hopeless because you always needed someone to come to your rescue. You wished you could have protected Sandor from Brienne, you wished you could have saved Ray from being hung. You wished you were able to save your brothers, your mother and father. You were so weak and you hated yourself for it.

The only time you felt strong was that night Ray found you in the shack. Sandor was quick to place a hand on your back when you broke down in tears in front of them. Beric and Thoros stood quiet as you wept.

“I’m sorry. I miss Ray.” You told them as you wiped your tears with the back of your hand.

“I would have been dead a long time ago if it wasn’t for him and Sandor.” Beric nodded, giving you a sympathetic look.

“The gods have a plan for you as well. Think about it, you have come so far even with the help of them.” Beric said as he looked over at your shoulder when he noticed a few men from their group noticing you crying. They began to stare at you as they talked among themselves.

Sandor followed his gaze to the group a few feet away from them. Sandor moved closer to you. His legs practically pushed against yours. He was ready to kill any fucker that would come close to you.

“Why don’t you join us? Both of you. We need your help. Something is coming this way. We are part of something larger. We need good people to help us.”

Beric watched as Sandor passed a piece of jerky to you when you finally calmed down. Thoros and Beric shared a look. Sandor Celgane, the hound is being nice.

“I need to go to Jon.” You told them.

“Jon Snow, he’s Lord Commander of the night watch.” Beric said, making you smile at your brother's accomplishment.

“He’s the only family I have left. We were going to see him.” You didn’t know if your sisters were alive, Jon is your last resort.

“We want to go beyond the walls. Let’s travel together since we are headed in the same direction.” He suggested. You let Sandor decide, you knew he would pick what was best.

“Any of your men touch her. I’ll gut them alive.” Sandor said to Beric and Thoros.

“I do the same if they do.” Thoros admits looking between Sandor and you.

Riding alone was something you had to get used to quickly, they had extra horses since the hanging. You missed the heat Sandor gave when he rode behind you. You missed the conversations and being close to him. Sandor had told you that he would prefer to have you ride in front of him where he can see you. Beric rode beside you while Thoros rode next to Sandor. You couldn’t help but laugh as they bickered like children behind you.

Sandor swore that Thoros’ top knot was a wig while Thoros gave Sandor the nickname grouchy old bear. Vulgar insults were thrown at each other.

“Beric?” You called out to the man as you both rode next to each other.

“Yes, my lady.” He answered looking over at you.

“Do you truly believe in the gods?” You question him as you try to ignore the bickering behind you.

“I do. I have been dead 6 times and brought back.”

“I want to tell you something.” Beric looked at you worried but nodded.

“Sandor was hurt. Really bad and I felt his heart stop beating many times but he always came back. There was a woman in the group who said she saw the children of the forest. Everyone thought she was crazy but I didn’t. My father believed they were real but went extinct a long time ago.” You said remember the girl and how her face lit up when telling you stories about them. You felt sad when you remembered seeing her on the ground with her throat slit open. She was the only kind person to you beside Ray.

“She found me one day and said she spoke to them about Sandor. They gave her something. A flower, they told her to make a medicine out of it. A paste.” Beric watched as your eyes got teary.

“I did it and Beric it worked. Sandor had his bone sticking out his knee. I thought the scar would have never healed but it did. If you see it, it’s just a line now. I’m telling you this because I don’t know what to believe anymore. If the gods were real, why was my father, a good man, beheaded? Why was my mother and brothers murdered but I was spared?”

“The gods almost took Sandor away from me. They would have if it wasn’t for the children of the forest.” You said.

Beric was quiet for a second before speaking. “Y/n, it’s alright to feel conflicted about believing in the gods or something else. It’s what makes humans. Who knows why the children of the forest helped or why you were spared. I ask myself the same question everyday, every hour. Why me? Why am I alive? I’ll tell you something, I knew we were going to cross paths again, Clegane and you.” Your eyes widen by his words.

“I saw it in the flames. Us riding together going up north.”

“When I tell you, my lady. That we are part of something I was not bullshitting, maybe it’s the new god, old gods, every fucking god there is and the children of the forest working as one. Now that we are together, we need to find out why. ”

“You know, Ned talked about you a lot.” He spoke after a brief moment of silence.

“He loved you dearly. He always said that the new and old gods bless him with a child like you. The men and I didn’t think anything of it at first. We just thought it was because you were his first daughter but seeing you now alive after everything. I believe him now.” Beric told you, your heart grew heavy at the thought of your father.

“You girls done gossiping? Let’s set up camp?” Thoros shouted from behind.

Sandor and you sat together away from the group for some privacy. Sandor rubbed his hands together as he stared at the small fire a few feet away from him. He wanted to ask you something that's been on his mind for a while now. That night he saw you sleeping on the ground with a knife in your hand. He wanted to know what made you change while he was asleep.

“I can hear you thinking.” He looked over you, seeing you smiling at him as you stretched your legs. You were sitting on a log next to him.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, grabbing his hand that was on his knee.

“Have you killed anyone else?” He asked you, making you pause.

You wanted to lie and say no. You didn’t want to cause any problems but you knew Sandor would just know you were lying. You didn’t want to get him angry.

You nodded, “Aye, I have.”

Sandor turned to you with a look that made you remove your hand from his. You grew worried.

“You were still asleep and some man from the group thought he could have his way with me. He came one night.” Sandor frowned and started to breathe heavily.

“He tried to kill you first and I knew right then and there. If I didn't kill him right away we both would have been dead.”

“I remembered what you told me, aim for the heart. I grabbed a knife where I kept your sword and rammed it into his chest. I didn’t stop until I heard Ray calling out for me.”

“Your hand?” Sandor asked, grabbing your hand to see the healed scar on the palm of hand.

“He tried to kill you. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I grabbed his knife and pushed him.” Sandor traced the scar with his thumb.

“You changed, little wolf. I’m sorry. I wasn’t there to help.”

“Without your teaching, I would have been raped or dead.” You told Sandor.

Sandor was about to say something when you spoke something that was troubling you.

“I liked it. The killing. The look on his face, his blood, the scent of it. The power I felt and all I can see was Joffrey, Ceresi, the Freys, and fucking everyone who betrayed or hurted us.”

“I thought of your brother as well for hurting you.” You told Sandor as you looked at him nervously.

“I know you never told me but I know. Little finger told me. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“What else do you know?” Sandor asked, ignoring the apology.

“Your fear with fire.” You said softly. “I've seen it.”

Sandor nodded as he looked at you. He kinda already knew that you were aware about the story of his face but he didn’t know that you knew about his fear of fire. He tried to keep it hidden from you.

“The night of the battle of Blackwater. Everything was on fire and all I thought about was you. I was so scared that the fires would get to you in the castle.”

“You still want me?” Sandor asked nervously.

“What?!” You asked..

“Do you still want to be with a man who's afraid of fire?”

“Of course, I do.” You told him, going between his legs, kneeling in front of him.

“What about you, do you still want me? I don’t look like a lady anymore or act like one now.” Sandor grinned as he shook your head at your nonsense question.

“Your lady is a murder now?” You added.

“You aren’t! You protected yourself. It’s defense.” Sandor told you tugging you closer to him.

“I’m proud of you.” Sandor said with a nod. Sandor wasn’t a man of many words but he really was proud of you.

“So do I get a reward for keeping my man safe?” You asked as you pulled Sandor down to face you. You kissed scarred cheek making him chuckle.

Your man, Sandor, loves the sound of that.

“What do you want, little wolf?” He asked as your lips started to head towards his neck. He quickly looked at his surroundings making sure no one was looking. Most were already asleep or talking among themselves. He let out a soft whine when you pulled the collar of the tunic shirt down to kiss his chest, your fingers touching his soft chest hair.

“What does my little wolf want?” Sandor asked again as he grabbed your chin making you look up at him. He stared down at you with hooded eyes, you let out a shy giggle under his gaze.

“I want you.” You whispered to him. Sandor immediately leaned down to kiss you on the lips.

Snow started to fall and the air started to get colder as the group made their way up north Each day you got more excited to get to Castle Rock. You longed to see Jon. You wanted to hug him and tell him about everything. You wanted to tell him about Sandor. You hoped Jon knew something about your sisters. You hoped Sansa was alive as well as Arya. You forgave her a long time ago for wishing your death. You couldn’t be mad at her. Sandor took her friend's life but you understood that he did because the King ordered him too.

Death was something you thought a lot about even before Kings Landing. You were glad that your father told you about it when you were younger. He didn’t shield you from the world as your mother shielded Sansa.

“It happens to everyone. We must not fear death. For death comes to everyone.”

You told Sandor the exact same words that your father told you. It was after Joffrey showed you and Sansa your father‘s head on a spike. He found you on the balcony again later that day, Tears rolling down your face as you stared at your father and Sansa’s septon. The older woman was kind even when Sansa wasn’t.

He immediately gave you a handkerchief as he stood by you. You grabbed it, giving him a nod of thank you.

“You’re not afraid.” He said looking at you. You didn’t flinch like Sansa did when she first saw it. You repeated your father’s words to Sandor.

“Your father was a smart man.” You shook your head.

“If he was smart, he wouldn’t have gotten himself killed.” You said looking at Sandor who looked shocked at your words.

“He was up to something and he didn’t tell me. I don’t know why. I would have helped him. Now he’s fucking dead, leaving my sisters and I in this shit hole.” Sandor watched as you turned around to face the wall and played with his handkerchief in your hands.

“You aren’t like the little bird.” You chuckled at him and agreed. You were nothing like Sansa. She was mostly with your mother while you were closer to your father.

“Unlike her I learned how the world works at a young age. I learned what my place would be the moment I bled for the first time. That was the moment I realized that the stories I read when I was a child about kind, merciful kings and honorable knights were really just fantasy.”

Sandor listened attentively as you spoke. You were perhaps the only lady he ever met that spoke the truth and for some reason it made him feel sad. You weren’t a horrible person, you were kind to everyone, especially to him. You deserve the honorable knight and the kind and merciful king. He thought to himself. You’re tough and he liked it but sometimes it bit you right in the ass when it came with Joffrey. Sandor realizes at the moment near the bridge that he likes you and he will protect your sister and you from the monsters living in King’s Landing.

You knew you should have told Sandor something was not right with you as the days passed. You noticed your moonblood hasn’t started for a while but you didn't think anything of it. Your mother has told you when a lady is under tremendous stress and hasn't been eating properly. Her moonblood would often not come.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had a good meal or a good sleep. Sandor would give you his share but you always decline. You knew Sandor needed more than you. He wouldn’t let you lift a finger when both of you joined the group. He hunted for food at dawn with a man who was good with a bow and arrow. He chopped up the woods for the fires every night and morning. Sandor had you stay with Beric and Thoros most of the time.

You haven’t been able to sleep at night as much as you tried to snuggle with Sandor. Sleep wouldn’t come to you. You began to worry as cold chills ran through your body.

“What’s wrong?” Sandor asked when he saw you haven’t eaten your ration yet. You had placed the bowl on the ground as you hunched over near the fire. You tugged the fur cape around you when your body started to shake.

“I’m not hungry.” Beric overheard you and walked toward Sandor and you.

“What do you mean? You haven’t eaten this morning and last night.” Sandor knelt down to get close to your face.

“I don’t feel good.” You whispered as you felt the tears welled up in your eyes. You felt like shit, your body was aching. Your fingers and toes felt like they were going to fall off from the cold.

Sandor stood up and looked over his shoulder to see Beric walking towards him.

“She’s sick.” Sandor told him as Beric got closer.

“Fuck, we past by the only town five days ago. It should be a week until we reach the wall.” Thoros came walking in listening to them.

“I didn’t see a maester in the town we passed.” Thoros told them since he was the one gathering supplies for the group. Sandor let out a sigh, he didn’t see one either but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one for sure.

Sandor came back to you, kneeling down in front of you again as Beric and Thoros stood a few feet behind him.

“Y/n.” Sandor said your name softly trying to catch your attention but you kept staring off into the distance.

“We are a week away from the wall. The town we passed by was five days ago. We don’t know if there is a maester in that town for sure. Are you able to hold on for a week?” When you didn’t answer he grew nervous. He noticed you were dozing off.

“What do you want to do?” He asked, cupping your face trying to get your attention.

“I don’t feel so good.” You mumbled. Sandor felt his stomach drop when he touched your forehead, you had a fever.

“I’ll go back to town and come back as fast as I can.” He said as he got up. His words snapped you right out of your disorientated trance.

“Don’t leave me. Please.” You pleaded, grabbing his hand.

“I’ll be fine. We keep moving forward.” Sandor looked over to Beric and Thoros. You took a deep breath and rubbed your eyes with the palm of your hand. You didn’t want to be away from him.

“Try to eat something.” You shook your head. “For me.” Sandor pleaded.

He grabbed your bowl of warm soup and he sat next to you. Sandor tilted the bowl in your mouth so you could drink straight from the bowl. You didn’t realize you had slept after he fed you. The men from the group watched as Sandor warmed you as you slept, rubbing your arms and back as you leaned against him.

The second day you weren’t able to ride anymore. You were looking ahead when you felt lightheaded. You let go of the reins and fell off your horse onto the cold snowed ground. Last thing you heard before passing out was Sandor yelling your name. The group knew Sandor was at his last wits when you still hadn't woken up on the fourth day. Sandor wiped the sweat off your forehead and kept the fire burning near you. He rubbed your freezing hands with his warm ones. They helped Sandor, carrying you up to get on top of Stranger, Sandor kept one arm around you so you wouldn’t fall off as they kept riding to the wall.

The fifth day, the weather was horrible. The cold wind blew harshly and the horses were growing tired. Beric decided they should set camp when one of the men in the group announced he knew a small cottage ahead. Sandor kept quiet when the familiar cottage came to his view.

Sandor wanted to keep going for your sake but another harsh wind blew and it made him shake. He had given his only fur to you but the fever was growing stronger. Sandor would be up until dawn wiping the sweat from your face. Every hour he would place his head on your chest to hear your heart making sure you were still alive.

He would be anxious as he held you closer to the fire during breaks. His eyes would look away from the flames and stare down at you. He had to be close to the fire to warm your hands and feet. Beric noticed the look Sandor had whenever he was near the fire. He offered to hold you near the fire but Sandor would always tell him to fuck off.

At night he hugged you from behind as he sat on the ground. His back against the tree while the small fire Thoros had made for him was near him. Sandor’s body shook behind you, his forehead pressed against the back of your head. He didn’t want to look at the fire not while he was this close to it.

He knew he had to get over his fear for you, every night he tried his best. He wasn’t going to let you freeze to death so he knew he had too. He tried his best to calm his shallow breathing. He shut his eyes and his mind tends to wander off that night in the tavern where you confessed your love to him.

He didn’t understand why you were sick. Beric and Thoros threw around ideas about your illness. Something you ate, perhaps the water. Ideas were said but in the end they weren’t maesters, they didn't know much. Sandor held you tighter when they got near the cottage. He wondered if the farmer and daughter were still there.

“Let’s stay for the night.” Beric said, the group agreed. Thoros held the door open as Sandor carefully carried you inside. Beric grabbed the blankets from the packs to lay it on the only bed in the room for you.

The rest store the horses in the stable for the night, one by one they enter the small place. Thoros started a fire in the fireplace. He looked over at you in pity as you slept. He shut his eyes and recited a little prayer for you.

“The weather will set us back at least three days.” Beric said as Sandor took off his cape to drape it over you. He sat at the corner of the bed with a sigh.

“I wonder where the farmer went.” Beric said loudly as he placed his pack on the table looking around at the place.

Sandor kept quiet, ‘somewhere safe.’ He thought. At that moment, he looked over to you when you started to moan in pain as you moved around in the bed. Sandor was quick to get up and lean over you. He called your name out as he grabbed your hand but as soon as he did you stopped. Sandor took a deep breath as he tried not to get angry. He felt so useless that he couldn’t help you.

“I can go to the wall now. I’ll take my horse and won’t stop until I bring a fucking maester back here.” Sandor said. He was about to take his cape when Beric shook his head.

“You won’t make it, not in this weather. Be realistic.” Beric told him. Sandor grew mad at his words.

“Then what the fuck do I do?! She hasn't woken up in days. She hasn’t broken the fever. What do I do then? Why don’t you ask your fucking lord of light?” Sandor hissed at him.

“You said we were part of something but she’s dying now.” Sandor cried out as he looked between Beric and Thoros.

“It was probably just a fucking lie you told us. You knew since she’s a Stark that Snow would grant you access to pass through the wall. So you can do whatever the fuck your lord told you to do.” Sandor said.

Sandor didn’t notice but Beric flashed a look of anger. He wouldn’t have done that to Ned’s daughter, he respected him. He respected you.

Thoros looked away from the fire then at Sandor. “Clegane.” He called out.

“Come here. I want to show you something.” Thoros said when Sandor didn’t move Thoros told him, “Don't worry, the fire won’t bite.”

Sandor rolled his eyes as he took a deep breath. If it wasn’t for you being sick he would have killed everyone in this room. He can imagine you trying to calm him down.

“It’s my fucking luck. I ended up with a band of fire worshippers.” He said as he stood up and walked towards Thoros.

“Almost seems like divine justice.” Beric spoke, making Sandor scoff as he stood a few feet away from the fire.

“There’s no divine justice, you dumb cunt. If there were, then you would be dead and Y/n would be well.”

“Look in the flames.” Thoros said Sandor shook his head.

“I don’t wanna look in the damn flames.” Sandor answered back. Thoros sighed.

“You saw me bring him back from the dead after you killed him. Don’t you want to know what gave me the power?”

“Well, I keep fucking asking and no one wants to tell me.” Sandor answered, looking at him and Beric.

“We can’t tell you. Only the fire can tell you.” Thoros told him Sandor rolled his eyes as he walked closer towards the fireplace.

“What do you see?”

“Logs burning.” Sandor blatantly said.

“Keep looking.”

Sandor was thinking about pushing Thoros into the fire for a second but he relaxed and kept looking. He watched as the flames grew. Sandor felt the hair on the back of neck stand up when he saw an image of ice, a wall of ice, the wall that meets the sea. He held his breath when the images started to move.

“Ice, the wall that meets the sea. Thousands of dead people are marching past.” Beric rose up from his seat and walked toward him.

Sandor flinched when the log broke and the fire got bigger. “There’s a wolf.”

Beric and Thoros look at each other. “A big fucking wolf on a mountain staring at me.”

Thoros was about to speak when you started to cough. The men jumped at the sound of it. Sandor quickly walked over to you.

“Y/n!” He calls your name out as Beric hands him a pouch of water.

You felt Sandor’s warm hand on your face as he helped you pour some water in your mouth. You greedily drank the water. You opened your eyes to see Sandor staring down at you worried as he wiped your mouth with his thumb.

“Sandor.” You say his name. “I’m here.”

Sandor can see your chest heaving, you were moaning in pain as you laid back down. He grabbed your hands with his.

“I saw my father.” You croak out.

“And mother and Robb.” You cried to him.

“I miss them so much.” You sob. Sandor bit his bottom lip hard to not cry with you. The sight of you sick and crying. He didn’t like it one bit. He felt so hopeless.

“Tell Jon I love him.” Sandor heard you say. He shook his head and he squeezed your hands.

“You’ll tell him yourself, you hear me. We are almost there.” Sandor tells you firmly. Sandor feels your hands shaking in his. He brings your hands to his mouth and blows into your hands trying to warm you up.

“I love you.” You whisper at him, Sandor freezes when your hands go limp in his grasp. Sandor was quick to lay his head on your chest when your eyes closed. He can still hear your heart beating, it was slow. The group of men stayed silent as they heard soft sniffling from Sandor. They were smart enough not to say anything, for they knew Sandor would kill them for even speaking about you. Sandor laid with you on the bed keeping you warm, he couldn’t stop the silent tears rolling down his face.

Beric was right, the storm caused them to delay for three days. Sandor walked those three days as Stranger pulled the wagon they found in the barn. You laid there with furs and capes given to you by the men of the group. They were 10 miles away when one of the wildlings found them. Sandor had told them who you were and they were quick to let the group in.

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fioiswriting · 5 months

Text

Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread.

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness.

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again.

Haven't you given enough?

Could they not show you mercy?

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers.

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further.

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too.

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please."

And you know he never begs.

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity.

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals.

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket.

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel.

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white.

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire.

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact.

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum.

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath.

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity.

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well.

You can't stop your body from aching for him.

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours.

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes.

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant.

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood.

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed.

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion.

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him.

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass?

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands?

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite.

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons.

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down.

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty.

Now you are plunged into doubt.

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair.

"What are we going to do now?"

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself.

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles.

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream.

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost.

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust.

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two?

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance.

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words.

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it.

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was.

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier.

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor."

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice.

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark.

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you.

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished?

You don't know, but you accept the risk.

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing.

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly.

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

"And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead.

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences.

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything.

Where you were that night when you didn't come home.

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you.

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support.

You know it wasn't his fault.

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder.

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you.

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door.

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time.

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her.

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up.

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again.

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him.

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course.

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time.

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired.

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe.

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks.

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face.

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too.

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt.

You know he is there.

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him.

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat.

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried.

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world.

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward.

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him.

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family.

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this.

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate.

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago.

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?"

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed.

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence.

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old.

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach.

You no longer blame yourself.

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago.

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

"This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there.

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought.

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away.

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory.

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

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