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flowerandblood · 2 months

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Object of Despair (2/3)

[ dark • Aemond x Arryn • widow female ]

[ warnings: dubcon, oral sex, fingering, hate sex, smut, angst, domination, violence, swearing, humiliation, hard chauvinism ]

[ description: Aemond is forced to marry a widow from House Arryn as part of the alliance and support of his brother in the war against the Black faction. After their wedding night, which went completely differently than he imagined, Aemond tries to return to his daily routine. The female character has a specific eye and hair color. Lots of hate sex, violence and chauvinism. ]

Part 1 − Object of Desire Part 3 − Object of Delight Epilogue

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

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Their wedding night was so different from what he had imagined that he was at once horrified, ashamed and intrigued by the person who had been living in the chamber next to his for several days. She wasn't seeking his company or attention, appearing only at suppers spent together with his family.

He knew he could have summoned her to his chamber at any time, and it would have been her duty to come and give him what he wanted, but every time he meant to do so he changed his mind and resigned, frustrated, staring into the light of the fire burning in the fireplace, sitting in front of it on his ornate wooden chair, thinking about that evening.

After what had happened between them it seemed to him that they had both suddenly come down to earth, not knowing what to make of how aggressive and full of rage the rapprochement had been.

He let her go and watched her, breathing unevenly, tying back his breeches, as she immediately covered her buttocks back up with her nightgown − he could see that her whole body was shaking, her lips trembling, her eyes big, her cheeks puffy from the tears that ran down her face.

She calmed down a little after his words and reassurances, but she was still terrified.

She asked him in a breaking, weak, quiet voice if she could now return to her chamber, and although he had originally had no intention of letting her lay in his bed, he felt disappointment at the thought that she had not begged him to let her stay.

Not wanting to show weakness or allow her to think that her presence was something he craved, he allowed her to do so with a nod, and she left without a word, neither bowing to him nor wishing him a good night, quietly opening and closing the door of his chamber behind her.

The next day, during the duel with Criston Cole, he could not concentrate − whenever he caught sight of a shade of blue out of the corner of his eye he involuntarily looked in that direction, thinking it was her in her gown that he remembered so fondly, his heart pounding hard with shame.

He pressed his lips together, turning his head away, snorting, playing with the hilt of his sword in his hand with apparent impatience, seeing some other woman − Cole watched him vigilantly, but not dared to ask either about her or his impressions of her.

Her presence was a taboo for him.

That same day, he walked and spent long hours in the great royal library, despite the fact that he usually instructed his servants to bring thick, old volumes filled with the history of his family and all Essos to his chamber. He hoped to meet her there, to confront her again, this time clearly showing her where she belonged.

To his disappointment, he did not see her until the evening − her blue gown immediately catched his attention, sewn from a soft, lovely fabric it fell heavily over her pleasant, girlish curves, accentuating her figure.

He swallowed hard as he looked at her face and noticed a large red bruise under her eye, which must have been the result of the moment he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head on the table.

She was discussing something in a whisper with Helaena, his sister bent over her with concern, playing with her fingers in a nervous gesture they had all inherited from their mother.

They fell silent when they noticed him − her violet eyes looked up at him, sad, resigned and tired. He thought, feeling a burning embarrassment in his chest, that explaining to her who had the final word on what their marriage would look like was no longer necessary.

Sitting down at the table next to her he knew what awaited him − when his mother walked into the chamber and saw his wife she froze, the smile gone from her face.

She looked at him with pain, with disappointment he could not bear and he closed his eyes, thinking only of the fact that he wanted to sink to the ground.

"Dear sister-in-law, has my brother given you another gift besides, we all pray, his future heir in your womb?" Aegon asked with a sneer. He clenched his teeth, sucking in a deep breath, looking at his brother with grim fury, to which he only smirked, popping a grape into his mouth, biting through it with a loud crunch, amused.

He felt his wife shift beside him − his heart began to beat faster in panic at the thought that she was about to say something to humiliate him, to mock him in front of his entire family to take revenge on him.

"I slipped in the bath, my King." She replied simply, without emotion, regret or anger. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, surprised at the ease with which she lied despite it being obvious that everyone around her had guessed what had really happened.

His brother raised an eyebrow clearly impressed, cocking his head, leaning back in his chair with a loud creak of wood.

"You slipped." He repeated softly and she replied nothing, looking at him calmly.

She and Aegon exchanged glances for a moment − it seemed to him that she feared neither him nor his position.

"I hope no more such unpleasant…accident happens to you, my Lady. Such a pretty face." He hummed, reaching for his cup, but she merely blinked, no grimace passing across her face, as if his words did not bother her at all.

He himself didn't know what he thought of all this, so he decided to go back to his daily routine, pretending that she simply wasn't there, convincing himself that it would be better that way.

He didn't need her, he didn't want her, and her silence and distance were doing him a favour.

He watched her sometimes from afar, seeing her pleasant silhouette glide between the columns as he trained in the courtyard, always headed for the garden, the tree he had read about before she came to King's Landing, and at which he understood the Northerners prayed.

He did not think of it at first, but then he began to notice the gazes of the men and guards fixed on her as she passed them, their smiles, their dreamy gaze as if they were imagining what they would do with her body, the body of his wife, his right and his duty.

It planted a seed of doubt in him − he wondered if perhaps she was meeting her lover there, if he was a source of ridicule in the keep because the servants already knew that she had not been faithful to him, that she had betrayed her crippled husband.

This thought made him furious, but having no proof for his supposition he decided one day to change his plan for the afternoon and watch her through the window − as soon as he caught sight of her figure passing through the cloisters he left his chamber, moving unhurriedly after her.

As he walked between the tall shrubbery, hearing the grass rustling and the birds singing, he tried to focus on other sounds, expecting quiet moans and panting to reach his ears, but heard only his own footsteps traversing the path strewn with small rocks rattling under his feet.

He stopped as he stepped into a small clearing − a large, white weirwood with a disturbing, wrinkled, red face on its trunk looked at him ominously, his wife lying on her back on the grass beneath it, her eyes closed, her dark, loose hair surrounding her head, her hands laid on her stomach.

He stood motionless, wondering if she was waiting for someone, however, she did not open her eyes or look around.

He thought with surprise that she was asleep.

He swallowed loudly, for some reason feeling desire at the sight of her lying silhouette, the fact that someone could see and hear them, that she was his wife, and he could take her here and anywhere else he wished.

He felt how his cock swell in his breeches, his lips tightening into a thin line as the heat spilled in his lower abdomen.

She shuddered and opened her eyes when she heard him move towards her − she lifted herself up on her arm, her lips parted in disbelief, however for some reason she did not rise or try to escape.

He stood, towering over her, feeling his superiority and dominance over her in this position and this situation, his fingers slid down to his breeches, untying them in a calm, nimble manner.

"Come here, wife. I promised you something, didn't I?" He asked, feeling his heart pounding like mad, releasing his aching erection, its pink tip glistening from his precum.

It seemed to him that she was shocked by his insolence, by the fact that he wanted to profane her sacred place, after a moment, however, the expression on her face changed. He parted his lips noticing how she rose slowly, kneeling before him as if to pray, with a light flick of her hand sliding the material of his breeches lower, looking him straight in the eyes.

No fear, no terror, no regret.

He sighed and immediately grabbed her by the hair, wanting to be in control of what was happening when her hand grasped his throbbing, hard cock in her soft palm, squeezing it at the base. He drew in a loud breath as her lips brushed its tip without any hesitation, her pink, shiny tongue licking it encouragingly. He tilted his head back, delighted.

"− fuck − keep going −" He commanded, impatiently pressing her closer to his lower abdomen, watching her with excitement and curiosity, his manhood quivering with desire in her hand, her fingers giving it a calm, assured strokes. He groaned involuntarily when he saw how she slowly slid the fat head of his cock between her lips, the tip of her tongue teasing him lazily.

She sighed as the thrust of his hips slid it deeper into her mouth − he heard her almost choke when it hit the back of her throat, her palate wonderfully wet and warm, her lips clamped down on it, in some natural, subconscious reflex beginning to suck it.

"− that's it − there you go −" He gasped with awe at the perverted sight before him, his fingers entwined in her smooth, soft hair, clenching down on it, controlling himself, however, so as not to cause her too much pain, forcing her head not to escape when his hips with sure deep pushes invaded her throat.

"− did you often satisfy your late husband like this? − it's clear this isn't your first time − little slut −" He exhaled, groaning lowly listening to the loud clicks of her saliva each time his aching cock disappeared again and again deep into her mouth, her hand tightening on it more firmly, making him accelerate his pace.

"− stop − that's enough −" He muttered, having no intention of wasting his seed, wanting to finish inside her, trying to push her away, but he felt her tongue trailing down his length, her free hand clamped down on his buttock, not allowing him to escape − he had to lean against the tree trunk, his other hand holding her hair as his cock thrust into her greedily.

"− f-fuck, fuck, fuckkk −" He hissed out in rage combined with delight and groaned loudly in relief as he felt his semen spill over her palate. He looked down at her, her eyes closed, all around them only the rustle of the leaves, his shaky, loud breaths and the sound of her swallowing, so lewd it sent shivers down his spine.

Slowly she slid it out of her mouth, his cock all slick and glistening from her wetness − her soft, pink tongue licked it for a while longer, teasing and sucking lightly on its tip from which the remnants of his seed still flowed. He stroked her smooth hair, feeling his body still shudder with shivers of pleasure after such intense fulfilment.

"− you look perfect like this −" He gasped softly, his thumb running over her cheek, noticing with some kind of relief that there was hardly a trace left of the bruise from a few days ago.

"− you will spend this night in my chamber − you should try how it tastes sticky with your moisture − don't touch yourself −"

That evening he waited impatiently for her, strangely excited and anxious, pacing around his chamber, absorbed in his thoughts.

He feared that she would humiliate him, show him, by not coming to his summons, that she despised and disrespected him, and then force him to use violence against her again.

He did not want any more accusing glances from his mother directed towards him at the table.

He shuddered as the door to his chamber opened suddenly − he turned over his shoulder and swallowed hard, noticing her figure covered only by her night gown and the cashmere blue shawl thrown over her shoulders − her long dark hair were loose, the look of her violet eyes calm and full of some kind of curiosity.

"− have you touched yourself? −" He asked coolly as the door closed behind her with a loud clatter of wood, turning towards her, walking in her direction with his hands folded behind his back.

"− no −" She replied softly, without any pleasantries or further elaboration, looking straight into his face without a sign of fear or uncertainty.

He intended to regain control of the situation she had taken from him when she decided when he would come and how, all by herself.

Stupid cunt.

"− undress and lie on your stomach −" He commanded in a dispassionate, cool, deep tone, from which her gaze darkened a little, as if clouded, her plump lips parted slightly but no sound came out of them.

She walked past him without a word, heading barefoot towards his bed and climbed onto it, her back turned to him as she sat on his bedding, letting him watch as her fingers slid the fabric of the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall down, revealing her naked, smooth body.

His hands began to undo the clasps of his tunic as she lay on her stomach following his command, her face turned the other way so that he could not see her gaze − the sizzle of the fire in the fireplace all around them, and besides, a complete silence filled with a heavy, stifling tension, a threat of what was about to happen between them.

He felt what he saw in his cock, his manhood expressing painful impatience, throbbing in his breeches at the thought that he intended to come deep inside her that night more than once.

"− did you love that fool? −" He asked indifferently in a voice slightly hoarse with arousal, licking his lips with his tongue in satisfaction to see that her whole body tensed, her fingers clenched on the pillow lying under her head, her back rising in a shuddering breath.

She was silent for a long moment, as if his question had startled her − he watched her vigilantly, pulling his boots off his feet, staying only in his undershirt and breeches as she lay exposed, bare, vulnerable, condemned to him and him alone.

No matter what her answer would be.

She shuddered, as if snapped out of her reverie, as he sat up behind her, his large hand running over and stroking her full, soft buttocks.

"− speak −" He hissed, his hand slapping her bare skin so sharply and quickly that she bounced and squealed. He gave a reassuring stroke to the spot, red and throbbing in the indistinct shape of his hand − involuntarily his lips curved into a teasing smirk as he noticed the moisture glistening between her thighs, her folds pink, throbbing and swollen.

She liked this kind of games, he knew that.

"− I was the furnishings of his household − I loved him as much as his chair, his bed or his table could −" She muttered, and he looked at her, surprised, not knowing himself what he thought of her words. He stared at her face, her gaze fixed on his window, her lower lip trembling as if she was trying not to cry.

He hummed, intrigued, moving forward, placing his hands on either side of her head, his long hair tickling the bare skin of her back and shoulders, making her gasp loudly, her body quivering all over in anticipation and uncertainty, fear and curiosity at what he was about to do.

"− I am, I believe, in his debt − he taught my wife how to suck cock so well −" He whispered quietly with a hint of dark mockery and threat, her lips parted wide in a quiet moan as he slid one of his hands under her stomach, parting her legs with his knee, forcing her to spread them in front of him, his mouth ran over her neck as his fingers sank into her leaking, soft, hot womanhood.

"− but did he fuck you good? − hm? − did he know your weaknesses? − your most sensitive points? −" He murmured, her whole body breathless, her buttocks bucking up towards him and rubbing against his hard cock, moving to the rhythm of his fingers as their tips dug into her tender skin, trailing around her bud, teasing her once in a while, his hand all sticky with her juices.

"− fucking answer me − he fucked you with his fingers 'till you mewled his name? − 'till you begged for his seed? −" He growled, crushing her with the weight of his body, his other hand clamping down on her neck, careful not to overdo it though − she whimpered loudly, writhing beneath him as he quickened his pace, running his fingers over her puffy slit again and again, leaking from her fluids, his fingers invading her fleshy folds with a loud, lewd click, his aching manhood hitting her buttocks.

"− yes − he's gained experience with whores and servants before, just like you −" She hissed out, her breath caught in her throat as his fingers tightened harder around her neck, his two fingers forced their way inside her, stretching her tight, hot, wet walls with sure, deep pushes to which her hips responded greedily with rocking, meeting him halfway.

"− shameless whore − maybe I should care less about your pleasure, hm? − fuck you so that you cry out in pain −" He threatened, and she laughed, struggling to catch air, her lips parted wide, her eyelids clenched.

"− objects do not know fulfilment or disappointment − love or hate − do what you want with me −" She breathed out, her eyes opened, releasing a wave of tears that ran down her cheeks, seeing this he slid his fingers out from inside her and let go of her neck, quickly untying his breeches, for some reason furious at her words, his nostrils twitched dangerously in accelerated breath.

His thumbs spread her folds wide to the sides, allowing the fat head of his cock to force its way inside her with her loud moan of surprise, his one, brutal push was enough for him to thrust deep into her with a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction.

"− listen − that sounds like disappointment to you? − like hatred? −" He sneered, panting loudly, placing his hands on either side of her head again, his knees spreading her thighs wide so that he slid fully into her, bucking his hips, his thrusts violent, sure and deep, each time his thighs slapping against her buttocks with a loud click of her moisture.

"− fuckin' leaking − all thirsty for my cock −" He gasped, feeling her muscles squeeze him tightly in pleasure, his face sinking into her soft, fragrant hair, his hands in some subconscious, natural reflex found her breasts, caressing and kneading them between his fingers, teasing her nipples with his thumbs.

"− ah −" She cried out innocently, girlishly − he stifled a low groan hearing that sound, accelerating his pace, opening her slick cunt wide on his cock again and again with brutal, quick thrusts, his mouth sliding down to her neck, clamping down on her skin, sucking her so painfully hard that she hissed, grabbing him helplessly by the hair.

"− I promise you that when I'm done with you, you won't be able to sit up tomorrow − your stomach and womb full of my seed −" He growled out into her ear, his breath caught in his throat as her hands found his, clenching on his fingers, entwining them together, her hips responding to his thrusts so eagerly that he struggled to restrain himself from coming just yet.

"− don't stop − fill me, please, please, please −" She mewled so loudly and sweetly that he lost control completely; he could feel the sweat trickling down his back from the exertion, one of his hands slid down her stomach, giving her pearl a few encouraging strokes from which her whole body quivered.

"− good girl − say my name −" He muttered with his face pressed against her soft hair, no longer controlling his movements, his hips slamming into her involuntarily, aggressively and quickly, no longer sliding out of her, chasing his own fulfilment, her walls clenched against him greedily, sucking him inside, wet and hot.

"− Aemond, fuck me, fuck me, f-fuck −" She whimpered and that was the end of it, from her lips came sounds of pleasure and relief he had never heard before, sweet, girlish, innocent, vulnerable, he felt her moisture trickle down her thighs, soaking him all over, her core throbbing hard in fulfillment, giving him wonderfull squeeze.

He gasped loudly, letting go at last, coming so hard inside her that it went dark before his eyes, his fingers tightened on her body to make sure she wouldn't escape him, their bodies writhing in convulsions, overwhelmed by how intense the fulfilment was, slapping against each other.

"− oh gods −" He mumbled, stroking her smooth shoulders, breasts, hips, thighs with his large, rough hands − he felt as if the scent of her body, her hair and her moisture had completely overwhelmed him, filling his lungs and his head. He closed his eyes, panting loudly with her, only realising after a moment that the fingers of one of her hands were still entwined with his.

They lay like that for a moment, trying to calm themselves, his lips finding her cheek, neck and shoulder, placing hot, lazy, wet kisses on them. He heard her sigh softly, her words like honey to his ears.

"− I want to taste you now −"

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddessing @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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randomdragonfires · 29 days

Text

If The Sun Ever Rises | Chapter 2

Chapter 2 | Make Me Feel Alive

SUMMARY | After narrowly escaping the Battle Above God’s Eye, Prince Aemond is now a hidden fugitive within the very kingdom he once ruled. Driven by vengeance, he plans to usurp Aegon III and avenge his family. His rage-blinded path to the throne begins with getting rid of Cregan Stark and the men who support his nephew’s rule. Having nothing to lose, he recklessly kidnaps the Northerner’s betrothed - his own niece - hoping to lure him and his men out to fight.

Soon, Aemond finds that memories of a first love are strong, and that he cannot steel his heart against the woman he has loved all his life.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; Canon Divergence - Aemond lives (but barely); Violence; Stockholm Syndrome; Mental and Physical Trauma; Angst; Canon Incest; Manipulation; No Happy Endings In This House YAY; Slow burn, I think.

WORD COUNT | 3k

Text Divider by @saradika

As she gradually stirred from unconsciousness, each blink felt like a laborious effort, coaxing her weary mind back to reality. The darkness of the cave enveloped her like a thick cloak, its cool embrace seeping into her bones as she gradually became aware of her surroundings.

With a soft groan, she shifted her weight, the coarse texture of the cave floor biting into her skin. Every movement sent tendrils of discomfort coursing through her body, a reminder of what she’d done. The scent of damp earth and ancient stone hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint echo of her own ragged, tired breaths.

Summoning her strength, she pushed herself upright, muscles protesting against the effort. A shiver raced down her spine as she wrapped her arms around herself, seeking solace in her sadness.

Her gaze swept across the dimly lit cavern, taking in every possible indicator of human habitation. A tattered sheet lay crumpled at her feet - it had been wrapped around her, she’d felt it. She put it back around her, the threadbare fabric offering little protection against the chill that permeated the air. Her torn shift didn’t help as she closed her eyes, shielding herself against the small sliver of sunlight that let itself inside. The soft murmur of the nearby river provided a constant backdrop, its soothing rhythm echoing through the cavernous space.

Memories come back to her in spades, moments suspended in time. Every instance she can bring herself to remember is painted in hues of sapphire blue.

Aemond.

She’d thought him dead in war, but he was alive. And despite her valiant effort, so was she.

She dragged herself out of the cave, each step a battle against exhaustion. The sunlight outside was blinding at first, but she welcomed its warmth after the cold darkness of the cave. Stepping outside, she found herself engulfed by the dense foliage of the jungle. Towering trees loomed overhead, their branches reaching out like fingers towards the sky. The earthy scent of damp soil mingled with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers, creating a heady aroma that enveloped her senses. As her weary eyes caught sight of the river's glimmering surface through the dense forest, a surge of relief washed over her.

Reaching the river, she slumped down at the bank, letting her legs dangle into the chilly water. It felt refreshing against her skin, washing away the grime and sweat of her ordeal. Looking into the river, she saw her reflection staring back at her, her lip swollen and bleeding, dried blood streaking her forehead and cheek. With a grimace, she dipped her hands into the water, using it to clean the cuts and bruises on her face. It stung, but she gritted her teeth and soldiered through it, determined to rid herself of any signs of weakness.

When she finished, she allowed herself to drink, pause and simply exist in the comfort of nature’s embrace. The sounds of the forest surrounded her in all its quiet glory. As she sat there, trying to gather her thoughts, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of danger. But all she could hear was the gentle rustle of the wind through the trees and the soft babbling of the river. Despite her unease, she forced herself to relax, leaning back against the bank and closing her eyes.

When she opened them back, she looked into the water once more. Only this time, hers was not the only face she saw.

Despite her tiredness, she could not help the rise he evokes in her, right from the pits of her heart. His arrogant smirk was a clear image in the water, and she ran a hand through the river - fingers meeting the reflection of his eye, ripples breaking the watery portrait of him.

His voice was calm yet menacing; predatory yet productive. His face was as unreadable as stone, and she gulped. He had always been hard for her to decipher, but she remembered a time when he’d let her see, let her in.

“You’re awake, mandianna.”

Her future home was too cold for her liking.

She stood clueless and yearning for answers in the quiet of the Godswood, where the ancient Heart Tree stood tall and watchful. The cold of the North gnawed at her bones, a constant reminder of the distance between the warmth of her homeland and the icy lands of Winterfell she now found herself in. But amidst her unease, there was a curiosity that drew her to the sacred tree, its red leaves whispering mystic secrets that she was intrigued by.

As she sat beneath its branches, she couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for the familiarity of her family and the comfort of her own chambers. She felt like an outsider, here in the Godswood where a Lady of Winterfell would be expected to feel at home.

She wondered if this will ever feel like home. Given the war being waged, she wondered if she’ll even make it that far.

Luke did not. Sweet, mischievous Luke had died, and she has only now managed to learn to hold her tears.

Aemond loves her. She refused to believe that he’d do such a thing.

But he did. He did, he did, he did. And Luke…

If she closed her eyes, she could imagine his playful smirk. He’d taunt her into being a little less than perfect and join in the fun that the boys would get into. It would make her so happy…

Why did he do it?

Her Gods gave her no answer, only leaving her with tears, a heavy heart and the foreign comfort of the Heart Tree. She hoped the Old Gods may provide her answers. Lost in her thoughts, she was startled by the sound of footsteps approaching. Looking up, she saw Cregan Stark, her betrothed, standing before her. His presence was unexpected, and she felt a surge of nervousness at the thought of speaking with him - she’d never spoken to him alone after Jace left her here.

"I can leave if you wish." Cregan offered, his tone gentle yet tinged with a hint of sadness. "No, please… Stay," she replied, her voice soft but determined. Despite her reservations, she couldn't bring herself to chase him away. He was the Lord of this land, and soon to be her husband. It wouldn't do to alienate him, it was highly improper.

It was also improper to imagine a man with spun-silver hair and a sapphire eye when he killed her brother…

Cregan settled himself on a nearby stone bench, his gaze fixed on her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "You seem troubled, Princess," he observed, his words carrying a weight, a certain authority that she couldn't ignore. His eyes held the weight of the world - unlike Aemond’s, whose functional eye held an arrogance that he alone knew how to wear well.

“There’s only so long you can go without being worried and helpless while members of your family die in war, my lord.” His voice gentle yet firm, Cregan said, "Aye, war brings uncertainties and fears we'd rather not confront. That much is true."

She looked up at him, grateful for his understanding, a sense of familiarity growing over her. "But it's not just the war," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m… so far away from everything I've ever known. My family, my home... it’s distant. Foreign.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Cold."

When she looked, it was obvious to her what was different about Cregan and him. His eyes were unabashedly kind, calm and true whereas Aemond’s gaze lit a fire in her heart that fazed her to no end. "You're anything but helpless, Princess," he said firmly. "Our match will bring strength and stability to both our houses, and it will bear fruit to bolster the success of your mother, the rightful queen.”

She sighs, his words doing enough to quell her for the time being. “I’m sorry, my lord-”

“No need to apologize." he said gently. "Your burdens are heavy, and it's only natural to get lost in them from time to time."

She felt a warmth tingling in her chest at his words followed by guilt gnawing at her bones. Wasn't she betraying Aemond by finding solace in another's presence? But then, her thoughts turned to her brother, Luke, and the pain of his loss washed over her anew.

Aemond had killed him, torn him away from her and her family. How could she explain her possibly misguided loyalty to a man who had brought her such pain? She would not wait for a man who was out for her mother's blood, her brother's blood - and in consequence, her own.

Cregan Stark gave her the most sincere smile she’d seen in a long time.

She smiled back. It was easy and simple, nothing like he ever was. All that she needed in a time like this.

Yes, she could love him.

“You’re awake, mandianna.”

She wanted to get up and run. She wanted to make him pay for bringing her this far. She wanted to do much and more, but she couldn’t even bring herself to lift a finger - the fall and the subsequent recovery had taken her for all that she was.

He doesn’t move an inch, staying unforgiving as his eye bore into her own in her watery reflection. He’s not wearing the black leather jerkin she’d seen him wearing when he’d brought her here - right now, he was in a tattered white shirt and the same trousers from before. She noticed the leathers hanging off a branch nearby, presumably left to air out.

Far from being the royal prince he used to be, but some habits never changed.

The right course of action would be to try to escape again, but she knew how fruitless it would be to do so. She was unarmed, tired and hurt. Even at full strength, she would be no match for the dangers that he, or the forest held. She needed rest to try; she needed to recuperate.

But how long can she afford to stay? She didn’t know what his plan was, and she most certainly didn’t want to put a foot wrong. If Aemond had managed to stay alive and plan this far, it was not without support - she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he was doing any of this on his own.

But who? Who would support him in a time after war when her brother comfortably sat the throne? When the Warden of the North had been steadfastly dedicated to ensuring his safety?

Before she could think any further, her head started to spin and she let it fall into her hands as she waited for the pain to subside. He finally moved from where he stood, sat beside her and opened his hand to reveal bits of what looked like wood.

“Willow bark, for the pain. It helps.”

She looked at it with all the doubt she could muster up in her weak state, but remembered her lessons well enough. Maesters often encouraged chewing willow bark for pain relief - this much she knew.

She took a piece and popped it into her mouth, the feeling of it being rather unpleasant, tough and gritty to bite. It was too strong for her, and she wished that she could have it in a tea instead - but her head cleared quickly and she forgot the bitter taste.

With both their feet in the water, she let herself calm down as she plotted her next steps. “How long?”

“Four days.” That explained why she felt too tired. Prolonged days-long rest always had a knack of making people want more, especially in the case of injuries.

She kept chewing the bark, some of it getting stuck in her teeth. The uncomfortableness of it made her wince, and she looked up at the hill behind them - the very one that she chose to fall off of. With a damning sense of defeat, she realized that the fall couldn’t have been too steep - given how deep the waters of the river were, it was very likely that she never threw herself in deep enough to cause any damage apart from unconsciousness.

How stupid had she been in her bid to escape him? How little had she considered?

“It was brave of you to try, niece. Didn’t think you were bold enough to die for a cause, no matter how unfruitful your attempt was.” Arrogance, something else that hadn’t ever changed.

"Bravery, or perhaps foolishness," she murmured, the bitterness of defeat and willowbark still lingering in her voice and breath. "Either way, it seems I am destined to linger in this world a while longer."

Aemond regarded her with a mixture of scrutiny and something else that she couldn't quite decipher. "Destiny has a peculiar way of dictating our paths, doesn't it? The fires…" he stopped himself before he could say more, his tone tinged with a hint of resignation as he diverted from the subject. "Yet here we are, both still clinging to life despite a war and your best efforts to the contrary."

She had nothing to say to him and his tired words, where he gave her everything yet nothing at the same time. He sensed her worn out silence too, eventually standing up and giving her his hand. She looked up at him, his expressions held black and giving her absolutely nothing to think about. She was afraid, but somehow, she knew that if he wanted to hurt her, it wouldn’t be anytime soon. It would give her enough time to keep trying, no matter how many times it took.

“Come.”

She took his hand and walked along with as much strength as she could, slow steps that he was only happy to let her take. When her hold became weak, he took to holding her wrist tight as he guided them. She closed her eyes for just a moment, remembering against her will how he used to lead her through passageways in the Red Keep, spending many a night with her that she would never forget.

The smell of food cooking filled her nostrils as she kept walking forward, and her hurt, recovering body called for it like nothing else. She opened her eyes and quickly clocked that they had come behind the cave that she’d slept in, the riverbank faintly visible from where she stood.

Aemond turned around, letting go of her grasp as he held her by the jaw, lifting her head up to meet his eye. He looked at her properly, almost as though he wanted to memorize every inch of her before he let her go. He put the back of her hand gently onto her forehead, checking for a fever.

What does he want from her? If he wanted to kill Cregan and Aegon by drawing them out, what would he do to her?

“You need to eat.”

A wooden ladle sat in a pot of boiling soup, made to hang over a bunch of wooden logs. He poured some into leaves that were fashioned into makeshift bowls, some of the soup dripping from the holes in the cups. She drank, and almost immediately, the warmth of the soup made her skin tingle from how good it made her feel to eat again. The soup was watery and bland, but she found no reason to complain.

The jungle air hung heavy with humidity, the distant calls of unseen creatures echoing through the dense foliage. As she sat on a fallen log beside the makeshift fire, the flickering flames cast dancing shadows across the rugged terrain. The river nearby murmured softly, a soothing backdrop to the otherwise tense atmosphere.

Aemond busied himself with sharpening his shortsword, the rhythmic scraping of the whetstone against the blade filling the air. His movements were precise, methodical, a stark contrast to the chaos that seemed to surround them. She watched him in silence, her thoughts drifting to a time long past, when their lives were simpler, before the weight of duty and destiny had pulled them apart.

The aroma of the soup still lingered, comforting and familiar. She glanced down at the empty leaf bowl in her hands, a small pang of gratitude stirring within her. Despite the circumstances that had brought them here, Aemond had provided her with sustenance, a gesture that spoke volumes amidst the uncertainty of their situation.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, breaking the silence that had settled between them. Her words hung in the air for a moment before dissipating into the night.

Aemond nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes never leaving the blade in his hands. There was a weariness in his expression, a heaviness that mirrored her own. They were both soldiers in a war they had not chosen, bound by duty and obligation to forces beyond their control - and the effect will forever linger.

“He’ll come for me, kēpus. Cregan will come.”

“When he comes, mandianna, I’ll be ready.”

There are many questions she wants to ask him, so many things that she wishes to speak about - but she is too tired and she does not have the strength to fight him, not tonight.

As darkness began to descend upon the jungle, she rose from her perch beside the fire, the weariness of the day and the sting of her injuries weighing heavily upon her. With a final glance at Aemond, she made her way back to the cave, the cool darkness enveloping her like a familiar cloak.

As she settled into her makeshift bed, exhaustion pulling at her limbs, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift into sleep. In her dreams, she saw visions of snow-capped mountains and towering stone walls, a distant memory of Winterfell, her home during the war - where she’d spend the rest of her days if he ever managed to find her.

And so she slept, the whetstone's scraping sounds against the shortsword echoing through the forest. In her sleep-addled state, the last thing she sees is him looking at her as stone meets steel. A small voice whispered in the recesses of her mind, reminding her that escape was not yet out of reach.

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Next Chapter

A/N: This was a bit of a slow, storybuilding chapter. Point is to establish that she's alive lmao. A lot will be happening soon, so yeah! Apologies for the slow filler chapter, and thanks for reading!

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wackyharpy · 3 months

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Merchant's Daughter (Part 1)

God! Aemond x Human•Fem! Reader

Summary: In order to ease the wrath of one of the Gods, the girl among humans is chosen to be gifted to him.

Part 2

To find more stories — masterlist

A/N: I'm inspired by a lot of things, by Greek mythology, by Beauty and the Beast story. Especially credits go to @flowerandblood. Some of her fanfics planted a seed of the idea for this story. I hope, you'll enjoy it! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated :) And English isn't my native.

Warnings ⚠️

Mention of death, typical treatment of women those times, she/her pronouns

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

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Once the world was different. Humans shared it with other supernal beings — children and creatures of Gods who ruled those times. Back then miracles filled the surroundings — here and there ehoes of satires' and nymphs' wild dancing could be heard in the dead of night, taken by the wind from the concealed domicile somewhere in the forests or fields, and brought straight to the towns where mortal people resided.

Fishermen spread legends of beautiful women with colorful fish-tails whose voice could enchant one and become the death of him. Sailors told about orphic castles barely visible in the fogs of the sea.

Humans were always weak and foolish, bonded to their towns and houses, lived their short mortal nugatory lives. They couldn't comprehend the broadness of the world, the depth and beauty of it.

Gods tried to take care of them, their miserable children. They gave them lands, rivers, domestic animals and fish. They taught them how to cultivate fields and grow crops, how to exploit fire. At times, humans got punished for their sins, Gods abhorred misbehavior of their gawky children. Frequently, they didn't even cast a glance at them, being immersed into their divine scandals and disputes. They didn't invite any humans to their heavenly palaces, nor did they marry earthborn men and women. Some Gods and Goddesses might have laid with beautiful representatives of the human race. Still, nothing more.

It was so only until one moment.

The calm day didn't foreshadow anything violent. Until the evening, when the sunset was painted in scarlet. Something terrible happened in the heavenly palaces — one of the Gods blood was spilled. That night the residents of the town near the sea didn't see the moon. Instead, the night sky was pitch black as the abyss of Chaos which the universe emerged from.

The God of Murk and Affliction lost his eye to his nephew — the God of Joy.

But, little Lucerys escaped the wrath of elder Gods and remained unpunished. After all, they couldn't harm him in order not to cripple him or knock all the joy out of him that he shared with mortals — such was his endowment. The issue remained unresolved, and angry Aemond was forced to live with one eye since then.

In a century, he met his nephew again, above the sea. There was no way to escape the God of Murk and Affliction that time. The little God was hopeless. And Aemond put his nephew through tortures, through his revenge which he had been nurturing in his dark heart for many years.

That evening the residents of the town near the sea saw a scarlet sunset once again. And in the hour of the owl, claps of thunder rumbled in the pitch black sky. The storm of madness swept across those lands — the herald of the victory and death simultaneously.

The sudden sadness and fear filled the hearts of people. The God of Joy was dead. His two eyes, cut out of the sockets, turned into two precious stones with yellowish glow. Still, there are gossips that they can be found at the bottom of the deepest sea.

Since then, there was no joy as such on the earth, people no longer took it for granted. If they wanted to be happy, they had to find things that could bring merry into their miserable lives.

But darkness and fear remained, more diseases developed among people, life became tough. Servants of the God of Murk and Affliction began residing together with people, punishing them for their indifference they showed on the day Aemond lost his eye. Nobody stood for him at that time. Everybody thought they would get away with it. Though, the Gods, humans, and other beings are paying off for their negligence now.

Plague, Doom, Pain, Fear, and Sorrow are terrorizing people. They have infiltrated into the towns' walls, they are hiding in the shadows, every now and again preparing to attack a poor mortal soul.

The Gods and supernal creatures are trying to avoid the lands where the God of Murk and Affliction lives, being well aware that they can meet their death in the form of Vhagar — Aemond's monstrous beast, so enormous as a mountain.

Many centuries passed in the town near the sea. One day the Goddess of Wisdom bestowed the place with her presence and shared a piece of advice with people.

Opt a young maiden girl, and gift her to the God of Murk and Affliction. As a mighty man he is, he won't refuse to satisfy his carnal needs with an innocent mortal girl. It may sooth his wrath a little, and he may order his servants to stop terrorizing humans. At least, not frequently. One girl isn't a big price comparing the whole humanity.

And so was it. The government, the judges, and the public presented the most beautiful virginal girls to the heavenly court. The choice fell on the youngest of merchant's daughters — a poor being who was soon to be sent to the remote lands, right into the hands of the ruthless God.

The day her family was preparing her to the long journey, she was silent and pale. It seemed that all liveliness faded away from her eyes. Before going out to the carriage, her mother sat with her in the chamber to conduct a woman talk.

Be obedient. Do what He orders. Be flexible. It doesn't matter that he's a God, still he's a man that isn't deprived of needs that even humans possess. Your feminine power isn't between your legs, first of all it's in your mind. Use your head in the right way, and who knows, perhaps, even the God of Murk and Affliction will fall on his knees in front of you. The doings that a man and a woman perform in the bed chamber aren't always about pain, it may bring a great satisfaction and fulfillment for both of them.

At that time the words of the woman had no sense for the girl. But she only nodded, believing her mother. After all, the merchant's wife was known for her acute mind and wisdom. And beautiful curves of the body that all her daughters inherited.

Then, the girl settled in the carriage, and she with the convoy, consisted of several men, set off to the remote lands.

The journey took long days when they finally reached the dense woods. It seemed that places there were deathlike, shrouded in impenetrable thick fogs.

The carriage stopped and soon its door was opened.

"We've arrived, my lady. We won't go further, we are to leave you here," the servant of her father stretched a hand to her and helped her to get out.

Her nose immediately caught the moist raw scent of dead leaves and moss. The space around was dead silent. The sky was grey and cloudy — no signs of the sun, moon, and stars. Here and there hollers of ravens were heard. Vultures were circling above the trees, probably looking out for a half dead prey.

Shivers ran across her spine, the breath caught in the lungs.

The case with her belongings was stated at her legs. The girl turned to look at the servants of her father. They only gave her a sad smile and nodded, turning the convoy back.

She was left alone in these cursed lands. Abandoned by the whole world.

The girl looked around trying to figure out what to do next, and having no idea where to go, who to search for, she took her case, and just went further into the mist.

She couldn't tell whether she'd been walking for hours, but soon enough she noticed the outlines of the high fence which was visible in the distance. When the girl reached the gates, she stopped and placed the case on the ground. Beyond the large fence, the grim castle stationed itself. She felt that something tugged in her stomach, and stuck in the throat. Fear. Pure terror washed over her body. The sudden feeling of millions of eyes watching her prickled the petite body. But there was no one around her. At least, she thought like that.

All at once, the heavy front doors opened and she saw a tall man going down the stairs, directly on the lane bestrewn with gravel. He must have been the one who was going to meet her.

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

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 10: Blame Everyone But Me For This Mess]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Aemond-induced chaos, death and destruction, witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Only 3 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Aemond!” he roars into the cerulean midday sky, knowing it is useless, that fate has already spoken.

All his life, fate has proven Criston Cole wrong. He once believed he could not rise above being born to a steward in the Dornish Marches. He once feared he would never be permitted to join the Kingsguard. He once felt in his twisting, self-loathing guts that he would never love any woman but Rhaenyra. And Criston once knew—without reservation, without complexity—that Alicent’s eldest son would never amount to anything worthwhile, could never be courageous, self-sacrificial, competent, a true king. Each time, fate had a different ending in store.

All around him, Green soldiers are dying in what will be known to history as the Butcher’s Ball. They are being slit open, disemboweled, crushed beneath the hooves of warhorses, stabbed and clubbed and speared. The Northmen have scorpions with them as well, with massive bolts to bring down dragons; but they are unnecessary. There are no dragons on the battlefield today.

Criston pictures Aemond as a boy, always so sullen, always so dutiful. He read and he wrote and he sparred in the castle courtyard until the blisters on his palms burst and bled and then turned to callouses, knots of dead-nerved scar tissue that grew over his wounds but never cured them. Criston did not just believe in Aemond’s abilities, his honor; he was certain of these things, he carried them as interminably as the lines in his palms. Criston knew Aemond and Vhagar would be the saviors of the Greens in this war. He knew Aemond would be here.

But he’s not. He’s just not, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him.

Cregan Stark is cutting through the Greens’ men. He is not a soldier, he is a force of nature, he is a thunderstorm or a famine or a rogue wave, he is winter coming to rip the trees bare and bury the weak in frostbitten earth. Arrows are loosed by the Northmen’s archers, lethal hissing rain. One hits Criston in the shoulder of his sword arm. Another pierces him through the small of his back, severing his spinal cord and dropping him to his knees.

Through the fray, Cregan sees the Kingmaker. He wants him, he wants Criston’s blood on his blade, his hands, his face; and what the Warden of the North wants, he is never denied.

Alicent, Criston thinks, and he remembers her lying in bed after giving birth to Aegon. She was a girl, just a girl, pale, sick, in terrible and unspoken pain, never the same in body, forever darker in mind, alone in a room full of tapestries of her husband’s house as the court celebrated her newborn son. She knew she had been used. She knew this was her life and always would be, a wheel that goes around and around and crushes the same bones until they stop mending, until the misery and desperation becomes so much a part of you that you could almost forget it’s there. It’s your shadow, it’s your religion, it’s a sigil or a ring.

I suppose now I have something to live for, Alicent had said, and Criston sat on the edge of the bed took her small, cold hand in his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and answered: I swear to you that I will always protect him. That I will never let him die.

Here in the Riverlands as Cregan Stark descends upon him, Criston looks up again and sunlight spills over his face, warm and kind and golden; but the sky is still empty.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the gardens of Dragonstone, on a bench carved out of gloom-grey basalt, you pull Aegon’s legs into your lap and roll up his loose cotton trousers to inspect them: scars that have knit shut the gashes bones once cut through, muscle mass that is slowly building itself back again, good circulation, able to carry him if only for short, hard-fought distances. You have bled twice since Aemond flew back to the Riverlands to seize Harrenhal. Here under flinty autumn skies and pine trees that sway in brisk wind that smells like saltwater and metal, you think that perhaps the earth is done giving things. This is the time for harvests, not blooms. This is the season of endings, long nights full of cold stars, firelight, reaping.

“Stop,” Aegon says gently. He’s clutching a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. He’s always cold now, pale and shivering. His silvery hair hangs in untamed waves around his face adored with only a single small braid that you weave for him each day. “I don’t want you to do it.”

No; he only wants the maesters to see his weakness, his suffering. “I like taking care of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s how we met, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Now he smiles. “I have no idea what you saw in me.”

“An exemplary cock, mostly. Better than any in my medical books.”

Aegon laughs, a sound you rarely get to hear anymore. Then he is grave again. His hair blows in the gales that roll in off the ocean; his eyes, a tumultuous blue like waves in a storm, are ringed by shadows. “Angel, listen to me.” He places a hand over yours where it rest on a knot of scar tissue just below his kneecap. “If I don’t…” He pauses, and you think as you look at him: He’s nothing but scars now, he’s nothing but pain that is calloused over but never forgotten. “If I’m not here when the war is over, I want you to know that you’ll still be protected. Aemond knows. Larys knows. You are to be provided for. You will reside only where and with whom you choose to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?”

Aegon shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We should be realistic.”

“You’ll be here. You have to be.”

Aegon stares into a thicket of rose bushes, blood-red petals and twisted thorns. And he says faintly, like something a strong wind could carry away: “I’ll try.”

“We’re winning, Aemond and Criston and Daeron and the Greens’ armies. They might have won already and we’re just waiting to hear the words. Aemond will end the war and then we’ll all be together again in King’s Landing.”

Aegon gives you a wry smirk as you roll back down the legs of his trousers, concealing his roadmap of harm. “A man like Cregan Stark would not be such a disappointment. He would be able to ride into battle. He would not have compelled you to bloody your own hands. He would not be feeble and deformed.”

“It can’t be anyone but you.”

Overhead, half-shrouded in mist, there is an immense reptilian shadow and a rumbling like the earth splitting in two, cracked and forced apart by eruptions of steam, lava, trapped toxic heat. Gingerly, Aegon returns his boots to the earth, stony and barren. He winces and groans before he can bite it back to hide it from you.

“I’ll go,” you tell Aegon, skimming your fingers through his hair and touching your lips to his temple. His wave-blue eyes are watery, grateful. “Stay here. I’ll bring him to you.”

You hurry through corridors and down spiral staircases, watched by dragons of iron and stone with fire burning in their mouths. And of course, there is more than one reason why you want to greet Aemond by yourself. You don’t know what he will say to you; you don’t know if he’s still angry. But when he strides through the entranceway of the castle to meet you—his hair in one long white-blond braid, his black coat billowing around him in the sharp wind—he is not alone.

There is a woman with him.

“…Aemond?” you say, staring at her: hair like onyx, skin like snow. She grins at you beneath eyes that are pools of ink, dark and glassy and with hardly any whites. You do not believe she intends to unnerve you; still, there is a blade-cold shudder that tumbles down the rungs of your spine.

Aemond replies with pride that is hushed, pure: “This is my wife.”

“Your…?” You cannot look away from her. Her gown is black lace with long, dragging sleeves and a train that curls around her like a dragon’s tail. You can see glimpses of her starlight skin through the fabric, her forearms, her waist, her thigh. Isn’t she cold? You are wearing heavy velvet, pine green like Aegon’s banner, and still the impending winter needles at you. “Who…?”

Lord Larys Strong arrives, his cane tapping on the stone floor. When he sees the woman, he jolts to a halt and gawks. “Alys?”

“Hello, brother.” Her voice is deep, smooth, melodic. She speaks the language of ocean currents, roots in dark fertile soil, the revolving of the stars.

You turn to Larys. “Who is this?”

“A bastard daughter of my father,” Larys answers, slow and disbelieving. “Alys Rivers. She…she was at Harrenhal, last I saw her…years ago…”

“And now she is here with me,” Aemond says. “She is precisely where she belongs.”

Silence fills the room, the world, the space that has opened up between you and Aemond. Wife? Bastard? Harrenhal? At last, you manage shakily: “Aegon is in the gardens. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aemond says. He wears something you have never seen on him before: not just pride but serenity, consolation, contentment. “There is much to discuss.”

As slate-grey wind whistles through rose thorns and cranberry bushes, you and Larys step out into the gardens with your uninvited guests. Aegon’s eyes snag on Alys, widen, and then dart to you. He mouths: Who the fuck is that? You shrug, bewildered.

Aemond says: “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Alys Rivers of Harrenhal.”

“Your wife?!” Aegon exclaims, like he couldn’t possible have heard correctly. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.” Aemond’s arm snakes around Alys’ waist. She folds into him, palm to his chest, lips to his throat, something creeping and boneless like ivy or mist or smoke. “You’ve had two now. I’ve only just found mine.”

“Rivers,” Aegon echoes incredulously. “A bastard from the Riverlands.”

Larys notes: “One of my father’s natural children.”

“A Strong bastard?!” Aegon cackles and looks to Larys. “Where is Daeron presently? Can he be summoned here? He should see this.”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Aemond says calmly. “It is a true pairing of souls.”

“And you were not at liberty to give yours. You have to marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter. That was the deal, that’s why he has pledged his army to us.”

“Daeron can do it.”

“Daeron won’t be old enough to marry for years, and that’s not the point! This is a slight, an egregious slight, to reject a Baratheon noblewoman in favor of a…a…what was she, a serving wench? A wetnurse? What happened to your pathological obsession with self-righteous duty? And why aren’t you and Vhagar with Criston?! Is this what you’ve been doing for the past six weeks while I was trapped here, suffering and useless? You’ve been hiding in the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with your so-called wife? What was so fucking crucial that it kept you from the battlefield—?!”

“She carries my son,” Aemond says.

A gasp spills from you before you can silence it; Lord Larys covers his mouth with one hand. Aegon stares numbly at his brother, not warring with envy or spite but raw astonishment. This is an asset to the Greens, it is a detriment, it lifts a burden from his shoulders, it imperils all of you. “You have no way of knowing what it is yet.”

“I know. We know.”

“And why have you flown to Dragonstone?” Aegon demands. “To torment me with your disobedience, to illustrate so vividly how all that relentless, calculated striving has finally cracked your brain in half—?!”

“No.” Aemond glances to you. “Something has happened. And I wanted to be here in person to deliver the news and…express my condolences.”

“Condolences?” you say, fearful, alarmed.

“Lord Larys will not have received word yet,” Aemond continues. “It has only just transpired. But Alys has seen it.”

Aegon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. “Seen it…?”

“She sees things. The future, the past. Not every detail, but some of them. She’s seen Mother in the Red Keep, a prisoner but still alive. She’s seen Jaehaera safe and well at Storm’s End. The child has a protector, though Alys isn’t sure who.”

“She’s a witch?” Aegon says flatly. “This bastard Strong woman that you have taken to wife is, among all her other deficiencies, a witch?”

And Alys answers in a voice like the night sky, dark but threaded with glimmers of stars, moonshine, comets: “I am a woman who lives between two worlds. Your Angel is much the same, I think.”

Aegon blinks at her, not entranced or awed but fighting the instinct to flinch away.

“There have been riots in King’s Landing,” Aemond says.

“Yes, obviously. Everyone is aware of that. I think the Wildlings north of the Wall have heard.”

Aemond ignores the jab. “The Master of Coin, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, was travelling through the city in a carriage when…” He trails off, uneasy. He glances at you again. His sole remaining eye—river-blue and without any malice—shimmers with grim compassion.

“What?” you say. “What happened?”

Aemond speaks to Aegon in words you cannot comprehend, swift ageless High Valyrian.

Aegon sighs testily. “Slower. Enunciate.”

Aemond tries again. Aegon repeats a certain word, unable to decipher it. Aemond offers him several others, what you can only assume are synonyms.

Aegon’s face goes even paler, the last of the blood draining out of his cheeks. Then he reaches out a hand to you. “Come here,” he beckons softly.

“Why?”

“Angel, come here now.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” you ask Aemond. Your voice is trembling, icy, choked. He was an architect of Rhaenyra’s war effort, but he was your father first. He was a beast with blood on his hands, but now you are too. “The common people hate Rhaenyra and they hate my family. So they murdered him.”

Alys says: “They did not just murder him.” And she is not taunting you, though she grins like she might be; she has lost pieces of what it means to be human. She is no longer fluent in anything as trite as sympathy or decorum. Her obsidian eyes gleam, polished, glowing. Her long black hair blows in the wind. There are raven feathers in it, you notice now, and twigs, pine needles, earth, sand, ashes. “They bound and tortured him, they sliced off parts of him to keep as relics, they rode on horseback through the streets swinging his severed head and cock as they celebrated an end to all taxes—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Aegon shouts at her. “Angel, please, come here.”

“Your brother was there too,” Aemond says solemnly.

Yes, of course he would be. He was always Father’s favorite. “Clement,” you whimper, pressing a palm to your chest. Your lungs burn as they drink down chill autumn air that cuts like a blade.

“No,” Aemond says. “The other one.”

“What?” No. No, that can’t be true.

“Not Clement,” Aemond insists. “It was the other brother. The burned man.”

No. No no no. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it.

“Angel,” Aegon pleads, still reaching for you.

“Everett,” Alys says, dreamy, not knowing how cruel it feels, like splinters of glass beneath your skin instead of arteries and muscle, like shattered bones. “He was not difficult for them to catch. He could not run.”

Your words escape in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

Alys offers her hands. They are long, lithe, white like a skeleton’s. “Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“I can show you. Then you will trust what I say.”

“Alys, my love,” Aemond warns.

“No, you’re a liar,” you snarl at her. “You’re not a witch, you’re not some prophet, you’re just a liar and I don’t believe you—!”

And before you can flee she’s crossed the space between you, she’s gripped your wrist with those slender claw-like fingers, she’s pouring her magic into you like poison down a prisoner’s throat. The vision surges into your skull and fills it, sight and sound and scent: Everett screaming as he is dragged from the carriage, the hoard ripping at his clothes and his eyes, dull kitchen knives pulled from pockets, the coppery ether of blood in the air. You can feel the feverish heat of the crowd. You can feel their boiling-over animal rage. You can feel everything, but you can’t stop it.

Beyond the grisly mirage, you can hear yourself shrieking, muffled and distant; and you can hear someone else bellowing for Alys to let you go. Her hand is yanked off of your wrist and you are abruptly back in the gardens of Dragonstone surrounded by indomitable flora that warps and tangles and endures. You are kneeling on the cobblestones, tears flooding from your eyes. Aegon is on the ground with you, his arms circling around your waist. He is calling Alys a bitch, a monster, a demon. He is threatening to feed her to his dragon.

“Forgive me,” Alys says to you, peering down with a vague sort of regret etching lines into her brow. “I did not intend to cause any distress. I only meant to help you understand.”

Aegon seethes at Aemond: “Take your witch back to Harrenhal.”

“No,” you protest; and Aegon studies you, puzzled, as you gaze up at Alys, this half-human phantom that dwells between realms, something like a dark mirror image of an angel. “What else have you seen?” Tell me Aegon lives. Tell me the Greens win and we have a chance at a better world one day. Tell me this was all worth it.

“She has seen Daemon and Caraxes meeting me at the Gods Eye,” Aemond says. “She has seen me taking flight to join them in battle.”

Aegon is stunned. “When?”

“Soon. Three days from now.”

You sob, thinking of Everett; and Autumn too, wherever she is, who will reappear when the war is over searching for home but forever unable to find it. Aegon holds you and you pull yourself into him, arms slung around his neck. His silver hair brushes your face; his scarred right cheek is rough against yours. When you breathe in violent hitches, you inhale rose oil and wine and salt and warmth and misery, you taste the war that built him and now has returned to claim the debt.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault,” Aegon whispers, fierce and merciless. “We will kill Daemon and Cregan Stark. We will retake King’s Landing and capture Rhaenyra. And I swear to you that she will burn.”

Aemond is saying: “Do we have permission to stay the night or not? We’ve traveled a long way. My wife is tired, and so is Vhagar. Another flight so soon would tax her.”

“You can swim,” Aegon pitches back.

Lord Larys Strong—ever servile, ever composed—clears his throat, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. “Would anyone care for some soft-shelled crabs?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mist hangs heavy over the castle the next morning, a cool metallic grey like steel; the sun is muted, only a wisp of itself, a memory that is swiftly fading. Alys Rivers stands in the surf fetching seashells and stones that she plinks into a basket. Locks of her long, wild hair dip into the roiling water and emerge sopping and heavy, sticking to her ink-black gown. Aegon is curled up with Sunfyre at the edge of the beach. The dragon breathes with rattling, labored heaves and Aegon pets his golden face, wishing the beast’s wings to knit themselves back together and his own legs to be strong again, murmuring to Sunfyre in some clumsy patchwork of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue to assure him that he’s served his king well.

You and Aemond walk down the windswept beach together, your boots sinking in wet sand and leaving imprints like bruises on flesh. Your gown is a deep, vibrant red like the sigil of the newly decimated House Celtigar; Aemond’s hair is wavy and damp and blows loose in the breeze. You are reminded of the night you shared with him six weeks ago, though you don’t want to be. Neither of you have mentioned that indiscretion. You believe you have silently agreed to forget it. You ask the prince regent: “How many people do you think you’ve burned in the Riverlands?”

“Why do you care? They’re not you. They’re not me.”

“Perhaps each life we take robs something from us as well. It carves a piece of the soul away and leaves it less than it was before.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“I am less than I once was,” you explain. “Acts of love feel like violence, violence is mistaken for love. Things that horrified me a year ago are now what give me solace when I dream of them. Vengeance, slaughter, fire and blood. Aegon grows more bitter, more ruthless. And so do you.”

“We will have the luxury of reforming ourselves when the war is won and Aegon is the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If there’s any part of us that remembers who we were supposed to be.”

“I remember exactly who you were.” Aemond grins. “Fawning over Aegon, weaving braids into his hair. Scurrying around with your bandages and vinegar and honey. Always seeking to take his pain away. Always waging your own little war against the agony of mankind.”

“That feels like a different person,” you say, peering out over the ocean.

“We will build monuments to those we’ve lost,” Aemond promises. “Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto. Your brother and my sister. You say you dream of fire and blood? I often find myself dreaming of Helaena.”

You turn to him, startled. And you recall the warnings her ghost gave Aegon before Baela and Moondancer arrived on Dragonstone: Don’t fall, don’t fall. “Does she say anything?”

“She keeps telling me I’ll lose my left eye.” Aemond smiles wistfully. “And I answer: Helaena, that’s happened already. But when I try to comfort her, when I try to embrace her, she turns away from me and says it’s too late. That I’ve ruined myself.” He walks with his hands linked behind his back, his face thoughtful but not brooding. “I still miss her,” he says. “And I still feel responsible. But things are easier now.”

You follow his eyeline to where Alys is plucking a starfish from the frothing waves and placing it in her basket. And doesn’t it make some strange bit of sense that Aemond’s match would be someone rare, bizarre, gifted in ways that are in equal parts mesmerizing and fearsome? “I’m glad you found someone who eases your burdens.”

“She has suffered tremendously. She knows what it is to be unloved and overlooked. She had to reinvent herself, just like I did. She had to shed her skin and step into a new one that she stitched together herself.”

“Perpetual Resurrection,” you say softly.

“Perpetual Resurrection,” Aemond agrees.

Now Alys is trekking up the beach to join you, her soaked hair whipping in the wind and her basket slung over one arm. From where he sits with Sunfyre, Aegon watches her with narrowed, disapproving eyes. “This belongs to the king,” Alys says to you, opening her hand. In her palm rests the ring of gold wings and jade eyes. “You should return it to him. He does not like me.”

You gasp and take the ring that you last saw before Aegon fell from the sky and shattered his legs, his spirit. “How did you find this?”

“It spoke to me. I spoke to it.” She smiles, more like a leer, though she does not mean it to be. Her eyes—onyx, jet, black moonstone—are bright with amusement. “See? You do not understand. Sometimes it is best not to ask.”

You slip the ring onto one of your fingers for safekeeping until you deliver it to Aegon. From the stone staircase that leads up to the castle’s main entrance, Larys waves Aemond over to him. Aemond kisses the woman he calls his wife farewell—a deep, burning kiss—and then departs. You say to Alys: “How did you become…like this?”

“I surrendered to it. Anyone can, if your life is hell and you are willing to burn it down to the foundations. You go deep into the swamp and then it goes into you. It grows through your skin and into your veins. It tangles up with you, vines climbing your ribcage and spine like ivy on a trellis. It changes you. It makes you greater than you were before. The victim becomes the victor. The weak turn watchful and wise.” She is gazing at where Aemond stands with Larys, exchanging theories and plots. Aemond shakes his head at something Larys says. “I always knew he would find me. The man whose fractured pieces fit with mine. Yet each time I thought I glimpsed him only to realize he wasn’t the one, I would think: How long must I wait? I have buried so many children. Will I ever have more? Will he come to me before it is too late? Is it too late already? But no, he flew to Harrenhal just as my hopes were giving out like a dry well. And Aemond was worth every second, minute, month, year. He was worth the beatings and the contempt, the rapes and the blood. He was worth all of it.”

Alys reaches out to touch your cheek and you recoil; but she is not giving you a revelation this time. She is merely tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fond, maternal smile. There are mottled plumes of violet and indigo on the side of her throat, you notice only now. Alys catches you staring.

“Aemond can be rough, domineering,” she says with a sly smirk. “You know how he is.”

You know how he is. You know how he is. Horror strikes you like lightning; you imagine what other visions she has swimming in her changed blood. “It was a mistake. Aegon must never learn of it.”

“Of course not. That would kill him.” And you are gutted by a blade of cool serrated treason. Alys does not appear to be aware of it. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate to summon me. I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.”

“A door? Which door?”

“Any door.”

You contemplate her. “Why would you believe that you owe me loyalty?”

“Because of Aemond,” Alys says simply, without any trace of resentment. “You mean something to him. So you mean something to me.”

He doesn’t crave me anymore. He has his own prize now. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I never am.” Then Alys glides off to rejoin her husband.

Hours later as you are helping Aegon into bed—he must be carried up and down the castle steps by his guards in a litter, something he considers mortifying—you weave a new braid for him and then pour him a cup of milk of the poppy when his glazed eyes keep listing to the glass bottle of pearlescent relief, deadened nerves, liquid dreams. You crawl into bed beside him, curl up against his scarred chest, listen to the slowing thud of his heartbeat as his arms enfold you and draw you in ever-closer. His dragon ring glints on his hand, returned to its rightful place.

“Your legs?” you ask, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that has grown over his collarbones like climbing roses, like ivy. He can’t really feel your touch there, that’s not why you do it. You do it to show that you aren’t repulsed by his wounds and could never be, could never think of any part of him as something less than wondrous.

“That’s most of it,” Aegon murmurs drowsily. “I’ve started getting this ache in my back too. It won’t go away.”

“What?” You bolt upright in bed. “Show me where.”

He gestures: the curve of his spine, just above his hips. Panicked, you begin pressing lightly over where his kidneys are.

“Here? Aegon? Does that hurt?”

But now he’s realized how frantic you are, how upset. “Oh, no, never mind,” he says, clutching his pillow and feigning being too tired to speak on the subject for even a moment longer. He yawns dramatically. “It’s just a sprained muscle, I think. You know I’m always crawling around now like some kind of vermin. It’s nothing serious. It will heal in time.”

“Aegon—”

“I’m alright.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to him, buries his face in your hair, nuzzles and sighs contently as he whispers: “Shh. I’m alright. Stay, stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You left him!” you hear Aegon yelling from his rooms, and you drop the book you had been reading in the castle library, an anthology of illnesses of the body, the mind, the soul. You sprint through the shadowy corridors towards the noise, the hem of your sapphire gown fluttering around your ankles. You are always dressed in jewel tones these days. You are anything but neutral.

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Larys has pressed himself to one stone wall like he wishes to disappear. Alys is observing with her strange, impassive, void-dark eyes. Aemond is being berated. He does not appear resentful or defiant; no, he is paralyzed. He is haunted, he is damned.

“You left him!” Aegon screams again, and hurls a full wine cup that strikes Aemond in the chest, spewing red through the air like blood spurting from slit veins. The king is standing, but with great effort; he is scrabbling through the drawers of his bedside table for things to throw at his brother. Yet the glass bottle of milk of the poppy remains untouched. “You abandoned him, you betrayed him, you fucking murdered him!”

“Aegon, what’s going on—?!”

“Almost a week ago, Cregan Stark’s army met Criston’s in the Riverlands,” he tells you. He is panting, red-faced, furious as he recounts Lord Larys Strong’s words, the news the Master of Whisperers only now received from one of his innumerable informants.

You stare at Aemond, horrified, already knowing what this means. “And Aemond wasn’t there.”

“He was at Harrenhal!” Aegon roars, tossing one of your medical books at Aemond, a volume on herbology. It strikes the prince in the nose, and blood gushes from his nostrils; ruby droplets freckle his hair. Aemond makes no attempt to defend himself. He is in shock, he is mourning. “He was fucking his witch while our men were being butchered!”

“Criston, he’s…he’s…?”

“He was slain in battle,” Larys informs you quietly.

Aegon staggers to his brother, shoves him roughly, receives no retaliation. “He was the closest thing you had to a father, he worshiped you, he loved you, and you left him to fend for himself after I told you over and over again that you and Vhagar needed to stay with him, and now he’s gone!” There are tears on Aegon’s face, crystalline tracks that bleed down his cheeks and jaw and throat. “You killed him, you killed him!”

“The Stark men?” you ask Larys, not wanting to know but needing to.

“Moderate losses. Now headed south towards Daeron and the Hightower army.”

“You fucking traitor,” Aegon hisses, sobbing, beating his palms against Aemond’s chest again. “Your whole life all you’ve wanted was responsibility and the second someone gives it to you, you throw it away! Why can’t I be the one with a body that works?! Why can’t my dragon be whole again?!”

And at last Aemond finds his voice. It is brittle and almost too hushed to hear. “I’ll make this right. When I defeat Daemon and Caraxes at the Gods Eye, it will be over.”

“It’s already over for Criston!” Aegon explodes. “It’s over for Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor, it’s over for Otto and Everett, it’s over for Sunfyre, we keep losing people and it’s all your fault! You started this war and you’re too much of a goddamn coward to end it!”

“He will end it,” Alys says in that deep placid voice like dusk, dawn, midnight.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me! I don’t want to hear about your delusions, I want him to do his goddamn job! I want him to act like the hero he’s been begging to be seen as since he was five years old! You know why no one wants to write books about him or carve his face into statues? Because he doesn’t fucking deserve it!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond whispers, his mouth trembling.

“You should be!” Aegon hemorrhages, and then collapses to the floor, moaning with his face in his hands.

You go to him, try to soothe him, grab the wine cup from the floor and fill it with milk of the poppy, tilt it against Aegon’s lips. He gulps the numbness down with helpless, hated need. Aemond and Alys flee for the doorway.

Aegon says, suddenly more calm: “Aemond, wait.”

The prince regent stills and turns back, listening. Aegon, with great difficulty, begins to say something in High Valyrian. Aemond cuts him off. “No, that won’t happen—”

“Please,” Aegon rasps. “Listen to me.” Then he continues. And as he speaks, Aemond’s eye fills with tears, a glistening like ice over lakes in the winter, like gemstones in a crown. You look between them, searching for any clues you can read.

“I understand,” Aemond says at last.

“Good. Now get out.”

Aemond wipes his face with his sleeve and then disappears from the room. You tell Aegon as you rise to your feet: “I’ll be right back.”

Aemond is moving quickly; you don’t catch up with him until he’s passed through the castle entranceway. Down by the ocean waves beneath a blood-red sunset, Vhagar is already landing, leaving cataclysmic imprints in the sand with her claws, trenches and impact craters. From the edge of the beach, Sunfyre watches with dull, wounded interest. Alys is halfway down the staircase. Aemond stops when he hears your footsteps, waiting under the rising full moon and materializing constellations.

You demand: “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.”

“He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain. He doesn’t understand—”

“Aemond, what did he say?”

The prince regent sighs and looks at you. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to get better this time.”

I can’t believe that. I can’t survive that. “Why did you have to do it?” Your voice splinters; your throat burns. “He’s right that you started this war. You’re the reason Rhaenyra will never negotiate. You’re the one who made this horror inevitable. Why did you have to kill Luke?”

The dusk is radiant on Aemond’s face like firelight. It is a long time before he speaks. “I never intended to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I never gave Vhagar the order. She went after Arrax. I tried to stop her.”

It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. And you think of all the times people have told Aemond that everything that’s happened is his fault, and how he has never disagreed with them. “Who knows?”

“You. Alys.”

“No one else?”

“Who would believe me?” Aemond smiles faintly, profoundly sad. “And even if they did, would that make me so much more noble than a kinslayer? A Targaryen who can’t control his own dragon? A man who is reckless, ineffective, unworthy?”

Here in air the color of flames and gore, you tell him, perhaps more kindly than he deserves: “You’re worthy, Aemond.”

“I will end this. I will meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle. Alys saw it.”

“Did she see you win?”

“Are you worried about me?” Aemond teases, grinning crookedly. And he does something that he hasn’t tried in a long time. He swipes for your forearm and you snatch it out of the way just before his fingers can close around it, just before he can catch you. Aemond chuckles. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll win the war for the Greens. We will return to King’s Landing, we will rebuild, Aegon will heal. He will live for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” you say, wanting so desperately to believe it.

“You know,” Aemond adds as it occurs to him. “If the king does happen to predecease you, in ten years or twenty or thirty…and you find yourself unincumbered…Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Alys would always be first, but…”

“No, Aemond.”

“Fine,” he says, agreeably enough. He smiles down at you. “I will come back to let you know when it’s done. Then I will fly south to join Daeron in annihilating Cregan Stark’s army. And then we’ll all go home.”

Yes, yes, let that be true. “Good luck,” you tell him, soft like a whisper.

“I don’t need it.”

Aemond descends the staircase, climbs up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, takes flight with Alys into the late-autumn dusk; and you watch them vanish into the crimson horizon until the sky is empty.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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theold-ultraviolence · 1 year

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Let Them Hear

Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary: Not wanting to detatch from one another, you and Aemond put up a show for the two poor servants that came into your rooms to serve you breakfast. // Words: 1.3k. // CW: exhibitionist kink, public sex // A/N: I know I'm swiming in requests but this scenario wouldn't leave my mind since last night, so I had to let it out of my system! hope you enjoy!! x

A long moan, coming deep from your throat spills into the pillows, as you turn your head to one side to elongate your neck and present your husband with more ground to cover with his kisses.

You’re limbs sprawl underneath Aemond, languid and melting into the mattress from how thoroughly he’s been fucking you all morning long.

You’d woken up in his embrace and he hadn’t wasted a minute, immediately kissing your sleepiness away from the corners of your eyes and warming your body with his own – more effectively than the sunshine creeping in through the curtains.

So wrapped up in one another you were, that you’d begged him to call for servants to bring up your breakfast, hesitant to detach for even a second.

He’d happily complied, and once he’d done so, he’d come rushing to straddle you once more, burying himself deep – so, so deep in you, that you’re sure you could feel him in your throat; presence so overpowering that the sound of the birds happily chirping outside dies down, and the only thing you can hear is the lewd, squelching noises his cock makes each time he fucks into you, how his balls slap against your skin mercilessly, and the wet sounds of him licking you and groaning for you.

“Aemond?” you sigh, to which he smirks and continues to caress your face while wetly kissing your chin and jaw, plunging into you slowly, deliberately.

“Aemond…?”

“Mmm…what is it, dear love?” he whispers your name but doesn’t stop kissing you – even deepening his kisses, not letting you speak as he entwines his tongue with yours while his hips increase their pace.

“Ahh…Aemond…” you moan into his mouth, staring at him with wide pupils swallowing up the color in your lustful gaze.

You entirely forget what on earth you were about to say when he smirks so mischievously, chuckling as he looks down at you with a profound hunger, with his eyes half-lidded and lips glistening.

“Yes, my love…” He moans as he continues to stroke your face and neck, his breath growing heavier and heavier with desire, when suddenly, a loud knock on the door disrupts your stupor.

Aemond disregards it and keeps kissing you, prompting more insistent knocks to follow that make you stare at him incredulously – grasping onto his shoulders in a meager attempt at anchoring yourselves back to reality, “Aemond, we should stop…they’ll hear us.”

“Let them hear.” He emphasizes his words with a couple of sharp thrusts that have you mewling loudly, with your eyes rolling back and toes curling.

The knocks get even louder and you feel yourself burning with embarrassment, hiding your face in Aemond’s neck to which he just chuckles.

“Let them listen, let them wait.” He shakes his head, prying your face away from him so he could gaze deep into your eyes. “We’re happy.”

Aemond preens at the idea of people looking at you and seeing the image of genuine happiness – genuine love in a marriage – the ideal that everyone seeks and yearns for, but that is most certainly but a distant dream, especially among Targaryens.

Hence why it always surprises you, when this exhibitionist side of him surges up whenever you’re out together during royal affairs. Someone so usually reserved, not above proudly displaying his love for you, either to servants or lords.

“They can hear us enjoying each other in our own bed all for all I care…” Aemond growls into the side of your neck, massaging your back in firm circles before gripping the meat of your ass and thighs to plunge in deeper, as he leans into your ear to hoarsely whisper, “Or why don’t we let them in? hmmmm? Let them serve our meal and see us…give them something to think about for the rest of the day.”

You moan loudly as his voice sends shivers running down your spine, and you can’t deny that you’re feeling turned on by the prospect of having an audience, mixed with pride and joy over him being this unabashed – of him wanting to show you off, show off your love.

You grin and caress his muscled back, whispering conspiratorially, “well then, let them in to serve our breakfast.”

Aemond finally smiles like the cat that got the cream, nodding before turning to the door to yell, “come in!” and soon the door opens, and two servants with their hands full enter the bedchamber.

Shock would be an understatement, as they stand there before the two of you, absolutely paralyzed, but Aemond merely raises an eyebrow at them.

“You may serve us.” He orders, fixing them with a deadly glare that sets the servants in motion immediately.

The poor men are blushing intensely, with their hands shaking as they prepare the set up.

You tense, feeling slightly guilty but Aemond merely adjusts his thrusts to hit from a different angle, with a different pace that has you seeing stars, head tilting back as you moan uncontrollably.

“Let them listen…” he whispers into your ear before nibbling on its shell and outline, grazing and biting your earlobe, “Let them know who makes you feel this good...”

You cry out loud from the overwhelming mixture of emotions, from his thick cock to his deep voice to the feeling of his hands rubbing tantalizing circles on your clit and holding your neck so that he can kiss it sloppily, to the layer of adrenaline from having people listen.

Something shifts in you, making you feel a little bit devilish – so you let go, give one impish look to one of the blushing servants before smooching Aemond’s neck audibly, being obnoxiously loud as you wrap your legs around Aemond and pull at his hair so egg him on to fuck you even harder with no regard for the other people in the room.

Aemond chuckles darkly, perfectly content to play the game with you, as he leans down to lick and suck at your breasts while groaning like a truly depraved man – the vibrations of his moans and grunts against your skin, akin the ground trembling when Vaghar’s about to take flight.

Aemond’s pistoning picks up at a vicious pace that has your vision going black, grasping desperately at his back, clawing at his shoulders as moan, after moan, after moan tears down your throat hysterically.

You feel like you’re suspended in an endless black sea of bliss as you cum, and keep going, floating on and on amongst vibrating waves, before sweet kisses to your forehead bring you back to consciousness.

You blink sleepily, then turn to look at the servants – both wide eyed and red – and embarrassment once more washes over you, making giggle nervously and hide your face in the crook of your husband’s neck.

He slows to a stop ever so gently, looking up and smiling at you before following your gaze to where the servants are standing awkwardly, waiting for further instructions from the prince.

He nods in a silent command, to which they respond with a court, “yes, my lord,” and dash right out of the door, making the both of you burst into a fit of laughter.

You look up at Aemond, all starry-eyed and blissed out, lovingly caressing the side of his face and tucking loose strands of silver hair behind his ear, before echoing the servant’s words, playfully.

“Yes, my lord…” you mock, “I’ve gotta say…that has a nice ring to it.” You smile and arch your eyebrows flirtatiously. “I’d say…if you were to take a little bit of a dominant role with me, my darling…let’s just say I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”

“Oh…”

He smirks and roughly grabs your legs to hook them up in his shoulders, not yet pulling out of you. “Is that something my lady love would like, hmm?” He groans right into your ear before kissing your forehead, then your nose – sweet little pecks that soon melt into one long, sloppy kiss on your lips that has you giggling and moaning in it.

“Aemond, our food will turn cold." You pat his shoulders, "We can try that later…”

“I’m not hungry for food, dear love…” His stomach growls in the midst of his kisses, making him chuckle for having been betrayed by his own body.

“Alright, let’s eat.” He grins in a fiendish way, before helping you up and out of the bed. “After all, we’ll need all the energy we can get for later…”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #reader insert #fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd #house of the dragon #ewan mitchell #my writing

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undertheorangetree · 8 months

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Under the God's Eye

Chapter Five- The Dinner

Summary- A family dinner results in an unexpected rendezvous.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Titty sucking. Handjob. Vaginal fingering. Cunnilingus. Smut. Alcohol consumption. Allusions to drug abuse. Severe daddy issues. My bitter and intense hatred for Viserys Targaryen coming through in my writing. Discussions of bad childhood/neglectful parenting.

Author's Note- okay I’m done teasing now. Shout out to modern AUs for letting me use modern terms in smut without it sounding weird to me. Find the rest of this filth on AO3 link below!

Series masterlist

divider by firefly-graphics

She watches mildly distraught as Alicent flutters around the kitchen, murmuring to herself as she sets pots and pans on the stovetop, pulling out an absurd amounts of ingredients from the fridge.

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" she asks for what she thinks is the fourth time, hand fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

Alicent looks up at her, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face with a tired smile. "I'm sure, sweetheart. Don't worry, Rhaenyra should be here within the hour to help me. You're on vacation, go and do something fun. I can handle it."

"I don't mind helping, really. Even if it's only until Rhaenyra gets here."

That earns her nothing but another thankful smile and a shake of her head before Alicent is ignoring her completely, mumbling about where she has left her biggest bowl. A part of her is worried that she's annoying Alicent but she still can't stop herself from asking. She looks frazzled, so much so that it is clear that she is not used to working in the kitchen like this. With her hair tangled in a messy red bun on the top of her head, she has a hard time imagining the Targaryen-Hightower household as a place known for nuclear family dinners. Not with the way Alicent seems absolutely wrought with anxiety.

"Oh, my love," Alicent calls out suddenly and she turns to find Helaena pausing on her way to the stairwell, an expensive looking Russian Blue cradled in her arms. Dreamfyre, she had learned the cat's name was, though she has only ever seen her in pictures on Helaena's phone. She is a reclusive little thing, spending most of her days basking in the sunlight in quieter rooms. Alicent waves Helaena over before jerking her head in her direction. "Take our dear friend here and tell her to enjoy being a guest. She's trying to be too helpful for a holiday."

Helaena huffs a laugh, adjusting her grip on her cat before holding her hand out to her, fingers grabbing at air like a child. "Come on then."

She's pulled out of the kitchen unceremoniously, obediently following behind Helaena, though she can't help but look back at Alicent once more, still feeling guilty.

"I don't know why she doesn't just bring some of the staff with her," Helaena laments as they begin climbing the stairs, still hand in hand. "She insists that she doesn't need them on holiday, but then she plans some big dinner like this and all it does is stress her out."

Out of all of Alicent's children, Helaena is the one she can most see herself befriending. The sweetest, the most down to earth, less obvious when it comes to her family's massive wealth. But it is moments like this where the blatant difference between them is abundantly clear. Her home had never had so much as a maid, much less a whole host of staff. She can do nothing but nod dumbly, agreeing with her as they make their way to the second floor.

"You lost this," Helaena says as she opens Aemond's door, smiling at them both and looking incredibly pleased with her own joke.

"You're so funny," Aemond says, voice completely deadpan, not so much as looking up from the book he has open on his desk. She doesn't have to look at the cover to know it's a textbook as her own copy is still sitting on her bedside table in her apartment.

She grins. "I know."

Helaena leaves and she has no choice but to make herself comfortable on their now shared bed, propping the pillows up against the headboard and sitting back against them. Aemond continues reading and she takes the opportunity to really look at him, uninterrupted by his own piercing gaze. The long sharp planes of his face, the strong jut of his nose, the line of his cheekbones. The ever present tilt of his lips, as if there is some secret or joke he’s struggling to hide. Even from here, she can see the way his eyelashes curl against his eyelids, the light blonde of them near translucent. His hair is the same almost silver blond and, fleetingly, she wonders how much effort he truly puts into it. She has heard the sound of the hairdryer when he locks himself in the bathroom but has never seen any of the products he may or may not be using. Nor has she ever been permitted to enter, the door locked tight since their post shower run in.

But it's his eye that truly catches her attention. She's sat on his sighted side and she can see the brilliant blue of his real eye even from there, admiring the way it catches the afternoon light. Only the dilation of his pupil sets it apart from the prosthetic and she realizes now how pretty they are when he’s not glaring at her or attempting to stare her into submission.

She nearly jumps when he speaks, pulling her harshly out of her thoughts. "You'll meet my father tonight. And Daemon."

Read the rest here

Taglist- @backyardfolklore @docmartinis @watercolorskyy @barbieaemond @bellaisasleep @yentroucnagol @aemondsbabygirl @randomdragonfires @at-a-rax-ia @violetletovi @launotfound @helaenaluvr @solisarium

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #aemond smut #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen smut

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written-in-flowers · 2 years

Note

Hi!! Could you do a drabble for Aemond x lowborn reader (fem), where Aemond is torn bc he fell in love for the first time but also feels a sense of duty to marry a highborn lady bc he’s a prince? And maybe he even comes to his father Viserys for advice? 😩 I think we were robbed of father/son interactions on the show

Ooooh, I sense forbidden romance in the air! Lovely, hope you enjoy!

Marks That Bind Us

He already felt stupid for asking. What answer is he possibly expecting to get? 'Yes, son of mine, you may marry the lowborn servant in the kitchens.' It sounded ridiculous even saying it to himself. But, the fool in his wished to try. The same fool who'd paused when you'd first entered the room, holding a tray of food to serve at their table.

He'd never seen you before that moment. Granted, the Red Keep is full of servants working day and night to serve the royal family. But, he recognized faces and remembered names well. Your face was one he'd definitely have remembered. He kept himself composed, cold and unfeeling, as you placed a bowl of greens nearest him. He did not let his eyes linger on you long, and he drank wine to find something to do. You unsettled him, but not in an unpleasant way. He then watched you leave without saying a word.

He saw you again walking across the yard. You had a basket of vegetables freshly pulled from the earth, and on your way to the cook. He'd kept on sparring with Ser Cole to not bring attention to himself, but his one eye kept you in view. He couldn't help noticing the sun shining your hair, and the sparkle in your eyes. You were lovely in the general sense; the same way any woman would be lovely, but it still caught him off guard. Just like Ser Cole's shield when it slammed into his chest.

He found out who you were, and that you worked in the kitchens. Aemond suddenly decided he no longer liked the serving girl who tended to his chambers, his linens, clothes, and cups. You were brought to him the following morning, carrying a breakfast tray for him. He let you serve him, without saying anything as he nibbled on this and that. You'd changed from the grubby scullery maid dress into the serving one, a red dress with a white apron. It looked nice on you. He tried finding something to say as you moved about fixing his room and changing out sheets. Aemond finally spoke to you when he claimed he had trouble tying his jerkin. He pretended to have a shoulder injury, and therefore needed assistance. You'd appeared reluctant at first, unsure of his real intentions, before he urged you to come over.

He watched you deftly tie each piece of clothing. His eyes took in the shape of your nose and lips. He saw the large dark mark around above your left eyebrow and curling onto your temple down to your cheekbone. He'd never noticed it until now because your hair kept it covered, but being closer, he inspected it further.

"That's an interesting birthmark," he commented, nodding to it as you finished clasping his doublet together.

"Um, thank you, Your Grace," you replied shyly, finishing up his doublet. "Some people tell me it's shaped like the moon."

"A crescent moon."

"A what?"

"The moon when it's shaped like your scar."

"Oh, I see. I always wondered what that was called..." you then realized your proximity to him and backed away. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I-"

"-You haven't done anything wrong," he insisted. "Only talk, nothing more. You may go now."

He watched you leave, and wished he'd made you stay. The days carried on like this: you helping him with his routines in the morning and at night, occasionally making conversation until he's forced to dismiss you. He particularly enjoyed how you never seemed to stare at his sapphire eye. You acted as if it he were whole, a full man with all his parts. Women always noticed it first, and their faces of disgust or distaste bothered him. He tried not caring, but it grew under his skin. You dared to ask him about it once.

"How'd it happen, Your Grace?"

"How did what happen?"

"Your eye..."

He took a drink from his cup and told you the story. Well, his version of it. He said he'd been attacked by two boys, they got into a scuffle, one of them pulled out a blade and slashed his eye. You were enraptured by the story.

"It must be difficult," you said after, "Having to live with only one eye. I imagine lots of people stare and..." you stopped talking, realizing you'd move onto sensitive grounds.

"It is hard," he nodded. "But, I like to think it gives me an advantage. My opponent thinks he can come at me on my left, but then is instantly proven wrong when I strike him with my blade."

"I didn't mean simply for fighting, Your Grace," you replied. "I mean for normal things as well. I imagine lots of noble ladies don't want to marry a man missing an eye. I hear the lot of them say you're scary and intimidating."

He stood up from his table, walking over to you. You did not back away from him. Staring into your eyes, he asked, "Do you think I'm scary?"

You looked over his face, then said, "I've met scarier men than you."

"Have you?"

"There was this brute I met on the Street of Silk-"

"-You worked there? Before coming here?"

"No, Your Grace, I lived there with my mother. She was a whore, who had me in the brothel where she bedded my father." You spoke so plainly to him. He liked it. "The brute was missing an eye, had sharpened his teeth to fine points, cut his nails into claws, and ate raw meat. They called him The Beast."

"Sounds terrifying," he replied in an unimpressed tone.

"You wouldn't talk like that if you'd seen him."

You both talked throughout the night. You told him stories of your childhood in the city and of your family. He recounted tales of him flying on Vhagar and about the other dragons of old. You made him feel human. He liked that. Finally, one night after a few cups of wine, he bedded you. It'd been gentle, slow, and passionate. The both of you became one soul, one body. Aemond realized, as he watched you quake underneath him, that he did not wish for anyone else.

But, you were lowborn. A bastard girl of a whore in King's Landing, who never met her father and works as a servant to the prince. You were not marriage material to anyone who mattered. His duty as a prince was to marry a high born lady from a noble house to strength his family's alliances. He always stood by his duty; he refused to be like Aegon, who liked shirking away from his as much as possible. He'd do right by his family, and be the good soldier who did what was expected. Yet, he desired something more, something real. He'd done many great things for his family; he'd burn down cities for them. Perhaps, just perhaps, they might let him have this one thing.

Walking into his father's bed chambers, he found the old king sitting by his model of Old Valyria. Shaky hands whittled away at a new dragon piece. Aemond could smell the sickness being masked underneath incense burned by the maesters. His father still had some of his mind left. He'd not completely lost himself yet.

"Father?" he called to him, standing by the door with his feet apart and hands behind his back. Be a good soldier, son. Let him see you are serious.

"Ah, Aemond," he smiled softly, rotting teeth starting to show on the bottom half, "My son...How good to see you."

"Yes, um," he stepped forward, "There was...there was something I wish to ask you."

He'd normally go to his mother for this request, but he knew what she'd say. She'd tell him 'no'. His father, a man and the king, had better sway. If he can break laws to make Rhaenyra, a woman, an heir to the throne, then he can break a law for him, his trueborn son.

"What is it, son? Sit, sit down."

Aemond took a seat across from his father. He watched brittle hands work the dragon into its shape. He must know. Even if he gets what he expected, he must ask. "Father, you once broke tradition and law to make Rhaenyra your heir-"

"-Not this again," he groaned. "I told Hightower that I will not change my mind-"

"-No, no, it isn't about that, Father. It's..." he took a deep breath, "I wish to marry, Father."

His eyes lit up, "Is that so? Who is she?"

"Well, her name is Y/N. She is clever, charming, gentle, and kind. She...She's wonderful," he replied. 'And, I wish to marry her."

"Who is her father? Her house?"

"She...well, you see..."

His father nodded sagely, "I see. She is lowborn, I take it?"

"Yes."

"Bastard born?"

"Yes."

"Comely?"

"Very. I love her, Father. I love her, and I..." he exhaled deeply, "I have always done everything you and mother ever wanted. I trained myself in sword and shield. I studied history, philosophy, art, and war. I have been cordial to my half-sister and her children when you've asked. I have always maintained the respect, and uphold the values and traditions of our house," he said, "But, for once, Father...Let me have one thing. Let me have her hand."

"You may have her," Viseryes said after a long pause, "But, you may not wed her."

"Father, I-"

"-You will marry a noblewoman and have noble children. You may keep this girl as a bedmate or a paramour, but marriage? I am sorry, but I cannot allow this."

"Why not? You allow Rhaenyra to do as she pleases! To seek her pleasures and always turn a blind eye to anything she's ever done." Rage began burning inside him. He stood up, fury burning at his father. He should have known.

"Rhaenyra married in her bloodline and had children as expected of her station. You must do the same, to keep peace and prosperity going."

He scoffed at these words. Aemond did not know what answer he expected. Perhaps he'd expected his father to be on his side for once; to care about Alicent's children rather than only his first wife's child. "I..." he balled up his fists, "I understand, Father."

"I'm not saying you can't keep the girl."

"I wanted a life with her. I want children with her."

"Which you can have."

"It is not the same, and you know it isn't!" he snapped at him. "I should have suspected as much from you. If our name isn't 'Rhaenyra' then we go unnoticed by you."

"Aemond-"

He stormed out before his father could see the real fury. Aemond did not tear up or feel weepy. His fire burned. It roared. He stormed into his apartments where you stood, putting his mended doublet on a table.

"Your Grace, I-"

"-We're leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Yes, leaving."

"You talked to your father then?" you smiled expectantly.

"Yes, and it went exactly as I expected, but," he cupped your cheek and brought you close, "That won't stop us. I don't need his approval. I don't need any of this. I only need you."

You stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. You left him for a corner of his bedroom by his bed. Tapping the wall, the side cracked open and he saw the secret passage door. He watched you bend down and show him two rucksacks with disguises. He smiled.

Yes, he would marry you and damn it all.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x you #house of the dragon #hotd drabbles #hotd imagines #hotd #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond the kinslayer

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star-girl69 · 1 year

Text

I Loved You Like the Sun

a/n: i’m not ready to let go of this fic so i WILL be continuing it into the dance of dragons and i’ll be separating it into two parts. part one should conclude in what i hope to be 5 or less more chapters. i’ll be following the show plot bc that’s easiest for me. so that unfortunately means once i get through what’s happened in the show so far this book will be postponed until the new season comes in 2024 :( also- i heard all of you guys!! y/n will be claiming cannibal later in the series.

and i apologize for the weirdness with her father- after i decided to expand on this series, i decided to leave that conflict out. kinda a messy ending, but i’m eager for daemyra and reader to solidify their own family.

and btw guys it’s still me i just changed my username and stuff 😭

warnings: incest, swearing, violence, kinda sex tbh, mentions of death, tell me if i missed anything!!

Chapter Twelve- Silk Sheets

—-

Jace admits Lady Y/N confuses him.

He knows the facts- he knows that his mother and Daemon clearly feel some affection towards her.

He thinks back to their time in Kings Landing, when he saw Daemon with his hand on Y/N’s thigh and his mothers arm around her chair.

He remembers hearing a scream, muffled, coming from the other wing of their apartments. He remembers the banging on the door, and then the silence before screams of pain. They were unfamiliar. He remembers sneaking out of his bed, past the guards roaming the halls to look for something, he wasn’t sure. He remembers his mother crying, before bringing Lady Y/N into her arms. He remembers her calling the Lady “my Y/N.”

He remembers the special attention, the red dresses, the longing looks.

And he notices.

He notices how his mother and Daemon insert Y/N into their lives, scheduling bonding time with each of the children. He notices how his mother always makes sure Y/N is there.

His siblings are already entranced with her. Lucerys worships the ground she walks on, Baela proclaims Y/N to be her best friend, and Rhaena always draws her attention with soft words and nimble sewing hands. Joffrey and Aegon adore her as well, although they are too young to truly understand what is going on.

Jace does not know how his siblings have surrenders to her web. Does not know how his parents have. Does not know why he feels the webs clinging to his skin.

But now, she only watches him with fire-bright eyes. She does not carry their name. But fire burns in her, and Jace would be a fool not to see it.

He parries and blocks, rallies and ducks. He evades the wooden sword of the non-descript guard, feeling Lady Y/N’s eyes on him.

It is a blur of movement- an empty brain, devoid of thoughts about Aegon and Aemond and the rest of the Hightowers. His ailing grandfather. His poor aunt, who is subjected to a life with Aegon. How the crown already weighs heavy on his mother’s shoulders and she does not even have one yet. How one day that will be his.

He isn’t sure he can imagine it.

Baela at his side, Jace and Rhaena in Driftmark. Joffrey will be with him, of course. He needs a cupbearer if he is to be king. He likes to imagine Aegon will be a fierce warrior.

His grandparents dead. Daemon dead. His mother dead. Uncles bitter about their lack of power.

With a grunt, the knight yields. Jace’s sword at his throat. Lady Y/N claps.

Jace is burning under the spring sun.

—-

You supposed you shouldn’t be surprised how grand Daemon and Rhaenyra’s chambers were- much less the rest of Dragonstone.

Sometimes you forgot they were as powerful as they were, that the commanded the skies and the sea, the earth and the wind. They had thousands of men at their beck and call- to fight for them, to die for them.

Knowing that Daemon and Rhaenyra had all of that power at the word of a raven made you feel better about the letter from your father.

The two had wasted no time in furnishing their room to become yours as well. A bookshelf on the far wall, the comfiest chair next to the fireplace, tapestries of your choosing on the walls. It was more of a home then your room at Chambers Manor ever was.

You let your hand stretch over the silk sheets, blood red. Your hand splays, fingers dig in, making that scratching sound that makes a shiver run down your spine.

You sigh, falling back onto the bed.

What would you think if your father could see you now? You, the youngest of four, just trying to make it by unnoticed by your family. Your mother had passed years ago- one of the reasons you bonded so well with Rhaenyra.

—-

“I miss her.”

It is her mothers birthday.

She demands that you stay with her all day, so unlike her usual sweet asks and subtle coercion (you can’t refuse the feel of her lips). And her harsh tone is nothing like normal.

But she is hurting. You let her boss you around. If it made her feel better, you would rip out your own heart for her. You are already walking around with something inside of you that belongs to her, what difference does it make if it is in your chest or her hands? You never survived on blood. You survived on star power, on something mystical and otherworldly. Something no one else could understand.

Rhaenyra stifles another sob into your hair, as you hold her with tight hands. You urge her to breathe, and she does. Your chest aches.

Rhaenyra is your savior. Your lover. Your everything. She is like dragonfire being blown in your face- leaving you unscathed. She burns bright and hot but as you get closer, you see that she is just a young girl. Motherless. Powerless.

You know that one day she will burn. But today is not that day.

Besides, she is stronger than that. She is more than her loss.

It is a while before her sobs quite down.

“Tell me something. Distract me, my love.”

You sigh, mind scrambling. “Did I ever tell you about my great grandmother?” She shakes her head, and you hum. “Her name was Alyssa. She was a Targaryen, a cousin to Old King Jaehaerys. She had a dragon, you know. Pink, if the stories are to be believed. A ferocious she-dragon named Heartfyre. My grandmother claimed Heartfyre when she was only 12 years old. She said she wasn’t even sure what was happening. She thought the old dragon was going to kill her. But she did not. After my grandmother died, Heartfyre flew off- to Old Valyria, traders on the sea said. No one ever saw her again.”

Your hands tangle in Rhaenyra’s hair.

“That’s sweet,” she murmurs, and you are relieved to hear no remnants of a sob in her voice. “‘M sorry for being so rude today.”

“It’s okay, Rhaenyra. I know. I know.”

She does not cry. She is a princess. She is a Targaryen.

But here, with you, she lets herself fall. It is the sweetest thing.

—-

The door opens with a sharp creek, and voices fill the room. It is what you have been waiting for.

You stand, skirting past Rhaenyra and Daemon in the doorway.

“Y/N, come back!” Rhaenyra calls, and for once, you do not answer her. You grab the letter you received late last night. It is hidden in your bookshelf, in between the cover of your favorite book.

When you turn back around, Rhaenyra is sitting leisurely on the bed. Daemon sets Dark Sister on the side table, fingers carefully tracing down the blade. He handles it with such care and reverence, you admire it.

You pad over to the wordlessly, letter burning in your hands. You do not trust yourself to speak, and Rhaenyra frowns when you hand her the letter. She tugs on your red slip, pulling you next to her on the bed.

“What’s this?”

You sigh, wordless, placing your forehead on her shoulder. You can tell she is concerned, placing a hand on the side of your face. You hear the sound of the wax seal ripping.

You did not dare open it.

Her eyes scan over it quickly, and you hear the sound of Daemon’s holster falling to the floor.

“Your father.” She whispers, and it is a breathless thing.

You nod against her, her hand curls into your hair.

“I won’t let him take you. Not again.”

“What?” Daemon asks, walking over, finally in earshot of your hushed voices.

“Letter.” Rhaenyra whispers. “Y/N’s father.”

“Tell him to fuck off,” Daemon scoffs.

You are too nervous to admonish him, Rhaenyra too busy reading.

“He says you can stay in Dragonstone. That your siblings married better than you. He doesn’t care.”

You let out a breath of relief.

The years of letting him pass you by have paid off.

“Thank the Gods,” you murmur.

“Were you scared, my sweet girl? You must know by now, we will not let anyone take you, hm?”

You pull back from Rhaenyra. Miss her warmth.

“I know, but, still. We are not married.”

“That can be arranged.” You do not need to look at Daemon to know his face is sporting a large smirk.

Rhaenyra sighs from beside you, beginning to take down her intricate hairstyle.

“We won’t do anything until you say so, my love.” She shoots a look to Daemon, and you smile. You fall back onto the bed, on your side, cheek pressing into the silk fabric. Daemon comes into your point of view, but only for a second. He walks past you, to the other side of the bed, bed dipping as he lays down.

It is domestic. It is normal. It is all you have ever wanted.

Daemon winds a hand into your hair, tugging you up. You sit up, and he beckons you over with a lazy grin and a movement of his finger. You come to your knees, and he palms your hips.

“Made for us,” he murmurs.

He pulls you to straddle him in one swift move- and he moans at the sight of your flustered from the lack of warning.

He is drowning in his own lust, in the tightening of his pants. You can feel it below you. Pressing up against you in the most delicious way-

When your hips move, it is a reflex. A desperate chase for more of this feeling.

Daemon and Rhaenyra have not ravaged you like this. No one has. Your husband neglected his duties to you. But you are take by the sudden need to be taken by them, to be full, to feel loved.

“Daemon,” you moan. He grunts, face burying into your neck to leave hard kisses.

You hear the silk sheets rustle from behind you, the press of something warm against your back. Rhaenyra is right behind you, breath fanning the side of your face. Her hands rest on your stomach, a comforting, sure pressure.

“This is what I want to see for the rest of my life. The prettiest girl, a desperate mess for us, yeah?”

You moan at her words, hips moving again. Daemon throws his head back, hands gripping your hips tighter, pushing you down-

When Rhaenyra’s hand travels along your stomach, you grab it, instinctively. You do not know if you are ready.

“We will have you as you are,” she whispers, and you let her hand go. When her warm hand dips under your skirts you shiver with anticipation. With want. With need.

The head of Daemon’s manhood touches his stomach, and you press against the length of it. It must be a painful thing, you think, by any way Daemon grips your hips.

Her hand moves past your small clothes, and Daemon lets out another groan at the press of her hand as well.

Daemon grabs the front of your dress, ripping it in half in a show of raw strength. You shriek in suprise, but he only laughs, dark and promising.

He leans back, admiring.

Your arms come over your chest, but Daemon grabs them with a growl.

“Did you not hear me?” Rhaenyra whispers, hot and breathy in your ear. The tip of her finger circles for the first time in so many years, and you throw your head back onto her shoulder. “I said we will have you as you are.”

And when they have you, you swear you melt into the silk sheets.

—-

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#daemon x rhaenyra #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x reader

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storiumemporium · 1 year

Text

Aemond Targaryen - Meeting Vhagar

A little filler while I work on something of more substance for our boy! (I promise I'm working on like 3 things for him in a row rn.)

It would be a common misconception to assume that meeting Queen Alicent or even Princess Helaena are the signs of Aemond's unwavering love and trust.

These are his tests.

He is very protective of his sister and his mother, however he also acknowledges that they are women grown and can very well deduce the character of a person without his temperamental assertions.

In fact, outside of his own observations he likes to make when you interact with them- they are his most trusted advisors in affairs of the heart.

His mother is quite pious and political, yes, but she is also fiercely loving of her son, and Aemond trusts that even if it were not of her approval that she would not outright lie about the nature of the person he brings to her.

Helaena has no capacity to lie. She is truth in concentrate. A serum through which all things are revealed.

You simply had to be clever enough- and patient enough- to understand.

No, the sign that you have won Aemond's heart is the day you touch bare hands to the side of Vhagar, the biggest- and oldest- Dragon in Westeros.

Her rumbles shake the earth, and when you stumble it's Aemond's arms that come to encircle you, a joyous smile upon his face.

The sun is gleaming, the sky is cloudless. His hair is sunlight spun to thread. He looks happy, relaxed.

Vhagar was his greatest pride, his joy.

Winning her favor was the first time he'd accomplished something truly extraordinary. The first time no one could deny his worth.

It makes him ecstatic to watch you feel along the grooves, murmuring half to yourself about how many years of history are buried into each well weathered scale. The comparison you make between her and the bark of an old tree.

His heart squeezes and twists when he watches you, brave little you, rest your entire body against her looming side. The marvel shone in your pretty face as her breaths rock you back and forth.

Your mouth parts with glee when you hear the thunderous boom of her heartbeat. Heavy and slow with age.

"Would you like to ride her?"

Your enthusiasm is more intoxicating than the finest wine.

He climbs upon her back first, uttering soft reassurances to his fine old Queen, and as he stares down at you, tiny and excitable as a pup, he knows that this is the time he has to say it.

His grip around your waist is tight, and he laughs loudly when you scream as Vhagar takes her flight. Kisses against your face turn into teeth as his smile widens- listening your shrieks turn from fear to utter delight.

"Aemond! This is amazing!"

You look at him over your shoulder once you've achieved height, eyes blown out and face flushed. You sit astride the most powerful creature alive, her span so massive it could block out the sun.

His mouth meets your ear, puffing warm and soft.

"I love you."

Far above the world, where Aemond bade no laws, where the words and tenants of men were nothing more than a whisper, Aemond found your lips.

#Aemond #aemond one eye #aemond kinslayer #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond stannies #aemond x reader #aemond x you #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x you #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x you #house of the dragon x reader

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writingsofwesteros · 2 months

Note

When Gold Cloak Daemon brings the princess back in that shameful parade, of course it causes a complete stir. However it is in private among the family of the Princess that the true ripples are felt.

Otto is full of rage. Though it’s unclear how much it’s driven by the Princess or Daemon. Or perhaps how he takes it all as a slight against his house.

Alicent is beside herself. She alternates between screaming, pacing, praying, holding her daughter and crying, holding her daughter and praying, and praying while crying. Not many words can be understood aside from laments about her poor daughter, or her daughter’s virtue. It’s unclear which she laments more. But her curses of Daemon’s name and her anger at the “lechery and madness” of the city he now runs are very clear.

Aemond is stoic. But he’s nearly shaking with rage. His knuckles white with the force of his clenched fists. How DARE his uncle be so BRAZEN and ARROGANT. Flaunting duty and disgracing a Princess of the realm! Shameful! She could be carrying his bastard at this very moment! Or anyone’s! She arrived covered in seed, he no doubt let others take liberties with her. Perhaps half his guards had a go!

Unfortunately he announces that angrily out loud. Making Alicent let out a distraught wail and sink into her chair. His grandsire giving a sharp “Aemond!” In response.

Aegon stands there silently watching them. It gives him some comfort that he isn’t on the receiving end of this mess. For once he’s the good child. He DUTIFULLY brought this information straight to them. He isn’t as fazed now by what he saw. Oddly when he returns to his room later, he finds himself stroking his cock to the image of his uncle rutting on his sister like she was livestock to breed. And hearing such wanton lewd noises escape her lips.

Helaena was merciful. She spirited her sister out of the room during the confusion. Helping to undress her. Bathe her, helping bring her back to her senses and soothe the many aches in her body. She is perhaps the only one not thinking of the shame. But as her sister comes back down to earth, Helaena finds herself oddly curious. Enough to ask questions.

The answers she is vastly unprepared for.

They were raised as princesses. Taught carefully by their mother. Especially after Rhaenyra and her bastard children, Alicent has been strict. Taught them to avoid desires “that could not be righteously fulfilled.” They weren’t ignorant. They became curious eventually. Though finding the information answered some questions, Helaena never expected the details her sister gave.

Of how she snuck into the city and suddenly their uncle had forced her against a wall and was touching and rubbing and pulling at parts of her body that made her weak. Despite her protests, how he gained dominion over her body just as he gained dominion over the city. With practiced, steady, and lethal hands. She tells Helaena the humiliation of being stripped. And then about how it felt to have his cock suddenly forced inside her.

It really felt like he took her virtue from her. Violently. It was larger than she was prepared for in that part of her body. And he seemed to enjoy pushing deep hard and fast. She’s sure she must’ve bled a little on his cock with the amount of aggression he took her with.

She describes how he made her cunt ache, and it felt like he was using her whole body as a hole when he grabbed her and moved her like that. And shamefully she admits… it began to feel good.

That part shocks Helaena. But her sister continues. Shocking her even more with the detail.

How she felt like nothing more than a bitch being mounted and bred. Being watched and knowing every eye was loyal to the man whose cock was breaking her. Feeling the ache in her cunt from the unrelenting thrusts. And it felt good. The burning humiliation made her body tingle. And the painful ache in her cunt felt just as pleasurable soon. That’s the horrid truth. She was taken against her will. By her uncle, Daemon Targaryen, lord of the gold cloaks. In his city in front of his men, he had defiled a princess and she’d never felt a pleasure like that.

His aching cock painfully hitting inside her. The way he clutched her tightly and gave a few more aggressive thrusts at the end to force his seed deeper. It was shameful and horrid and disgusting and she loved it.

For those few days she was no princess. She lived to be used by the Lord Commander. He had no trouble finding her weak spots and purposefully exploiting them to make her see stars. She recounted all the depravities he enacted on her. The shameful things she’d been made to do. She swears she spent so long filled by his cock, that her cunt still aches and clenches as if he’s still inside her.

The princess does cry to her sister. But not out of grief. She cries out of shame. She as been humiliated. She could become mother to a bastard. And she enjoyed every second of it. Has she gone mad?

Helaena is fascinated after that. She wonders to herself how that could work. How pleasures of the flesh could drive one so mad, they’d allow another to possess and rule them body and soul. She’ll dwell on the thoughts for a long time. Wondering to herself.

Viserys, even with his brain addled, is angered at Daemon. He’s the one lecturing him. Demanding answers for what happened. But Daemon feels no fear. He doesn’t even feel shame. He did protect his niece after all! Only he enjoyed her body during those days. The seed spilled on her hardly counts. And he knows she could be carrying his bastard. In fact he hopes she is.

He wants to see his niece. His niece he defiled and so nicely trained and molded to perfectly suit him and his cock. He wants to see her breasts swollen and aching with milk. Her belly heavy with the child the Lord Commander forced into her royal womb. And he wants to taunt her family with that. In his city. His rule. He will have what he damn well pleases. And what he damn well pleases is to fuck his niece while she’s in such a state in front of those brothers of hers. He saw how Aegon’s cock twitched in the pleasure house while he watched her. He knows what went through his mind. And Aemond, for all his duty and honor. He knows his nephew’s weakness for women with child. Those foolish boys can watch their poor sister become a pregnant whore, and know it isn’t for them. Her body belongs to the Lord of the Gold Cloaks. Along with this city.

Not many may know this yet. But Daemon sees it. He knows the power he holds. One day, not even the royals and high lords can deny. Daemon Targaryen is the true ruler of King’s Landing

!!!!!!!!!!

THE HOTTEST!! All the reactions are so spot on as well, Alicent I imagine tries to hide her and maybe even wants to give her to the sept and hide this disgrace.

And Daemon would not even marry her..yet if ever, he'd keep her his mistress

#gold cloaks of lust

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aemondslefteyeball · 10 months

Text

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi (7)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

[Modern!Aemond x Fem!Reader]

[Warnings: Gore, death, animal attacks, masturbation, creepin']

[Summary: They best pop some broken shot bottles between their fingers]

(Love y'all hoping I'll get two out next week have a good weekend drink water)

Word Count: 4.9k

Chapter 7

Three months after the disappearance, life was back to normal for most. Aemond found himself growing ever more restless as the summer cast a sweltering heat over King’s Landing. Despite how awful he felt, he was starting to handle it better. Helaena wasn’t the I-told-you-so type, but he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he continued going after the promised five sessions. He wondered if other people could see the difference in him. Earlier this week he had responded to his secretary when she asked him how his day was instead of grunting. But the torment of not knowing where you are was eating him alive. The scans in Moat Cailin were apparently going slower than expected due to issues with interference or something along those lines. Days blended into each other but that morning he had walked into his Grandfather’s office and requested a long weekend; it was the closest thing to a vacation he had taken after graduating. Otto once again shot him that empathetic glance, and nodded. “Aemond.” His hand had been resting on the doorknob when his Grandfather called out. He turned, half expecting to be lectured. “I would have done the same for your Grandmother.” Otto Hightower was not a man anybody could accuse of being emotional, but there was a deep sorrow in his voice Aemond had never been privy to. He had never really heard much about her, but supposed this was why. Aemond nodded at his Grandfather once more before leaving the room.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the night at the tree, you refused to go back there. It made no matter, Barba wouldn’t push you to do it. Whatever poison had seeped into you had only metastasized, it seemed. The days blurred together and your nights were riddled with serpents twisting in the burrows of the Earth. Finding little comfort in rest, you found yourself at your clearing more often. Tonight you were joined by Barba, who was looking at you excitedly before pulling out her black iPhone. You looked at her questioningly, what could have been months ago all of you agreed to limit phone usage to ten minutes a month unless absolutely necessary.

“Is it okay if I play something?” Her voice was as soft as always, but you braced yourself for religious music.

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah go ahead.” Giving her the ‘all go’ gesture, she turned the device on and pulled up her Spotify library.

Barba gave you a meek look for a second, her icy eyes gauging your expression. “So, Uhm, I have a kinda unconventional music taste?”

You smiled, figuring that you could stand to listen to music about the Old Gods as long as she was happy. “Oh, I’m fine with anything.” You shrugged, secretly hoping that she wouldn’t play any country music.

“Are you sure?” Barba raised an eyebrow as she tilted her head towards you. “Like it’s not super common.” Suddenly curious at whatever tree music she was hiding, you just shot her two thumbs up.

You thanked R’hllor above that it was not country music. It was not Old Gods gospel either. So far it seemed to be some folksy song that had the occasional sound effect. You nodded approvingly, folk music wasn’t your favorite genre but it was pretty good. It also made sense for Barba, though you wondered why she thought folk was so unconventional. As soon as you started to close your eyes and enjoy the singing a scream pulled you out of your thoughts and had you staring between the phone and Barba. She just offered a small smile before the tempo of the song picked up and the growl started again. “Barba what the fuck?” was the only thing that you could even think to say. She just shrugged at you as she turned the volume up and tilted it so you could hear better. You hadn’t heard a lot of metal before, but the song actually sounded pretty nice. You still couldn’t stop staring at Barba in shock though. Who would’ve thought that the quietest, sweetest girl in all her classes listened to this? “Honestly I kinda fuck with it.” You started dancing as best you could to the insanely fast tempo. What the fuck are this guitarist’s fingers made out of? “Heavy metal Barba.”

“Oh, this is black metal actually.” She corrected, a gleam in her eyes as the two of you clumsily danced to the undanceable song. Barba tilted her head back to scream with the song, you miming guitar. She started laughing then, and the two of you continued until the song was winding down. When Barba stopped giggling, she handed the phone over to you expectantly.

“This is your ten minutes, listen to what you want.” You moved to hand the phone back to her before she pushed it so it remained in your hand.

“Seriously I just threw you in the deep end, pick a song.” You scrolled through her library hopefully, searching for the song you had been hoping to find.

When you clicked on it, Barba’s face lit up in recognition. “Teenage Mary said to Uncle Dave, ‘I sold my soul, must be saved.’” Both of your voices rang through the clearing. “Gonna take a walk down to Union Square.” When the timer sounded the two of you groaned in unison. Barba shut the phone off and put it into her back pocket.

“What do you think of Aly’s expedition?” Barba sat on the log, you following on the one across the fire from her.

“It’s dangerous.” You sighed, dangerous didn’t really even begin to cover it. The only mercy at your disposal was the heat. “Sara seems pretty on board with the idea. Floris too. Sabitha won’t let Aly go without her…” You paused for a moment, glancing into the fire. “I think I want to go.”

Barba stared at you hard for a second before pulling her lips into a hard line. “The Cessna is too dangerous, but this is fine?”

“There’s safety in numbers, and we know our feet work. Can’t say the same for the ‘ol shitbird.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to tell her about your dream the night prior. Ivestragī se sȳndror mazilībagon ao dāez. A crimson river swept through the valley, white driftwood caught in pink rapids. Se riñar, ñuha riña. A cloud of red smoke was the last thing you remembered before Baela shook you awake that morning. Barba would no doubt tell you how the terror you felt while sleeping was a gift. She snapped you out of your thoughts with a dry laugh.

“Fine. But if it doesn’t work I’m taking the plane south.”

“I understand.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aemond had bid entirely too much money on the pink monstrosity that sat before him. Regardless, you couldn’t come home to a torn duvet cover without having immediate questions. He inhaled again before he stepped into the bedroom. Vhagar thankfully wasn’t napping in her usual spot, and taking that as a sign Aemond tossed the new one on the bed as best he could. He could just have the maid straighten it later. His task in the room was completed, but he couldn’t wrench himself away from the closest substitute he had to you. He walked across to the other side of the room, looking at your desk. A few textbooks were stacked off to the right, and Aemond flipped through them before moving into an iPad, stapler, and tape. He opened the top drawer, rummaging through it to find basic office supplies. Following that he moved on to the bottom drawer. This too yielded nothing. A few folders were neatly labeled with subjects and an unmarked manila envelope. He flipped through the folders and didn’t find anything of interest. He undid the string on the envelope next, pulling out a few pieces of sketch paper. Aemond lightly brushed his fingertip across the drawing’s lower lip, a rising hunger growing in him. The next one was decidedly more risque. You were playing the piano but with a robe draped around you. Draped was a loose word for it, as the robe seemed to be a formality. Plum silk looked as if it had been poured around your hips, your naked back exposed to him. Aemond took in a sharp breath as he dragged his eye over the soft curve of your waist. From the angle you had been drawn at, he could see the curve of your breast, infuriatingly too little of it however. His eye lingered on the image for a second longer before he took in the next one with a widened eye. Aemond felt a predatory grin slip across his face as a burning jealousy took hold of him.

The paper was promptly set down on the desk before the blonde reached to undo his belt, cock painfully throbbing against his slacks. Upon being freed, it slapped against his buttoned shirt and he let out a groan. Aemond spread the precum down onto the rest of his length, holding a breath in before releasing it with a soft moan as he stroked down to the base. His eye locked down intently on the drawing of you, back arched and face twisted in pleasure while presumably, Emerson was bringing you to your peak. His pace grew more fervent, angrier at the thought of it. You looked blissful, but he knew he could break you down to the point of deliriousness. Aemond would find you when you were playing piano, and you would be as oblivious to his presence as always. He decided he would stand behind you then as he pumped his cock with one hand now, eye tightly shut. He would brush your hair to one side, letting his breath draw goosebumps from you. He would insist you keep playing, while one hand tossed that little skirt aside and snaked into your panties. If you stopped, so would he. The thought drove him wild, and he was bound to escalate it. His breath came out in pants, pace quickening. Aemond would kneel between your legs next, spreading one while taking care to leave the other so your foot could still rest on the pedal. From there he would plant gentle kisses along the tops of your thighs, wondering what your moans would sound like. Finally, he would tear off your panties, relishing in either your submission or annoyance. Aemond knew you would be so good for him after he dragged his tongue up your slit, swirling his tongue around your bud before pressing on it hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue lowered to the hole, pushing his tongue into it while pressing his aquiline nose on your clit. If you behaved he would reward you greatly, though truth be told either path would end in the same result. You would still end up spread on the piano, your skirt tossed up around your hips as he relished the sweet moan on your lips when he finally entered you. When you met his gaze he would start rolling his hips into you. He wondered if you would buck your hips as you approach your peak. He would be unrelenting. Unyielding. He would move his thumb to assault your bud until you started to shake. Aemond needed to feel you clench around him, head tossed back in abandon as you unraveled on his cock. The pace at which he stroked himself increased as he gritted his teeth. Aemond was a jealous man, and he wouldn’t stop until you were unable to remember your own name, let alone your ex’s. A primal groan was released from Aemond’s lips as he finally came, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until you were looking him dead in the eye when he came in you. Aemond reached out a hand to lean against the desk, catching his breath before he put his cock away.

Fuck.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why didn’t you tell them about your dream?”

You paused for a moment, wondering if it was a rhetorical question. You continued to examine the charred body of the deer with a detached eye. When you met Barba’s icy blue eyes you sighed. “Aly is a brick wall with hair.” Barba leaned back on her heels, nodding for a second. Your gaze flickered back to the stag, curiosity took hold of you. Reaching down, you wrenched a vertebra out of the corpse, holding it up to the light for a moment like a gemstone. “This bone didn’t burn at all.” You examined it for a moment before smiling at Barba and getting up.

You met Sabitha, Aly, Nettles, and Myrielle at the clearing in front of the cabin. Shooting Aly a small smile, you tugged at the straps of your backpack. “When do we leave?”

Aly smiled back at you “In an hour.”

You nodded, taking a knee and unzipping your rucksack, pulling the bone out of it. You had fashioned a piece of twine through it, and approached Sabitha while she was putting her water bottle in her bag. “This is kinda weird, but will you take this?”

Sab’s eyebrows knit together, running her fingertips across the bone before she looked back up at you. “Sure, but why am I going to be wearing a vertebra on my neck?”

“Just do it, please. I think it’ll keep you safe.”

“Like a lucky rabbit's foot?”

“I had a dream last night.” You weren’t sure why you couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of your mouth. Thankfully Sabitha smiled at you, gesturing at you to continue. “There was, I don’t know. Red smoke and a river of blood. Just please keep it on you, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks Y/N.” She pulled you in for a quick hug before you two turned back to the group.

The group was exchanging hugs, hope on their faces as they saw you guys off. Yelling suddenly rang out as Rhaena bustled out of the cabin. “Wait! Wait for me. I’m coming.” Rhaena panted before she looked at Ser Criston with doe eyes. “Criston, I mean Ser Cole. Please don’t try to talk me out of this, okay?” Her eyes were pleading, Cole looked as if he were a shell of a man. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I just feel like my friends really need me.” Baela’s lips pulled into a tight line across her face and you sucked your breath in through your teeth as quietly as possible.

“Oh, wow. Well, that’s uh…” Ser Criston looked away for a second, his face suddenly twisted in false disappointment. “You know what? That’s really brave of you, Rhaena.” They both giggled for a moment before he met her gaze again. “I’ll do the best I can without you.”

“I’ll come back for you, I promise.” Baela physically cringed, and you shrugged at her. She’s your sister.

“Okay.” Rhaena went in for a hug immediately after, and Criston’s mask dropped. He stared at all of you with a long-suffering look. He tentatively patted her on the back, his face scrunched as he did so. Everybody else in the group tried to distract themselves as Rhaena leaned in for a moment longer, sighing dreamily.

Last hugs were exchanged as the group of you set off into the brush. The mood was cheerful, and the breeze was a relief. You hummed quietly to yourself as you took in your surroundings. Marguerita Passion had to get her fix. She wasn’t well, she was getting sick. Went to sell her soul, she wasn’t high. Didn’t know, thinks she could buy. Dappled sunlight shone through the leaves, and Nettles joked about girl scouts. In the afternoon you found yourself actually starting to bond with Rhaena. She still seemed a little off, but she was interesting. The group of you hung back a little while Aly and Sabitha picked up their pace. Eventually, Aly’s gaze turned back to you, before she turned and gave Sabitha a look. Subtle. You didn’t hear the conversation, but Aly looked grave. Not that anything was new, really. When darkness fell camp was quickly established. “So get this.” Sabitha was animated as she spoke, her face lighting up. “After Bill Pullman falls in love with Sandra, his fucking brother wakes up! It’s a whole ass mess. I mean, this dude actually thinks that Sandy is his fiancee.” She gestured wildly, locking eye contact with everybody. “So just…” Howling rang out in the distance, and all of you froze. You looked in the direction it came from and swallowed. Your heels dug into the dirt.

Aly rocked back for a moment, looking at the fire. “We’ll be fine. Wolves are scared of humans. Besides, it doesn’t sound like they’re very close.” The nagging feeling still didn’t sit right with you, and you stared at Sabitha for a second, who was rubbing the vertebra. “We can take turns keeping watch, just to be extra safe but I really don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

“You know who does need to worry?” Sabitha wiggled her eyebrows. “Our girl, Sandy. Because she does not know this man and he’s never seen her before he’s like, ‘Who is this girl?’ And his doctor is like, ‘Well, you must have amnesia because you don’t remember your wife-to-be.” As Sabitha rambled on, the group relaxed. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, and you last remembered Sabitha moaning about how unfair it is that Natasha Lyonne is straight.

Morning found the group anxious, but ready to carry on. Birds sang and insects chirped as you continued. Later in the morning, Aly heard the sound of rushing water, and the group of you rushed to it excitedly, undoing the lids on your bottles. To your horror, the water was a deep, muddy red. “I don’t think we should drink it,” Rhaena announced, letting the handful of water she had cupped drain back into the river.

“No shit.” Myrielle sniped. “It smells weird.” The scent of rust hung heavily in the air, with no signs of life in the stream.

“Y/N, what did you tell Sab about your dream?” Your arms crossed over your chest as you took a step back, gaze flitting away. “A river of blood?” Nettles continued. Your eyes were locked onto the water. “And a cloud of smoke.”

Aly scoffed after Myri had finished, her eyes rolling. “Yeah, and last night I dreamed I went water-skiing with Jaenara Belaerys, so.” Rolling your eyes and shaking your head, you found your friendship with Aly growing ever-thinner. It was okay if she didn’t believe in things, but you were getting sick of her constantly shitting on everybody else. She was out eating dirt last night but you were crazy for what happened at the seance.

“Mineral deposits can change the color of the water,” Rhaena spoke out. “Like iron, maybe?”

Sabitha nodded, looking at it again. Aly smiled at her. “I’m sure that’s what it is then. Come on, this has been a fun pit stop but we need to keep moving.” She turned on her heels, clodding away.

“Um, guys.” Myrielle held the compass up. The dial was spinning all over, never landing in one spot.

Sabitha stared at it for a second before looking away. “The iron in the water could be messing with it. Especially this much of it. It’ll probably work again when we’re away from the water.” Her tone was hesitant as Sabitha gripped the vertebra that hung from her neck.

“Seriously?” Aly shot the group a hard stare.

“I don’t know, maybe we should think about going back?” Myri looked at Nettles hesitantly.

“We just need to get away from here.” Aly grabbed one strap and shifted her weight to her left leg.

“Wait, let's think about this.” Sabitha blurted out.

Aly stepped forward, her gaze flat. “Think about what?”

“I don’t know, this stream? It is a pretty big coincidence that Y/N dreamed about it… we heard wolves last night…” You decided to stay out of it, suddenly regretting your admission to Sabitha. All you wanted to do was try to keep her safe, not start infighting.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

“I’m just saying tha-”

“What? What are you saying? That the fucking woods are speaking through Y/N? That they don’t want us to leave? Do you know how insane that sounds? The woods don’t give a shit and all this nonsense.” She gestured towards you suddenly as you met her gaze, your nerves being grated ever thinner. “And dreams and omens and whatever the fuck.” Aly gestured to the bone on Sabitha’s neck. “That is. We can survive without a compass. We’ll use the sun to travel south and we can place cairn stones or something under trees. There is a solution for everything.” Aly was going to make an amazing engineer. Absolute disregard for human feelings and a stubborn resolve to fix anything. “An explanation for everything. Now, that said, nobody forced you to come with me. Anybody that wants to go back, by all means.” She spat. “But I’m losing daylight.” You shared wary looks with each other before you looked at the river one last time. Doc Martens rustled leaves as you followed Aly.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He swore he wouldn’t do this again. Aemond cursed Emerson, but he knew that was a deflection and cursed himself afterward. Once he regained full control of himself he put the sketches back into the manila envelope and placed it back in the desk. He let out an audible sigh at the empty room, his gaze landing on the bed again. Some giant moth… thing of yours stared back at him from atop the bed where he had haphazardly thrown it after putting the new duvet on. Closing the bottom drawer to the desk Aemond walked back to the closet door. Pushing it further open, he took a deep breath before rummaging through the hamper once more. He would have the maid wash your clothes, but not all of them. And after three months in the wilderness, you wouldn’t miss a few pairs of panties. This was a turning point, he promised himself. What had been done was already in motion, but he wouldn’t deny it to himself any longer. He was attracted to you and missed your presence in the house. Aemond would talk about it with Dr. Greenwood and make it right. The expiration date on your marriage was a little under a year and a half away, but maybe until then the two of you could come to an understanding with each other. Besides, it wasn’t like Emerson would be here for you when you returned. After Taenys had morphed from emotional support to a vine growing on Emerson she attended fewer briefings before she had stopped coming altogether the past month. The last he had checked, she made her relationship with her public on social media. You deserved better, but in the meantime, he could fuck you hard enough that you would forget about her. He made one last move to the drawer of your nightstand, opening it before grabbing one more item and making his way out of the room. He spent the rest of the day alone. Helaena was at some summer camp with the twins, and the solitude had been weighing heavily on him. He did ask the maid to do your laundry, and he was grateful that she wouldn’t ask questions about the stains on it. Every day felt like a repeat. He was the first person who would be contacted when you were found, but he couldn’t help the compulsion to continue checking Twitter for continued updates. Aemond had always prided himself on his restraint but found that his need for you was becoming an addiction. He reminded himself that he would sort it out with Dr. Greenwood, not that she needed to know everything. Aemond would fix it as he had done his entire life, and things would be better when you returned. At some point he locked himself into his office, diving back into his work for a few hours respite from the storm in his head. When his eyes grew too bleary to continue, he returned to his room. Every step of his routine was just another meaningless thing he did to occupy his time. When he finally finished, he stood at the edge of his king-sized bed observing his bounty. Three pairs of panties, and the journal that had been almost entirely filled. He needed to get to know you if he was going to be of any use when you returned, after all.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You fluffed the blanket before placing it on the ground. Your feet ached from all the walking on shitty terrain, with your mind weighed down by exhaustion. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we’re one step closer to home. I promise this will all be over soon.” You shook your head as Aly spoke, just wanting to sleep and get fucking help.

Silence hung in the air for a brief second. “We don’t need another speech, Alysanne. We need to sleep.” Sabitha’s face hardened as she glanced back into the fire. “I’ll take first watch tonight.”

Aly shook her head, sitting by the tree. “Let me do it. You should all rest. Aly leaned against the trunk of the tree, and your eyes grew bleary as the flickering of the fire faded from your vision.

Silver hair flashed through the dense brush. You ducked under vines as you followed after the man. The silver hair evoked some feeling of familiarity but you couldn’t quite place it. Jungle grew over pillars of stone, with the man flickering between them. The further he walked, the more intricate the stone became. The jungle seemed to either respect or fear it, as the plant line abruptly ended after you stepped into a clearing. Your boots padded over black cobblestone as you pursued the man, pace quickening. “Wait!” You ran after him, but he always seemed to elude you. He was only walking, but with a strange sort of glide to it. The man finally entered an ominous building. You stopped to stare at it for a second before taking a deep breath and entering. To your surprise– and horror– the man was waiting for you inside. He stood casually across the room, clad in strange, sunset-colored robes. Long silver hair cascaded down part of his ruined face. Flesh melted and sloughed off. The closer you looked at the man, the less human he started to appear. Ēdi naejot gaomagon ziry syt se dārion. His voice was half-gurgled, and you stepped back suddenly. You picked up maybe three words of what he said, but what you did know didn’t sound great. Then it dawned on you. That voice. His eyes were swollen sickeningly far from the socket, and you could see his jaw hanging loose where the sinew melted away. Charred bone crept into a Cheshire grin as the demeanor of the man changed. Kessa sagon. Se riñar emagon vēttan ziry sīr. The melted man continued forward with a predatory grin. Weeping, blackened skin hung off his body like a glove, slowly dripping down his body. You stepped too far back and stumbled back onto the stone. The man was upon you in an instant, doughy fingers digging in as he whispered in Valyrian. You were unsure of exactly what he was doing, but fingers wrenched into your right thigh, muscles tensing as you cried out. His swollen eyes opened briefly, purple and blazing. Suddenly the whispers turned to growls before his eyes closed one last time. Īlē ivestretan

You woke up to the shaking of the wolf’s head. Sabitha yelled as she was pulled away from your side. A scream wrenched from your lips as the canine bit into your leg. You panicked suddenly, bringing your boot to kick at its head before angling your foot so the steel toe collided with the wolf’s temple. It let out a pained whimper and you didn’t give it a moment to recover. You were on it in a second with a rock you had grabbed and promptly bashed it into the creature's head. Grunts of exertion left you as you slammed the rock back into the ruined mess of skull and brains, unable to see from the tears blurring your vision. A hand was suddenly placed on your shoulder, and you choked out a sob as Nettles pulled you back from atop the body. A buzzing sounded in your ears, and your vision started to blur. Your thigh looked like ground beef when you could see it clearly, and Nettles moved to wrap a makeshift tourniquet around it. When it was done, she helped lift you to stand. Left arm wrapped around Nettles’s shoulder, the pair of you walked towards where the rest of the group was gathered. Your gait grew unsteadier, and you were unprepared for the sight of Sabitha on the ground. The lower right half of her face had been torn apart by the wolves, her teeth visible through the holes in her cheeks. Aly kneeled beside her, wailing while holding the vertebra. Streams of blood oozed from Sabitha’s face as you collapsed against Nettles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sabitha :(

Black Metal Barba’s Jam

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