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asumofwords · 9 months

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

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

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

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

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello sweeties, now that I have fed you, the next update may be a little spaced out, but I couldn't resist posting this shorter chapter for you all. I cannot wait hehe <3

Chapter 88: Three Dragons

It was no easy thing to juggle expectations and reality. Especially in a time of war.

It was as never ending cycle of do's and don’ts. Can’s and can’t’s. The questioning yourself constantly for every little move that you have made, every step you may have taken.

A piece forward on the carefully crafted board you had created in your mind. Questioning yourself for the things you hadn’t done, or what you would have done differently. The only consolation being that time would tell, and the Gods were surely, hopefully, on your side.

You had of course expected to most likely fall pregnant to Aemond, your mother asking you if you knew what was really expected of you, the terrible truth of it all, the expectations of cruelty and misuse, and you knowing. Those you had expected, and in some cases welcomed his temper and flickering devotion, for it was something you knew and expected, and it was the unknowing that was most torturous of all.

However, you had not expected how much it would have surprised you.

You had especially not expected to notice the changes so suddenly.

Days pass, and you became aware of the changes in your body more than ever, now that your attention was drawn to it. Your breasts were becoming swollen and sore, nipples growing more, and more sensitive. Gowns became slightly tight around your chest and waist, and the grazes of your stiffened peaks on the silks of your dresses causing you to gasp.

There was of course, another change that you had begun to notice.

Your stomach, despite still being early days, or what you assumed to be early days, had a small swell to it. Almost completely unnoticeable, unless to you.

It was when you were dressed or bathed did you notice it the most, or when you were wearing a gown Aemond had made from when you had first arrived to Kings Landing, thin and broken. Those gowns strained at your front, and pulled tightly against it, wrinkles in the fabric new to the usual pristine appearance that they usually held.

You and Aemond still danced around each other, unsure of how to move forward, uncertain on whether or not to look back. New to the situation you both found yourselves in.

Parenthood.

Or yours at least.

The Prince, despite his lingering irritation at your coldness, still doted on you, and each morning there were small and fresh lemon tarts brought to your chambers.

The smell was overwhelming, and you found your mouth watering as soon as they arrived. Your uncle had tried to speak to you, soft whispers, gentle touches of the arm or hand, and you had brushed him away, a false sadness to your eyes as you avoided him.

The rose by your bedside had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared, the remnants of a stem spotted in the hearth the next morning.

The Prince had tried, hopelessly, to initiate intimacy, curling around you in bed to place unsure kisses against the barest hint of skin on your shoulder. But you had wriggled away from him, curling up in a ball in cold rejection.

And Aemond had taken it.

That morning as you sat in the chambers, eating your second lemon tart with little haste, you thought of what was to come, and unconsciously tucked a hand around your middle. You thought of what it would look like. What it would be like.

Would it have his eyes? Or yours?

His temper? Or yours? Or an unfortunate and most disastrous mix of the two?

What would you even name it? Obviously a name of tradition, but what? You could not stomach the thought of naming it Aegon. Perhaps Viserys? Visenya? Rhaegar?

And then the excitement fizzled out, and was replaced with burning anxiety.

What would your mother say?

What would your father say?

You had not told them in that letter. And soon they would know.

Would they hate you now?

Would they try to kill the baby?

Or end the pregnancy?

You doubted it, knowing that they would always give you a choice, but you also knew that they would hate to know it was Aemond who sired it.

You tried to finish your breakfast of lemon tarts, reaching forward to nibble on some sliced tomato, yet a breeze moved through the window, curling the curtains behind them, and the pungent smell of pork wafted beneath your nose. Your stomach roiled, mouth gone dry.

The Maester had warned you that some women get sick when with child, and you knew that others had cravings. Perhaps you would now have more of an aversion to the pink-grey meat than ever, which was all well and good, considering that you were never too fond of it in the first place, and Aemond had an aversion to it.

When you had finished your breakfast, stomach struggling to settle after the pork had offended it, you had moved down to the Gardens, quietly excusing yourself, knowing that Aemond would be attending to his duties with the King all day.

You spent most of the day seated in the breeze, enjoying the way it settled your stomach and brought the fresh smell of lavender under your nose.

The sun rose to its peak, and soon enough, began to sink lower into the sky, the day moving by quickly.

As you sat and watched the waves below, thinking of your family, hoping that your letter had not frightened them, praying that they had been moved to action that would be disasterous, a small servant boy no older than ten came towards you.

You shifted from the pillow you were seated atop as he made his way confidently to you, a large silver tray in his hands with a teapot and bowl of fruit atop. You frowned, but stood anyway moving to the table that he placed it atop, skilfully pouring the tea without a drop spilt.

You looked at him oddly, not having asked for it, but as you gazed down at the bowl of fruit, you noticed it was only star fruit.

Aemond must have sent the boy to bring you some afternoon tea.

When he had finished serving the brew, he watched as you sat in the seat, giving you a small smile and bowing, before you watched him walk away, little brown head disappearing amongst the sea of plants and trees.

You picked up the small silver fork and stuck it into the bowl of cut up star fruit, lifting it to your lips to chew. The burst of flavour hit your tongue and you hummed in appreciation at it.

Perhaps you would forgive Aemond today, cease his begging and smothering gifts.

As you pressed the fork into the bowl again and lifted yet another neat square into your mouth, you looked at the tea. It was darker than what you had expected, and as you brought it up towards your eyes, you noted that it was almost completely black.

Lifting it to your nose, you inhaled deeply.

Liquorice root and elderflower.

Your mothers favourite.

They had gotten your letter.

A wide smile pulled at your lips, and this time you did not fight it. You let yourself grin alone in the Gardens, surrounded by nobody but the various plants and bugs, the warmth of the sun behind you, and the knowing that they had received the raven.

You sipped the tea joyfully, enjoying the flavour as you thought of your mother Rhaenyra. She had sent you a sign. She had sent you a message. You wished to go home so terribly so that you could hug her. So that you could bury your head into the crook of her neck and breathe in her scent deeply. You wished to feel her lips pressed against your cheek thrice, and hear her sweet voice once more.

Tears welled in your eyes and you blinked them away.

Soon, you promised yourself.

It would be soon.

You sipped some more of the tea again, putting it down onto the table and reached back for the fork. The star fruit was most likely your father. And it warmed your chest with hope to know that they both sent little signs of themselves to you.

You spiked your fork down into the bowl, a little more forcefully than you should have.

The metal prongs hit something hard, and the object shifted beneath.

You blinked.

Using your fork, you looked into the bowl of yellow fruit, moving a cut up chunk to the side. Your eyes immediately being drawn to a subtle sparkle amongst the fruit.

Something that was not fruit.

There, hidden amongst the soft yellow flesh, was a silver chain.

Your fingers found the edge of the bowl and pulled it towards you, eyes darting across the yard to ensure no-one was watching. You dipped your fingers into the bowl of fruit, feeling the cool nectar spread amongst the skin, and pulled the chain.

Tucking it close to your lap, just above the napkin, you stared at it in a beat of confusion.

There, in your palm, was a necklace.

A gift?

It was thick silver chain that wound around itself in an intricate braid. Three green emeralds hanging delicately from its centre, coated in the nectar of the fruit it had lay hidden beneath.

And then it dawned on you.

‘A gift from a Targaryen Prince’ Larys’ voice rung in your head.

Alys Rivers was no more.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

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munsonpetal · 4 months

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aemond targaryen x reader fic rec list

smut !!

angst ☁︎

fluff ♡

last updated: jan 6

3 or more parts

an attitude adjustment @letmeloveyouuuu !!

summary: Aemond needs to put his wife in her place . . .

a curse for a curse @barbieaemond !!

summary: sub!aemond

lykirī ^ !!

summary: wife!reader rides aemond

the other woman @bichachonacho ☁︎

summary: you were overjoyed with your marriage to aemond, unfortunately for you— he doesn’t feel the same way. you will always be the other woman.

melting the dragon’s heart @bubblegumspacebxtch ☁︎ ♡

summary: they say opposites attract but can profound differences really find it in them to love?

the last of the dragons @undertheorangetree ☁︎♡!!

summary: the dance is over and with only two targaryens having survived, it is up to them to ensure the dynasty does not come to an end.

i’m a damsel, i’m in distress, i can handle this part 2 @valeskafics ♡!!

summary: you try to escape from your arranged marriage to prince aemond. or almond. whatever his name is.

little wolf ^ !!☁︎♡

summary: banished to the wall by his sister queen rhaenyra for the crime of kinslaying, aemond grows restless. however, things change when you accompany your brother to castle black for a visit. you, the beautiful lady stark who was betrothed to aemond before his banishment.

bound to apologise @targaryenrealnessdarling !!

summary: aemond upsets his wife and forms a punishment fit for a prince, feat. subby!aemond

mother knows no bounds @queers-gambit ☁︎

summary: being rhaenyra's daughter means taking on alicent's generational anger, and one day, she takes it too far.

i plan to make a gift of it to my lover ^

summary: ten years ago, lucerys claimed eemond's eye, and now, a lannister will claim her debt.

balance the scales @ichorai ☁︎♡!!

summary: he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

to watch @helaelaemond !!

summary: aemond reads an old story from the reach to you in bed. you like to see how long he can read aloud before he stutters.

starry eyes sparking up my darkest night @spaceycowboys !!

summary: aemond has only wanted two things in his life. a dragon and to marry the pretty tyrell girl, now he has both.

pieces of a woman epilogue @randomdragonfires !!☁︎♡

summary: even when his world takes a turn for the worst, aemond targaryen endures.

#aemond targaryen fic rec #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen x reader smut #aemond targaryen x reader fluff #aemond targaryen x reader angst #aemond x reader

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 6: I Am Missing You To Death]

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, a Wolfman update, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), dragons, murder, suicide, say hello to the Crab Fam! 🥰🦀

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

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 9k (she chonky!).

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

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

There’s fire on the table, ice in your blood. Alicent and Helaena are prisoners in their rooms, and tomorrow Otto will be beheaded in the Dragonpit, but you are here in the Great Hall surrounded by candles, cider and beer and wine, rare roast boar sweating blood like rubies, raucous celebration.

Your father and Clement are laughing with Medrick Manderly, Lorent Marbrand, Luthor Largent, other men of Rhaenyra’s council; when they toast their wine, it sloshes carelessly out of the glass goblets. Corlys Velaryon—whose navy helped secure the city—is pensive and withdrawn, saying very little. At the center of the high table, the woman who calls herself queen is manic: color in her cheeks, light in her eyes, but not a warm life-giving glow, a hollow glint like the flash of coins or swords or moonlight. She is receiving a litany of congratulations for her victory from the lords of loyal houses: Blackwood, Bar Emmon, Costayne, Tully, Frey, Dustin, Cerwyn, Grimm. Frequently and unmistakably, Rhaenyra glances across the hall to where Daemon is conspiring with her military commanders, his back to the wall and arms crossed and face daunting yet distracted somehow, reminding you very much of Aemond. He does not look at his wife. He looks elsewhere, into the future, into the past, into the northwest where Nettles and Baela are waiting for him to return to the cursed corridors of Harrenhal.

“Please eat something,” Everett says quietly. He is carving off the least-bloody pieces of roast boar and laying them on your plate, where they remain untouched. He doesn’t have much to talk about with the other men as long as the topic of conversation hinges on combat. He knows books, not blades. Everett can walk, though only slowly and with great difficulty; he does not ride horses, he does not fight, he does not have a wife and in all likelihood never will. He reads and he watches, sharp eyes like a hawk’s.

“I’m alright,” you reply with effort that feels like lifting iron, stones, the dead weight of a man.

“You’re not,” Everett says, pained.

“Cregan Stark is a good man!” your father is telling his compatriots. He has grey hair and a crafty grin and speaks with dramatic sweeps of his arms. “When he heard of my daughter’s tribulations, borne with such courage, such resilience, he assured me that his intentions to wed her were unchanged. He pledged to forgive her any transgressions suffered at the hands of the Usurper.”

“A better husband than any of us!” Clement trumpets, toasting his wine glass with anyone who will accommodate him. Clement does have a wife—and two sons so far, the infant heirs of House Celtigar—but he spends far more time writing to Lord Stark than his family back on Claw Isle. “Gallant! Merciful! The most clever and civilized Northerner to ever live!”

“Hear hear!” his audience answers spiritedly, though Everett only frowns.

“And soon Cregan will leave Winterfell,” your father continues. Rhaenyra is now listening attentively. “He will finish rallying and fortifying his men, and then march south to crush the last vestiges of this infernal, traitorous uprising!”

Resounding cheers, fists drummed against the table. Clement picks up where your father left off: “Already Roddy the Ruin and his Winter Wolves slaughtered 2,000 Lannister men at the Fishfeed. Can you imagine the carnage when Cregan arrives with his host of young, fresh, able-bodied warriors?! We will eviscerate the Kingmaker! We will avenge Rhaenys, Lucerys and Jacaerys! And when we find the Usurper, when we drag him out of whatever hovel he’s crawled into on his belly like a snake, we will cut him open to see if his guts are green as well!”

As men roar all around you—men who have killed, men who are starving to do it again—you stare down at the reflection in your wine, a vacant face that barely resembles yours. You cannot write to Aegon. He cannot write to you. Where and how he is will remain a mystery until you meet again…or until the Blacks uncover his fate. In your mind, he is both alive and dead; he is sick, he is well, he is suffering, he is finding solace in another woman’s bed, he is lying broken on the side of the road, he is sailing under the cover of darkness into Dragonstone on a borrowed ship, he is drunk, he is sober, he is burning up with fever, his is reunited with Sunfyre, he is in desperate need of you, he has forgotten you completely.

“I bet he’s at Storm’s End!” Medrick Manderly bellows, motioning with a turkey leg as if it’s a dagger. “We should send assassins to slay him!”

“No, no, the Reach!” Luthor Largent counters. “He’s probably on his way to meet his brother Daeron there!”

Theories are lobbed back and forth like the arrows of archers, none of them right. No one asks you. No one has asked about the abuse you supposedly endured either. It was taken for granted as truth; what else could anyone expect from a captor as notoriously depraved and insatiable as the Usurper? Your melancholic demeanor is proof enough. Inquiry beyond that would be impolite. And then Rhaenyra says, startling you: “Is there any chance he’s gone to Dragonstone?”

“He cannot be there, Your Grace,” your father assures her. “It is impossible to take Dragonstone without there being signs, ships in the sea and smoke from the kitchens and the like. We would have heard from the lords of the Crownlands who reside near the island.”

Unless they have silently abandoned Rhaenyra’s cause. Unless Aegon and Larys have won them over. You have to protect him. You have to distract the side you once called your own. You twist the dragon ring on your left hand, gold wings and jade eyes. No one asks about that either; sometimes you think they don’t really see you at all. You say softly: “He spoke often of Dorne.”

“Dorne?” your father muses, stroking his short beard.

“Of course he did,” Clement says. “Degenerates are quite at home there.”

Medrick Manderly is muttering: “We’ll never find him if he gets past the Marches…”

Rhaenyra gazes at her husband again, a hollow, vulnerable sort of desperation, a plea that echoes against stone walls. He knocks back the last of his wine, turns his back on her, and strides out of the Great Hall. Rhaenyra’s pale eyes—a treacherous, oceanic sort of blue like Aegon’s—are glossy with despair. You’ve crossed paths with her before, of course, usually from a distance; but you are fascinated by how much she has changed. With each person she loses—King Viserys, infant Visenya, Luke, Jace—another piece of her is cut away like a man being flayed. The so-called queen is more erratic, more cold. She has had her remaining children brought to King’s Landing: Joffrey, Aegon the Younger, Viserys who is a sickly and disengaged toddler, his eyes and nose always running. They are tucked safely away in their rooms currently. They are glorified prisoners, just like you; they have no role in shaping the world they will one day inherit.

“My lady?” Autumn says, tapping your shoulder. The Blacks know her only as a handmaiden who assisted you in escaping the clutches of the Usurper when he fled King’s Landing. They have no idea who might have fathered the child in her rounded belly. It would not be safe for them to know. Before her time comes to deliver, Autumn will have to go someplace where the Blacks will be unaware if her son or daughter has the silvery hair of a Targaryen. You promised her a new home, but you cannot give it to her yet; nothing you own is truly yours, and Aegon left too suddenly to gift her property on your behalf. Autumn, curiously, does not seem to be in any hurry to leave you.

“I’m alright,” you say again, another leaden lie. The men are now discussing how the Usurper should be executed once they’ve found him: beheaded, hanged drawn and quartered, fed to a dragon, burned alive, some combination thereof. Medrick Manderly is suggesting that they have him flayed alive. When Cregan Stark arrives at last, surely there will be Boltons in his retinue.

“You are exhausted,” Autumn announces, loudly enough for the others to overhear. “You have been through so much. Please, my lady. Allow me to escort you back to your rooms.”

“Will you, please?” Everett asks Autumn. His eyes flick to hers, his fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll check on her before I retire for the evening.”

Autumn offers you her hand. This is a kindness, an escape. You take it and rise from the table.

“My daughter!” Bartimos Celtigar laments, gesturing to you. His spectators, men rabid with bloodlust, nod and murmur sympathetically, like it is almost something too distasteful to speak of. Murder can be discussed openly, torture, weapons, war; but the violence women collect and carry in their bones? Those are details best left unsaid. Perhaps it strikes too near to their own deeds, if they dared to think hard on them. Your father approaches and kisses you twice, once on each cheek. Rhaenyra drinks her wine and stares blankly at the place where Daemon had stood. “So wronged, so mistreated, and yet she is still with us. She will rise again. She has a glorious future ahead of her. We all do. All of us who serve Rhaenyra, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. To the words of my house: Perpetual Resurrection!”

The men lift their cups and shout, none more deafeningly than Clement: “Perpetual Resurrection!” Everett mouths it quietly to himself. Corlys Velaryon says nothing. Rhaenyra holds her head high, sorrowful but defiant. You retreat from the Great Hall with Autumn, the hem of your gown flowing out behind you, black like the faction the Celtigars have aligned with, black like mourning.

“No,” you tell Autumn as she starts up the stairwell that leads to your bedchamber.

She is puzzled. “Where then?”

“Take me to the dungeons.”

“What? Why?” Then she understands. “Oh. Oh no. You don’t want to go down there. It’s awful, dark and grimy, dried blood on the walls, handprints and fingernails. Spiders and bones. Rats everywhere.”

“So you know the way.”

“Yes,” she admits cagily, tugging at a coiled lock of her coppery hair.

Your eyes narrow. “When were you in the dungeons?” You met Aegon there? He took women there? Before the war, before he was burned, before he met me?

“Don’t ask questions you wouldn’t want the answers to,” Autumn says primly. Then she ushers you through doorways and shadowy stairwells that lead down, down, down.

Grand Maester Orwyle is in the black cells. Jasper Wylde has already been executed; Tyland Lannister is being tortured until he reveals the location of the Greens’ stores of treasure. Otto Hightower, condemned to death, is housed on the floor of the dungeons reserved for prisoners of noble birth. There are torches burning in the corridor, rage-orange luminescence like dusk bleeding into the cells through gaps in the iron bars. Autumn does not leave you alone there, but she does wait at the end of the hall to give you—and the man who three times served as the Hand of the King and was twice removed from the same office, first by King Viserys and again by Aegon when Otto proved too cautious for his liking—some semblance of privacy.

Otto peers up at you from where he sits on the floor of his cell, strewn with dirty straw and glowing firelight. He appears old, impossibly old; the flesh has evaporated between his skull and his yellowed skin. He already looks like the skeleton he will be soon. He once counseled Aegon against flying into battle with Sunfyre, and Aegon hated him for it. But Otto was right, wasn’t he? “Did you tire of all the merriment upstairs? Or have they run out of roast boar? I could smell it cooking, you know. All day long as rats chewed at my ankles.”

“I imagine you now regret not running when you had the chance.”

Otto shrugs haggardly. “My odds would have been as good on the road as here. Out there, I might have been descended upon by a bear or a shadowcat or a band of thieves who left me gutted on the roadside. At least my death will be clean and swift.”

“Is there anything I can bring you?” you ask him, gently now. “Anything I can do for you? Before…tomorrow?” Before your life is ended. Before the Greens lose one of their greatest assets.

His gaunt face stretches into a slow, taunting grin. “You have chosen a side, Lady Celtigar.”

That’s true, isn’t it? By not spilling the Greens’ secrets. By falling in love with their king. “If Rhaenyra wins, I have to marry Cregan Stark and Aegon dies.”

“And you want him to live so he can marry you.”

It stuns you so much it takes a moment to find your words again. “Well, that’s not possible.” He already has a wife, no matter how insane she is now.

“I would not assume that any form of depravity is beyond his skill.” Otto sighs deeply. “Before that bitch took the city, I was corresponding with the Dragonseeds called Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer. They claim they will switch to our side for titles that Rhaenyra denies them. Ulf wanted Storm’s End—delusional, the drunk could not manage a fishing village, he spells half his words wrong—and Hugh asked the Blacks for Casterly Rock. Apparently Daemon was actually amenable, but Rhaenyra refused the notion entirely. How fortunate for us. If we offer these Dragonseeds the seats of lesser houses—Costayne and Merryweather, I’d suggest, both traitors to Aegon’s cause—I think they’ll declare for us. Alicent must write to them. With Aemond, Criston, and Daeron on the battlefield, and Aegon gods know where, she must be the one to negotiate for our side now. She is capable of it. I know she is.”

“She can’t get to the rookery.”

Otto smiles up at you cunningly. “I suspect her letters will somehow find their way there,” he says. “And you are now more knowledgeable of the would-be betrayers’ whereabouts than I am.”

You nod. This is true, for the Blacks speak openly around you. While Corlys’ alleged bastard Addam Velaryon—who accompanied the navy into King’s Landing—now patrols the skies above the city on Seasmoke, Ulf and Hugh are currently stationed at Maidenpool in a remote corner of the Riverlands and awaiting further instruction. Rhaenyra dislikes them, you can sense this already. She has heard tales of boasting, drinking, whoring, brawling, bottomless greed. She does not trust them. She does not understand how the gods allowed her sons to be killed and those scoundrels to live.

Otto says: “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“What is it that draws you to Aegon?” He speaks with profound, genuine confusion. “What is there to admire? To yearn for?”

You see him, playful crooked smile and dazed eyes, careful hands, tiny silver braid. Unaware that you’re doing it, you twist the dragon ring on your finger. “He’s brave. He’s kind. I don’t understand why none of you can see it.”

“Ah.” And now Otto at last comprehends. “I was in love once,” he says wistfully, very far away, gazing at the stone wall, gazing at nothing. “I don’t remember what it felt like. But I remember that it happened. I suppose I will see Alicent’s mother again tomorrow. I hope she still recognizes me.” His eyes return to you, reflecting torchlight that shifts and distorts. “These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder.”

You can hear Aegon’s voice in the silence of the dungeons: I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you. “I’ll help your side however I can.”

“Do not allow the Blacks to discover your treason. You are far more valuable to us as someone who can drift between worlds than as a professed ally, assuming you cannot turn the Celtigars.”

“I can’t.” You could convince Everett, perhaps. But he isn’t the heir to Claw Isle.

Then Otto smiles, and it is the softest, most tender thing you’ve ever seen him do. “Please tell Alicent that I love her.”

“I will.”

“Now go,” he says. “Before you are witnessed here. Before you endanger what you want most.”

To end the war. To stop this suffering. To be with Aegon again. You hesitate, not knowing how to say goodbye. What is there left to say when the man in front of you is already dead?

“Go,” Otto Hightower orders again; and this time you obey.

He dies at 9:00 the next morning. Sunlight streams fierce and blinding into the Dragonpit. The smallfolk applaud and cheer, though perhaps mostly because Syrax and Caraxes are perched atop the domed roof and waiting, fangs bared, to devour anyone who dissents. In the people’s eyes, you see less savagery than terror. You can read the thoughts that dart between them, infectious like fever: We do not trust Rhaenyra, this ruthless queen, this Maegor with teats. We do not trust her bloodthirsty uncle-husband. We do not want to burn if Aemond and Vhagar return to reclaim the city.

Daemon swings the blade himself. It takes three blows to sever Otto’s head. This must have been intentional; you know what an expert swordsman Daemon is.

~~~~~~~~~~

You sit compliantly with your family at meals, dances, executions. You stroll in the gardens. You bring Helaena flowers, lilies, irises, tulips, daisies, roses. You bring Alicent paper and quills and ink. You take the letter she writes to the rookery above the chambers where Grand Maester Orwyle once resided. As the raven departs for Maidenpool, black wings flapping in cerulean summer air, you stare through a window that looks out onto Blackwater Bay towards Essos, Driftmark, Dragonstone.

Is Aegon there now? Is he alive?

You have no way of knowing; while ravens pass between King’s Landing and the Riverlands frequently, you cannot risk someone noticing correspondence with Dragonstone. But you feel that Aegon is safe on that fearsome, windswept island. You feel that he might even be gazing out of his own window, back towards the mainland, back towards you.

When you return to your bedchamber, Everett is there. He is seated at the writing desk and pointing to pages in a book about animals of the Crownlands, bears and dragons and crabs. The book is for children; the words are large and accompanied by colorful illustrations. Autumn is sitting in Everett’s lap, giggling as she repeats the words that he croons through her firelight hair.

You pause in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Learning how to read!” Autumn replies brightly.

“I thought you weren’t interested in that.”

“I’ve been struck by sudden and forceful inspiration to shed my commoner ignorance.”

“Autumn, dear,” Everett prompts. She climbs out of his lap, sweeps him a teasing girlish courtesy, and sails out of the room. Everett looks to you. “Come. Sit.”

“Not in your lap, hopefully.”

He laughs. “Where on earth did you find her?”

You take a seat at the edge of your bed, toying with your ring. Your fingertips glide over the bumps of those gleaming jade eyes. “A brothel here in King’s Landing. I don’t know what sort of family she was born into.”

“Oh,” Everett sighs sympathetically. Your father and Clement would be viciously pejorative, would demand Autumn’s removal from your service immediately. But Everett is a different sort of man. He was even before he was burned, and he’s far more so now. “The poor thing.” Then his eyebrows leap up. “Wait. How did you end up visiting a brothel…?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You peer out the window that overlooks the beach. You’re always watching the sea now, as if it can tell you its secrets, as if it can whisper to you in a language made of gull cries, breaking waves, starlight and moonbeams reflected on indigo currents in the dead of night.

“It’s strange,” Everett says. There is a soft, sad smile on his face. “Your body is here with us, but your soul isn’t.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to explain everything that’s happened.

“The Usurper must have harmed you terribly.” Everett is not asking, but he is opening the door; you can tell him anything that is burdening you, and he will keep it to himself. You once sat with him as he lay dying, or at least when everyone believed he was; everyone but you and Maester Arthur back on Claw Isle. You once helped bring him back to life. That is a bond forged with something stronger than iron, something deeper than blood.

Aegon? Harm me? “He would never do that.”

Now Everett’s eyes are fixed intently on you. He is reading you like calculations of taxes, expenses, accounts, gains, losses. He realizes, hushed and alarmed: “You weren’t taken to King’s Landing by force.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

His jaw drops open, his eyes blink incredulously. “Do you…do you think he’s the rightful king?!”

“It’s not about that for me.”

“You are betrothed to another man.”

“Yes,” you agree.

“The Usurper is married.”

“Yes,” you say again. “And yet…”

“Seven hells,” Everett exhales. He shakes his head. “But…the Usurper…Aegon…he…he…he’s a monster, isn’t he? A rapist, a degenerate, a slothful and selfish wastrel?”

“No. He’s not. Just like Rhaenyra isn’t a sweet, serene mother to her kingdom.”

Everett smirks ruefully. He can’t argue with this.

“Aegon will pardon any Celtigar who rebelled against him. All they need to do is swear fealty upon being captured.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I know where he was planning to go. I don’t know if he made it there.”

“And you worry for him,” Everett says softly.

You nod, unable to speak. You can feel the threat of tears scorching in your throat, dark churning clouds that forecast lightning, cyclones, floods.

“His burns have healed?” Everett asks. “Everyone knows he was horribly wounded at Rook’s Rest.”

“They’ve scarred over. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be alright.”

Everett understands this, he remembers the discussions the two of you once had with Maester Arthur. Severe burns weaken the organs, even years after the flesh is no longer raw and weeping. Survivors are prone to failure of their kidneys, liver, heart. They must be careful to avoid further trauma. Aegon does not have that luxury. “I don’t know what remedy to offer you,” Everett says remorsefully. “Rhaenyra met with Alicent, and the dowager queen put forth a generous compromise. Alicent proposed that the realm be divided. Aegon’s seat would be at Oldtown, and his jurisdiction would include the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands. Rhaenyra would continue to rule from King’s Landing and preside over the Crownlands, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North. Both branches of the family would survive.”

“Rhaenyra could have ended it.” You marvel at the simplicity, the doomed slighted possibilities. “Here and now. The bloodshed would be over. Aegon could return to me.”

“Rhaenyra rejected the notion of any concessions whatsoever. Our father and Clement encouraged her. I would advocate for a peaceful resolution, I would advance your interests, sister. I would, I swear I would. But it is futile. You know they don’t listen to me.”

No, not in the arena of warfare. Everett is the heir to your father’s skill with trade, but Clement is the future Lord of Claw Isle, and it is he who wields swords and shields and leads men into combat. Everett cannot fight. Other men will never regard him as their full equal. “You have listened to my treason and not condemned me. I cannot ask for more from you than that.”

Everett stands from his chair, a slow, laborious undertaking. He crosses the room gingerly, lifts your chin to break the trance as you stare down at your ring, beams like the sun. “You want him.”

“Yes,” you admit helplessly.

“You’ve never wanted any man.”

“Just him. It can’t be anyone but him.”

Everett nods, thoughtful, amused. “Then I will pray that Lord Cregan Stark takes a wrong turn on the Kingsroad and ends up in the Vale, or the Iron Islands, or Essos, or perhaps even walks right into the sea. He’d sink, I’m sure. All those furs must be heavy when wet.”

“If anyone asks, you believe Aegon to be in Dorne.”

“I certainly do.” Everett smiles, touches his lips to your forehead, shuffles off to find Autumn and tell her that she can come back now.

Some nights, if you can enter without being noticed, you steal into the bedchamber that was once Aegon’s, the place where you brought him back from the dead, the place where he made you crave things that had once only filled you with dread, fear, revulsion. No one else has claimed Aegon’s rooms. No one else wants them. They make jokes about the debaucheries his walls must have seen, the unholy stains that surely riddle his mattress, rugs, curtains. They don’t know him at all, and nothing can make them want to. Tonight, there are quarreling voices coming from outside. You go to the open window, your lungs expanding with cool indigo air, and look out.

“Where are you going? Daemon? Daemon!” Rhaenyra is raging after him, following him onto the wet sand of the beach. “Back to Harrenhal? Back to your whore?!”

He does not answer. He strides arrogantly, he storms away from her, this woman he once loved for her tenacity and pride. He has no appetite for weakness. He has no patience for pruning those creeping, thorny vines of madness that are growing into her mind, her veins. Already Caraxes is landing in the surf to take him back to his foothold in the Riverlands, to Baela, to Nettles.

“Then go!” Rhaenyra screams after Daemon. And if you can hear this, surely others can as well. “Just go! We don’t need you here! I don’t need you here!”

Lies, lies, lies. Desperate and transparent lies.

Daemon and Caraxes take flight and disappear into the nightscape darkness over the ocean. You climb into the bed that was once Aegon’s, curl up in a nest of his blood-flecked sheets, breathe in lingering wisps of rose oil and the echoes of his low, drowsy voice, thick with wine and milk of the poppy and forbidden desire for a woman who sheds and replaces her skin again and again and again.

~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, you go to the gardens and read under the heart tree about cures and poisons. When you return inside—clutching a glass jar containing sticks, leaves, grass, and a single wriggling caterpillar, a gift for Helaena—the Red Keep is in chaos. Servants and guards are gossiping feverishly. Upstairs, Alicent is howling with grief. You glimpse Autumn racing up a staircase towards the dowager queen’s rooms to comfort her. There are sounds of celebration in the Great Hall, cups being toasted and cheers loosed like dragonfire. You follow them, suffocating terror constricting your throat like a noose. Is it Aemond, Criston, Daeron? Is it Aegon? Have they found him, have they killed him?

At the center of the high table, Rhaenyra is wearing a gown of black and red on her body and a smile of soulless satisfaction on her face. She holds a glass of maroon wine high above her head. “To vengeance!” she calls, and the lords that fill the hall thunder the words back to her. “To victory!”

“Father…?” you say, rushing to Bartimos Celtigar’s side. Clement is shaking hands with Manderlys and Blackwoods and Costaynes, grinning radiantly. Everett and Corlys are peering around grimly, looking uneasy, looking ashamed.

What have they done now? Who have they murdered in cold blood?

“Father, what—?”

“He has no more heirs,” Bartimos Celtigar tell you, as if it is the most joyous of surprises, as if is a gift like a gemstone or a rare book.

“Who?”

“The Usurper. Both of his sons are now dead. Neither of his brothers have children. Aegon has no heirs!”

“Maelor,” you whisper, envisioning that defenseless white-haired child, giggling, affectionate, anxious, sobbing in the arms of Sir Rickard Thorne. The jar tumbles out of your grasp and shatters against the stone floor. “Maelor is…he’s…he’s been killed…?”

“By a mob of Black loyalists at Bitterbridge,” your father says. “The Greens were trying to smuggle the child to Oldtown. Our supporters attempted to seize the boy so he could be brought to us. Alas, they were too boisterous. He did not survive, and neither did his keeper Rickard Thorne.”

They tore Maelor apart? They clawed and yanked at that little boy until there was nothing left but shreds of muscle and moon-white bones? You gape up at your father, unable to recognize him, unable to keep the horror from your face. “You’re celebrating the murder of a child?”

“They did the same when Luke was killed.”

Because Aegon thought they had to. Because he wanted to protect his brother. “It was wrong then and it’s wrong now.”

“You are too compassionate, daughter,” your father says, smiling with a puddle-deep, patronizing fondness. Was he always this way? Has he changed so much, or have you? He touches your cheek, and you want to flinch away from him. “You lose sight of the scale of this war. Each child of the Usurper that dies spares thousands of others. Aegon now has no heirs left, not unless you count that little girl who’s hidden away somewhere, and don’t the Greens reject the right of a daughter to inherit the throne? Isn’t that what all of this havoc has been about, preventing Rhaenyra’s ascension? This is a resounding triumph for our side! This is something to commemorate!”

They tore Maelor apart??

Corlys gets up from the table and leaves the Great Hall. Everett is watching you with wide, fearful eyes. He is pleading silently: Don’t react. Don’t panic. Not where they can see you.

“Are you well?” your father asks you, concerned now.

“I feel ill,” you hear yourself answer. You grip the back of his chair so the floor can’t rip itself out from under you.

“Just a moment,” Everett says, rising in that labored way, the scar tissue straining painfully at his ankles and knees and hips. “I’ll accompany you back to your rooms…”

But you can’t wait for him. The tears are already flame-hot and misty in your eyes. You rip away from the Celtigars, away from all the Blacks, and escape upstairs. Breathless, sobbing, you go first to Helaena’s bedchamber. Aegon’s wife is standing in front of her window that overlooks the sandstone courtyard, cobblestones of muted earthy gold. You can hear courtiers chattering far below. You can hear the carousing reverberating from the Great Hall. Helaena does not turn when you arrive; she does not give any indication that she is aware of you.

“Helaena,” you gasp. “Your Grace, I…I’m so sorry…what has happened…it’s despicable, it’s soulless, I cannot stop Rhaenyra’s men from reveling in it but I would never defend their actions, I would never join them, I am horrified and heartsick and appalled—”

“It’s a travesty,” Autumn says from the doorway, and you glance over at her. When you look back to the queen, she has vanished.

“Helaena?!” you shout. You and Autumn bolt to the window. Down in the courtyard, courtiers are shrieking and fleeing from the mess. On the cobblestones, Helaena lies sprawled; her arms and legs are bent at impossible angles. A pool of blood spreads out from under her like a river swelling in a storm until it spills over. Guards are hurrying to the scene, their armor jangling. “Helaena!”

“She’s gone,” Autumn says, bundling you into her arms before you can make for the hall, the stairwell. Her belly presses unyieldingly into you. “There’s nothing you can do. Don’t go down there. You can’t help her now.”

You cover your face with both hands and scream: for Maelor, for Helaena, for Alicent, for Aegon, for the world full of people who can’t stop paying the debts others incurred.

“Don’t go down there.” Autumn’s voice is warm and hushed, her grasp strong. “You can’t help Helaena now. You can only hurt yourself. You don’t need to see it. You don’t need her blood on your hands.”

Everett appears, looks out the window to investigate the commotion in the courtyard, backs away with a hand covering his gaping mouth. “Oh, gods. All the gods, Old and New. What a goddamn fucking disaster.”

Autumn at last releases you, and you dash into the hallway with Everett following as quickly as he can and Autumn walking with him, one arm looped through his. You find Alicent in her rooms, standing motionless beside her bed in an emerald green gown. She is trembling and speechless, she is in shock. You embrace her. “I’m sorry,” you say, tears falling on the velvet of her dress. “I know that doesn’t make it any better, but I am.”

Everett and Autumn enter the bedchamber and shut the door behind them. “What—?” Everett begins.

“I have to go to him,” you say. You step away from the dowager queen and wipe your eyes with your sleeves, black like onyx, like obsidian, like death.

“Who...?”

“Aegon. The king,” you tell them. “He’s going to hear of this. He’s going to know what happened to Maelor and Helaena. I can’t let him face that alone. I can’t let him fall into despair.”

“But he…I mean…” Everett is trying to choose his words sensitively. The state of the royal marriage was no secret anywhere in the realm. “Was he even…involved with his wife and children? In any meaningful way?”

“It’s not about them, it’s about him thinking that he’s responsible, that he’s a curse to anyone he touches, that he ruins people, I…” You shake your head franticly. “I can’t stay here. I have to go. I have to be with him.”

“Go where?!” Everett exclaims.

“Dragonstone,” Autumn answers for you.

“Dragonstone,” he repeats numbly. “You can’t be serious! How will you get there?!”

“I’ll take a horse to Crackclaw Point and then pay a boat to ferry me across the water.”

“Alone?!” Everett says.

“I’ll have to be. You cannot travel by horse, only carriage. And your absence would be noticed too swiftly. Father would send soldiers after you if he feared you’d been captured.”

“You’ve never gone anywhere alone, now you’re going to travel a hundred miles over earth and ocean to Dragonstone?!”

“She won’t be alone,” Autumn says. You and Everett turn to her. She is grinning. “I mean no offense, my lady, but you know nothing of the world beyond your castles and gardens and books full of naked men drawings. You would not last a day on your own.”

“You can’t ride a horse either,” you object. “You’re with child. It could be dangerous.”

“I’ve done far more vigorous activities while pregnant, believe me.”

“You’re really going?” Everett says, quiet, mournful. It seems that you’ve only just reunited with him.

“I have to. Aegon thought I’d be safe with the Blacks, and I am, I suppose…but I’m not really a Black anymore. And I can’t let him suffer alone. I…I…”

“You love him,” Alicent says. She gazes at you with huge, glassy, void-dark eyes, like those of a doe felled by arrows. She is half-here and half-not, and thank the gods for that. Her loss is too great. She cannot bear it all at once. Part of her knows her only daughter is dead on the cobblestones outside, her last grandson was torn apart by a mob that were more beasts than men. And then part of her is only aware of this room. “Properly. Entirely. In a way he can understand.”

“I do,” you confess. I do, I do.

“I’m glad,” Alicent says dully. “Someone must.”

She staggers to her bed, lies down on it, curls up like a wounded animal, rips away her golden necklace of a seven-pointed star and throws it to the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night, you and Autumn leave King’s Landing on horses Everett procured. There is only a skeleton crew of guards left in the Red Keep; the rest are partaking in the festivities that pulse in the Great Hall like a heartbeat, candlelight and music and manic glee. Yet among the smallfolk, no one is celebrating. They are in mourning for their misfortunate, benign queen and her toddler son. They are hissing venomously about Rhaenyra, Daemon, Bartimos Celtigar.

The court will not notice Autumn’s absence, not for days at least, perhaps not ever. Everett will upend your bedchamber before he goes to sleep, knocking over chairs and tables, yanking sheets from the bed. In the morning, he will tell your father that he assumes you are still resting from your illness, from the insurmountable stress of the past months. Women are so fragile, after all; their lives are one tragedy after the next. When at last someone checks on you—hopefully not for a few days—it will appear that you have been taken after a struggle. You did not leave. You were kidnapped by fiends using the secret passageways. You are a prisoner of the Greens again, and likely spirited away to the Stormlands or the Reach or perhaps even the remote, golden sands of Dorne.

You and Autumn travel by night and sleep through the day, staying at roadside inns paid for by the heavy sack of coins Everett gifted you. It is not difficult to blend in among countless travelers and refugees displaced in the wake of the war. You have no distinguishing characteristics, no Valyrian-white hair or ragged burns or sapphires in place of eyes. In fact, Autumn attracts more attention than you do. She is beautiful, talkative, effortlessly flirtatious. Men trail after her at every inn. You receive exemplary service, the hottest soup and the cleanest rooms. She complains to you about how difficult it is becoming for her to rest as her belly grows: perhaps five months along, perhaps six, she isn’t certain, her cycle was already irregular from the lemonweed tea brewed at the brothel.

In a small town called Eagle Harbor at the base of Crackclaw Point, you need to hire a sailor to take you across the narrow strait to Dragonstone. You fumble through stilted inquiries at a tavern until Autumn takes charge, half-drags a bald, bearded man back into the pantry, emerges with him five minutes later, and orders a pint of ale that she sips with a lazy, arrogant smirk.

“May the Mother have mercy!” the sailor says unsteadily, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll go to Dragonstone and back ten times for this red-haired demon!”

You and Autumn board his humble vessel at the end of the town’s lone pier and set off through choppy, night-draped waters towards Dragonstone. On the way, the sailor informs you that he’s made this trip a handful of times in the past two weeks, delivering an assortment of workers to the island: servants, guards, maesters, cooks.

“Rumor has it,” the sailor says with a conspiratorial grin. “There is a very illustrious occupant currently holding Dragonstone. He is scarred, but he is growing stronger. Surely you know of whom I speak. He must have beckoned you to join him. Perhaps you are servants. Perhaps you are whores. He has a famed appetite for them.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Autumn offers casually.

“Many here in the Crownlands are aware,” the sailor continues. “But you will not catch anyone being too loose with their gossip. The Beggar King is no enemy to us. The Bitch Queen is an enemy. That money-grubbing Bartimos Celtigar is an enemy. But the Greens will end the taxes he put on us. The sooner the Beggar King is well again, the better. He and his dragon too.”

When the sailor docks at Dragonstone, Autumn helps you up onto the pier and then gets back in the boat. “You aren’t staying?” you ask her, baffled, troubled. You have grown terribly attached to her. Cold night rain falls onto the island, growing heavier by the minute. Lightning snaps through the darkness and strikes near the castle.

“No. I want to be with Everett.” Autumn smiles. “And I know the king would not wish for me to impose upon Dragonstone.”

She’s probably right. “Why is he so cold to you? So avoidant?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Autumn says. “He doesn’t want you thinking about him fucking anyone except you.” She grins, winks, gestures for the sailor to unmoor his boat again. “When the Greens come to retake the capital, please ask them not to incinerate me.”

“I’ll pass the message along.”

“Good luck,” she says, waving. “We’ll wait to set sail until you’ve started up the steps.”

Through the darkness, through the driving rain, you trudge up the beach and then ascend the stone steps carved precariously into the cliffside. The grey stone is slippery; for parts of the climb, you walk on your palms as well as your boots. Your ring clinks against rock. When the clouds momentarily blow away from the moon, the gold wings glimmer in the silver light. There are torches burning in the mouths of iron dragons as you near the entranceway of the castle, towering walls that disappear into storm clouds. There is candlelight flickering in the corridors and chambers within. You can see dots of miniature infernos in the windows.

Aegon is in one of those rooms.

Suddenly, a screech startles you so badly you nearly plunge off the steps. Fire blooms in the night air only yards from your face. He’s clutching the cliffside, glaring at you with molten gold eyes set in an angular skull, snarling, smoke drifting skyward from his nostrils. You scream before you can stop yourself.

Sunfyre!!

You crouch down on the steps, squeeze your eyes shut, and wait for him to burn you alive. Seconds pass, ten, twenty, thirty. When you look at Sunfyre again, scales shimmering in the moonlight, he is observing you not with hatred but with curiosity that is clever, almost catlike. You have never been this close to a dragon before. You’ve never wanted to be, and now is no exception. He smells like smoke and sulfur, earth and ash. Sunfyre clambers nearer to you, his muzzle outstretched. You flinch away, whimpering, but he is not deterred. The dragon sniffs and nudges at you, his breath hot, his snout bumping against your arm and shoulder.

“Stop!” you squeak, petrified. “Sunfyre, don’t!”

At last, he seems to realize he’s frightening you. The dragon retreats with a low grumble from deep in his chest. You scramble up the remainder of the steps before he can change his mind.

There is distant shouting, and someone cranks open the castle gate for you. You hurry into the courtyard, running now, as rain pours down on you and thunder booms. There is a figure in a hooded cloak trotting out of the castle entrance. At first you don’t believe he can be Aegon; he is standing too tall, moving too brisky. You have never seen him so well before. But then he calls to you, and there is no doubt.

“Angel?!” Aegon shouts in disbelief over the drumming of raindrops. He is rapidly closing the distance between you. The wind tears off his hood. Beneath it his hair is longer than you remember and wild except for a single small braid down the left side of his face. His cheeks are ruddy. Tears stream from his eyes. He has heard what happened to Maelor and Helaena; he has been weeping for them, for the impending ruin of anyone he’s ever touched. “What the hell are you doing here—?!”

And instead of waiting for an answer he kisses you, or you kiss him, or you both do it at once, an unspoken covenant written not in ink but in the blood that whispers to each other through the veils of vessel walls, muscle, scarred skin. His hands are cradling your jaw, his lips ravenous. He smells like rose oil; he tastes like wine and rain and the clean salt of tears, the ageless mineral blue of the ocean.

“It has to be you,” you tell Aegon, a ghost of a voice in the maelstrom of the storm. Your thumbprint skates across his full bottom lip before you kiss him again, more slowly now, entwining yourself with him, hipbones and ribcages and handprints that will never wash off. Do you see what I’m offering? Do you feel what I want? “You’re not ruining me. You’re saving me. And it can’t be anyone but you.”

Aegon studies your face, stunned eyes murky like the waves, and then hungry as well: depths that swallow ships, watery graveyards that feast on bones. Then he takes your hand and leads you into Dragonstone. Inside, Larys Strong is waiting under a cascade of torchlight. He blinks at you as if you might disappear. When you don’t, he tilts his head to the side, intrigued.

“Lord Larys,” Aegon says curtly. “Make yourself invisible for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys purrs with a bow. Then he vanishes into the shadows.

“This way,” Aegon says, and you follow him up a staircase and down a corridor to a bedchamber illuminated only by a few flickering candles and flashes of lightning. In the corner of the room, you glimpse swords and armor; on Aegon’s bedside table, there is a glass bottle of rose oil and the hollowed-out shell of a crab, boiled red like fresh blood. And then you are on the bed and Aegon is beside you and there is not a single thread of you, muscle or marrow or nerve, that is afraid. “Are you sure?” he’s asking between deep, insatiable kisses, his fingers working on the laces of your gown. “We don’t have to. We can stop.”

But does he want that? No, no, he’s starving just like I am. “I’m sure, Aegon.” And you uncover each other with hands that rip away cotton and silk like trees are stripped bare in the winter.

His clothes are gone, cloak and trousers crumpled on the floor, and he pauses with trepidation in his eyes. His scars riddle him with uneven swaths of white, pink, red, a burgundy so dark it’s almost the violet of a bruise. The macabre patchwork stops at the lowest part of his belly, where his skin becomes abruptly pristine, pale, velvet-soft. “I guess…” He swallows noisily. “I guess this isn’t what you imagined the man you’d sleep with would look like, huh?”

“No,” you agree, smiling, pulling him in close again. I never imagined enjoying this at all. “And I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Aegon helps you tug off your gown and loosen your hair; it spills freely over the bedsheets. He’s on top of you, his warm weight perfect and welcome and right. Too swiftly for you to be nervous, his hand has settled between your legs. He strokes you, only on the outside where there is no threat of pain, as his tongue darts into your mouth and wetness soon coats his fingers. Then his fingers venture lower, seeking to enter you, the first time anything ever has. And you feel it, though you wish you didn’t, involuntary and uninvited: your body tensing just as his finger attempts to glide inside, a biting pain that makes you wince.

“No,” you yelp softly, a betrayal of your own flesh.

“Okay,” Aegon murmurs reassuringly. “That’s okay. Not a problem. Here…” He sits upright, draws you to him, bites lightly at your throat as you settle in his lap. “You’re in charge. You decide if and when it happens. And if this time doesn’t work, that’s fine, that’s completely fine, we can try again later, I can wait—”

“Are you alright like this? Am I too heavy?”

He grabs your face with his left hand—fingers hooked around your jaw, his eyes locked with yours—and says roughly: “Don’t ask about me again.”

“Okay,” you moan into him as his right hand skims down to touch you, to coax the fear out of you, to draw powerful circles around the place where your pleasure is greatest.

“This is about you.”

“Okay,” you say again, only a whisper this time, obedient, desperate.

“Please let me have this,” Aegon begs, resting his forehead against yours, his silver hair grazing your cheeks. “Please let me take care of you this time.”

“Yes,” you sigh, breathing him in, roses and heat and wine and sharp, oceanic, mineral lust. You lay your palms against the gnarled scar tissue of his chest and Aegon chuckles bitterly.

“I can’t even feel it. I’m a monster.” Then you press your bare hips to his, gradually finding a rhythm, slipping his cock through slick, warm folds that are aching more ardently than you ever knew was possible. “Oh fuck,” he gasps. “I felt that.”

“I want you,” you plead. “I want you, I want you.”

“Not yet…”

You are aware that your tension unraveling, your muscles opening as Aegon massages you until his hand is soaked, until you’re so wet the friction is almost nonexistent. Outside waves crash and lighting flashes and thunder growls like a dragon. I can’t wait. I need him. You lift up and Aegon holds his cock steady, coating it in your wetness with a quick pump of his hand, so you can lower yourself onto him. Slowly, you can feel his cock sinking into you, an indescribably foreign sensation, fullness and stretching and dull, strange contentment that is more like the potential of pleasure than anything else. There is discomfort as well, yes, a burning and a stinging that swells as he fills you. You try to keep it from your face; still, Aegon can read the pain there like black ink on pages.

He shakes his head and murmurs: “Stop, stop, I’m hurting you.”

“I want it. I can take it.”

He’s kissing your lips, your cheek, the slope of your jaw. “Give yourself time to adjust. There’s no rush, Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You wait until the pain seems to have vanished, then—carefully, tentatively—you rise up and lower yourself again. Yes, there’s definite pleasure now, less sharp than where he touched you before but deeper, more total. You try this again, again, faster now. Aegon’s breath hitches. He’s trembling; sweat glistens on his forehead and dampens his hair.

“I’m going to show you something,” he pants. “But you have to help me out.”

“Help how…?”

“Tell me what I’m doing right.” His fingers are on you again, pressing, circling. And there’s something about this combination of two very different colors of pleasure—dull fullness inside, intense ecstasy dancing over the skin—that lights a spark in you like striking flint.

You cry out, your pace as you ride him quickening, any last remnants of pain banished to distant memory. You are conscious now that you are working towards a peak of some sort; you can feel it building in you like fire in the mouth of a dragon.

Aegon asks: “Faster? Slower?”

“Faster,” you reply, and his hand obeys. You moan, fingers knotted in his hair and lips against the scar tissue of his throat, grisly webs that you cherish for knitting him back together, for saving his life.

“Harder or softer?”

“Harder,” you beg him in a whisper. And all at once, the pleasure is overwhelming, unstoppable, incomparable to anything you’ve ever experienced or ever wanted to, anything you thought was possible, anything you believed you were worthy of. It wrenches everything out of you, desire as well as turmoil, every thought in your skull and fear in your bones. It passes, leaving your heart thumping violently and an involuntary throbbing that squeezes Aegon’s cock, releases it, squeezes it again.

Aegon lays you down on your back and thrusts into you, shallowly at first to make sure you’re alright, then deeper and more powerfully. There’s no pain at all, only a hazy calmness, a need to be near to him, to tangle up closer and closer until you share everything, veins and arteries and the capillary beds of lungs. He’s exhausted already; you notice a few needle-thin split seams in his scar tissue. There are faint stains of crimson blood on your belly, your chest. His fingers link through yours, his moans grow louder and more jagged. He comes so hard tears spring into his eyes, and you feel one more thing you hadn’t expected to: not vulnerability but power, pride, satisfaction.

“It’s like that every time?” you ask, drowsy and amazed as he rolls onto his side and pulls you against him. The rain is still falling outside. Lightning paints the windows; thunder quakes them.

“If it’s done well.” Aegon is pink-faced, breathing heavily, staggeringly beautiful. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

“No wonder you’ve fucked hundreds of women.”

He laughs. “Not that many.” He grins as he kisses you, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’ve rid me of them all. You’ve burned them away.”

“I love you,” you say without planning to.

Aegon replies, but not in words you can understand. He whispers something in High Valyrian, his eyes dip closed, he is asleep before you can ask him what it means.

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

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lauraneedstochill · 1 year

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Aemond Targaryen masterlist

last updated: 15.09.2023 / 🆕 — recents fics / 🔞 — smut

● part 1: “All yours” (~3000 words) AO3 ● part 2: First time for everything (🔞 ~6900) AO3 ● part 3 ● The Greens headcanons (modern!au) ➕ unrelated one-shots: ● I was searching but not for you (~4000) AO3 Aemond is eager to catch the thief who keeps stealing his gemstones but the person in question seems to always be one step ahead of him.

● Find my body covered in confetti (Aegon x reader, ~5000) Aegon is a regular at your bar but he doesn’t come only for the drinks.

🆕 Confess the longing you are dreaming of (🔞~8000) Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. 🆕 Cry me a river (~11K) Aemond finds her wounded and left to die in the middle of nowhere. her desire for vengeance helps her survive — and her unbreakable spirit inevitably draws the prince to her. ● Love always wakes the dragon (multi-chapter) Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a fearless dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his.But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. One of them is meant to save the other. 1. The wind of change (~4000) 2. The wild dragon (~8000) 3. Blood-stained (part 1) ● My first choice: part 1 (~5500) / part 2 (~8500) AO3 Aemond thinks you are way too good to be Aegon’s best friend. But you are enough for the one-eyed prince to fall in love with (insired by “Little women” and Amy March)

● The object of my desires (🔞 ~6500) AO3 You overhear Aemond making a snarky remark about the way you dress. You decide to teach him a lesson (inspired by the famous quote from Bridgerton S2) ● I won’t fall for someone who can’t misbehave (~9000) AO3 Aemond is betrothed to the sweetest girl in the Seven Kingdoms. She’s smiley, soft and kind-hearted. Until she isn’t. (or, alternatively: “No one took your side when you were a kid. But I’m doing it now.”) ● Make a move: part 1 (~6000) AO3 / part 2 You think Aemond is too arrogant to woo you, but he’s got some tricks up his sleeve. (inspired by the movie “Crazy, stupid, love”) ● Can’t help falling in love (~5500) AO3 5 times Aemond was in love with you + 1 time he finally confessed his feelings.

🎵 Aemond’s playlist 🎵 Aegon’s playlist

Aemond Targaryen + tumblr posts that are definitely about him part 1 / part 2 Aegon II Targaryen + tumblr posts that are definitely about him part 1 / part 2

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deadmenandthedivine · 9 months

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dead men § the divine

table of contents

Lady Rhea Royce gave birth to a single daughter prior to her untimely death.

Princess Maetilda Targaryen was the sole heir to Runestone.

Her father, the Rogue Prince, kept her by his side, ensuring he always had a Keep to his name. Even after his marriage to the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, he refused to accept an engagement for her. Runestone was his castle. Princess Maetilda was his daughter. The Seven Kingdoms was his playground. There only seemed to be one small problem: the Greens.

The Greens occupied the Red Keep for over half a decade while the Rogue Prince and his future Queen raised their children on Dragonstone as tradition. It would seem having the King's castle and the Conqueror's crown plays an advantage when the dragons dance. It became apparent as the virescent cause does not suffer by delivering the first blows.

Despite only holding claims to one of the foundational keeps in the Vale, Princess Maetilda finds herself wrapped up in the center of the conflict. At the mercy of the men around her. Prince Aemond seeks to take what belongs to him, most especially the Rogue Prince's bronze babe.

trigger warning!!! this fic contains many graphic topics and depictions. such as but not limited to: dead parents, abusive parents, toxic family systems, incest, medieval misogyny, forced marriage, threats of assault (sexual § physical), actual assault, imprisonment, kidnapping, murder, blood/gore, uxoricide, familicide, PTSD and other neurodivergence. i will do my best to update as i go along, but please let me know if i have missed anything!

✧.*.·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·.*.✧

✫ prologue — rumors from runestone

✫ chapter one — cold landings and green castles

✫ chapter two — a father’s praise

✫ chapter three — mysteries that muddy the keep

✫ chapter four — what the trees see

✫ chapter five — the maids that bloom in spring

✫ chapter six — bound in old magic

✫ chapter seven — the fate of wagging tongues

✫ chapter eight — dead flowers and garden bugs

✫ chapter nine — new leather boots

✫ chapter ten — an old man’s guilt

✫ chapter eleven — the tower tapestry

✫ chapter twelve — drowned in insignificant details

✫ chapter thirteen — the ghost of years coming and years past

✫ chapter fourteen — what the lady beetle does

✫ chapter fifteen — dragons have horns

✫ chapter sixteen — relearning from the same mistakes

✫ chapter seventeen — last suppers and sealed deals

✧.*.·:¨ ✘♚✘ ¨:·.*.✧

A/N: i do bend the plot of hotd/tweak the lore of the vale just a lil bit for my own convenience. also i'm not well versed in historical outfits and stuff so my descriptions may not be accurate to the time. but it's gotta be like that sometimes, you know?

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 months

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Christmas 2023 Part 2: Marked for Later

And here's part two of the Christmas Fic list for this year! Please make sure you check out the lists below for previous Christmas lists! Don't hesitate to add your own recent Christmas and NYE fics below! All will be added on subsequent reblogs! :D

Merry Christmas!

[PART ONE]

See also:

Christmas Fics (Dec. 2017)

Christmas: Oblivious That One or The Other is In a Relationship

Christmas 2019 Part 1 (All Bookmarks XMas and New Years)

Christmas 2019 Part 2 (Marked for Later)

G / T / K+ Rated Christmas Fics (Dec. 2018) (Updated Dec 2021)

Community Recs: Christmas 2020 (Updated Dec 2021)

Christmas Trees / Decorating

Christmas-Time Love Confessions

New Year’s Fics (Jan 2023)

Christmas & New Year's Eve 2023 Pt. 1: Bookmarks & WiPs

Not a Word by notjustmom (NR, 114 w., 1 Ch. || Dancing, Christmas) – Just them dancing in Baker Street.

Big question! The Gift by AnAnYaH (G, 508 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Love Confessions, Dialogue Only, Fluff) – Christmas is not far and John has plans for a perfect gift for his little daughter.

Costumes for Christmas by AnAnYaH (G, 518 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas Fluff, First Time, Costume Kink, Christmas Party) – It's a costume party , and Sherlock is late.

Deck the Halls However You See Fit by Yuliares (G, 752 w., 1 Ch. || Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Holiday Fluff, Mary Ships It) – Relaxed domestic holiday fluff. In a nebulous future where John and Mary move in downstairs after Mrs. Hudson retires, the gang preps for their annual Christmas party in 221B Baker Street.

Something red, something green, something sparkly by Silvergirl (M, 1,106 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Christmas, Texting, Impending Desperation, Gift Shopping) – If you can't solve a puzzle yourself, ask the experts. Of course, the experts may be utterly useless ... until they aren't.

The Man in Aisle Ten by standbygo (G, 1,395 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Christmas, Shopping, Gifts, Original Female Character POV) – It's Christmas Eve, the busiest day for shopping at Harrod's, and there's a guy in aisle ten who's snapping at every sales associate who dares to approach him. It's up to Moira to help him find the perfect present. [TRANSLATIONS: Русский || 中国]

221B's Christmas Tree by SatanDrankMyCoffee (G, 1,634 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff, Bratty Sherlock, Domestics, Decorations) – One of the staples of most people's holiday season is decorating the tree; John and Sherlock are no exception.

Mistletoe is a Parasite by Breath4Soul (M, 1,896 w, 1 Ch. || Christmas Party, First Kiss, Mistletoe, Drinking, Dom/Sub Undertones) – It’s Christmas and after some interesting revelations at Molly Hooper's holiday party, Sherlock takes his cue from Mistletoe to take matters into his own hands. Mistletoe attaches, penetrates and absorbs... turns out that is right up Sherlock's alley...

A Little Christmas Spirit by Berty (E, 2,077 w., 1 Ch. || POV Sherlock, First Time, Blow Jobs, Christmas Fluff, Canon Divergence) – Sherlock should really learn NOT to tune John out when he's talking. He might just be missing something important.

Snap, Crackle, Pop by Call_Me_Clarence (G, 2,243 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-Slash, New Year’s Party, Panic Attacks, PTSD / Flashbacks, Dissociation, Cuddling, Caring Sherlock, Christmas Crackers) – John has a flashback during a New Years party. Sherlock tries his best to help.

Home For Christmas? by Bluebellstar (T, 2,572 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-Canon, Pre-ASiP, Captain John, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sad Sherlock, Big Brother Mycroft, Soft Mycroft, Established Relationship) – Sherlock Holmes wants one thing for Christmas. The one thing he knows he cannot have. He wants John Watson back from Afghanistan. But with John's leave unexpectedly cancelled, Sherlock has to spend another Christmas alone. Part 3 of the Christmas at 221B series

The Christmas Dragon by eragon19 (M, 2,615 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Love Confessions, Fluff, Presents) – Sherlock needs to find the perfect gift for John. Luckily a toy in a shop window gives him an idea. Part 9 of the Prompt Fills series

The Joye of Snacks by khorazir (T, 3,373 w. 1 Ch. || Christmas, Baking, Domesticity, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Banter) – Christmas is approaching, and Sherlock surprises John with newly acquired culinary skills. John, in turn, simply ... surprises Sherlock.

The Romance Was There by apliddell (G, 4,011 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post S3, Post Mary, Christmas, Domestics, Villain Mary, Platonic Bedsharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Love Letters) – In which Sherlock reveals his merits as a housekeeper, and a few other things, too.

Shrivelfigs by lifespossible (T, 4,547 w., 1 Ch. || Teen Harry Potter AU || Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Fluff) – John and Sherlock were not a couple, ta very much. They were friends--close friends, best friends. But that was it. Just friends. If you asked John, he’d assure you that was the case. But if you got him on the right side of a couple firewhiskies, well, he might be inclined to tell you he thought it was a damn shame they were only best friends.

Crossing Paths by prettysailorsoldier (T, 5,346 w., 1 Ch. || Uni/Teenlock Coffee Shop AU || Crosswords, Christmas, Fluff) – It seemed like a great idea, a 24-hour coffee shop near a thriving university campus, but, when everyone goes home for the holidays, John finds himself trapped in a ghost town, wiling away the hours of the overnight shift any way he can. Of course, that gets a whole lot easier when a handsome insomniac starts making regular visits, and, somewhere between the case files, crossword puzzles, and copious amounts of coffee, John discovers he doesn't mind the late shift so much after all.

The Unexpected Exchange by testosterone_tea (E, 5,703 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Secret Santa, Vibrators, Masturbation, Love Confessions, Intercrural Sex, Bisexual John, Demisexual Sherlock, Fluff) – When Sherlock is made to participate in the Yard's Secret Santa exchange, he knew it would be a disaster. But even he didn't expect how much of a disaster it would be.

A Smart-Arse Consulting Detective Is For Life, Not Just For Christmas by Berty (T, 5,788 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Friends To Lovers, Trapped, Fluff, Grumpy John, Pining Sherlock, Sharing Body Heat, First Kiss, Frottage, Cold Weather) – So here they sit. Glaring at each other. Locked in an unheated, block-built tack room on a remote farm in Suffolk. With no mobile coverage. On Christmas Eve. Sherlock's definitely NOT on the 'nice' list this year.

If I Knew You Were Coming (I'd Have Baked a Cake) by standbygo (T, 5,850 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, Christmas, Fluff, Baking, GBBO References, Friends to Lovers, Sharing a Bed, Cooking) – John and Sherlock aren't quite sure how they agreed to hold a Great British Bake Off competition... There will be decorative bread, misuse of the French language, terrible mispronunciation of German words, fluff, bed sharing, and profiteroles.

Such a Clatter by ArwaMachine (E, 6,183 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas, Anal Sex/Fingering, PWP, Toplock, Fluff, Hand Jobs) – Christmas is boring, and the guest bed in Mummy and Father Holmes’ cottage is far too loud for Sherlock and John to have any proper fun. Whatever is to be done?

Coup de Foudre by prettysailorsoldier (T, 6,446 w., 1 Ch. || Teenager/University AU || Alternate First Meeting, Skiing, Winter, Sherlock Speaks French, Christmas Fluff) – When John and his friends decide to blow off some steam after finals with a holiday to the Swiss Alps, he's expecting a week of roaring fires, hot chocolate, and snow as far as the eye can see. He is not expecting to fall head over heels for a fellow guest--a young Frenchman known only as "Blue Scarf"--but John's not one to let a little language barrier get in the way, and, with the help of Google Translate, it might just be a Christmas to remember after all. Part 7 of 25 Days of Johnlock

All I Want for Christmas (is Proof) by Raina_at (E, 6,471 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas Fluff, Porn Without Plot, Christmas Party, Gay Club, Costume Party, Mistletoe, First Time, Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Crack and Humour, Blow Jobs, Undercover for a Case) – John has been ridiculously in love with Sherlock for a while now, but he doesn't want to rock the boat if his interest isn't returned. Their newest case might be the catalyst they need to finally figure out whether they're on the same page. Or: Sherlock and John go undercover at a Christmas party in a gay club. In costume. Things... escalate.

That Time of Year by JRow (T, 6,717 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Christmas, Fluff, Misunderstandings, Presents, First Kiss, Confessions, Rosie) – It's Christmas Eve. The tree is decorated, the mince pies are out, and Rosie is fast asleep. Flipping his mobile in his hand, John wonders what Sherlock is doing. Then he wonders, not for the first time, what it means that Sherlock is never far from his mind. Before he can stop himself, John hits the call button.

The World In Solemn Stillness Lay by J_Baillier (T, 6,855 w., 2 Ch. || Post-S4, Christmas, Angst, Medical Conditions, Big Brother Mycroft, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Family Issues) – Rosie's first Christmas without her mother is approaching fast, and John isn't coping well with the pressures of being a single parent. Can Sherlock scrape his new family back together?

Cross My Heart (And Hope To Die) by prettysailorsoldier (M, 7,306 w., 1 Ch. || University AU || Puppies, Miscommunication, Blow Jobs, Shower Sex, Christmas, Happy Ending) – When John starts acting suspicious in the run up to Christmas, lying about being at work and taking secret phone calls in the bathroom, Sherlock comes to seemingly the only conclusion, that John must be cheating on him. Unwilling to confront him, and apparently unable to make him stay, Sherlock does the only thing he can: leave before he is left. That is, until an unlikely phone call on Christmas Eve turns everything on its head... Part 11 of the 25 Days of Johnlock series

The Deepest Secret Nobody Knows by Raina_at (E, 7,568 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, Christmas Party, Stuck in an Elevator, Light Angst, Semi-Public Sex) – Sherlock is back from the dead. Now all he has to do is get back his Blogger.

of midnight moments and mistletoe by hudders-and-hiddles (M, 7,669 w., 4 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, Mistletoe, Snow) – John and Sherlock are throwing a Christmas Eve party, and the flat is all strung up with mistletoe.

Darkness reigns at the foot of a lighthouse by saintscully (E, 7,682 w., 1 Ch. || HLV Missing Scene, POV Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Light Dom/Sub, Angry Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse, Infidelity, Angst and Feels, Implied Suicidal Ideation, Unhappy Ending) – Why John went back to Mary that Christmas.

The Way Home by Calais_Reno (M, 7,702 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting AU || Christmas, Post-PTSD, Injury Recovery, Meeting the Parents, Coming Home, Past Drug Addiction, Developing Relationship, Moving in Together, Falling in Love, POV Sherlock Third Person) – It's Christmas Eve, and Sherlock's landlord has evicted him due to a little misunderstanding about a very small explosion that really only burned the curtains. Mrs Hudson isn't willing to let him move into 221B until after the holiday. He's left with only one alternative: go home. Spend Christmas with his family. On the train, he meets someone who might just be having an even worse holiday. Part 32 of Just Johnlock

Only Friends by HollyShadow88 (E, 7,514 w., 2 Ch. || University AU || Accidental Voyeurism, Christmas / New Year's, Light Angst, Embarrassed John / Sherlock, Roommates, Alternate First Meeting, Anal Fingering/Sex, Affection, Topping from the Bottom, Enthusiastic Consent, Sex Tapes, Student John / Sherlock, Blow Jobs) – John Watson is assigned Sherlock Holmes as his new roommate when he is transferred to his university. Only problem is, Sherlock's hot, and John has to work around his growing feelings for him while also secretly paying for school with an OnlyFans page. With the end of the term approaching, an accidental discovery changes their relationship.

Dear Sherlock by by Tara Laurel (T, 7,729 w., 3 Ch. || Post-TRF, Reunion, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Christmas) – "John was happy. Too happy. Of course Sherlock preferred to see his friend in good spirits, especially after the cloud of depression that had hung over him the past weeks, but this was simply maddening." John's got a serious case of Christmas spirit, but is there something serious hidden behind it - something that surprises & saddens a self-proclaimed sociopath?

Winning a Lost Bet by meet_me_in_samarra (M, 8,214 w., 2 Ch. || Christmas, Pole Dancing, Established Relationship, Costumes, Glitter, Muscular John, Sexy Sherlock, The Yard) – A lost bet makes Sherlock and John perform a pole-dance in costumes at the Yard´s Christmas party. It was supposed to be humiliating but instead the couple nailed it.

Pardon my French by archea2 (E, 8,232 w., 3 Ch. || Christmas, Fluff, Language Kink, Voice Kink, John in Afghanistan, Fever, Drunk Sherlock, Paternal Lestrade, Clothed Sex, Drunken Confessions, Humour) – Sherlock's closet Jekyll resurfaces when he's drunk, making him tender, earnest and extremely talkative with John. It's all fine with John - or would be, if Sherlock's Subconscious bloody let him speak English on these occasions.

Spell It Out by prettysailorsoldier (M, 8,344 w., 1 Ch. || Harry Potter Fusion || Teenlock, Christmas, Love Potion/Spell, Pining Sherlock) – Remaining at Hogwarts over break has become something of a tradition for Sherlock and John, staying behind together ever since their very first year, but, when Irene throws a gift of doctored coconut ice into the mix, plans quickly change, even if John doesn't. Part 6 of 25 Days of Johnlock

Tomorrow by Berty (M, 9,517, 1 Ch. ||PODFIC AVAILABLE || Magical Realism AU || Canon Divergence, Christmas, Hurt/Comfort, Spells and Enchantments, Married John/Mary, Difficult Decisions, Fluff and Angst, Spells and Enchantments) – The night before they travel to Dorset to spend Christmas with Sherlock's parents and John's wife, 221 Baker Street is peaceful with the smell of baking, flickering candles and presents under the tree. But Father Christmas can't be relied upon to bring the boys their heart's desires. Just as well Mrs Hudson - who is NOT a fairy godmother OR their housekeeper, thank you very much - is so good at her job.

Hot Chocolate by ohlooktheresabee (G, 10,756 w., 2 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post S4, POV John, Idiots in Love, Christmas Fluff, Developing Relationship, Sherlock’s Heart, Affection, Falling in Love, Past Child Abuse, Light Angst with Happy Ending) – With Sherrinford but a distant memory, Christmas season approaches and John Watson is not in the mood. His friend and flatmate Sherlock disappears for a week, leaving him behind again, and John doesn’t think that things can get any worse. However, with a little help from their friends, he might finally start seeing the reasons to enjoy this Christmas after all...

no man is a failure by blueink3 (T, 10,836 w., 1 Ch. || It’s a Wonderful Life AU || Christmas, Whump, Suicidal Ideology, Angst with Happy Ending, Familly, Hurt/Comfort) – “John, you’re talking to a dead girl on Christmas Eve in the middle of the Golden Jubilee Bridge. When I say, ‘perk of the job,’ the definition is vast.” She opens her hands in front of her and gives a tiny bow. “Congratulations, it’s December the 24th, 2016 and you, John Hamish Watson, have never been born.”

The Time Being by prettysailorsoldier (M, 11,008 w., 1 Ch. || University AU || John in Afghanistan, Victor Trevor, Time Skips, Poetry, Goodbyes, Christmas, Fluff, Drug Use, Angst with Happy Ending) – When Sherlock sends John off from King's Cross the day before Christmas Eve, he can't bear the thought that it's really goodbye, no matter how much John insists a clean break is best, so he suggests a compromise: Meeting up in that same place 7 years later. What follows are snapshots of the next seven Christmases, chronicling the changes in each man's life, but just because they're growing separately, doesn't mean they're growing apart. Part 3 of 25 Days of Johnlock

A Tale of Two Soldiers by batslikepastel (T, 14,136 w., 5 Ch. || S4 Fix It, Jealous Sherlock, Misunderstandings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Developing Relationship, Cuddling / Snuggling, First Kiss, Stress Baking, Domestic Fluff) – It's Christmas, and Sherlock and John are finally flatmates again after the tumultuous events of the previous year. But a sudden revelation about John's sexuality and James Sholto's unexpected presence throw a wrench into Sherlock's plans, and his jealousy threatens to overwhelm him even as John remains blithely oblivious. Their relationship has reached a turning point, and the ball is in John's court now.

Silent Night by khorazir (M, 15,060 w., 1 Ch. || Codebreaker / WWII / Imitation Game-Inspired AU || Care Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dev. Rel., Reunion, PTSD John, Christmas) – It’s Christmas Eve 1944, and Sherlock Holmes has received his most precious gift already: after a long, dangerous deployment, Surgeon Captain John Watson of the Royal Navy has unexpectedly returned from the front. As if this weren’t enough, there’s a case. Both events make for a night full of promise, excitement, and the difficult task of getting reacquainted with the man Sherlock hasn’t seen in three years and feared he’d lost forever. Part 2 of Enigma

A Story That Is Almost, But Not Quite, Entirely Unlike Blue Carbuncle by Iwantthatcoat (M, 16,468 w., 10 Ch. || Blue Carbuncle Adaptation, Holmes Parents, Christmas) – It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and the Holmes Family is all set to have one of those unimaginable Christmas dinners— but the game is afoot, as Mummy’s friend is caught up in a Christmas mystery.

The Secret of Hazel Grange by SilentAuror (E, 18,153 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Christmas, COVID-19 / Pandemic, POV Sherlock) – John has a secret, and Sherlock is bothered. Trapped together at Baker Street during the lockdown, the tension only grows worse as Christmas draws nearer...

Serendipity by Calais_Reno (T, 18,222 w., 3 Ch. || Serendipity Fusion || Christmas, Romance, Coincidences, First Meetings, Misunderstandings, New York City, Fate and Destiny) – A bit of New York Christmas fluff, based on the 2001 movie.

Breaking Christmas by MissDavis (M, 18,606 w., 18 Ch. || Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff, Nipple Piercing, Ficlets, No Angst) – Join me in some established relationship Johnlock as I attempt to make Sherlock and John participate in some Seasonal Fucking Cheer.

Welcome Christmas by MissDavis (T, 18,774 w., 24 Ch || Post S4, Christmas, Winter, Parenthood, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing, First Kiss) – Join John and Sherlock at Baker Street as they celebrate Rosie's first Christmas and beyond. From Rosie crawling around the flat as they tiptoe around each other en route to their first kiss, to a happy retirement with a young grandson who wants to be just like Grandad and Papa, this fic shows how Sherlock and John celebrate Christmas together through the years.

Mistletoe and Misdemeanours by Robottko (T, 20,738 w., 12 Ch. || Coffee Shop AU || Christmas, Fake Relationship, Coffee Shops, Victor Trevor, First Kiss, Holmes Family, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Drama, Kidnapping) – When Victor Trevor backs out of the Holmes family Christmas at the last minute, Sherlock panics because he has no way to impress his parents. Thankfully there is a handsome army doctor with nowhere to go in his coffee shop, though it would be more helpful if he were a bit more willing.

High Mountain Tea Leaves by disfictional (E, 23,207 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TFP, TD-12, Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Travel, Case Fic, Miscommunication, Shower Sex, Masturbation, Chinese Language, New Year’s Kiss, Toplock) – A mountaintop robbery on a Japanese-occupation-era train where the only item stolen was a small case of mysterious tea leaves in a backpack? An ideal Christmas gift, two days late. Sherlock convinces John to travel for tea.

Danger Nights by khorazir (T, 23,591 w., 3 Ch. || Post-TLD, Friends to Lovers, Mentioned Parentlock, Pining, First Kiss/Time, Winter, Folklore, Wales, Spooky Elements, Bed Sharing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Spooky Elements) – According to folklore, the nights between Christmas and Twelfth Night are the most dangerous of the year. During them, the Wild Hunt rides, and ghosts and demons come out to haunt unsuspecting and misbehaving folk. An investigation of a series of strange occurrences leads John and Sherlock to Hay-on-Wye on the Welsh Marches, to face ghosts weird and ancient as well as close and personal – and perhaps to start the new year on a more hopeful note than the previous one.

All Roads Lead Home at Christmas by reveling_in_mayhem (T, 25,709 w., 24 Ch. || Post TRF, Christmas, Happy Ending) – Perhaps Christmas could truly be a time for miracles, for some. But John didn't believe in miracles. Not anymore.

Sherlock Holmes & The Mysterious Ex by Gatergirl79 (M, 27,942 w., 16 Ch. || Family, Romance, Holmes Family) – Sherlock and John are forced to spend Christmas with Sherlock’s family. An unsettling idea especially when John will have to play ‘Boyfriend’ thanks to Mycroft. But why exactly does Sherlock want to avoid a family party?

If There Were Any Time For A Miracle by Berty (E, 31,732 w., 3 Ch. || Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Christmas, Birthday Party, Misunderstandings, First Kiss/Time, Fluff, Sherlock’s Violin) – John and Sherlock are spending Christmas at the Holmes' family home. Sherlock has a plan that John doesn't know about. John has a wish that Sherlock doesn't know about. If there were any time for a miracle, this would be it.

Miracle on Islington High Street by Jaybeefoxy (M, 33,006 w., 7 Ch. || Christmas, Holmes Family, Mystrade, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Magical Realism, Friends to Lovers, Papa Lestrade, Rosie Watson, Caring Greg) – It's Christmas, and Greg does a favour for someone, only to receive a strange favour in return.

Consulting for Christmas by ohlooktheresabee (G, 40,153 w., 6 Ch. || Far Future Post S4 / Older Rosie, Thriller, Case Fic, Pre-Relationship, Christmas, Paris, POV Alternating, Fluff, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Mistletoe, Ice Skating, Heist, Awkward Romance, Developing Relationship, For a Case, Background Mystrade, Angst with Happy Ending) – The Louvre Museum in Paris is planning to host the celebrated Winter Fabergé Egg for its winter exhibition - quite the feat as it has not been on public display since 2002. However there is a snag: whispers of a world-renowned master-thief with his eyes set on the valuable prize. The curator has asked the famous Sherlock Holmes to consult on security, but the detective needs a lot of convincing: he is after all a bit busy with trying to woo a certain clueless ex-army doctor… At the same time, John is attempting to balance work, missing Rosie who is off on her gap year, a volunteer gig at a local London orphanage, and seething jealousy upon the arrival of an apparent old friend of Sherlock’s. Attempting to foil the heist of the century while remaining friendly and objective might just be a step too far... A Christmas crime caper packed full of misdirection, miscommunication and mistletoe, set against the romantic backdrop of London and Paris in the winter. Thrown into all this, will our two idiots finally manage to see what has been right in front of them all along?

12 Lays of Christmas Series by distantstarlight (E, 45,164 w. across 12 works || Post-S4, Stand-Alone Ficlets, Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitous Sex) – This series is made up of stand-alone ficlets of varying sizes, all resulting in Johnlock via a number of different routes, and all from my exhaustion fevered brain. Some will have sex and some will not. You don't need to read them in any particular order but I hope you enjoy them when you do. Happy Giftmas Everyone!

Erosion by saintscully (E, 53,386 w., 12 Ch. || Post TFP, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Case Fic, Christmas, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con, Minor Character Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Divorce, Estrangement, Family Issues, PTSD, Medical Conditions, Mentions of Dementia) – Sherlock’s father falls ill, leaving the surviving family members broken and rudderless. James Sholto shows up in London unexpectedly, his intentions unclear. John has to navigate the consequences of crime, illness and death and their impact on his frayed relationship with Sherlock.

Fairytale of New Scotland Yard by Ewebie (M, 57,858 w., 30 Ch. || Mystrade and Johnlock, Christmas, Advent Fic, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Christmas Dinner, Accidental Cuddling, Accidental Bed Sharing, Sharing Body Heat, Holmes Family) – This is a Christmas love story:Greg Lestrade loved Christmas. He loved winter, the bite in the air, the flurries and occasional actual snow, the colorful lights, the sometimes loud decorations, the songs, the singing, the parties, the people, the presents, the surprises, the food and the drink, and the genuine good cheer... Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas. He hated the winter, the cold actually made his knee and hip ache - though that was not something others were ever to know - the tiny crystals of frozen death that fell from the sky to disrupt the proper function of transportation were terrible, the blinking lights and loud noises brought about his migraines, the abysmal excuse for what passed as music - not to mention the people singing it, dear Lord - the ever increasing social obligations and nonstop political kowtowing, the people, the sheer volume of people... Part 7 of Guess My Race Is Run

You Teach Me and I'll Teach You by Burning_Up_A_Sun (E, 61,165 w., 15 Ch. || Teacher AU || Coming Out, Blow Jobs, Shower Sex, Bed Sharing, Christmas, Rimming, Homophobia, Beach Sex) – Dr. John Watson, with his recent PhD in music education, takes a job at Jesup Arts Magnet Middle School, where he meets the most obnoxious, irritating, fascinating, handsome gifted History teacher. With no where to live, John accepts Sherlock Holmes' offer of sharing a house on Baker Street. But will a Southern community accept two male teachers in a relationship or will they be forced to quit? Part 1 of the Adult Education series

6 Simple Rules For Dating John Watson by prettysailorsoldier (M, 81,958 w., 22 Ch. || Teenager / University AU || Cheating, Christmas, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Roommates) – John Watson's love life may have had its ups and downs, but at least it had some structure. That is, until Sherlock Holmes showed up on his doorstep.

So Grant Us All a Change of Heart by ArwaMachine (E, 83,276 w., 5 Ch. || Christmas Carol Fusion || T6T Compliant, Pining, Angst with Happy Ending, Smut, Temporary Character Death, Drug Use / Reference, Suicide) – It’s Christmastime at Baker Street, but things are far from festive. Mary is dead, John and Sherlock’s friendship is all but ruined, and Sherlock has become a right dick about everything. More convinced than ever that sentiment is objectively useless, Sherlock needs a little paranormal intervention to see the error of his ways or else run the risk of losing all that is important to him.

A Telling Touch by MiyakoToudaiji (E, 91,656 w., 28 Ch. || Post-TRF Divergence, Reunion, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Soldier John, Friends to Lovers, BAMF John, Doctor John, War, Syria, Violence, Blood, Injury, Fighting, Soulmates, True Love, First Kiss / Time, Slow Build, Romance, Christmas, Family, Holmes Manor, Childhood Memories, Sherlock’s Violin, Case Fic) – After Sherlock’s death, John manages to get himself re-enlisted and is sent back to war. But when two series of gruesome murders link home and outland together, John is suddenly faced with more battles than he could have imagined.

By A Thousand Cuts by 7PercentSolution and J_Baillier (E, 95,662 w., 21 Ch. || Surgeon / Medical AU || Angst, Family Issues / Dynamics, Drama, Established Relationship, Autism Spectrum, Ableism, Depression, Romance, Hospitals, Neurosurgery, Anaesthesia, Doctor!John, Doctor!Sherlock, Christmas, Therapy, Psychological Trauma, Childhood Bullying, Career Crisis, Anger, Hurt/Comfort, Addiction, Sensory Processing Disorder, Parenting, Holidays, Whump) – It's hard to let go of the past, especially when going home for the holidays. An incident just before Christmas brings unpleasant memories to the surface, and the wounds Sherlock carries may take more than just time to heal. Part 11 of the You Go To My Head series

Wild About Harry Series by PlaidAdder (T, 397,189 w. across 9 works || Harry/Clara and Johnlock, Post-TRF, Canon Compliant, Dancing, Case Fics, Morning After, Teamwork, Drug Use, Doctor Who Crossover, Christmas, Alcoholism, Fix It Fics, Alternating POVs, Established Relationships) – This started as a post-Reichenbach fic and turned into a series in which Harry Watson is a repeating character. John and Sherlock get together in the first story ("Empty Houses") and thereafter it's either developing relationship or established relationship. Most of this is case fic and long, but there are a few shorter ones.

#johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #christmas fics #fics to read #long post

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the-common-cowgirl · 1 month

Text

Summary: The Peaceful King Viserys hears word of a Targaryen Princess that resides in the broken stronghold of Valyria; which has since become an immature kingdom after of the doom befell their land. Feeling the tension between his house and believing the long night may soon come, Viserys proposes a betrothal between the Valyrian Princess and his second son, Aemond Targaryen, believing his daughter’s prophetic dream that the child born of this union will become the prince that was promised.

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen/FemOC (Anikyra Targaryen)

Warnings: Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Revenge, Period Typical Sexism, Blood Magic, Sacrifices, Murder, Major Character Death, Minor Character Death, Non-Con/Dubcon, Period Typical Racism/Valyrian Elitism, more tags to be added later

Author’s Note: Hey guys! If this looks familiar, it’s because it’s my first fic! I’ve wanted to rewrite this fic for a long time and to really do the idea behind this fic justice…so I am doing that!

Although the work was already written, I am going in and changing some ideas and things in here to better do the work the justice it deserves! I hope you all will enjoy the new and improved, False Dragons!

Chapter 1 - Intro

Chapter 2

For updates when I post new chapters, please follow fics-by-the-common-cowgirl!

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maidragoste · 2 months

Note

sea dragon fic update WHEN, I'm starving!!

hi anon, how are you?

The truth is I don't know when I'm going to upload the next chapter of Sea Dragon but in the meantime I'll share these headcanons that I never published

•When they were little Sea Dragon and Rhaenyra played with Aemma's dresses. The queen catches them a couple of times but she never scolds them. She even gave you some dresses once. The dresses are huge on you and you have to be careful in lifting the skirt so as not to fall when you walk. Years later, when Queen Aemma dies, Sea Dragon finds herself visiting Viserys' chambers by order of Corlys wearing one of those dresses.

•Before Sea Dragon and Alicent became friends, they were both jealous of each other because of Rhaenyra. Alicent didn't like listening to how the princess talked excitedly about how great you are, how she loves to fly and go swimming with you, how she loves to spend time with you. While you feel a sick feeling in your stomach every time you see Rhaenyra smile at Alicent or see her lying on Alicent's legs or when she asks the daughter of the Hand to comb her hair instead of you.

•Teenage Sea Dragon gets jealous every time she sees Daemon and Rhaenyra together but the truth is she doesn't know who she is more jealous of. But she will NEVER admit it because she always says that they are just her friends.

•Rhaenys knows that her daughter has repressed feelings for Daemon and Rhaenyra. So she's surprised when you tell her you want to marry Harwin Strong. You say you are in love and love him but your mother thinks you are actually desperate not to marry Viserys.

•Sea Dragon was always seen at court as someone kind. So when she started interacting with Larys, she would invite him to sit with her at parties and she would stay next to him instead of dancing. His first thought was that she was only doing it out of pity or to try to impress Harwin. But later he realized that she used her company to avoid being alone with people she didn't like, and she also rejected dance invitations from other gentlemen, using the excuse that it would be rude to leave Larys alone. Somehow you realized that Larys knew that you were using him as a buffer because the next time a man says something stupid you make a hidden face at Larys before drinking your wine as if you were both sharing a secret.

•While Harwin is busy working in the city guard Sea Dragon divides her time between Alicent, Rhaenyra and Larys. Rhaenyra always seems upset that Sea Dragon seems to spend more time with the queen and Prince Aegon.

•Two years into the Stepstone War, Sea Dragon leaves King's Landing to go fight with her family because she is furious that Viserys won't lift a finger to help them. Before she leaves she has an argument with Harwin because he doesn't want her to go to war without him. But Harwin cannot go because his father forbids it since he does not want to risk losing his heir in the war.

•The only person who almost convinces you not to leave is Alicent looking at you with her beautiful brown eyes and baby Aegon in her arms. "Please stay. I don't want anything to happen to you."

You have to force your will not to access her sad eyes and you promise her that you will return safely as you place one last kiss on Aegon's forehead.

•At first Rhaenyra doesn't like Harwin for marrying you but then the two of them start spending time together when you are on the Stepstones because they both miss you.

•Harwin suspects that something happened between you and Daemon on Stepstones. Your husband notices how the prince looks at you. Not only that but you seem upset when at Laenor's wedding you see him dancing with Laena.

•Sea Dragon never forgives Alicent for letting Criston Cole live and remain part of the royal guard after he killed Joffrey.

• Sea Dragon once wanted Harwin to fly with her but Nightwing, her dragon, got irritable every time he tried to get close to her so they were never able to fly together.

•Rhaenys is against Laena's marriage to Daemon because she knows that he loves Sea Dragon and thinks that sooner or later something is going to happen between the two of them.

Thank you very much for writing to me anon, I hope you are well and hear from you again 💖💖

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elegantsplendour · 7 months

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Fire and Storm

Summary: As the Seven Kingdoms hesitated between the Blacks and the Greens, Aemond stood ready to flip the script.

Dance of the Empire inspired one shot.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Lannister! reader, mentioned Aegon II Targaryen x Lannister! reader

Note: Hi my dearies, I’m so sorry I haven’t been active in the last month. Transitioning from Montreal to Toronto has been a lot to handle. But the good news is that I got elected as student council vp in my new school🤪. Here is a one shot inspired by my first fic Dance of the Empire (a bit spoiler). I will be back writing all the three fics and will try to update weekly. Thank you all for sticking with me❤️❤️❤️

Warnings: major character death

Tagging my friends :) @qyburnsghost @lovelykhaleesiii @boundlessfantasy @vhagarswar @purple-writer8 @valeska-fics @lexi-anastasia @f4ll-for-you

Within the chilling walls of the seat of House Baratheon, the hearth held a flame that danced rebelliously, threatening to bite those misfortunate enough to find themselves in proximity. Torrential water poured mercilessly from the sky while the wind howled ruthlessly. Sealed by the solid bricks of the castle, the flames, fragile compared to the frightful storm yet unpredictable and dangerous in nature, continued to consume silently.

The silver haired prince sat calmly by the scorching heat, his long fingers brushing against each other. It had been two days since the Lord of Storm’s End pledged allegiance to the prince’s elder brother, called by some the Usurper, in return for a marriage pact between the prince and one of the lord’s daughters. Amidst the looming threat of a deadly civil war, every second counted, but his delay was calculated. Aemond had been waiting silently and patiently for his nephew's arrival, much like a flame waiting to devour its fuel.

A servant knocked by the door, bowed and announced the news. Without a word, he arose from the chair and paced through the solemn hall of the castle with stately ease. The effortless regality exuded from his presence was as if he was on his way of being coronated. A sharp curl appeared on the corner of his thin lips as he recalled his drunken and debauched brother , expecting the Conqueror’s Crown on his head like an infant. With each step Aemond took, he felt himself drawing nearer to his desires: power and her.

Aemond Targaryen wanted everything and was ready to steal, scheme and slaughter.

Unlike his half sister Rhaenyra, the named heir of the late King Viserys, or his brother Aegon, born with the title of the first born son, Aemond Targaryen's life was a battle, a relentless one against a seemingly inescapable destiny of becoming another insignificant Targaryen royal, riding an ordinary dragon, holding a hollow position in court, accompanied by a mediocre noble woman, doomed to be forgotten in history.

However, when his mother suggested betrothing him to the eldest daughter of Tyland Lannister, he was taken aback. Could he, the overlooked second son, really be promised the "Beauty of Casterly Rock" and an alliance with the house guarding mountains of gold? Promises were a strange to the One-Eyed Prince, as he had always been a taker, much like he had claimed the largest dragon in the world. The fleeting memories of the golden lady of emerald eyes all appeared to him a cruel jest. The tender moments of her smiles were overshadowed by her anguished cries upon learning that she had been bartered off to Aemond’s elder brother Aegon, who would rather bury himself between the legs of harlots of the Flea Bottom.

Contained fury blazed in his chest as Aemond watched the young Lucerys Velaryon, his bastard nephew, who had taken his eye eight years ago.

Lucerys conveyed with a trembling voice Rhaenyra’s message to the Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond paid no attention to the words coming out of his mouth. His one violet eye burnt a hole in the quivering messenger. His throat throbbed with thirst for retribution as the flashes of scarlet and black that had blinded his eye when Lucerys’ blade had cut through his flesh.

This rage was tainted with despair, for what he truly desired was taken by his own kin and given to his brother. He soon realized he had nothing left to lose.

With that, as the Lord of Storm’s End dismissed the Velaryon impatiently, the prince’s shadowy figure also disappeared in the hall as he watched Lucerys mounting his pathetic and minuscule dragon Arrax while the storm still raged on.

Soon, the monstrous Vhagar hovered over the young dragon. The lightning tearing through the black sky and roaring of thunder were music to Aemond Targaryen’s ears, as if the gods were in awe of this spectacle of terror. In the face of raw power commanded by the largest dragon of the world, neither Lucerys, Rhaenyra, Aegon, nor even the games of thrones stood a chance. Aemond was the second son who inherits nothing he doesn’t seize for himself. Addicted to the intoxicating scent of the lioness of Casterly Rock and the adrenaline rushing in his veins from being on top of the world, Aemond whispered to the green beast, “Ipradagon.”

Eat

Scarlet blurs flashed before him, followed by a haunting dragon squeal echoed before him with no one but him to bear witness to the gruesome bloodshed. While others might see flesh and dragon bones plummeting from the sky, Aemond saw a vision of the Conqueror’s Crown landing on his head. While his mother, the Dowager Queen, sought to suppress the war, Aemond stroked the anger bubbling in Rhaenyra. And what better way than slaying her favourite son?

War were precisely what he craved; for war breeds to fear, fear spawns to chaos, and chaos is a ladder.

As the Seven Kingdoms hesitated between the Blacks and the Greens, Aemond stood ready to flip the script.

All his life, he had been but a sword wielded at another’s will. At that moment, Aemond Targaryen became the master of his own terror, and the realm would watch a second son rise to rule the continent.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond the kinslayer #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #lucerys velaryon #asoiaf

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asumofwords · 11 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

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

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

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my babies, anyone thirsting for some more sloppy like I am? I'm fiending for it.... hahaha. Been feeling very flat and tired, work is kicking my ass and i'm feeling so tired, so I apologise in advance if the updates aren't as often as you would like. Anyway, enjoy <3

Chapter 72: Another Promise

Warmth spread through your body as you woke the next morning to a familiar heat between your thighs, a gentle wetness lapping at your core. Heat bloomed within as pleasure rippled through you. You whined, pulling the sheets back to see Aemond between your thighs, suckling on your pearl, lips wet and eye half shut, lost in the high that it gave him.

Aemond sucked gently on your bud, swirling his tongue around it.

The coil snapped.

Your peak ripped through you and Aemond moaned, licking the release that oozed from within with his tongue, his sharp nose pressing into your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your body slackened as you laid in the bed, Aemond’s hungry mouth still on you. Pleasure buzzed through you gently in waves, Aemond humming into your core.

But with your peak, came the fall.

The heights with which your body tumbled down from as realisation washed over you.

It was Aemond bringing you pleasure.

And he was leaving you again.

With him.

With Aegon.

You felt tears prickle at your eyes as you tilted your head to look up at the ceiling, Aemond’s tongue still gathering the slick from your core greedily. A shallow breath passed through your lips as you wriggled from overstimulation, body tired and on edge.

Aemond’s mouth stopped its ministrations and you felt him shift from between your thighs. He moved up the bed and hovered over you, long hair tickling the sides of your face as you shut your eyes, feeling a lone tear traitorously escape and trail down your cheek.

Aemond bent forward and kissed the tear away, his lips wet from your cunt.

“Dōna, zaldristos.” Sweet, little dragon, He whispered, hand coming to soothe the side of your neck, “I will return soon.”

You shook your head, feeling a bitterness replace the fear inside of you.

You will be back when you are done with her, and you have left me to Aegon’s cruelty.

“Y/n,” Aemond murmured, “Look at me, please.”

The 'please' was so quiet it shocked you, and your eyes immediately met his.

When had Aemond ever said please?

“Everything will be fine. You are safe here.”

“How are you so sure?” You argued, shuffling back to pull yourself to sit against the back of the bed, Aemond allowing you the space as you curled your knees into your chest.

“He knows you are mine.”

“And yet he pursues me still.” You looked down at the bed, an ominous blanket of dread settling over you.

A blanket of knowing.

Something was to come.

Aemond sighed, and moved to pull himself from the bed. Standing completely bare in the chambers. He bent to pick up his tunic and breeches, pulling them on and rounding to your side of the bed.

Aemond collected your chemise, and told you to stand.

You dragged yourself to the edge of the bed before standing as he asked, feet pressing into the cold stones below. Aemond’s eye lingered on the scar on your side, observing it. It made the skin prickle under his gaze.

Yes, you did this.

You marked me.

You have scarred me.

I have not forgotten what you have done.

Your uncle pulled the chemise over your head and helped dress you, before slipping your arms through the robe beside the bed, knotting it tightly at your front. He held out a hand for you, and led you to the table where he sat you down. You waited for the maids to arrive, his eye never leaving you, fingers drumming on the table in thought.

When the maids entered they placed food on the table, and in front of you, your tea. You brought it towards you and scooped two spoons of honey into it, anticipating the bitterness before even trying it.

As you stirred the tea, the spoon clinked against the teacup loudly, Aemond watching your hand move. His eye seemed to narrow on the cup as you stirred it, bringing it up to your lips as you blew steam away.

You took a steady sip.

The tea was not as bitter as it was the last time, the honey having evened out the flavour. You let yourself look at Aemond above the rim of the cup, his eye focused on you as you sipped at the honeyed mint brew.

His hair was pushed away from his face behind his shoulders, though unbrushed, his locks were relatively smooth and unknotted. He looked collected, put together, even though he had only just woken and had spent most time of his morning between your thighs already.

Your core clenched at the thought.

He had changed so much already.

A knock came at the door and the both of you turned your heads, Aemond’s concentration on the tea being taken away.

“Enter.” He beckoned, and you watched as the knight at the door opened it quietly, bowing his head and greeting the both of you. The knight moved across the room, armour clinking softly.

In his hand was a scroll.

The scroll Aegon had promised.

The knight handed it to Aemond, who took it wordlessly, jaw clenched. The man then bowed and left the room quickly, shutting the doors behind him.

Aemond stared down at the parchment in his hand, turning it over with his long fingers in thought.

The anticipation was killing you.

Why was he being sent to Harrenhal?

How long would he be gone?

Aemond’s hands picked the wax seal from the scroll without care, the sigil breaking in half as he slowly unfurled the parchment. His lone eye scanned the words written in silence.

The more that he read, the more his eye narrowed, plump lips tightening into a scowl, humming shortly in irritation as his eye scanned the page.

“What is it?” You asked softly, head craning to see if you could peak at any words on the parchment.

“The King sends me to do petty business in Harrenhal. False fears of rising rebellion, a parameter check of the keep… Child’s play.” Aemond growled, tossing the parchment down onto his plate.

Petty business?

You rose from your seat slightly, leaning over the table as you stretched out a hand. Your fingers extended towards the letter, yet you kept your eye on the sour man in front of you.

“May I?” You asked, seeking permission to read it.

Aemond grunted, picking the parchment up with two fingers and lazily flicking it to you.

You took the letter in your hand and read over it, eyes darting over the handwriting that would likely have been Otto’s, too neat to be the drunken King’s.

“Several days?” You read aloud, looking back up at Aemond who breathed heavily.

He looked away, sucking his teeth angrily.

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed, “He plays a fools game with me. A punishment.”

“But you have done nothing wrong.” You argued, placing the parchment back on the table.

“Aegon has never needed a reason to make others suffer.” Aemond growled standing up, food long forgotten at the table.

He stalked the chambers, pacing the room before coming back to you.

“I will return to you sooner than he expects.” Aemond promised again.

Another promise.

Another promise that would no doubt be broken.

You nodded your head.

“I must take my leave.” Aemond said, his eye flicking down to your lips and then back to your eyes.

“Be swift.” You smiled, trying to bring yourself comfort.

Aemond leant forward and kissed you, pressing his soft lips against yours, the sweet taste of honeyed wine on his tongue, before quickly pulling away, all but storming out of the chambers.

As though he had to rip himself away from you.

You were left to sit at the table, food untouched, and tea half drunk with the parchment on the table beside you. The smell of the food overwhelmed you, and you found that your hunger had dissipated with the Prince’s exit. But something else kept you from eating.

He had let you read a letter from the King.

He had let you read about the plans to go to Harrenhal.

It was working.

You sat at the table for some time, picking at the food, yet not quite filling yourself full. You held the parchment in one hand, turning it over in thought.

The fruits of your labour were beginning to show.

Aemond felt safe enough to show his resentment towards the King to you.

You knew now that he wished to be King. Ardently.

This was something you could use to your advantage, and something you would.

The doors opened without a knock and you snapped your head to the entrance.

Ser Cole stood stiffly, looking down at you from his nose, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other hidden behind the white cloak that was pinned to his shoulders.

His dark hair was curled around his ears, lips pulled downwards into a look of disapproval.

You tilted your head at him as he began to speak.

“King Aegon has requested your presence.”

His words sparked fear.

Did he know that Aemond was gone already?

Was he waiting for him to leave?

“Aemond is not h-“

“He asked for you.”

A beat.

“You’re beginning to grow a habit of interrupting those who are above you, Ser Cole.” You emphasised his title slowly, not having moved from your seat at the table.

Ser Criston’s jaw ticked as he looked at you.

“By order of the-“

“Do shut up.” You sighed, standing from your seat as you pushed it backwards, abandoning the parchment on top of your plate, “Where is he?” You pretended to be more irritated by his summoning rather than fearful, slowly walking to stand in front of Ser Criston as he waited at the door for you.

“Might you dress to-“

“If Aegon wishes to see me at the suns rise, without notice, then he shall be content in my state of dress.”

You let Cole linger in the tension for a moment more before speaking again.

“Fetch my maids and have them ready me for him.” You commanded Cole, and saw his hand tighten around the pummel of his sword, “The King can surely wait without any of his pressing duties to be attended to.”

You turned away from Cole, small smile on your lips as you moved to sit at the vanity, running a hand through your hair as you looked at yourself, and allowed the reflection to give you the view of a very flustered, and very red faced Criston Cole.

He turned on his heel, returning shortly after with your maids who looked on edge.

They dressed you quickly and helped to braid your hair, fear in their movements.

“Did Ser Cole say something to you?” You questioned them, looking at them look down in the reflection.

Their non answer was your answer.

“I will have a word to Cole when I leave.”

“Please, Your Grace. Don’t.” The youngest of maids whispered as she pushed a pin into your hair smoothly to keep the braided style up.

“Alright, I won’t. But do tell me if he causes you trouble again. I will not stand for it.”

They finished dressing you and you stood, thanking them before leaving, finding Ser Cole standing outside waiting, arms at his side awkwardly. He looked as though he barely had a single though t of his own behind his eyes.

“Do not presume to speak to our maids in such a manner again, Ser Crispin.”

A name your father had given him.

You watched Cole’s lips twitch, “You are a knight, not a lord. Born of a steward of Lord Donddarrion at Blackhaven, were you not?” You stared into his dark eyes and waited.

Ser Cole’s jaw clenched, “Yes, Princess.”

“You would do well to remember that.” You began to walk down the corridor away from Ser Cole, who caught up to you and walked ahead, leading you to the King’s chambers.

Your gut turned and your palms were sweaty, anxiety coursing through you the closer you got, heart racing in your chest.

Was he to mock you?

Tease you?

Touch you?

The large doors appeared and you had to force yourself to continue following Cole, who’s strides doubled yours, causing your pace to be faster than what you would have liked. Two guards stationed at the doors opened the heavy oak for you, and Ser Criston stepped through first, announcing your arrival to the King.

When you moved into the chambers, you noted that it smelt musky, incense burning in the corners to perhaps drown out the stench. It smelt of stale ale, dirty linen, and a faint yet lingering scent of semen.

There, seated at the Valyria miniature, was Aegon.

His violet eyes lifted to look at you as a smile broke out on his face. He was not wearing his crown, and was in his sleeping attire. A white tunic and a deep green robe pulled against him, similar to how you had looked not moments before.

“There she is, my favourite niece.” He greeted you, hands fiddling with a figurine in his hand.

Seeing him touch and play with something your Grandsire had poured so much love into made you want to bite him.

You clenched your jaw to soothe the desire.

“He never let us touch it.” He told you, noting the way your eye was kept on the object he moved in his hand.

You stepped closer, coming a few paces away from him.

In Aegon’s hand was a small carving. It was round and fat, with four short little legs. On its back were two large wings, up and open as though ready to take flight. And at its front was a snout.

The Pink Dread.

The pig Aegon and your brothers had gifted Aemond as a child.

“Father had it made. Pretty cruel if you ask me, but funny nonetheless. My favourite piece here.” He twirled the pig in his hands as he looked at you.

“I heard that Aemond has left already. A Prince dedicated and devoted to his King.”

I should be King. Not him. Not that useless wastrel.

Aemond’s voice echoed in your head.

“The Prince goes where his King commands him.” You replied cooly, watching as a lazy smile spread on your eldest uncles lips.

“He does.”

Silence filled the room and you shifted on your feet, head turning back to see the chamber doors closed, and Ser Cole standing in front of them.

You were trapped.

Swallowing thickly you turned to look back at Aegon, who had leant back in the chair, still playing with the figurine.

“What did you need of me, kepus?” You asked politely, yet not smiling.

“I needed to ask you something.”

You waited for him to continue.

“Wanted to see if you had changed your mind at all. Now that Aemond will be gone from the Keep so frequently, perhaps you may take your other uncle to warm your bed.”

You bristled as he spoke.

“I am wed to Aemond.”

“Ah,” Aegon laughed as he looked at you, “But I am a King. It would be a high honour to have my seed and birth my heir. Sure it would be a bastard, but a King’s bastard is surely better than a second sons.”

“I have no desire to bed you.” You struggled to contain your anger, watching as Aegon’s grin split wider.

“Even when Aemond bed’s another? Even as he goes to fuck Alys, and then shoves his still wet cock back into you?”

“Even then, I would prefer his touch to yours.”

Aegon stood, placing the Pink Dread down on the table with care as he walked forward towards you. You held your ground and looked at him.

“How do you know you would prefer it, if you have not tried it?” He purred, and you heard Ser Cole shift behind you.

“I know that I look at your face,” You leant forward, “And any desire I had for any man or woman, withers away. I think of your cock inside of me, and go dry. Something so small such as yours could scarcely do the job, and would turn a woman to weep from the disappointment of it all.”

“I will make you weep, but it won’t be from your eyes.” He grinned.

“You are more repugnant than the stables smell. I would sooner fuck a peasant who had not bathed for a thousand years than ever fuck you.”

“Sharp tongue.” Aegon teased, biting his lip as though the rush of stirring you aroused him.

Fuck.

He released his lip from his teeth and smiled politely at you, all teasing gone from his face, and an eerie mask of civility replacing it.

“Thank you for answering my burning questions. Aemond will be gone from King’s Landing for some time, so if you find that you are in want of some company, my chambers are always open for you.” He moved to sit back down in his chair, picking up the pig with wings again as he observed you, eyes roaming your body as he hummed.

“It must be difficult to be alone in this Keep.” He purred, smile rising higher on his cheeks at alone.

Your heart raced in your chest as you looked at him. Unsure of what to do. Unsure of what to ask.

“Sleep well this evening.”

It felt like a threat.

It was a threat.

“Ser Cole, please escort the Princess back to her chambers. I must ready for my duties.” Aegon commanded the man behind you.

Ser Cole came to your side in an instant, leading you outside of the chambers as your heart was caught in your throat.

Sleep well this evening.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

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emilykaldwen · 10 months

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THE MAIDEN AND THE DROWNING BOY is a House of the Dragon canon divergent fix-it trilogy with a HEA. Meshing both show and book canon, the story asks the question: How do you stop the cycles of abuse and generational trauma? In this universe, Aegon marries the youngest daughter of Lyonel Strong, the Lady Abrogail, who has grown up alongside him and his siblings. The story begins with the run up to their marriage in 125 AC, and follows Aegon and Abrogail as they figure out who they are and who they are together in the Riverlands, along with Aemond and Helaena in King's Landing, and to the dawn of the Dance of Dragons. Except the ending of the song is different this time.

pairings: aegon ii targaryen x oc, eventual jacaerys x helaena, other canon ships mentioned, other pairings to be announced warnings: child physical abuse, religious trauma, sexual shame and purity pushing, canon typical violence, canon typical attitudes, unpacking of previously stated sexual shame/purity for both male and female characters

This is not an anti/pro team black or green fic. I continue to do my best to approach all sides with nuance. There will be no bashing, nor will I accept any in the comments.

[this fic series will have three separate parts and updates every other friday]

No Tag List. Follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications or subscribe on AO3.

AO3

Wattpad (for those who prefer to read there. Updates are not matched to AO3)

Fic Tag

Ship Tag

Abrogail Tag

Abrogail Epithet Gif Set

Arc One Promo Set

Aegon and Abby - A Soft Evening Commission by @winterofherdiscontent

Abrogail Commission by @astarionbae

Abrogail Fanart by @selfproclaimedunicorn

Abrogail Fanart by @murmel-malt

Sunlight Gif Set by @dragonsbone

Vampire!Abby x Aegon fanart by @murmel-malt

tracks tag: #useremka

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fic #hotd oc #fyeahhotdocs #fyeahgotocs #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x ofc #aegon ii x oc #aegon targaryen fanfic #fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #oc: abrogail strong #aegon x abby #my fics

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unicorncornflakes · 10 months

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Everything Changes | Modern Au | Alpha!Dark! Aemond Targaryen x Omega!Niece!Reader | Sneak Peek

Prologue (One day, not now ;))

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

Summary: Aemond is a hunter and you are his prey.

Tags: Alternate Universe – Modern/ Setting / Eventual Smut / Alpha-Omega Relationship.

Warnings: This fic includes manipulation, violence, death, use of dr4gs and inc3st, at some points. Minors DNI

This is the result a really stressfulll week, a ton of red bull and monster cans and a little of Craziness :D Just a sneak peak, sorry :(

I will update Dark Desire tomorrow, so... while we are waiting, I leave this here :D

Author´s note: Pls, enjoy! Feedback, shares and comments are always welcome!

Word Count: +700

He feels like he shouldn't be there. He always feels that way. However, he returns to the same place. Every Friday afternoon. He never lose it. Before what happened, he hadn't felt anything for you. You were a girl when they caught him. When he came back, you were a woman.

He takes the credit card out of his wallet.

Lately, he finds no better use for it than that. He creates a line of white powder on the desk table and inhales it forcefully, no need to roll a bill like before, he simply covers one hole of his nose and inhales it. When he raises his head, you have plunged back into the water. You are very pretty in a bikini. If he hadn't snort in that line, he'd get up and take it from you. He would make love to you in the pool. No, he would fuck you. Since he came back he hasn't made love again, if he ever did.

Luckily, he's too high. Thank the gods he won't get up and teach you anything. It would not be ethical or moral. He keeps looking at you. He likes when you get out of the pool and sunbathe. You are very pretty all wet and shiny from the sun that hits your skin. Would you call him "Daddy" while he pulls you? He likes the perspective, smiles at his thoughts running through his mind. He lights a cigarette and leans back in his chair. He wishes you would come over and kneel down to suck him off while he's like this. 'I like you, (Y/N)' he confesses to himself in his mind. He imagines you walking hand in hand. He imagines sleeping with you. He just imagines you. He puts his fingers to his nose and pinches his bridge. Why does he imagine such sweet things with you?

"I thought you were clean of that shit," he hears Daeron's voice behind him, but he doesn't even turn to look at him. He's not in the mood to be lectured on morals by his little brother.

“I'm leaving it, before I snort much more. Now it's only Fridays, when I'm here” he lies to Daeron with his hoarse voice, shattered by years of captivity, after the conviction for murdering Luke. He shrugs and continues to look at you. You are precious. His little niece.

“When are you coming to see her?” Daeron asks, dropping a folder full of papers on the desk. He clicks his tongue in disapproval, but he hasn't given a shit about these things for a long time “You should keep your distance, because in the end you're going to do something you'll regret.”

“Like what?” Aemond tells him smiling sadly, turning to look at him. Daeron looks at him worriedly, Aemond knows that looking at the enormous scar that runs across his face is not easy, that it is unpleasant, the white and blue prosthesis greets him in a macabre way... but you look at him as if he were still attractive, as if you like him, as nothing would happen to his face or to his destroyed body “With the eager that Cregan is, I'm sure he'll even put her in my bed and give her to me if I tell him I like her. He would be honored if his daughter gave birth to the future offspring of the House of the Dragon. Yeah, he wouldn't give a shit, even if I'm his wife's little brother.”

“She's very pretty” his brother Daeron comments as he approaches the window, with his arms behind his back “But, (Y/N) doesn't deserve to be with a man who lines up on his back while he fucks her from behind” he says harshly, without any feeling. Aemond smiles wearily, jaded by the situation. He knows perfectly well what happens between almost all of his siblings when you are around them.

“No, of course” he tells Daeron, taking a drag on his cigarette again, watching you through the smoke that he expels from his mouth “She deserves a proper lawyer. I suppose you would take her to dinner before fucking her, to see if she would fall in love with you that way” Aemond laughs contemptuously.

“Unlike my brothers, I know how to control myself, even though she is the first omega born in our family after so long” Daeron smiles, but without losing sight of you. Liar. All his brothers are liars with you.

#aemond targaryen x you #aemond x y/n #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond modern au #aemond targaryen modern au #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen imagine

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jaimeslanisters · 1 year

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dominoes cascading in a line — the meeting

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader

You beam, bright and happy, and he wonders if the real treasure in the Rock wasn’t in its gold or its wealth but rather in the daughters it produced. or moments in aemond's life with a lady of house lannister

crossposted on ao3 masterlist word count: 2.1k notes: surprise! i'm starting a companion piece of oneshot moments in the pawn in every lover's game (my current ongoing fic) from aemond's pov! this will be updated sporadically so enjoy this first one (:

Aemond is ten when his mother announces that Daeron will be fostered in Oldtown by their Hightower kin. Daeron is seven.

As an adult, his memory of the incident will fade like an old picture; the colors will lose their shine, details will vanish, the pain will dull. But one thing he will never forget is how Daeron hadn’t cried.

He had trembled, his eyes had gone wide, and he had seemed so small, even smaller than he already was.

But he hadn’t cried.

Daeron didn’t cry when they had packed his things or even Mother had gotten the habit of bursting into tears at the mere sight of him. He hadn’t even cried when their father had shrugged off his leaving, merely giving his youngest son a more than awkward pat on the head and empty platitudes.

He didn’t cry.

Not until Helaena had mournfully informed them all that she couldn’t go with them to drop Daeron off since some daughter of Lord Lannister was coming to King’s Landing to keep Lord Tyland Lannister company and to be her companion. She had to stay to greet her. Mother had insisted.

Daeron had sobbed then. Big, glassy tears had poured down his face as he had gasped loudly for breath. Helaena, fighting her usual aversion to touch, had wrapped her small arms around him, awkward and stiff, but Daeron hadn’t minded, burrowing himself into her arms and wailing.

Aemond had sworn then and there that he would hate the little lady of House Lannister coming to be Helaena’s companion. She could be his sister’s friend. She couldn’t be his.

During the entire trip to Oldtown and his entire stay, Aemond had created a vision of the Lannister girl to hate. She’ll be mean. She’ll be snooty. She’ll sneer at Helaena and her bugs and mock her to the other ladies in court. She’ll laugh at him and his lack of a dragon, whisper about how he is no true Targaryen if he can’t claim his own House’s sigil.

Perhaps she’s only coming to the capitol to marry. That’s the only reason a noble girl would leave her family’s seat of power behind and travel after all. Maybe she’ll even marry Aegon and they’ll have cruel, nasty babies together and they’ll laugh at Helaena and Aemond for the rest of their lives.

By the time he returns to the Red Keep with one brother and without another, he swears that he’ll hate the daughter the Rock has sent and he always will. He repeats this in his head as he heads to Mother’s sitting room, where Helaena always spends her time, and he convinces himself that she won’t be there because she must be cruel and vapid and mean to keep Helaena away from Daeron. He tells himself that he’ll hate her.

Then he meets you.

When he slams the door open, prepared to comfort his surely heartbroken sister, he finds you. The slam of the door startles you and, with a small shriek, you nearly drop a jug of water, catching it awkwardly so that the water spills all over the front of your pretty gown, soaking it.

He stares. You don’t look at him for a moment, too busy staring down at the jug in stunned disbelief, but when he calls out to ask if you’re alright, you turn to face him.

And Aemond swears his heart skips a beat.

He’s seen pretty girls before. Of course, he has. They’re everywhere in the Red Keep. From serving girls to noblewomen, there’s beauty to spare in the capitol.

But you’re different. There’s a moment when he knows your mind hasn’t realized that he’s a Targaryen, when he’s just a boy that made her spill water on herself, and you scowl fiercely, looking as if you would bare your teeth if you could. It’s a short moment but a glorious one and Aemond feels his cheeks flare with heat against his permission.

Luckily, it looks like you’re just as caught off guard and you duck into a curtsey, calling him my prince.

The form of address has never sounded so nice.

“I think I’m at a disadvantage,” he says after a moment, feeling as if he’s failing a test he didn’t know he was supposed to take. “You know who I am but I don’t know who you are.”

“Oh!” You say, looking terribly flustered, and Aemond fights down a smile, struggling to stay focused. He swears he has control, swears he’s being absolutely normal about all of this, but then you do say your name and his mind freezes.

Lannister. Lannister. Lannister.

Your House name runs circles in his mind, mocking him, teasing him. You’re the lady he’s sworn to hate.

He barely has time to process when you continue talking and it’s only through years of etiquette training that he hears you.

“My uncle Tyland is your father’s master of ships. And… at the risk of sounding impertinent, my prince, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

He blinks at that, feeling that all too familiar humiliated flush creeping up his neck. The worst part is that he doesn’t even know why being wrong in front of you would embarrass him so badly. “How am I mistaken?”

Aemond has seen the Hightower in Oldtown, looming high above the port city, topped by a massive orange flame, an impossible wonder. He’s seen Sunfyre, gleaming and golden as he flies through the sky, a moving marvel rather than a ferocious beast. He’s seen the Iron Throne, the thousand swords taken from Aegon the Conqueror’s enemies, ugly but striking, the very seat of House Targaryen’s power.

And somehow none of them compare to your smile.

It’s humiliating, it’s shameful, it’s the truth. Your smile lights him up from the inside, warming him up entirely, and he wishes it wasn’t real. What if you’re cruel? What if you’re mean and selfish?

You keep smiling at him and, for just a few moments, Aemond tells himself that maybe you won’t be. He has to believe it, if only to just finish this conversation. “Now you know who I am but I don’t know who you are. I know you’re a Targaryen prince, that much is easy to tell, but there are three of those. Are you Prince Aegon? Or perhaps Prince Aemond? You could even be Prince Daeron, having decided that Oldtown isn’t to his taste.”

At least she’s not dumb.

He looks at you, looking for any sign that you’re setting him up, but, finding none, he finally smiles back. “I’m Prince Aemond. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

If he thought your smile was beautiful, it’s nothing compared to your laugh.

“Small mercies then,” you say after a moment, beaming at him. “Your sister told me that you and I would get along.”

“She did?” He asks, head spinning. “Me? And you? But you’re so…”

Well mannered. Pretty. A true lady. I’m the second son in a family where even the first son receives nothing. No one is excited to see me.

“She said you liked to read? And study?” You say, cleaning your hand with a wet rag, and Aemond notes with a start that your finger is bloody. “I’m no great scholar but I like to read the histories of the Westerlands and the other kingdoms. It’s important to know our past to be best able to predict our future.”

For a moment, Aemond hears his grandfather’s voice, lecturing as he hands him book after book about politics and the Seven Kingdoms.

You must succeed where Aegon fails, the Lord Hand says in his mind, stern and unyielding. You will be his strength where he is weak.

Aemond had taken that to mean that he must study everything.

Caught off guard, Armond can only manage out an awkward, “You like histories?”

“Of course,” you reply, wrapping your finger with a spare piece of cloth. “Perhaps you can share some of your favorite books with me? I’m about to go meet Princess Helaena in the gardens. You could join us?”

That shocks him the most out of everything.

Being smart was one thing. Being kind was another.

But asking him to spend more time with you? Knowing that he’s Aemond Targaryen, the forgotten second son? Perhaps if he were Aegon, the rightful next king, or even Daeron, sweet Daeron who hadn’t even cursed you when you had stolen Helaena away from him, but he was Aemond. Just Aemond.

He can’t help it. He blushes. He blushes more than he has ever blushed before in his life and he ducks his head, wishing he wasn’t. “I would be honored, my lady.”

You beam, bright and happy, and he wonders if the real treasure in the Rock wasn’t its gold or its wealth but rather the daughters it produced. “I’ll meet you in the gardens then! Please allow me to get changed and could you inform Princess Helaena that I’ll be late?”

“Of course,” he stammers, embarrassed at his own weakness, and you smile once more at him, giving him a curtsey as you leave in a swirl of soaked fabrics.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, feeling as if Balerion the Black Dread has bathed him in his flame, burning him away and leaving nothing.

Eventually, he does make his way down the gardens and, when he finds Helaena, crouched in the dirt with her hands cupped around an earthworm writhing in the moist soil, he forgets that he’s been gone for several moons.

“Is your companion kind to you?” He blurts out, skipping the emotional reunion completely in his daze. She’s lying. She has to be lying.

Sweet Helaena, however, doesn’t mind, looking up at him with glazed eyes. “Beasts of the sky, beasts of the rock, feed well the land,” she says in that odd way she always does. Before he can say anything, however, she blinks hard before smiling at him. “She’s nice. She likes embroidery. Whenever I ask, she reads me my favorites. I hope she’ll be my friend and not just my companion.”

Aemond watches her, looking for any hint of a lie, but Helaena never lies. Never ever.

He drops to the ground next to her instead, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as best as he can. He talks to his sister then, about Oldtown and Daeron and her bugs in their glass enclosures. He almost forgets.

Then you come again, carrying a heavy book, one that he instantly recognizes.

Mother had given it to Helaena on her eighth nameday — a Maester’s guide to the different beetles in the deserts of Dorne.

After getting the customary greetings out of the way, you slide to the ground, uncaring when your new dress gets covered in dirt and bits of grass. Head bowed over the book, you flip through with a practiced speed, landing on a chapter about the golden scarabs that crawl in the shadows of Sunspear.

You read with a calm and steady tone, perfectly enunciating every word, never faltering or stammering. Closing his eyes, Aemond leans back and listens, the words floating away so he only focuses on the sound of your voice, the melody.

He’s warm in the sunlight.

It ends too soon with the shrill call of Helaena’s septa ordering the pair of you to your daily lessons. Quickly, you snap the heavy tome closed, rising to your feet a beat faster than Helaena.

“Oh, before I forget,” you say, spinning to smile down at him. “What’s one of your favorite books? I’d love to get to read something other than just about the Westerlands.”

The answer pops out without his permission. “The Watchers on the Wall. Some of it is legends but it’s about the Nightfort. You know, the Rat Cook. Symeon Star-Eyes. The Night’s King.”

Your eyes gleam. “My mother used to tell me and my sisters about the Rat Cook to scare us into behaving. She said it happened to King Tywell II and if we weren’t kind to people, they might make us eat our children in a pie like him too.”

“Some say it was a king of the Vale instead,” he replies. “I hope it wasn’t your ancestor.”

“Aye,” you laugh. “I hope it wasn’t him either. I’ll be sure to read the story. Maybe I’ll be able to convince myself it wasn’t him either.”

As you leave, leading Helaena down to the frowning septa assigned to teach the both of you, he prays you won’t read the book. That you’ll take your pretty smiles and your quick replies off to Aegon to charm. He has to focus. He has to be the strength of his family and there’s no room or time for any lady.

Even still, a part of him hopes that he isn’t so unlucky.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #this is also to totally tide you guys over until i can post the next chapter which will admittedly take me some time lol

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