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#my muse likes Aemond
barbiedragon · 1 year
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Kinktober Day #18-Somnophilia [A.T. + Lannister!Reader]
House of the Dragon/Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!reader
Warnings: Somnophilia, soft Dom!Aemond, mild breeding kink, P in V
(Content for 18+ | Minors DNI)
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You moved the brush through your husband’s silver hair as he rested in the hot bath.  You could feel the steam on your own as you watched the wisps evaporate into the air.  You rather enjoyed these tender moments with him. Battles and bloodshed waged beyond the walls of the castle (even inside at times) and you were thankful for these moments of reprieve.  Aemond’s eye patch rested on the table; the sapphire that rested in the orb sparkled in the candlelight.  Very few people saw him like this, but he trusted you.  His ever loyal wife of noble Lannister stock.  He was the dragon, you were the lion and both craved things beyond your reach.
“Go, my lioness, I shall meet you in our chambers,” he murmured.
“I shall see you soon, husband,” you smiled.  Your ladies helped you change into your soft golden nightdress and helped you beneath the sheets.  You were half asleep by the time Aemond joined you, shivering when you felt his hand push up your dress and slide up your thigh.  You made a soft noise.
“Shhh, just relax, my lioness, I’ll take care of everything,” his voice purred.  His firm yet soothing touch kept your body at ease.  Flittering between the land of dreams and reality as he took his place between your thighs.  Hard as a rock, he slowly entered you while he pushed your dress up further and cupped your breasts in his strong hands.  Soft, low gasps escaped your lips as you lazily wrapped your legs around his waist.  Your eyes remained closed as your belly burned with pleasure.  His thrusts were steady, his breath tickled your ear and neck as his face found it’s favorite place in the crook of it.  You allowed him to take the reigns as you remained half asleep and gave your body over to him entirely.  You felt the warm burst of his seed fill you up before he collapsed on top of you.
“My dragon,” you whispered, fingers tangled in his hair as you drifted fully off into a peaceful sleep and hoped your belly would soon swell with his child.
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silverutahraptor · 1 year
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i’m this 🤏 close to just shipping Daemon x Aemond for the heck of it
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dreamlandcreations · 1 year
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My head is filled with House of the Dragon scenarios, really it's otherwise empty at the moment 😵‍💫 but I can't decide
Or should I go with just making (a) moodboard(s) bc I'm more likely to be actually finishing that(/them)? 🤔
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percentstardust · 11 months
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@timewound, @antihcroes, @sherebelled, @macveigh, @kissofthemuses, @lcveblossomed, @lcngdays.
i just wanted to thank y’all for your support last day cause that anon was nasty and the reason why i am always annoying about supporting female muses.
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valeskafics · 8 months
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"Ravenous" - Aemond Targaryen x Hightower Cousin!Reader
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Summary: When Aemond said that once the two of you are wed he won't let you leave your marital bed for a week, he meant it.
TW: canon typical incest, profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, loss of v*rginity, mild religion k*nk, purity culture, overstim, oral f receiving, f*ngering, p in v sex, breeding k*nk, size k*nk if you squint, corruption k*nk
Word Count: 5,000 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
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When Prince Aemond Targaryen is betrothed to the young Lady Hightower, the daughter of his uncle, Ser Gwayne, he is less than enthused. He has heard of you, a meek, shy little thing who clings to your mother’s skirts and can always be found praying in some sept or the other. The idea of being married to you sounds, to him, like an utter and absolute bore. He hopes, as your carriage arrives at the entrance of the Red Keep, that you at least are not as unattractive as he has pictured you in his mind’s eye. He watches as your father disembarks from the carriage first, greeting Queen Alicent and Lord Otto first, and then the rest of the rest of the family. Your mother, Lady Hightower, exits next, her head held high. She is a stern-looking woman, Aemond muses, and thinks that this does not bode well for him as far as you are concerned.
And then, he sees you.
You move out of the carriage, a cloak draped around your shoulders, hiding from his view until you remove the hood, revealing your gorgeous dark curly hair, your gorgeous doe eyes, your full lips that look so very kissable. Gods, he can’t stop looking at those lips, unable to utter so much as a greeting, just imagining how wonderful they’d look wrapped around his-
“Good day, cousin,” you speak in a soft, sweet voice, barely above a whisper as your lady’s maid takes your cloak, revealing your form to him.
Aemond’s throat goes dry and he does not reply for a long moment, eyeing you with a lustful gaze, admiring the way your gown is cut, allowing him to admire the swell of your breasts as you breathe, the curve of your hips as you approach him and bend into a curtsy, giving him an even better view. Your Seven Pointed Star necklace is nestled in your cleavage and he watches as you take it between your delicate fingers, fiddling with it, something he assumes is a nervous habit.
“Are you well, Your Grace?” you ask in that same dulcet voice, your tone now displaying some concern due to his lack of response.
He keeps looking at you, biting his lip as he imagines all the things he wishes to do with you right in this moment, before finally answering, his voice low and smooth, “I am well, my lady. And you? I trust your journey was pleasant.”
“I am well, cousin, and the journey went smoothly by the Seven’s grace, though I am quite tired,” you pause before speaking, “Since it is well past suppertime, I was just going to visit the royal sept to say my evening prayers before retiring for the evening.”
Aemond doesn’t bother to tear his lascivious gaze from your chest, watching it rise and fall with your every breath, straining against the confines of your bodice, “I am happy to hear that, my lady. Might I accompany you for your prayers?”
You meet his eye for a moment before averting your gaze, bowing your head, “As you wish, my prince.”
Aemond offers you his arm, watching as you turn to your parents as if seeking their approval. Your mother frowns slightly but your father nods, smiling at you and urging you on. You take Aemond’s arm and he begins leading you to the sept.
You startle slightly when he turns to you, his face startlingly close to yours as he asks, “Are you a devout servant of the Seven, my lady?”
You nod, answering him quietly, “Yes, my prince. I had considered becoming a septa before our betrothal was announced.”
Aemond gives you a wry smile, the thought of you as a septa being somewhat erotic to him in some strange way, “If such a beautiful woman became a septa, it would be a true loss for the realm. The men would weep, or at least I would.”
His words flatter you and you resist the urge to giggle, instead smiling shyly, “Thank you, my prince.”
Aemond gazes at your lips from the corner of his eye. Soft and full and the color just screaming “kiss me”. As if they were made for a man’s kiss, and he is the man to do it. He keeps his eye on you as the two of you walk through the Red Keep, nearing the sept, flickering between your lips and your cleavage. Aemond smirks to himself as he grows hard in his breeches, brushing the evidence of his arousal against you as the two of you enter the sept, reveling in the quiet gasp you let out.
He stares at you intently as the two of you approach the altar and you light a candle, bowing your head in prayer, repeating the names of the Seven. He doesn’t close his eye. He simply stares at you as your lips form the words and thinks of nothing but you and the things he wishes to do to you. You place a gold dragon in the collection box and stand up, waiting for Aemond to escort you to your chambers. He watches the way your hips move as you walk. He takes your arm again and the two of you walk to your chambers in silence.
You turn to him, gazing up at him with those sweet, innocent eyes as you murmur, “Thank you for the escort, my prince. Goodnight.”
Aemond watches as you close the door, standing in front of it for a long moment. He wonders what to do. Should he knock and ask if he can enter? No, he’d be a fool for doing that. He has to play it safe, even if every fiber of his being is crying for him to open the door and make you his. He turns on his heel and leaves, resolved to return to his chambers and relieve himself while imagining it is your soft, petite hand doing the task for him.
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The next morning, he sees you at breakfast, seated between his mother and sister, looking the picture of innocence, a sweet maiden ready to be claimed by a hungry dragon. He stares at you, his gaze lingering on your mouth, your bosom-
“Good morrow, my prince,” comes your sweet greeting as you stand, curtsying to greet him.
He doesn’t reply for a moment, wondering if it would be too improper to just bend you over the table and claim you in full view of everyone present, but restrains himself and answers, his voice a low rasp, “Good morrow to you too, my lady.”
After saying a prayer, everyone present begins  to eat. Aemond’s gaze is drawn to you, the way you pick a strawberry up from your plate and begin eating it, the way it disappears between your plump lips, the juices from it dribbling down your fingers. It’s kind of adorable, he thinks. And then? He sees you glance around, to make sure no one’s watching, before you lick your fingers clean. He lets out a low groan, one that luckily goes unheard by the others at the table, and barely manages to make it through breakfast. When the meal is over, he walks to you, offering you his hand.
“My lady,” he murmurs.
You startle slightly, looking like a frightened fawn as he gazes at you with that intense blue eye, “Yes my prince?”
“Would you like to accompany me for a walk in the gardens? I wish to speak with you privately,” he says, taking your hand in his, helping you to your feet.
The two of you walk to the gardens, and he leads you deeper and deeper inside until you’re far from anyone’s wandering eyes. You seem a bit skittish, he thinks, as you glance around.
“Is it appropriate for us to be here without a chaperone?” you ask a bit timidly.
“Do not worry, my lady,” he whispers in your ear as the two of you come to a stop, “I simply wanted to discuss something with you.”
“Oh,” you nod in acknowledgement, gazing up at him with those devastating doe eyes, “As you wish, my prince.”
“Do you recall,” Aemond asks quietly, not letting go of your hand as he stares at your lips, “When we prayed to the Seven in the sept just last night?”
You nod, your free hand moving up to fiddle with your necklace once again, “Yes, my prince, I do.”
Aemond takes a step closer to you, leaving only the slightest bit of room between your bodies, his eye moving to your breasts, “Do you know, sweet girl, what the Seven Pointed Star says about what a man and woman do in their marriage bed?”
He watches as you bite your lip, looking away from him as you respond, “Yes, my prince. The union between a husband and wife is a holy thing. A celebration of the gods’ love for us.”
Aemond’s hands move to your waist, pulling you flush up against him. He revels in the tiny gasp you let out as your chest makes contact with his, the way your breath comes out in soft little pants. You’re simply adorable when you’re nervous, he muses.
“I want us to celebrate that act of love, here and now.”
You freeze, looking up at him, your eyes wide with shock, “Surely, my prince, you do not mean-”
Aemond’s hands move lower, caressing your hips as he barely holds back the moan that threatens to escape his lips, “My lady, I must insist. You are the perfect woman and I believe the gods blessed me the day they betrothed you to me.”
You attempt to reason with him, though his touch has made it quite difficult for you to think straight, “My prince, we are indeed betrothed, but we are not yet wed. To lie together before being married would be a direct affront to the Seven.”
He leans in, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair, like jasmine and roses, before whispering, “I know, my lady, but I cannot control myself. The mere sight of you drives me mad. Can you blame me for succumbing to my desire for you?”
You attempt to step back and keep some distance between yourself and the handsome prince, “Your Grace, please, our wedding ceremony is in only a fortnight, I implore you-”
He presses you up against the pillar behind you, grinding himself against your soft body, so pliant in his hands, “Yes, our wedding is in a fortnight from now,” he whispers in your ear, “But the wedding is not about you and me. Only for the eyes of the king and the court. But what of the feelings I have for you?” Aemond looks at you imploringly, “I cannot control them. Surely, as a good pious woman, you believe that love is a virtue and not meant to be controlled.”
“Yes, but it is our duty to resist our lustful urges-”
Aemond rolls his hips against yours, causing you to cut yourself off with a gasp as he speaks, his lips ghosting along your neck, his breath tickling your skin, “You are a cruel, cruel woman, my lady. Denying me your body. I want, nay, I need to claim you now.”
You shake your head vehemently, ignoring the how good it feels to have him this close to you, how intoxicating his presence is, “You will bring your honor upon both yourself and upon me, my prince,” you gaze up at him softly, “‘Tis only a fortnight more.”
Aemond heaves a deep sigh and nods, resting his forehead against yours, “Very well, my lady. But,” he moves his hand to your chin, gripping it between his thumb and forefinger, your lips nearly touching, your breath intermingling, “The moment you become my bride, I will ravage you like a dragon in a frenzy.”
You feel your face warm at his words, whispering softly, “That is a very vivid description, my prince.”
Aemond nose brushes along your cheek as he moves to whisper in your ear, “I can tell you all about how I’m going to ravage you in vivid detail if you’d like, my lady,” he smirks as your lips part in anticipation of what he is about to say, “I can tell you about how I am going to hold you in my arms and kiss those beautiful pouting lips. I can tell you how I will kiss you for hours, until your lips are swollen. I can describe the way your breasts will heave as I push you against the wall and claim you,” you whimper slightly as he nips at your earlobe before continuing, running his thumb over your plump lower lip, “I shall start by carrying you to our chambers and close the door. I will pin you against the wall and kiss you passionately, moving to your neck, then your chest, then back to your lips. I will move slowly, caressing your thighs and your hips. I shall lift your dress and then I shall taste you,” he smirks at the audible gasp you let out at his words, “I will kiss you where no one has kissed you before. Your body is meant to be mine and mine alone.”
You gaze up at him, leaning into his touch as he cups your face in his hands, “My prince… I…”
Aemond stares at you, his gaze ablaze with passion, “You are as beautiful as the morning spring and you should be treated as such. When you wed me, sweet girl, you will no longer be an innocent lady but my woman. And as your man I intend to taste the sweetness of your body,” he chuckles, turning your face back to him when you attempt to turn away, “Do you want that, sweet girl? Do you want to feel my lips on your body, my tongue buried in your sweet little cunny?” Aemond’s lewd words nearly offend you, but they fascinate you far more, “Do you want to feel yourself in a man’s arms for the first time in your life? The way your heart will pound and your legs will shake, your breath growing heavy in the moment I make you reach your peak? Your first kiss, your first time, all with me.”
You admit, in a soft, breathy voice that drives him mad with want, “Yes…”
“Good,” he all but growls into your ear, “I will be the first to touch your beautiful, soft skin. The one who takes your innocence. I will touch everywhere there is to touch and I will bring you the greatest pleasure you have ever felt, leaving you just as ravenous for my touch as I am for yours. Won’t you grant me,” he leans in, “Just one kiss from those sweet lips of yours?”
You gaze up at him, lips parted as your eyes meet his, entranced, “I…”
Aemond presses his lips against yours, silencing any protests you may have, his mouth hungry for yours. He crushes you to his chest, nipping at your lower lip, snaking his tongue into your mouth when you gasp in surprise, moving it against yours with an almost feverish intensity, moaning against your lips.
The two of you finally part for air, gazing at each other, breathless. You hear your mother calling for you in the distance and immediately pull away from Aemond, knowing the lecture you will receive even for something as seemingly innocent as a kiss.
“We will continue this later,” Aemond promises, running the back of his hand along the bare skin of your arm, “You must go with your mother and I will find mine.”
You part from Aemond, your mind in a daze about all of the words he spoke to you, the promises he made about what he will do to you. You manage to avoid being alone with him for the most part in the days leading up to the wedding, though you can always feel his gaze on you, hungry and wanting, lingering.
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When the day of the wedding arrives and you make your way down the aisle, dressed in a fine gown made of white silk that clings to your form, Aemond’s gaze is locked on you. He watches as you walk toward him, the way your gown covers yet accentuates the curves of your body, the sweet look on your face making him want nothing more than to whisk you away to your marriage bed. He can barely contain himself as the septon says his words, the two of you following suit. The two of you keep sneaking glances at each other, locking gazes, a small smile playing on your lips.
“You are all mine, my lady,” he whispers in your ear as he wraps his cloak around you bringing you under his protection.
“Indeed I am, husband,” you smile up at him softly, your fingers intertwining.
As the two of you walk toward the feasting hall, Aemond gazes at your lips, “Shall we retire to our chambers?”
“There is an entire feast we must attend in honor of our wedding, my husband,” you remind him gently.
Aemond nods absently, but he is not thinking about your wedding feast at all. All he can think about is you.
“I cannot wait to claim you in our marriage bed, my pretty wife. When we reach it, I shan’t let you leave it for a week.”
You feel the back of your neck heat up at your husband’s words, “And so you shall, husband, just be a patient a while longer.”
He chuckles darkly as the two of you enter the hall and are applauded, making your way to your seats of honor, “That’s the problem, my lady. I am not a patient man.”
The wedding feast goes on, the tension between you and Aemond growing by the minute. He rests his hand over yours, moving his thumb against the back of your palm, moving to your pulse point every so often, feeling it. At some point, his nephew, Prince Jacaerys, comes to your table and asks you for a dance, considering you have been seated for the entirety of the evening’s festivities. You turn to Aemond, silently asking if he minds. He nods, gesturing for you to dance with Jace. However, the longer the dance goes on, the more he feels like his blood is boiling beneath his skin, Jace’s hands on your waist as the two of you move, the stupid bastard. What right does he have to touch you?
Aemond decides to walk over to the two of you, a curious silence falling over the hall as he takes your hand, “My lady, may I cut in? I wish to have our first dance as husband and wife.”
You nod happily as Aemond takes you into his arms and leads you in a dance, all eyes in the room on the beautiful couple, who look completely enchanted by each other as they spin across the room. 
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He scarcely lets you out of his sight the rest of the feast, and soon enough? It is time for the two of you to retire to your chambers. You take a tremulous breath as Aemond lifts you into his arms, just as he promised, and carries you all the way to the room you will now share as man and wife. His arms feel so very strong around you as he holds you, the walk feeling both impossibly long and not long enough with the anxiety and excitement rising inside you.
A lady’s maid waits in the room to disrobe you, but Aemond dismisses her, setting you down so that you may stand, “I shall do it myself. We have no need of you.”
You give the girl a sheepish, apologetic smile as she leaves, seeming scandalized by the whole ordeal. Aemond closes the door, turning to face you once more. He walks toward you with all the grace of an apex predator, stalking its prey. He moves to undo your wedding gown, turning you so that your back is to him. He undoes the laces, one by one, admiring as the skin of your back is revealed to him little by little. He runs the back of his fingers along your spine, reveling in the way you shiver at his touch. The dress falls to the ground in a crumpled heap, leaving you in only your thin slip. Aemond presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, moving your curls aside, then moves his lips along your shoulders, down the length of your arm. He turns you to face him and removes his tunic, revealing his well-muscled chest and torso.
You decide to move your hands to undo his breeches and Aemond admires the way your hands look as they deftly undo the laces. His pants fall to the ground, leaving him fully bare before you. It is your first time ever seeing a man like this, and the size of his length is intimidating. You absently wonder how that is meant to fit inside you, with how long and thick he is. Aemond moves toward you, moving his hands to the thin straps that hold your slip up, unfastening them and watching as your bare form is finally revealed to him. Your breasts, so full and round, meant to be caressed by his hands, your stomach, your shoulders, your thighs… He does not know what he did to deserve such a beautiful wife, but he will not question it.
“Lie back on the bed,” he instructs you, removing his eyepatch and setting it on the nightstand.
You admire the way his sapphire glows in the candlelight and Aemond delights in the fact that you do not shrink away from him in disgust after he bares himself to you. It makes him feel like a man worthy of you.
You heed his directions and lay back on the bed, watching as he crawls over you, his hands moving up your calves, squeezing the supple flesh of your thighs as he parts your legs, revealing you to him fully. He takes your foot in his hand, pressing a kiss to your ankle, leaving a trail of kisses along the inside of your leg, up your thigh, before he tastes you, just as he promised. You nearly cry out with surprise as you feel his tongue licking a stripe along your entrance. It feels almost unbearably pleasurable and you find yourself moving away from him, unsure what to do with yourself. But, again, your husband surprises you by moving your thighs so that they rest on his shoulders as he moves his mouth against you. You feel his tongue delve inside you as he lets out a low moan at your taste, the vibration from it driving you even more mad with want. With one hand you grasp at the sheets, desperately trying to find purchase, while your other hand tangles itself in his hair.
You feel the pleasure building in your stomach, like a dam getting ready to burst, and when it does, you all but scream Aemond’s name as your body writhes in the throes of ecstasy. Aemond, however, is not done tasting you, it would seem, and he moves to take your swollen pearl between his lips, suckling at it. Aemond smirks at the sound of your mewls as you try to squirm away from him, but to no avail. He makes you peak not once, but twice more by playing with your pearl alone.
When his lips finally part from your cunny, he kisses you, a searing hot kiss full of passion as his hand wraps in your hair, pulling you close to him, kissing you as though he wishes to consume your very being. Your chest is pressed flush against his and he moves his lips to your neck, biting down, his tongue laving attention over the abused skin, soothing it. Aemond’s lips move to your breasts, squeezing them in his hands, caressing your nipples with the pads of his thumbs, smirking as they pebble under his touch. He moves his lips to take one in his mouth, causing you to let out a soft moan at the sensation, your eyes meeting his as he gazes up at you, a smirk clearly playing at the corner of his lips as he suckles at your breast. He switches to your neglected breast, before tracing his fingers along the inside of your thighs, up to your core. 
You whimper slightly as he pushes one finger inside you. The sensation is so very foreign but incredible as you feel him teasing your cunt. Then, he adds a second finger, preparing you to take his cock no doubt, moving them in and out of you in a crooked motion, rubbing against a spot deep inside of you that you, in your inexperience, have never quite been able to reach. The pleasure he’s giving you is intense, especially as he adds a third finger, and you feel something inside you is about to burst.
His thumb moves to press down on your still sensitized pearl and with a cry of his name, you soak his fingers with your arousal, watching as it spills on his fingers. At first you panic, thinking that something else has happened, but Aemond moves his fingers to his lips, moaning at the taste as he licks at them before pushing them between your own lips. You taste yourself on him, your tongue moving along his fingers, curious and almost kitten-like.
Aemond chuckles, “Your lips will look so beautiful wrapped around my cock, sweet girl. But tonight is about you, my wife.”
He pushes you back to lay down on the bed, positioning himself between your legs. You know the moment has come for him to take your maidenhead, at least figuratively. The septa confirmed that you shall not bleed since you broke it riding, like many noble ladies do. You watch as Aemond gives his cock a quick stroke before slowly pressing the head against your core. You close your eyes as he fills you, moving slowly, inch by glorious inch of his cock entering you, the pain minimal due to the lengths he went to prepare you. You feel his every vein, every ridge, as he pushes into you, bottoming out inside of you, propping himself up on one elbow, his free hand resting on your cheek.
“Are you hurting?” he asks you seriously, his silver hair falling like a curtain around the two of you, shading you from the world in this little room you call your own, your own little world of sorts, “Tell me if I can move, sweet girl.”
After a moment, you nod, “Yes, husband. Please.”
He grins at you devilishly before snapping his hips against yours, watching as you throw your head back against your pillow and cry out his name, pleading for more. Gods, you make the prettiest sounds, he muses, and your cunt is so wet and tight and perfect around him.
“Feels like you were made just for me,” he growls as he slams his hips into you, over and over, his stones growing tight and heavy as they slap against your ass with each thrust, “Gods, I could stay buried inside this perfect little cunt forever. Would you like that, my love?”
“Yes,” you say, nearly sobbing with pleasure as your legs wrap around his hips, allowing him to pound into you deeper, hitting that spot inside of you that makes you feel as though you’ve ascended to the Seven Heavens themselves.
“My perfect little wife,” Aemond hisses, feeling you squeezing around him, “I’m going to fill you with my seed, over and over, breed you the way a good husband should. Watch you grow fat with my child, watch your tits swell with milk for our babe. You want that, don’t you? For me to breed you? For my spend to leak out from your tight little cunt?”
His words are downright filthy, but you cannot bring yourself to care as he continues fucking you, “Yes, husband, please fill me with your seed, Gods, Aemond, please-”
Aemond feels you tighten around him, knowing you will soon reach your peak and picks up his pace, enjoying the way your breasts bounce with each snap of his hips, the way your eyes are glazed over with desire as they gaze up at him, and your sweet lips parted as you moan out his name. You reach your peak, your walls hugging his cock tightly, prompting him to spill his seed deep inside you, filling you up just as he promised. He stays like that for a moment, sheathed inside you until he begins to soften and pulls out. He hears the way you pant for breath and pulls you into his embrace, holding you tightly.
“That was incredible,” you say softly as he tucks you under his chin.
“It was indeed, my sweet girl,” Aemond purrs, “And there will be more of it,” he pauses before looking at you, his gaze earnest, “I love you, my beautiful wife. I may not be the most gentle of men, but I will care for you and protect you as a dragon does.”
“I would ask for nothing less, my husband,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to his chest, “I love you too.”
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When you wake the next morning, Aemond is still asleep. Choosing not to wake your husband, you crawl out of bed and call for a maidservant to run you a bath. While you stand and wait, you’re shocked when you’re pushed up against the wall, your bare breasts pressed against the wood of the door.
“I promised you that you wouldn’t be leaving our bed for a week, my love,” Aemond purrs seductively, “And I assure you I meant it.”
You let out a contented sigh as he keeps his promise.
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huramuna · 1 month
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firehaired, lavendereyed -- oneshot.
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mean prince regent aemond x pregnant wife reader
a sequel to foxfaced, dragonhearted. it can be read as a standalone, though! its not as dark or mean as the first one and is (kinda) fluffy. thank you @echos-muses for inspiring this!
word count: 2.5k
@huramuna-fics -- follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings!
content: smut (specifics below cut), angst, fluffy, meanish aemond, prob unhealthy relationship, emotionally constipated aemond experiences emotions, reader is described w/ auburn hair, no use of y/n, not beta read, i literally went into a haze writing this there are probably mistakes, pregnancy
cloudbusting - kate bush • i bet on losing dogs - mitski
warnings: oral (f receiving), p in v, talks of choking and biting but its not in this fic, BREEDING KINK
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Being the wife of a prince, a prince-regent no less, always felt like an honor. People would bow at you in the corridors, maids would bring you your favorite sweets without asking, courtiers would invite you to countless luncheons and extravagant events. It made you wonder, though– was it out of respect for your station– or out of fear for your husband? 
He was constantly your shadow now, insisting on being with you at every waking moment ever since the maesters confirmed your pregnancy. His hand would constantly be guiding you on the middle of your back, towards whatever destination you were off to. He would insist you eat more for the babe, would rub your feet and prop pillows behind your back when you both retired for the day. 
As he shepherded you into the throne room, he glanced at the courtesans and sworn lords alike– he had worn the crown since his brother fell from the sky in flames, burnt and scarred. He melded into the role like he was meant for it, as you so told him. 
‘It looks better on you than it ever did on him, husband.’
‘Careful now, dear wife. That sounds treasonous, does it not?’
It wasn’t hard to spur him on into a feral state of being lately, as he adored your body filling out, belly stretching, breasts growing as you carried his child. His, his. He was still cold, in his way, of course– that would be something you would never pull him out of.
‘Husband?’ you had mewled softly as you came back from the maester’s chambers after receiving the news. 
Aemond was sitting on the loveseat in front of the fire, one hand parting the pages of a book. He looked deep in thought, bristling slightly at being interrupted. ‘What?’
‘I’ve just come from the maester’s chambers,’ you started, walking slowly towards him like a skittish animal.
‘Why? Are you hurt?’ he closed his book with a loud snap and set it aside. ‘Come.’ he prostrated himself on the couch, legs spread slightly as an indication. 
You lifted your skirts and sat upon his lap, as you do– as he commands, usually. It was easy to know what he wanted without words. He inspected your face carefully, turning you from side to side, skin taut between thumb and forefinger. Then, the back of his hand felt your forehead. ‘You aren’t running a temperature. You aren’t sick, are you, little wife?’ 
‘N-No… I had thought so with… the issues of late.’
‘Issues? What issues?’ he pressed, his lone eye boring into you with intensity. 
‘I… ehm… have had an upset stomach– and… my…’ you blushed as you spoke. ‘My breasts have been tender.’
‘... hm.’
‘The maesters– they… inspected, thoroughly. They say I am with child… two moons.’ 
‘Pregnant. You’re… pregnant?’
‘Y-yes.’
Aemond stared at you for a long moment, not blinking. You had feared his reaction, you weren’t sure why, though. You knew your husband… liked you, didn’t he? In his own, special way. The way that he loved to call you stupid and bite you and choke you and never tell you that he loves you, except when lost in the throes of pleasure. 
‘Husband?’ you squeaked out, anxiety swirling in the pit of your stomach at his lack of reaction. Aemond was good at concealing his emotions– but you could see the pupil of his violet eye dilating like a creature in the dark.
‘Good,’ he said simply, a hand on your waist, squeezing slightly. Then, a moment of recollection came over his face and he stopped squeezing, letting his hand laze on the curve of your body. 
‘... good?’ 
‘Yes. Good. Do you wish praise for doing your duty?’ he grunted, already beginning to unlace your bodice. He wriggled it down your chemise and pawed one of your breasts. ‘Hm.’
‘W-what?’ 
‘They do seem… larger.’
He was gentle to you that night and every night after that. In touch and act alone– his words still left much to be desired.
As you both perused the throne room, approaching the iron throne, Aemond’s jaw clenched in irritation. You were well along in your pregnancy now, eight moons, and were quite round and stout, feeling all the part of a plump trout carrying eggs, trying to swim upstream– 
“Where is the chair?” Aemond barked suddenly, causing you to jump.
“T-the chair, your grace?” one of the servants mumbled.
“The chair for my lady wife, you fool. Do you expect her to stand?” He thoroughly scared the daylights out of the poor servant, who rushed off to find a chair. “Incompetent.” 
“... I pray he returns soon– my ankles are protesting this walk.” you murmured.
“If all of these prying eyes weren’t here,” Aemond whispered in your ear. “Mayhaps I’d have you sit with me on the throne.”
The thought of it sent a thrill through you, tingling all the way to the base of your spine and beyond. It was a wonderful fantasy, but you couldn’t get the logistics of it out of your head– you would certainly impale yourself on one of the unruly swords. “Mayhaps we can arrange something in our chambers after this, husband?” 
Aemond uttered a sound between a growl and a quiet moan before guiding you further to your seat, now properly prepared. You leaned back on the chair, adorned with a pillow, putting a hand over your swollen belly. 
As much as you appreciated Aemond’s… concern and vigilance with having you everywhere with him, you wished you could skip the tedious things. Your mind wondered the entirety of the session, tuning out the droning voices of the lords and only focusing on your husband’s. He sounded so powerful, commanding his lessers as if they were the sheep and he the shepherd. You didn’t lie when you thought the crown looked better on him than Aegon– Aemond was more suited towards this life. 
You know he wanted it all– the title, the crown, but not at the expense of his brother, never at his expense– so he would have to be content with what he could make for himself. That included you and your unborn child. You wished so dearly that it would be a son, a son for him to continue his bloodline, his legacy. 
Finally, the meeting ended and Aemond all but swept you off your aching feet to your rooms. He set you down on the bed and undressed you without much ceremony. “I couldn’t keep my mind off of you that entire time– if I were a lesser man… I may have not waited until our chambers to succumb to you.” he whispered, dragging kisses up from your knees, to your thighs and then your belly. 
A gentle, but calloused, hand wrought over the stretched skin. He loved touching your belly, he couldn’t get enough of it– he was a scholarly man in all accounts, secretly in wonder of the machinations of the human body and how it could vessel something like another person. He would never admit this, of course, but you could tell just by how his eye roved your form, how he took in every detail. He parted your legs, swiping a finger between your already soaked folds– as it didn’t take much for you to become feral these days, either. You had been since he suggested the idea of the throne, forced to squeeze your thighs together through the duration of the hearing to relieve some of the ache.
“So wet for me already, are you?” he hummed, gathering your slick with two fingers this time and kissing your thigh, so close, so close to your aching center.
“... y-yes, husband– you kept me waiting,” you murmured. In your pregnancy, you’d become indignant and spoiled– and he let you. “So cruel.”
“Cruel?” Aemond questioned, a brow raised. “Cruel– you know me cruel, my dear wife,” he growled, parting your folds and licking a line from bottom to top. “Cruel would be… letting you sit for hours longer on the edge and not giving it to you,” he anointed his point by roving his tongue over your pearl, eliciting a keening whine from you. “Or mayhaps, not giving it to you at all. Shall I be cruel, wife?”
You shook your head fervently. “P-please, Aemond,” you panted, the heat of the moment and your out-of-whack hormones already making you perspire, sweat beading at your forehead. You felt like a bitch in heat, every touch of him on you was like a thousand sparks from a flint, trying to light your pleasure, trying, trying– but then dying, but it was always so close, on the precipice. “Touch me– don’t tease me.”
“Hm,” he roved it over in his mind for a faux moment. “You are doing so well carrying my child, aren’t you?” 
“Y-yes, please!” 
“Mayhaps I will reward you for being a good wife, a good mother.”
“Please, my king,” you whimpered, using his title only reserved for bedplay. You wanted it bad, and he knew.
Once again, his pupil waxed and waned like the moon phases, like the ebbing and flowing tide– and then he began to feast upon you like the animal he truly was. His tongue roved over your sensitive core, suckling and nipping. Your hand flew to his hair, clenching it into your fist. He had become so expert in pleasing you with his mouth, something he only started after you became pregnant– you hoped this would stay. 
“A-Aemond, f-fuck,” you cursed, throwing your head back on the pillow, clutching his silky strands between your fingers. “M-more, your grace–” 
He lavished you like he was starved, not letting up at any point to even let you breathe– it was a constant assault on your clit, with only a few moments of relief when he caught his breath, looking up at you like the cat who got the cream, a smug grin on his face, the glisten of your essence on him. His thumb finished what his tongue started, kneading over your sensitive bud as you babbled and cried, fluttering around nothing as you came. 
You heard the sound of his belt undoing, and his hand was in yours, guiding you to his rock hard member. “Don’t you see what you do to me, hm? I quite like you round, so full of my child,” he said as he lined up with your entrance, sliding in with no resistance. “Mayhaps I shall keep you like this and we will have an entire castle full of children.” he stayed upright, hands on your thighs. You still ached for his hand around your throat, so badly– but it wasn’t good for the babe. 
He began a slow, almost lazy pace, staring down at you now as he loomed like a shadow, picking up his speed. As he sped up, he reached up and tore off his eyepatch, throwing it aside. The sapphire in his eye socket gleamed at you and you swore you could see yourself reflected into it– 
It didn’t take long for him to reach his own peak, grunting and growling, balls tightening. His hand also itched so desperately to lace around your throat like a necklace, but his hand just twitched and clawed into the sheets as he emptied himself into you. He, regrettably to both of you, pulled out and encircled himself around you, arms resting on your ribs as you were lulled to sleep by his breathing and closeness.
You awoke, not knowing how many hours later, to him speaking. “Nyke jaelagon ao emagon aōha muñnykeā's pungos.” I hope you have your mother’s nose. “Ao'll rhaenagon gūrēñare lēda iā egros rȳ izula. Iā kostilus tōma. Aōha muña kessa daor hae ziry, nyke gīmigon.” You'll start training with a sword at age four. Or perhaps five. Your mother will not like it, I know.
His head was laid near your belly, faced away from you, his hand draped over it softly. He didn’t know you were awake– he was… speaking to the baby. You could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying– but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a conversation for you to know. You closed your eyes once more.
“M-may the mother… guide me… and bless me with a son,” you murmured. “Bless us with a son, please.” you groaned as you tried to get up, your knees bruised and sore. You had been praying every day for the last fortnight as your delivery loomed closer. You feared to give him a daughter– as accompanying as he’d been during your pregnancy, you knew… you knew what he wanted. And you knew it was a coin flip to give him what he wanted.
You felt heavier than usual, finding it difficult to get back up after being down for so long– you felt a strain in your lower back, then an acute pop. A gush of wetness flowed down your legs. “A-ah– ser!” you called to your sworn sword, a member of the Kingsguard picked by Aemond specifically to be with you at all times when he wasn’t around. Presently, Aemond was taking a ride upon Vhagar. “Ser!”
“My lady?” the Kingsguard rushed in, eyes wide. “Are you alright?”
“T-the… the babe–” 
“Why wasn’t I notified?” Aemond growled, stalking through the corridors as he paced to the maester’s quarters. 
“Y-You were in the sky, your grace– we didn’t know how to reach you–” 
“Fuck’s sake– is she alright, then?” 
“Yes– uhm…” 
“Uhm? What? Is my wife alright or not?!” 
“Yes– she and the babe are alright.”
 Aemond fumed as he opened the doors, eye zeroing in on the maester, then you. You were mortified, crying, holding a little bundle against your breast. 
“A-Aemond,” you croaked. You were shaking like a leaf.
“Congratulations, your grace,” the maester spoke. “It is a healthy baby girl.” 
Girl.
Girl.
Girl.
You couldn’t stop sobbing as you watched his face, impassive, turn to confusion, to longing, to grief, to anger, to…. Nothing. He stared at you blankly then.
“Aemond– please– I- I prayed to the Gods every day for a son, I’m sorry,” you blubbered. “I’m so sorry–” 
“Don’t.” Aemond’s voice snapped like a whip as he walked closer. “Let me see the babe.” 
You offered the bundle to him– a baby girl. She had curls of red hair like you and lavender eyes like her father. Sensing movement and a change of presence, the baby sneezed, staring up at her father. He stared back, his expression unreadable. “Vaella. Her name is Vaella.” he didn’t ask, nor suggest. He declared. Glancing back at you, he spoke quietly. “We will just have to try again, won’t we, wife?” His tone was like a fog upon you– it was proposed like a thinly veiled threat, a promise– but then his gaze softened almost imperceptibly. You wonder if you imagined it. “Kirimvose, ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys.” Thank you, sweet wife. “Ñuha hūra,” My moon. He turned back to Vaella, whispering. “Se ñuha qēlossās.” And my stars.
Aemond ended up getting his heir and then some, a year and a half later. You gave birth to triplets. All boys. 
Maegon, Vaelar, and Rhaelor.
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Studious II (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 18+
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After your last coupling, Prince Aemond has been acting quite strangely toward you. It doesn't make sorting out your own feeling for him any easier...
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N)
Warnings: smut (kinda?) , male masturbation, female masturbation (attempted), more Aegon commentary, more Aemond awkwardness
Author's Note: WOW, I was not expecting anyone to like my awkward Aemond brain dump, but boy howdy did y'all... I hope this lives up to the hype!
Read Part I Here - Read Part III Here - Read Part IV Here
My Masterlist
Taglist below the cut
Studious II
The day after his marriage, utterly distraught by the look of confusion and dissatisfaction on his wife’s face after the bedding, Prince Aemond Targaryen came to terms with the fact that he desperately needed help. And though it went against every instinct he had to ask for it, he would much rather admit this weakness – this shortcoming – than suffer seeing that disappointment on her sweet face each time he came to her.
He went to Grand Maester Orwyle first. For while he had taken a vow of chastity, his knowledge of anatomy would be more than useful. Besides, he had always been kind and patient with Aemond during their lessons in his youth – he would not judge the Prince for this failing.
For more practical knowledge, he asked Lord Jasper Wylde, his father’s Master of Laws. His long-held position on the Small Council proved he could be trusted. More than that, the man had seeded twenty-seven surviving legitimate children thus far, and another was soon expected. ‘Ironrod’ clearly knew what he was doing.
Lastly, Aemond reluctantly enlisted the help of his older brother. He had his doubts about whether Aegon actually knew anything useful. Still, no one could deny that he had more relevant experience than anyone in King’s Landing who was not a whore.
Aemond listened to their advice diligently, as if it were no different from anything else he had studied. And, like always, he had been a good student.
The glorious sounds his wife had made when he started putting his lessons to use still echoed in his mind. The gentle whine when he had kissed her. The sharp inhale when he had started caressing her. The shiver that ran through her when he found her ‘pearl,’ as Aegon had called it. And her delicious gasp when he found that sweet spot inside her.
But there were other sounds – worse sounds. The alarm in her voice after he had brushed his tongue against her lips. Her confusion as to why he was touching her at all. How her eyes had gone wide with panic when he began to pleasure her, and how she had begged him to stop.
And every time he closed his eyes, he saw her hiding her face in her pillows after he smiled at seeing her find her own pleasure as he thrust into her – as though the very idea of enjoying being with him was something incomprehensible. Like it scared her.
She hadn’t wanted to look at him, kiss him, or be pleased by him. And she hadn’t come.
So, he assembled his advisors the next day, seeking some explanation of what he had done wrong. Or new instructions on how to please her in a way she wouldn’t eschew.
They had quickly decided the solution wasn’t some new technique, but for Aemond to ‘woo’ her.
The prospect at once delighted and terrified him.
At least he had advisors to help him figure out how.
Indeed, Lord Wylde had taken on the demeanour of a man plotting a war. He asked Aemond to list every detail he knew about his new bride and wrote everything he said word-for-word on a piece of parchment, along with his own commentary and musings on strategies.
Aegon’s comments and observations, mostly concerning her breasts, were not written down.
But the elder Prince did not mind, as he was quickly distracted by his own interrogation of Grand Maester Orwyle. He wanted to know precisely when, why, and how the Maester had pleasured Helaena.
Once Orwyle finished giving him the details, it was clear the Prince was far more impressed than offended. When Aegon finally turned back to the matter at hand, the Maester said a silent prayer of thanks that he was not going to lose his head.
After more than an hour of strategising, they had devised several courses of action for Aemond to try.
“She will be so enamoured by you that you won’t even have to touch her to get her to come,” Aegon declared proudly.
Orwyle and Wylde winced at the Prince’s crass words, but could not deny they also felt confident in the plan.
Aemond growled at his brother, eye blazing with rage. “This isn’t just about sex, Aegon. I want... I want her to like me.”
He sighed and slumped in his chair, running a hand over his flushed face. While he would never admit it aloud, he wanted so much more than to just be liked by his wife.
He wanted her to feel the same thing he felt exploding in his chest every time he looked at her. The intensity of the feeling was more frightening than losing his eye had been. And more thrilling than his first flight on Vhagar.
More than anything, he wanted her to love him – as he loved her.
But as his fingers grazed the leather strap of his eyepatch, he knew it was an impossible dream.
She was so beautiful. So gentle and kind. So pure and full of light.
He was monstrous. In the years since losing his eye, he had become as hideous in his soul as he was in the flesh. He had delved so deep into the darkness of his anger, resentment, and hatred that he knew there was no escape.
Until she had come into his life.
From the first moment he saw her step out of her father’s carriage, he knew that if she looked on him affectionately and allowed her holy light to shine upon him just once… perhaps he could be saved from damnation.
“I need her to like me,” he sighed, feeling not like the fearsome Prince and warrior he was, but like a whimpering, desperate child.
A dozen snide, and admittedly quite witty, comments died on Aegon’s lips. Once, he would not have hesitated to say them, to laugh at the hurt in his brother’s eyes.
But that was before Driftmark.
Before he had failed to protect Aemond from their bastard nephews – spurred on by the very teasing Aegon had once led them in. Though he wasn’t there when the eye was actually cut, he knew that if he hadn’t been such a twat before then, his brother would be whole.
He would still be an awkward, pathetic mess with no clue how to fuck a woman properly, but… he wouldn’t think himself so unworthy of his wife.
“Well,” Aegon drawled, slipping back into the mask of the blithe, carefree Prince everyone knew him to be. “I think we can at least manage ‘like.’ Now, get off your brooding ass, woo the girl, and make her come!”
-
You sat comfortably in a secluded corner of the Red Keep’s library, reading the book you had been forced to set down after your husband’s arrival in your chambers the night before.
Libraries were all the same, no matter where they were. The peaceful quiet interrupted only by the turning of heavy pages every so often. The soft shafts of yellow sunlight streaming through the small windows – stained glass, if you were lucky. The smell of old paper and well-worn leather.
It was far too easy to imagine you were back in your father’s library at home. Even better, this little corner you found felt as private as your own rooms.
More private, perhaps. Here, Prince Aemond could not barge in requesting you perform your marital duties.
Or so you thought.
A shadow stopped in front of you, blocking out the mottled sunlight you were using to read. Thinking that perhaps it was later than you’d thought, and one of the Maesters had come to tell you that you’d once again stayed past the library curfew, you looked up with a polite smile.
And met the single violet eye of your husband.
“Good afternoon, wife,” he greeted, dipping his head slightly and giving a decidedly awkward smile.
With his dimples, he was very nearly handsome when he smiled. But it did not quite reach his eye, and his brow was set too hard for you to truly see him as such.
Blinking rapidly as you tried to quickly hide your disappointment that your private reading spot was discovered, you returned the smile as best you could. “Husband.”
Aemond stared at you as though he expected more, as was apparently his habit, but you only stared back.
Why should it fall to you to put more effort into the marriage than he did?
Finally, he cleared his throat slightly. “I was wondering if I may join you in your reading? I noticed last night that you were reading Valyrian history. It is a favourite subject of mine.”
Indeed, you had begun studying the history of House Targaryen more in-depth the moment your betrothal was announced. You wanted to familiarise yourself with the family you were to join.
Though your ideas about becoming a true member of the family faded quickly, you continued your research. As much as the disappointment of your marriage had made you loathe to admit it, it was a fascinating history.
But now it meant Aemond wanted to read with you…
“I am sure you’ve read this particular history before,” you said, shyly showing him the title. It was little more than a beginner’s primer, almost more a storybook than a proper history, but you had to start somewhere. “Would you not rather read something more… novel?”
He laughed slightly, and you realised you had just unintentionally made a play on words. And not even a particularly clever one.
“Seeing my family’s history through your eyes would be quite ‘novel,’ as you so cleverly put it,” he replied, obviously quite determined, if he was willing to compliment you.
Was that… the first compliment he ever gave you?
When he smiled at you like that, it brought you back to the way he smiled when he had done… whatever it was he had done while he was inside you that made your vision burst into stars.
You blushed as heat pooled in your stomach at the memory, and the feelings that came with it. Your feelings about him, which you hadn’t yet allowed yourself to sort through – if you even wanted to.
He had made you feel so small and unwanted in the training yard when he grimaced and ran away from you. But then he had touched you so gently and gazed at you reverently at your slight gasp of pleasure like it was as beautiful a sound as he’d ever heard.
And then he left. Again.
But that was what you wanted – wasn’t it?
You had no idea what you wanted. And right now, figuring it out wasn’t your primary concern.
What he wanted from you was.
You prayed it was honestly just to discuss history.
So, you smiled as genuinely as you could and gestured to the seat across from you. “Then I would be… happy to have you join me.”
His eye lingered slightly on the seat next to you, but he nodded and took the seat you indicated.
You looked at him. He looked at you.
“Should I…” you began, at the exact moment he opened his mouth to speak.
You looked down, clamping your lips shut to let him speak first – as a good wife does.
He let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh before setting his hand on the table. You watched as he flexed his fingers, wondering for a moment if he wanted you to reach out as well – if he wanted to hold your hand.
It was a ridiculous thought. One you silently scolded yourself for as you gripped the book harder, keeping your hands firmly where they were.
Silence fell as he mulled over his words, the left corner of his mouth twitching every so often as though he had almost decided what to say. Not wanting to interrupt, you simply sat there, pondering how uncomfortable you had become in this once-soothing place.
When it was just you, you savoured the silence. When he was here, you abhorred it.
“Do you have any questions?” Aemond asked, finally breaking the silence.
His words confused you. Was he referring to the book or to him? You had so many questions about what he had done last night, though you were more than a little afraid to ask them.
“What kind of questions should I have?” you replied, ashamed by how small your voice came out. Hopefully, he interpreted it as respect for the library.
He quirked his head, his lips again spreading in that not-quite smile, not-quite frown he often made after you had said something to him. Then, on the table, his hand curled into a fist.
“Just…” he gestured to the book. “Questions about what you don’t understand. I would be more than happy to help you.”
If your mind had been clearer, perhaps you would have seen the offer for what it was: a genuine desire to help and, perhaps, a way to get to know you better.
But something about Aemond clouded all your good sense as thoroughly as a stormy sea.
Your brow instantly furrowed in anger. Did he really think you were so stupid you could not understand a simple book meant for children?
“I have no questions,” you said coldly, your voice louder and harder than before.
Aemond blinked, his eye widening as he reached further across the table toward you. “I… I have studied the histories extensively, and I know they are complicated and difficult to understand. If there is anything that you are struggling with, or – ”
“Of course,” you cut him off. All your mother’s advice about how to be a good, dutiful wife was long forgotten as your anger rose higher and higher. “It is quite a difficult book. The words, I’m afraid, are well past my simple understanding. I’ve actually only been looking at the illustrations.”
His face was frozen, his eye wide, and his mouth hanging slightly open. He looked remarkably like a freshly caught fish. You laughed at the thought, slammed the book shut, and stood.
“Although,” you hissed. “Even the pictures have started to become too ‘complicated’ for me. I’m afraid my headache is returning.”
He finally blinked and leaned across the table, truly reaching for your hand now. “No… I didn’t…”
You stepped away, harshly pulling your hand away from his. “If you will excuse me, husband. I must rest before the evening meal, or else I fear I will be too exhausted to participate in any intelligent conversation.”
That look of hurt again came over Aemond’s face, but you were far too angry to care. As you stomped out of the library, you did look back at him once.
If you had, you would have seen him slump over in his chair with his head in his hands before he pounded his clenched fist against the wood table, earning quite the scolding from a nearby Maester.
-
You once again did not attend the evening meal with Aemond and his family.
It had been a hard decision to come to. You had even dressed before finally deciding to remain in your rooms. But in the end, you supposed that the consequences of missing a second night would be easier to endure than an evening sitting next to your husband.
Your husband, who so obviously disliked you and thought you were an idiot.
That was what he had insinuated, wasn’t it? Why else would he have offered you help in understanding a children’s history book?
It was stupid of you to even want to read about Targaryen history, you scolded yourself. It was little more than a repetitive tale of countless generations of dragonriders who all shared the same handful of names. A stupid story about a stupid civilisation.
But as you sat at your desk eating your solitary meal, you couldn’t help but wish you hadn’t left the book in the library.
You contemplated sending one of your maids to fetch it, but you had no doubt Aemond would hear about it. That is, if he hadn’t just taken it himself.
Oh gods, what if he had?
He would find the notes you had made and tucked into the cover – including the family tree you sketched to keep all the names straight. It would only confirm his suspicions about your intellect.
You could picture his smug smile when he found the notes. The way the corners of his mouth would lift just enough to expose his dimples. There would be an arrogant twinkle in that violet eye. Perhaps he would be so amused by his simple-minded wife that he would have to bite his lip to hold back a laugh. Those lovely pink lips that had felt so soft on yours…
Shaking your head violently to banish the foolish, lustful thoughts, you took a long drink of your wine. Hopefully, it would soothe your nerves enough for you to think about anything but Aemond. Or at least enough to calm your breathing and banish the heat that bloomed beneath your thighs.
Once again, you lost your appetite and sent your meal away only half-eaten.
You needed to pray.
That was the only answer. The only way you could rid your mind of these horrible, sinful thoughts.
You had only just grabbed your copy of The Seven-Pointed Star when there was a knock at the door.
Not again.
“Who is it?” you asked, heart pounding with both nervousness and anticipation.
“It is Grand Maester Orwyle, Princess,” came an unfamiliar voice. “The Queen sent word you were unwell.”
A great wave of relief and disappointment washed over you, your book falling to the floor as your hands went slack. “Yes, come in,” you called.
Then, to yourself, you whispered, “I am quite unwell, indeed.”
-
The next afternoon, you sat comfortably on your couch, still in your nightgown and robe. It was improper, yes. But after assessing you in your somewhat panicked state the night before, Orwyle commanded you be relieved of your duties for the next few days.
‘Duties’ was a strong word, as your responsibilities only required you to stand silently next to your husband at court and gossip with the Ladies in the afternoon.
Still, you were glad to be rid of them, even if only for a few days. You had plans to go to Sept and pray and to sort out your feelings for your husband – the frightening, complicated feelings that had you so rattled that the Grand Maester himself thought you to be genuinely ill.
But not today.
Today, you would simply rest, drink your chamomile tea, and read the books your maid had fetched from the library.
None of them were history books. That had been the one requirement you had. Well, that and no romance.
So, as you sipped your tea, you allowed yourself to fall into the world of your book – a world of grand adventure, mythical beasts, and a pirate lord with a dashing smile and eyepatch…
Damn.
You threw the book aside, dangerously near the lit hearth, and crossed your arms. But before you could get too far into your wallowing, there was a knock at your door. Again.
“Who is it?” you called, eyes blazing as though you could see through the wood and smite whoever stood behind the door.
There was silence.
“It is Aemond,” came his soft, melodic voice. “May I please come in?”
You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to say ‘no. No, I don’t want to see you.’
“Yes, you may,” your voice said instead. You baulked, unsure how the words came out so wrong.
The moment he stepped through the door, you turned your eyes down. You didn’t want to look at him, for you knew if you did, your logic would abandon you as whatever it was you felt for him overcame you.
But then you caught a flash of bright pink, and your head snapped up.
Aemond was carrying a small bouquet of dog roses, your favourite flower.
The large blooms were the most vibrant pink you had ever seen, perhaps even more so than in the fields where they grew back at home. Even the dot of yellow in their centres seemed as bright as the sun.
They seemed so out of place against the wall of black leather that was Aemond.
Slowly, you looked up from the flowers to face your husband. He had crossed the room to stand before you – awkwardly, as always. His lips were pursed, and his brow set in a deep furrow.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly and quietly, stiffly holding the flowers out to you. “For what I said yesterday.”
You did not move to take them. Did not blink. Did not breathe.
“I did not mean to offend you,” he continued, arm still extended. With the flowers only inches from your face, you could see how tightly he held the stems – his knuckles were bone white. “I spoke without thinking, and my words did not accurately reflect my intentions. I only meant – ”
His voice faltered as you reached up for the flowers. You did not want him to snap the stems. They would die more quickly if he did.
As your fingers brushed his, he flinched, dropping the flowers unceremoniously onto your lap. You immediately grabbed them, carefully examining each bloom to ensure it was not damaged. Thankfully, they were intact.
You stared and stared at them, memories flooding your mind. Every year, your entire family would journey to the fields where the dog roses bloomed. First, you would picnic together in the grass, the happiest meal of the year. Then, when you were finished, you and your siblings would race to examine each flower, competing to see who could find the loveliest bloom.
They would do so without you this year.
Distantly, you heard Aemond saying your name, drawing your attention back to him. He was frowning, his brow crumpled. “I thought…” he whispered, “I thought you would like them.”
You blinked, confused by his words. But the motion sent the tears welling in your eyes spilling down your cheeks. You were so caught up in your memories you did not notice you were crying.
As you looked back down at the flowers, you missed the subtle movement of Aemond’s hand, reaching out to wipe the tears away. Instead, when you moved away, he clenched his fist so tightly that his nails began to bite into his palm.
“I miss home,” was all you could say before the tears began to fall in earnest.
Aemond stepped back, bumping into the low table before the couch. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I did not mean to upset you.”
Then he turned, stumbling into the table once more, and left.
As the sound of the shutting door echoed in your mind, you did not know whether you were still crying from your homesickness, or because he had left you again.
-
After Aemond left, and you had finally stopped crying, you had one of your maids set the bouquet in a vase. But not before you had carefully inspected each stem to be sure they were intact.
Somehow, they were.
You put the vase on your vanity where the flowers could catch the sunlight before crawling into your bed, intending to take a nap after what was an unintentionally exhausting morning.
But you did not find sleep.
Instead, you stared at the ceiling, thinking over what Aemond said.
He had apologised for making you feel stupid, and then you immediately cried over flowers.
You had never felt more stupid.
And now you felt like you needed to apologise.
So, despite having Orwyle’s official permission to skip all your obligations, you finally rose from your bed as the sun set and asked your maids to dress you for dinner.
Because you made your decision to attend the evening meal at the last minute, the rest of the family had already begun eating when you arrived.
Aemond, who sat facing the door, was the first to see you. His eye immediately went wide, and he stood so quickly that a servant had to catch his chair before it toppled to the ground.
Aegon began laughing hysterically.
Queen Alicent shushed him once before she stood, giving you a mildly concerned but otherwise pleasant smile. “I’m so glad you could join us, my dear,” she said pleasantly as she gestured for you to sit. “We were beginning to worry about you.”
“I have simply been tired,” you assured her as you slowly walked around the table to your place. Curious, they had still set a place for you, despite your missing the last two meals. “Adjusting to life at court has been more difficult than I thought.”
As you came to stand before your chair, Aemond held a hand out to help you sit. Then, just as you had only hours before, you looked from his hand to his face. His brow was still set in a furrow, but he was almost smiling.
You took his hand, squeezing it tighter than you usually would. The only forgiveness you could give while being watched by his mother, grandsire, and siblings.
He seemed to understand, giving you a real smile – a breathtakingly beautiful smile – as you sat. You wanted to return it, but all your lips would do was tremble pathetically. You were sure that if you opened your mouth, you would burst into tears. So, you fixed your eyes on your plate and listened to the idle conversation around you.
Aemond himself began serving your plate, somehow knowing exactly what you liked and what you didn’t. When he finished, you looked over to him briefly and nodded your thanks, earning another of those beautiful smiles.
Your stomach flipped, and you told yourself it was only because you were hungry.
Neither you nor Aemond said anything to each other for the rest of the meal. Instead, you were more than content to simply listen. Or try to.
You were all too aware of every movement Aemond made. The way his long, elegant fingers gripped his goblet. The severe line of his jaw moving when he responded to his grandsire’s questions. The way he sat, legs bowed slightly outward to allow him comfortably at the table.
If you weren’t careful, your leg would brush against his.
You made sure to be very careful.
What you were not aware of was Prince Aegon’s eyes on you, noticing each time your eyes slid to his brother. Every so often, he would dip his chin and raise his brows when he made eye contact with Aemond, nodding toward you in encouragement.
Aemond noticed, but did nothing to act on it.
Not until the meal was ended and everyone rose from the table. He stepped to your side and extended his arm, accidentally bumping you, rather firmly, with his sharp elbow and causing you to jump away from him.
“I’m sorry,” Aemond said hastily. “I just… I hoped I could escort you back to your chambers?”
You looked at him for a moment, at the near-pleading in his eye, and nodded, slipping your arm into his for the first time since your wedding ceremony, and began to lead you through the castle halls.
As your private chambers were separate from the rest of the family’s, you were alone as you walked. You were not sure whether you were grateful for it or not.
The silence was palpable and nearly painful.
“Thank you,” you whispered, and Aemond stumbled at the unexpected sound. “For the flowers, I mean. They are a favourite from home.”
You looked up at him, and he gave another half-smile, but said nothing.
Silence fell once more.
“You look very beautiful tonight,” Aemond said, nearly shouting the sudden words. The corner of his lips twitched when you looked at him in shock. “This dress suits you much better than the one you wore yesterday, and is far more flattering than your nightclothes.”
Any warmth you felt at the initial compliment was thoroughly snuffed out at the remainder of the comment. Though you once more felt like crying, you schooled your features into indifference as you turned away from him, only looking straight ahead.
“I did not know you disliked them so,” you muttered, removing your arm from his and clasping your hands in front of you. You fixed your gaze straight ahead and did not waver. “I will not wear them again.”
Aemond stilled, but you did not break your stride. You only knew he followed after a moment when you heard the soft sounds of his boots against stone.
You walked in silence until you reached your door, then turned back to him. “Is there anything you require of me tonight, husband?”
He wore that expression of hurt that caused your chest to tighten, but you did not allow yourself to react. Finally, after a long moment, he licked his lips and shook his head once.
That was all the dismissal you needed. You opened your door just enough to slip through and shut it firmly behind you.
You did not speak to your maids as they prepared you for bed until they presented you with one of your favourite cotton nightgowns and your robe.
“Not those,” you whispered, though you longed for their comfort and warmth. “Something else. Anything else.”
They dressed you in one of the thin silk nightdresses, one which matched the colour of the dress you just removed. Though it was soft and luxurious against your skin, as you settled beneath your covers, you felt cold.
In the hall, Aemond took a stumbling step forward to rest his forehead against your door, his hand resting on the handle but not moving. He stayed like that for many long moments, silently cursing himself, before he stepped away and retreated to his own chambers.
-
The following day, you woke still feeling tired. It had been hard to find sleep when you felt so cold. When curling into yourself still did not warm you, you rose from the bed and stalked to your dressing room, determined to find your more comfortable nightclothes.
But the moment you ran your hand over the well-worn brocade of your robe, Aemond’s words again echoed in your mind.
He was right. It was not flattering. Your father had it made when you were younger, and he had obviously expected you to grow as large and tall as your brothers. But you had not, and the robe still overwhelmed your frame.
Your maids had offered to take it in to make it fit better, but you had denied them. You liked the way you could disappear into it, how it could double as a blanket, the way it streamed behind you as you ran through the halls of your father’s keep.
It was familiar – it was home.
Now Aemond had ruined it, as he had your dreams of a happy marriage.
Reluctantly, you rang the bell for your maids, apologising for the late hour, and asked for another blanket.
But worse than the aching in your bones and the heaviness of your head was the sinking feeling in your stomach when your maids told you that Aemond had sent word asking you to come watch him fight in the training yard.
No reason was given. Why would there be? A man did not need a reason to summon his wife.
You wanted to ignore the request. With Orwyle’s orders that you should rest, you easily could. Yet you could not deny the sinful part of you that remembered how you felt watching him train only days ago.
With his sword in hand, Aemond was a different man. He was graceful and confident – the Prince you imagined when you first heard of your betrothal. The sight of him had lit the smouldering fire of desire within you, shameful as it was.
Despite your prayers, the memory of his seeming indifference, and his more recent insults, you could not deny you wanted to see that man again.
So, you once again donned your warmest cloak – only after confirming with your maids countless times that it was flattering – and headed to the training yard.
Aemond was not in the ring when you arrived but sulking by a table full of weapons. His arms were crossed tightly in front of him, and though he faced the ring, he was not truly focused on the fight. He looked as distant as he did on your wedding night, just before he asked you to get in the bed.
That is until one of the Kingsguard – the Dornish one – pointed to you on the ramparts, and he looked to you.
You braced for another grimace, but it did not come. Were it not for the slight, almost hopeful raise of his brows, you would think him completely indifferent.
He turned back to the weapons table, quickly selecting a longsword and walking to the ring, barking an order that immediately disbanded the current melee. You watched him jump up and down, stretching and shaking his limbs to prepare for his own fight.
The Kingsguard stepped into the ring with him, wielding a large morningstar. The sight of the fearsome weapon sent a shiver of fear through your veins, but you quickly brushed it aside in favour of a small surge of pride.
You had seen Aemond fight. Surely success would come easily.
Though perhaps not.
At the first strike of the Morningstar, Aemond fell to one knee as his shield shattered. You startled, prompting the old Lord to your side to set a hand on your back and whisper his assurances.
“The Prince is a fine warrior,” he said, “a single strike will not fell him.”
But it was not only the one strike.
Over and over, the Kingsguard’s weapon struck, Aemond only barely avoiding it each time.
Once, after Aemond was forced to concede several steps back, the Kingsguard let his offensive stance fall and whispered something. Your husband only growled back at him, loud enough for you to hear from where you watched. Though even in the ferocity of his new advance, he fumbled through his strikes.
This was not the man you watched in the training yard before. However, there were hints of him, sometimes – a graceful swing of the sword, the agile avoidance of an incoming strike, or a strong blocking with his shield (which was replaced several times).
Though those glimpses were few, they were enough to light that fire once more as each one sent that tingling down your spine.
You even considered going down into the yard when the fight was over and asking him to take you back to your chambers.
The idea when quickly squashed when the fight ended badly.
A powerful blow from the morningstar sent Aemond backwards into the dirt. He only barely hung onto his sword. The Kingsguard dropped his weapon and approached the Prince with his hand outstretched.
Aemond did not accept it. Instead, he swatted the knight aside as he stood, driving his sword point-first into the dirt. Then, after whispering something you could not hear but could tell by the fury in his eyes was harsh and likely cruel, he turned and left the training yard.
Without a single glance your way.
-
Aemond did not attend the family meal that evening. He could not bear to face his wife after such a mortifying display.
Seeing her disappointment would break him, he was sure. Though worse was the possibility that she may laugh at him – mock him, as he had unintentionally mocked her.
Gods, he had not fought so poorly since he was a mere boy and had not yet been allowed to wield real steel. Perhaps the next day, Cole would give him his wooden practice sword back. He would deserve it, for both his abysmal performance and his arrogance.
When Lord Wylde suggested he invite her to ‘witness his martial prowess,’ he had let himself fall victim to Aegon’s flattery and his own vanity. And the gods had seen fit to punish him for it.
He would beg their forgiveness later. After he committed another sin. One he had been indulging in far too often of late.
Though his body – already sore from the fight – protested every movement, Aemond removed all his clothes. All the while, he tried not to think about the wrongness of what he was about to do or how much he had embarrassed himself, but about his wife.
How beautiful she had looked on the ramparts. How her hair floated so gracefully in the wind. How the colour of her cloak brought out a delightful sparkle in her eyes. How she had jumped each time Cole landed a blow.
That she cared whether he lived or died should not make his heart flutter as it did, but he would take whatever she would give him, even if it was the barest of affection.
When he was naked and laid himself across his bed, his cock was suitably hard and leaking. Still, he reached for the small phial of oil Aegon gave him when he suggested he ‘practice building his stamina.’
“It is a sin,” Aemond had hissed, horrified by the mere suggestion.
Aegon only shrugged. “So is killing. But we do so in war without fearing the wrath of the gods. Why? Because it is in pursuit of a noble goal. I would say making your wife c… happy and satisfied is a noble goal, wouldn’t you?”
It was an impressive logic – for Aegon. Still, Aemond went to the Sept each morning to ask the gods for forgiveness.
And each night, like now, he practised.
After depositing a droplet of oil into his palm, he took hold of his cock and began to slowly stroke himself.
It was nothing like being in his wife. No matter what he did, he could not replicate that wonderful feeling. So he quickly stopped trying.
Instead, he pumped himself hard and fast, trying to get to the edge of his peak as quickly as he could – and then stopped. He curled his hand into a fist at his side as he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting a few agonising moments before resuming at a slower pace.
The only thing that made that waiting bearable was assuring himself what it would lead to – or what he hoped it would lead to.
He pictured his wife as she had been when he was touching her. How she had come so close to giving herself over to pleasure.
He hoped she would not ask him to stop the next time. Instead, she would let him touch her until she came. She would let him taste her, something he had never considered before Aegon told him of it, but which he now craved like a man lost in the desert craved water. She would beg him to fuck her, to once again brush his cock against that spot inside her, over and over until they both came apart.
And he would gladly obey. He would do anything she asked – if she only would.
Aemond brought himself almost to coming over and over until his stones ached from being denied so long. Only then did he allow himself release, spilling across his stomach with his wife’s name on his lips.
-
The dinner felt unbearably strange without Aemond beside you. No excuses for his absence were given; it was apparently not a subject anyone else was curious about.
So, you ate your food, spoke when you were spoken to, and excused yourself the moment you were done eating.
Though he had never much talked to you at meals, his presence was still somehow missed. You missed the touch of his hand as he helped you into your seat, the low timbre of his voice when he answered a question from his mother or grandsire, and the warmth of his gaze whenever you caught him looking at you.
You missed all those little joys, which you only then realised were indeed joys, so much that you would gladly endure his insults and criticism if it only meant he was there. Besides, you liked how he had gawked in the library when you mocked him in return. That could become a fun little game…
As you left the dining hall, thinking about how he had smiled at you the night before, you found yourself turning not for your own chambers, but for his.
Perhaps he was hurt from his fall, and that was why he was not there. Surely, it was only concern for his health that had you turning this way, nothing more.
But then you took another step forward, and you knew.
You desired him.
The shock and shame of it had you immediately retreating to your own rooms.
You quickly had your maids prepare you for bed, dressing in another silk slip of a nightdress before sending them away and curling beneath your blankets.
Soon, your own heavy breathing was the only sound in the room. The godsdamned crickets had gone silent again, wishing for you to hear every shameful thought you had clearly.
You thought of the strength he had shown in holding off the Kingsguard’s attacks. The strength you had seen in the tautness of his muscles as he hovered over you. As he used those hands that so skillfully wielded a sword to bring you pleasure.
Your legs squeezed together of their own accord at the thought, and you became all too aware of a wetness between your thighs – the wetness he had once coaxed out of you with his gentle touch.
Spreading your legs and trying not to think about the sin of what you were doing, you slowly raised the hem of your nightdress and slid your hand over your folds.
Where Aemond’s fingers were warm, yours were cold. You rubbed your hand over your thigh momentarily, remembering him doing the same thing, before touching yourself again.
This part of you was unfamiliar, and you fumbled around more than Aemond had that first night.
You found your entrance first but shied away from slipping a finger inside. Somehow, that felt too wrong, too much of a sin.
But that was not the only place Aemond had touched that brought you pleasure.
Following the same line his thumb had taken, you searched from that little spot that had sent lightning through you.
It took some time, but you found it.
Though, no matter how fast you moved your finger or how hard you pressed, your own touch did not bring you nearly as much pleasure as Aemond’s had. Finally, after many long minutes, your attempts were causing far more frustration than anything else, and you ripped your hand away from your sex.
You nearly cried when you saw your fingers glistening – with bright red blood.
Your moon’s blood was here.
You were not pregnant.
-
The next morning, you immediately sent for raspberry tea to soothe the aching that had already taken hold in your abdomen and did not get out of bed until it had arrived and you had drunk two cups full.
Then, you wished you had not gotten out of bed at all. There was another note from your husband – he wanted to meet you for a walk in the gardens.
At least it meant he was not hurt. But to face him after what you had done, or tried to do…
A good wife did not do what you did. A good wife would have gone to his chambers and made sure he was well, would have let him take comfort in you.
Gods, you should have done so. You wished so badly that you had done so.
You could not change what you did, but you could be a good wife from this point on – you would be.
So, despite your pains, you dressed and headed for the gardens, where his note said he would be waiting for you all morning.
You spent the entire walk through the castle praying. To the Father for forgiveness for your sin. To the Mother for forgiveness for failing your husband and to beg that his seed quickened the next time. To the Crone for the wisdom to be a good wife – again, as the same prayer had obviously not worked the first time. To the Warrior, for the courage you would need to face Aemond. To the Smith, to repair what had been broken between you. And to the Stranger for whatever you had forgotten to include in your prayers to the others.
Truly, you needed the blessing of each of the Seven.
It was only by clutching the Seven-Pointed Star pendant until your fingers hurt that you did not collapse at the sight of Aemond.
He looked ethereally beautiful in the morning light. The soft sunlight streaming through the few leaves that still remained on the trees set his hair aglow, like he was touched by the gods themselves. Indeed, they must have been tempting your devotion to your promise. Why else would they make him appear so tempting?
You swallowed thickly, grateful you had approached him from the left, so he would not see you gawking. Then, once you had regained your composure, thanks in no small part to a new wave of pain in your belly overwhelming any desire, you stepped forward and curtsied.
“Husband,” you greeted with as much sweetness in your voice as you could muster, “thank you for the invitation to join you today.”
Aemond stood from the bench and bowed back to you, even though protocol did not require it. “Thank you for coming,” he said with a shy smile. “I was worried that… you might not.”
“It would be improper for a wife to deny her husband’s wishes,” you replied.
Dutiful. Polite. A good wife.
But Aemond’s smile fell. “I hope you do not feel you had to come here just because I asked,” he murmured, not meeting your gaze. “I hope that you wanted to come.”
You found yourself almost smiling at him, at the sentiment he offered. Then, nodding, you stepped forward and awkwardly held your hand out for a moment before returning it to your side. “I have not yet had the chance to see the gardens. Will you show me?”
He looked as though you had just offered him a kingdom and held out his arm for you to take.
Despite the heat radiating off him, you shivered as you looped your arm through his, and he began to lead you down the flagstone path.
You walked in silence for a while, but it was not as heavy or uncomfortable as before. There was only the faintest hint of tension between you, the rest replaced by a kind of contentment – unfamiliar but pleasant.
Aemond only spoke to name some of the plants you saw. How he knew exactly which ones you could not identify yourself, you did not know. He just… knew.
You stopped in front of the gnarled trunk of a wisteria vine. It was not in bloom, and most of its leaves had fallen, but it was still beautiful in its bareness.
“It is wisteria,” Aemond said after a moment, pointing with a finger to trace its path from its roots to the very ends of the vine some twenty feet away on a trellis. “At the end of spring, it will produce hanging blooms that are a lovely shade of purple.”
You looked up at him, at his one eye and its lovely shade of purple – the colour of wisteria, you realised.
Before you knew it, you were smiling so wide it hurt your cheeks. “I know,” you replied, your voice almost a laugh. “It is one of my favourites.”
Feeling yourself begin to blush furiously, you turned back toward the plant. “There was one even larger than this right outside my window at my father’s keep.”
Aemond did not – could not – respond. You had just smiled at him, and it was more beautiful than he had ever imagined.
-
You walked through the gardens on Aemond’s arm until you had seen every plant, every flower, every leaf. It was the happiest you had been since arriving in King’s Landing, and indeed in many years before.
But it could not last forever. While you were merely a wife, Aemond was a Prince. He had duties far more important than walking with his wife. So, when he mentioned the hour was growing late, you did not ask him to stay.
You merely removed your arm from his, bowed your head, and whispered your farewell. As a good wife does.
Yet Aemond remained in front of you, the look in his eye so intense you had to turn away.
“May I come to your chambers tonight?” he asked, his voice small but firm.
Your chest tightened.
You wanted to say yes – to kiss him and feel his touch once more. But…
“My moon’s blood arrived today,” you told him quickly before the fear in your gut could still your tongue.
Until he made that request, you had been enjoying the time spent with your husband so dearly that you had nearly forgotten the pain in your belly, the undeniable proof of your failure to produce an heir.
Your failure to be a good wife.
As tears sprang to your eyes, you watched his face twist with confusion, then crumple with despair, and finally, freeze into an expression you could not name.
Once more, he felt like a mystery to you – a stranger. Had you really come to know him so well, to care for him enough that even a single unknown expression could cause you this much pain?
You must have, for the pain in your empty womb was nothing compared to that which now took hold of your heart.
He looked to the flagstones below you, his mouth starting and failing to find words. “I…” he began, then stopped.
“Aemond?” you asked, desperate now for him to say anything, even if it was to call you stupid again.
Your mind was so clouded by fear at what he may say next that you did not realise it was the first time you had called him by his name since the wedding ceremony.
His eye met yours again, and he raised his brows. “Thank you for the walk.”
And then he left. Again.
To your credit, you did not cry until you were back in your rooms.
-
You did not go to dinner that night or even eat the meal that was brought to your rooms.
You only prayed and cried and prayed some more. Until you fell asleep on the couch in your sitting room.
After waking in the dark at some point in the night, with a blanket over your shoulders. You knew you should move to the bed, or you would be sore in the morning. But whatever you did, you would be sore for at least a few more days. So, you stayed on the couch.
For a while, you watched the door, hoping that Aemond would walk through and throw himself at your feet as he begged your forgiveness. And despite your better judgment, you would give it to him without hesitation.
But he did not come.
Eventually, you fell asleep again.
When you woke once more, you were indeed sore. But it was quickly forgotten when you saw something unfamiliar on the table before you – a leather-bound journal and a folded note with your name written on it in beautiful script.
Curious but cautious, you only grabbed the note before settling back into your seat to read it:
My dearest wife,
Forgive me for not coming to you myself to apologise, but given the way I acted the last time I did so, I believe you will prefer this.
I am so very sorry that my behaviour towards you has been utterly abhorrent. Please know that my stumbling words and foolish actions come not from a place of malice or even indifference. Rather, they are an attempt by a stupid and incompetent man to try and impress his wife.
There is nothing in the world that I desire so much as to see you happy. Nothing I wish for more than to see your smile and, if the gods bless me, to be the reason for it.
For my love, when you smiled at me yesterday – I have never felt anything so wonderful.
But as the past weeks have shown, I fear I am incapable of presenting myself with dignity when I am in your presence. Your beauty, kindness, and pure goodness overwhelm me the moment I see you, and all my good sense abandons me. No matter my intentions, nor the poetry I compose in my mind prior to coming to you, the very moment I am with you, I become little more than a bumbling idiot, unable to even say ‘hello’ without somehow offending or upsetting you.
So, I will no longer try. I know I have caused you much more discomfort than anything, and it pains me beyond measure. Already, I have begged the Seven for their forgiveness, and now I beg yours.
If you do not wish to give it, I will understand. I will accept whatever you decide and act accordingly. If you wish to not see me again, I will disappear. But I would be doing you a disservice as your husband if I did not at least share with you the depth of my feelings before we are parted – if that is indeed what you desire, though I hope it is not.
I am all too aware that if I tried to do this myself, I would say some ridiculous thing to make you hate me forever. That is, I admit, my greatest fear. So, I have asked the servants to deliver you this note, along with my diary. I know you keep your own, for I have seen it in your chambers. Therefore, you know that what you will read is not merely words, but the truths of my very soul.
Please know that I am not afraid to share it with you. As my wife, you are entitled to know everything about me. But more than that, I want you to. I want you to see all that I am, to know me as well as the gods themselves. I pray that what you will learn will not frighten or upset you but show you the man I so wish to be. The man I would be, if you allow me.
I pray you will like him, perhaps even learn to love him. For he loves you so very, very much.
I have marked the passages I most want you to read, but you have my permission to read everything. I will not hide anything from you, not anymore.
With all my love, more than you know,
Your husband, Prince Aemond Targaryen
As you lowered the note, now stained with several of your tears, you looked at the journal – the diary – on the table. It contained the truth of your husband, the man who had confused and angered you, delighted and amazed you.
It was a truth that, once you knew it, would change you forever.
But you had already been changed, hadn’t you? Irrevocably. The only thing the diary would change was whether it was for the better or for the worse.
So, after one last prayer, you set Aemond’s note back on the table, picked up the diary, and began to read.
-
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two-white-butterflies · 9 months
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my way, back home | aem. targaryen
Description: Aemond wants to build a big family with you. One that rivals his great-grandfather's. (the dance never happens)
Rating: Teen [fluff]
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It was uncommon to see a wedding happen because of love. It was rare to see a wedding happen because of love and political advancement. You were lucky to have the latter.
It was a hot day in Kingslanding - like the many days before. Of course, your sons took it as a reason to go to Dragonstone - where the shores and the heat were more forgiving.
"At this rate we'll need to create a beach just for our children," Aemond mused, allowing the waves to kiss his ankles. "If there is enough coin in our coffers, maybe." you replied as he leaned down to peck your lips. "I always find a way," he hummed, sitting on the sand.
His hands trail down to your swollen belly. A babe of five moons, another price or princess for the realm to adore. "What do you think it'll be?" you inquired - staring deep into his eye. "A loved child," he replied - not caring for the gender. He was a relief to have in this world - a world where girls were viewed as liability.
You turned to the side - eyes narrowing to see the figure of your sons and their handmaidens properly. "Not too far, my darlings." you gently warn, seeing that the water was beginning to reach Rhaenar's shoulders. "Yes, mother." your youngest, Aenar, responded.
Aemond kept his hand on your stomach, rubbing slow circles while he watched his sons play in the waters. A small thought runs through his head - a plan and a vision of his life.
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"You have been far too silent, my husband." you pointed out, using the cloth to dry your hair properly. "I have been thinking," he professed - taking a lazy sip of his dornish wine.
"Thinking about what?" you raised an eyebrow.
The sides of his lips turned upwards - slowly leaning towards a smile. He takes another sip of his wine, allowing the silence to permeate throughout the atmosphere. "I want more children with you," he stated and a playful laugh escapes your mouth.
"This one is yet to escape my womb, and you already plan to have a fifth?" your eyebrows bumped into each other. The pain of childbirth was great - but the joy of having a babe in your arms, it was greater. "And a sixth, a seventh and an eighth." he professed - already having a few names in mind for his heirs.
"Is this the wine speaking, or does the plan of replacing King Jaehaerys' records lay rampant in your head?" you accused, taking a step forward and sitting on his lap. His hands inch towards your belly again - seeing that it was it's perfect place. "I always intended it to be that way," he whispered - burying his face on your neck.
"But we won't be like them, you know that - right?" you frown, remembering his children's cruel fates. "We'll be better." you add with certainty. Your daughters will not be subjected to cruel matches - and your sons will be raised with vigor and love. Your daughters will know that their beauty increases their worth - and that it doesn't diminish their intellect. Your sons will know that they are not only meant to be princes and heirs - they can venture far.
"Yes," he answered, removing his hand from your belly - reaching for your jaw and merging your lips together.
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@bellstwd @nyctophilic0vitnir @fan-goddess @mizfortuna @watercolorskyy
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sapphire-hearted (part two)
Aemond Targaryen x f!reader
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After his betrayal, the reader is determined to forget about Aemond. But her attempts at entertaining a potential suitor seem to be thwarted at every turn, by none other than... who else?
themes/warnings: jealous!Aemond, angst, third (and fourth) parties involved but not really
part one - part three - masterlist
a/n: the title changed, yes! Also, can you believe I actually thought this would remain a mere oneshot? But no, I got hungry for more angst and jealousy and all the good stuff. Much love to all my fellow angst lovers for breathing new life into this fic!
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When the whispers started, you knew they would eventually reach Aemond.
You were rumoured to be entertaining Lord Ramsay Beesbury, the youngest son of the late Lord Lyman Beesbury.
His older brother, Braxton, was your initial suitor many moons ago. But you refused him, of course. For a certain one-eyed prince.
Lord Braxton had been the one who became Lord of Honeyholt after his father and he has just recently taken a wife. Unlike his father, however, he opted to side with the Greens and to back Aegon's claim.
Ramsay began to seek you out himself, not long after finding out that you are now more receptive to marriage proposals.
Everyone knew. Well, it seems that way, at least. It is common knowledge that you and Aemond were closer than to be expected of mere friends. Any Lord who might ask for your hand knew not to expect to be met with warmth and eagerness. They tried anyway, and failed.
Because each time, and without even needing to say so, they knew that you were choosing Aemond.
"I don't know why you would think that," you lie with a sweet smile, when Ramsay presents his concern about you and Aemond. "Prince Aemond and I are acquaintances, and that is all there is to it."
"Oh." Ramsay smiles, evidently pleased with your response. "My lady, I am glad to be spending this afternoon with you here in the gardens. After some time, I would hope that we can join our Houses, as humble as mine might be." He averts his eyes shyly. Ramsay is surely a gentle lad, as far as you have seen.
"You need not be concerned, my lord. My House is just as humble. But we make do, don't we? At the very least, we do not have to busy ourselves with all the politicking the more nobler Houses seem to get into."
"That is true, my lady." He grins, and you notice lines burst around his eyes, though he is merely five and twenty. Ramsay has spent a life imparting and partaking in laughter.
Unlike a certain sullen, brooding Targaryen. Could you get used to Ramsay? Surely. Could you love him? Perhaps so.
"So what shall we do on the morrow?" Ramsay closes the distance between the two of you on the bench, and his knees brush against yours under your skirts. He takes your hands in his, "I propose - "
He stops, his head whipping to the side, looking toward the treeline.
"What is it, my lord?" you ask, looking in the same direction. But you see nothing.
"I thought I heard something." He whispers, then looks again to you. "Where were we - "
"Fine weather we're having." You nearly jump out of your skin in surprise, as Ramsay is interrupted yet again. Aemond stands about a foot away from your bench, hands clasped behind him in usual commanding stance.
"My prince." Ramsay stiffens, your hands still held in his. You see that Aemond's attention has been drawn to this, his lips curling in distaste.
You both rise from the bench. Ramsay is no longer touching you, but still stands close.
Closer than Aemond would like. His hand clenches into a fist behind his back. He muses about whether it is unbecoming for a Targaryen prince to sock a young Lord in the jaw unprovoked.
He does not much care either way.
"It is, indeed," Ramsay says. "Which is why I thought to take the Lady out for a walk in the gardens."
"And a fine idea it was," you add, purposefully looping your arm around Ramsay's. "It's best that Lord Ramsay and I get to know each other well, if we are to wed soon."
Aemond decides not to punch the young Lord Beesbury. Not just yet. Clearly you're provoking him and he is not going to give you the satisfaction.
"A wedding in the middle of war?" Aemond hums. "Do you not think such a union foreshadows plenty of discontent and strife, my lady?"
You scoff, "Oh, what does it matter? When will we ever not be in a war, in some form or another? That should not stop us from marrying whom we please. From loving whom we please."
Loving. Love. Aemond's heart sinks. You mention love in front of him, when you have yourself wrapped around another man. One whom you plan to wed.
How can you speak of love, when you are planning to sacrifice it? Aemond might transgress with Alys, but at least he is doing it for the realm. For you.
Is he not? Then why does it seem like he is losing you?
Ramsay beams to Aemond, "My lady is truly clever, is she not, my prince?"
"She is." Aemond genuinely agrees. He only has eyes on you, running over the planes of your face which he has committed to memory, all those nights of watching you sleep next to him. He looks upon you with longing.
With love.
For a moment, everything feels right. You and your love gaze upon each other, all else forgotten. Your arm slides down from Ramsay's in your brief reverie.
Then Ramsay clears his throat. "What are you doing here, Prince Aemond? Can we help you with anything?"
"Oh, I don't think you can," Aemond says pointedly, clearly pleased with himself.
"P-pardon me?"
You interrupt the exchange, your voice icy, "Not busy today, my prince? No plans of battle to discuss? Grand spells to concoct?"
"No." Aemond merely shakes his head. "I've no use for those at the moment."
"What a surprise," you sneer.
Ramsay glazes over your mention of spells, thinking he misheard things. He then addresses Aemond, "It seems that the tides have turned toward our favour, my prince. The Greens' favour. I can only hope that the aid my House provides has played a part, albeit small."
Aemond does not mince his words, disdain clear in his voice when he says, "Surely the barrels of honeyed wine that your great House provides has been crucial in advancing our cause, my Lord. If you yourself possessed any mettle, then you would be out there in the battlefield. Instead you sit here in the gardens, wasting your days trying to covet something of mine. "
Unbelievable. Your mouth nearly falls open in shock at his demeanour. "Aemond..."
"I need to speak with you, my lady."
"I am occupied at the moment, my prince." You respond through gritted teeth.
"It's alright," Ramsay nods to you, clearly disheartened. But he holds his ground, and bravely takes your hand in his. Completely aware that Aemond watches, he leans down and plants a kiss on the back of your hand, eyes on yours the entire time.
Aemond feels his restraint dissipating, hanging on by the flimsiest of threads.
"Come with me," Aemond takes your hand, the very same which Ramsay just kissed, and begins pulling you away and walking towards the tall hedges.
You can feel his thumb brushing against your knuckles, as if trying to eliminate any trace of Lord Ramsay.
"Stop - " you say, but to no avail.
When Ramsay is no longer in your line of sight, you pull your hand from Aemond's grip. "What is wrong with you? Ramsay did nothing to deserve that."
"Ramsay," Aemond rolls his eye. His shoulders are stiff, and you can easily tell he is angry.
"I should go find him, and apologize for your behaviour. Clearly you will not."
"I do not need to apologize for anything to that weak-willed, little - "
"Then apologize to me," you interject, voice breaking.
"Whatever for?" He reaches for you, but you stand still. Doing nothing as his hand cradles your face.
"For everything... for being with someone else... for not choosing me."
"But I choose you. I always - "
"You chose Alys."
His face scrunches at that. Aemond thinks that he did not choose Alys, he merely chose to use her powers for his gain. But it will never be her over you.
"Just apologize to me," you shrug. "Or don't. It does not change anything. We can soon set all of this behind us."
You watch him intently, drinking in every slight change in his expression. The curve of his lips. The way his eyelashes brush against his skin when he looks down.
If you have to let him go, you will always want to remember him. To remember everything.
He says nothing for the longest time, just holding your face in his hands.
Until you step away. His arms fall to his sides.
"I have to choose Ramsay, Aemond. I have to do this for myself," you say.
Still, nothing. His gaze is trained downward, and he feels helpless as he can feel you slipping away from him.
You finally muster up the strength to say goodbye, "I'll be seeing you, my love."
Your feet feel heavy as you walk away, crunching against the small rocks on the path.
"What if we were to wed? What then, hmm?" He suddenly says, making you stop in your tracks.
He continues, "Will you choose me?"
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Will Aemond finally give up Alys? Will he marry the reader even if it will be frowned upon and seen as an unfit union? *shrugs* you tell me
Will Aegon make an appearance in part three? *nods* yes. Yes, he will.
In my mind, Ramsay is played by Callum Turner or Jonah Hauer-King. Just a thought. Aemond's got some competition *laughs evilly*
I hope I managed to include everyone in the taglist!! If not, just let me know 🖤
taglist: @immyowndefender @bellameshipper @aemondswifeisme @bash1018 @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstoms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @youtoldalie @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @whitejuliana1204 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1
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cambion-companion · 1 year
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How woud Aemond react to his wife cheating... in chess?
Every time he looks away, she steals a piece off of the board and just smiles when he looks back at her. Like she isn't even trying to win she's just doing this to mess with him a little
Oh wow, I found another drunk drabble prompt! Thank you Anon, this is a hilarious follow up to the message I answered "How would Aemond react to his wife cheating" haha
Aemond x wife!reader | tipsy reader | cheating at chess | Aemond indulging his lady, teasing ensues
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"It's your turn, Y/N."
You continued sipping on your wine, your mind already fuzzy from the drink, swirling the bitter liquid around in your mouth as you studied the chessboard in consternation.
Aemond sat back in his chair, his lips pressed together as he watched you with a mixture of impatience and amusement.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but you held up a hand to shush him. "I'm thinking."
"A demanding endeavor, it seems."
"I'm not losing to you again, Aemond."
"Perhaps more wine would help." He smirked, catching your eye as you shot him a withering look, taking another deliberate swig from your goblet.
"Fine." You moved your rook forward several spaces.
You winced as Aemond immediately took your piece with his knight. "Fuck."
"Check."
You groaned, holding the rim of your cool glass against your aching temple.
A servant bearing more drink arrived, drawing away your husband's attention for a few crucial moments. You reached forward, surreptitiously removing Aemond's own rook from the board and stowing it in the cushions beside you. "Ah, thank you." You beamed at the servant as he refilled your cup.
Aemond was studying his board with a raised brow, his violet eye flicked up to your studiously neutral expression. "Your move, Y/N."
"Oh yes, of course."
This went on several more minutes; you losing your pieces to Aemond's keen strategizing and him losing his own pieces whenever he was sufficiently distracted enough for you to steal them.
As Aemond turned his head to observe a group of guards moving across the hall, you tried to take away his queen without him taking notice. Long fingers caught your wrist as Aemond turned swiftly back to you, aware the whole time of your ruse. He pulled you toward him, unseating you and causing you to tumble onto his lap, scattering the remaining pieces across the board.
"You tried to take my queen?" He rolled his eye, snorting a short laugh. "You do know cheating at chess is nigh impossible."
"I'm the only queen you need, my king." You giggled, feeling his dexterous fingers begin probing at the ticklish part of your sides.
Your face was flushed from the wine and the sudden proximity of the Targaryen prince you called husband.
Aemond sighed, hoisting you so you were more securely seated against him. "I've always thought it interesting the queen is the one with the most power over the board." You watched him with soft adoration as he continued his musing. "She is the one with the most power to protect the king."
"I'd protect you with my life too." You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, feeling the low vibration of his chuckling, his grip on you tightening slightly.
"My ember." Aemond said affectionately into your hair before placing a gentle kiss to your crown.
The warmth of his arms encircling you combined with the heady heat of the wine caused your eyes to droop with sleepy contentment. "Take me to bed, Aemond." You murmured, your lips brushing the soft skin of his neck.
"As my lady commands." He rose with you in his arms, your arms coming to grip around his shoulders as he strode toward your chambers. "Remind me to not play chess with you while you're drinking."
"You're just a sore loser." You smiled, kissing his temple. "My strategizing prowess is clearly too much for you to handle."
"Hmm." Was your terse answer, Aemond shaking his head in fond bemusement as he carried you to bed.
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The Green Prince | Bluebeard!Aemond x Wife!Reader
-Based on the Fairytale 'Bluebeard'- Halloween Special!
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Summary: Six wives before her mysteriously disappeared, and someone in Dragonstone calls for her once her new husband entrusts her with his master key | Word Count: 8k~ | Warnings below the cut~
Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist
Warnings: dub-con, arranged marriage, victorian england setting, era-typical sexism, murder, uxoricide, blood, toxic behaviour, apparitions/ghosts, manipulation, threats of violence
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She's heard only tales of Aemond Targaryen.
The Green Prince of Dragonstone. A wealthy gentleman who often stayed within the confines of his estate.
When she abandoned the frills and wide smiles of girlhood, thrust into the pomp and practice of womanhood, that is when the stories began.
She had never seen him. And she began to believe, that the people around her who spoke of him never had either.
They were of a decent background, her and her family. Not overwhelmingly rich. But well-off is what her father always said.
Enough to employ a small army of servants.
Enough to never have to worry about the troubles of daily life that so often would hinder an everyday individual.
She doubted Aemond Targaryen ever had to worry about that either.
One fact that simply could not be frayed, was that he was royalty.
Only in the sense that he was utterly untouchable.
He had this elegance about him, they would say, a sort of curious exoticisim from the way his long, silver hair would drift down his back, to the way his inhuman purple eyes would glimmer, half lidded and looking straight ahead, as if he were piercing a knife through the individual with his gaze alone.
Though they were technically neighbours, she saw very little life pass through the iron gates of Dragonstone. His estate so vast, that by foot, she would have to commit a whole hour to simply brush by the border of what she deemed was a forbidden land.
There seemed an aura of darkness over it, that she could not quite comprehend. But one that intrigued her all the same.
Last year, at the same time as now, she had been considered a child. No better for company than being banished upstairs to dwindle about her books and writings, out of the way of adults and their serious business affairs.
What had really changed in 12 months, that they now considered her a woman?
She felt age had little to do with it.
She felt that she had been grown in her mind for some time, and had actually changed very little from the age of three and ten.
But now, at the tender age of nine and ten, there was still a girlish nature about her face. A brightness to her eyes, and a plumpness about her cheeks. One that her mother had once commented that men would find appealing in a wife.
And so here she was.
Dressed in her finery, a glass of wine in a crystal glass delicately placed in one hand, she stood beside her eldest brother, who had torn himself rather blatantly from a woman he himself was courting in favour of supporting his sweet, youngest sister.
"Do not, for the love of our mother, allow yourself to be approached by Mr Gardner. He has had five servants in as many months. I am sure you can understand why", her brother mused with a contented chuckle.
She did not know why. Nobody had told her plainly.
Sometimes she wished people would just be honest with her. And not assumed she knew the inner workings of people's minds, after years of being shut away upstairs by her parents and brother alike.
The foyer and adjoining rooms alike were filled with people, all pretending to make pleasantries with each other. And as the night dragged on, several well known bachelor's having tried their hand at impressing her, she found her glass of wine was not as endless as she thought.
When a servant had spotted her, appearing at her side to refill her glass, she had turned her body sideways and locked eyes, finally, with him.
The one people affectionately named, The Green Prince.
Like most of the men tonight, he was dressed in a suit with a long overcoat that covered his dark green waistcoat. So dark were the colours of his outfit, that they almost appeared black, like the rest of it.
His hair was loose, with a few strands falling to the front over his shoulders, and as her eyes trailed up to his pale collar, where a tie was loosely wrapped about his neck, she saw that when she met his gaze, he was already looking at her.
He held his glass in a manner most unbecoming. Hanging at his side, his long fingers grasping the edges so delicately, she was sure for a moment it was floating in his hold.
His finger, she noticed, tapped idly at the side of the room, as if deep in thought as he looked upon her.
She saw his gaze drop to her outfit, one that her mother had chosen for her. A red, almost burnt tea coloured dress, with very little flounce and fancy to it. The collar hung delicately at her shoulders, the bodice tight and the only detail of any colour was in the stitching of her skirt, which he noted was a shimmering gold.
When he lifted his eyes, he took a sip from his glass, still almost filled to the top, his burning lilac gaze hovering over the brim. She sucked in a breath, her own eyes flitting over his face. And to the patch that covered the left eye.
She didn't know why her chest felt tight, and why she hoped suddenly for the appearance of her brother. Or her father perhaps. He was staring at her so unabashedly, that for an unmarried woman such as herself, she would be looked upon with immense judgement if she were found to be staring back at him in the same manner.
Knowing his gaze was burning at the back of her head, perhaps tracing the intricate pattern of braids her hair had been styled in, she decided to ignore him, until he had the decency to approach and introduce himself to her properly.
As any good gentleman would.
She meandered through the menagerie of figures, careful to keep her wine close to her so that she wouldn't repeat the same embarrassment as last year when she spilled the entire glass down Mr Bray, whose wife near lost her voice with incessant shouting.
Her father, ever cheerful, as rich men so often are, materialised at her side, grasping her elbow and tugged his daughter close to him. His breath smelled like red wine as he whispered to her.
"It appears you have captured the special attention of Mr Targaryen, daughter"
Her father chuckled when her wide, terrified and yet curious eyes met his.
How could she have captured his attention, when she had done nothing at all? She thought.
She did not yet know, the charms that the appearance of a female body could offer. And how it could transform a respectable man from a pillar of society, to a hungry, lustful beast at a moment's notice.
"I shall introduce you to him" her father insisted, leading her along at his side, despite her quiet protests.
"But father-"
"Hush now. Remember your manners".
His tone of voice was enough.
She had not experienced it as a mere female. But she had seen first hand what her father did to her brother when he disobeyed. Finding a sort of punishment worthy at the end of his cane as it cracked against her brother's palm.
Her brother still wore gloves often. That was his shield.
She had yet to find her own.
Perhaps hers was in her mind, she thought. That she might be able to protect herself with her ideas and opinions, twisting the minds of men, as her elder sister had said once, to suit the needs of the women they owned.
She often had to remind herself, she was property. And could easily be bought and sold, and kicked to the roadside if she had done something to mar her family name.
She was thrust into a sort of social assassination once again once stood before the famed Mr Targaryen, who nodded his head in greeting but said nothing.
"My Targaryen. What an honour it is to have you here. Please might introduce my daughter"
He bent somewhat at the hip, his hand moving to grasp hers, the skin soft and feminine.
"The pleasure is all mine, Miss"
His voice was like the purr of a cat. And though terrifyingly intriguing, she couldn't find it in herself to look away.
"And to you, Sir. Many thanks for the invitation" Aemond turned towards her father, giving another barely existent nod of his head, his expression flat and almost bored.
"It is no problem at all, Mr Targaryen. Please accept my condolences on the passing of your wife"
Late wife?
She felt rude to ask, so said nothing.
Aemond seemed to understand her curiosity, and gave a light smirk in her direction, though she was on his blind side.
"Thank you, Sir. It was a great tragedy indeed"
"Indeed" her father repeated, leaning forward as if to emphasise the size of his empathy for him, "I understand she was quite distressed for some time, was she not?"
She almost passed her father a warning glance. Thinking it rather rude for him to say such things about his late wife. Whether she may have been mad or not.
But Aemond merely nodded.
"Indeed. I am afraid, however, it was an inevitable accident"
Accident.
She of course, remembered hearing the gossip, and hearing her father read the newspaper every morning. An update about the mad Alys Rivers at the top of the page every time.
Alys Rivers, the Lady of Dragonstone, found dead in God's Eye Lake. A wound to the neck spells suicide.
A wound to the neck was a kind description.
Her pale skin was said to be slashed open on one side, everything visible within. And once the water had got to her, she was swollen, pale and blue, completely drained of blood. Almost entirely unrecognisable.
It was just as well she had no family. They would not have wished to see how she met her end.
The article found it necessary to articulate, that her body had been returned to her husband.
Across the room, another gentleman called for her father, and she felt the hot whips of panic at the back of her neck at the thought of being left alone with Aemond.
"Do excuse me" her father said quickly, disappearing into the sea of black and grey.
She herself turned back to Aemond, not wanting to be rude, and tapped her fingernails on the crystal glass nervously.
"I am very sorry to hear about your wife"
Aemond hummed, one of his hands behind his back like he had a secret.
"Thank you, Miss"
There was a long period of silence between them. And for a while, she wondered if she should be the one to break it.
Aemond laughed lowly, leaning down to her face as he caught something interesting in his sights.
"See your brother?" He murmured. And her face turned as well, not realising at first how close their faces were, but she could not very well pull away without offending him.
All the same, he smelled of sandalwood.
Her eyes followed his, to her brother on the other side of the room, where he was thoroughly embarrassing himself by laughing too widely with the woman he had been courting for several months.
"He is awfully close to that woman, is he not?"
She swallowed, raising her chin to appear more confident as she spoke, "She is to be his intended. It is only natural they speak freely with one another" she reasoned.
Aemond did not move away, his shoulder brushing against her side. It made her shudder.
"He is certainly doing something freely" Aemond hummed deep in his chest, a tone which sent a dull ache through her body.
Her brother leaned in close to the woman. And she watched her blush and throw her head back with a demure laugh, her brother leaning close to run his nose along her neck, grinning against her skin.
It felt forbidden to watch them be so close.
And yet he was so brazen about it.
"She seems to be enjoying herself, at least"
She couldn't find it in herself to reply.
For the woman did appear as if she was enjoying herself. And briefly, stood beside Aemond, his breath softly batting against her neck, she wondered herself, how it would feel if he did the same to her.
She wondered if he was thinking the same thing as her. Sneaking into her mind like a whisper, as if he were being a locked door, and was peering through the keyhole to uncover her darkest thoughts and desires.
Her brother leaned towards his intended, planting a kiss to the column of her neck. And she felt herself parting her lips as the other woman had, not only at the shameless behaviour of her brother, so consumed in wine that he felt no need to appear reasonable in front of other people, but also because she felt Aemond’s slender fingers at her forearm.
It was not at all like the way her father had pulled her to him, in ownership.
Aemond tugged her towards him in a sort of longing, his nose pressing into the plaits of her hair.
“I am going to ask your father for your hand” he whispered, “and he will say yes. And you shall be mine”.
She listened with her fingers wrapped around the wooden pillars of the staircase as her brother shouted obscenity after obscenity at her father. Every now and then her mother would insert her little, sweet voice that was inevitably crushed by the low boom of the two males in the room.
With her gaze planted firmly in her lap, tracing the patterns of the lace of her nightgown as she listened, she thought with a sort of sadness that the offer of marriage should be a joyous and happy occasion. And now in her household, the prospect of her being tied to the Green Prince himself was so offensive to her brother, that he felt the need to fight on her behalf.
Perhaps knowing his sweet sister had no choice in the matter.
“He is barely half a decade older than her and has had six wives in as many years, father!” he boomed, and she could tell by the way his voice bounced off the furniture that he was pacing and throwing his arms around.
“To give her away to that brute. It is unthinkable!”
“Be quiet!” her father roared back, “the wedding will go ahead as planned. We will not get a better offer than this!”
While she was happy, that her brother was trying to stick up for her, it was no use. He nor her had a choice in the matter.
Her father had said it himself.
We will not get a better offer.
Not she.
She was property. Something to be sold and given in exchange for goods or reputation. What she wanted, was of no consequence.
And she couldn’t help but think of her mother, several decades younger than her father, and how she must have felt at her tender age when confronted with the prospect of marrying a man much older than she.
In a way, she felt connected to her mother in that way. But also in a way that she resented her, for dressing her up, plaiting her hair and pushing her out into the rich man’s world, ripe and ready for the taking.
Passing her the torch of a woman’s anguish.
The wedding felt clinical. More akin to a funeral than a union of two people. 
Her brother stares dagger into the back of her intended for the entire ceremony. All while her mother cried softly into her handkerchief and her father sat, stoic and silent, his chubby fingers caressing the sculpted ornament on the top of his cane.
She remembered his hands as they were bought together and the officiator had placed a sort of sacred cloth over them as he muttered his prayers. Binding them lawfully and before the eyes of God, for their whole lives.
His hands were large, his palms completely dwarfing hers and his long fingers wrapping around hers like tight vines. And at that moment, she had never felt so small in her life.
And noticed that his side of the wedding chapel, where his family members were supposed to sit and witness their union, was completely empty.
Six wives in as many years.
That is what her brother had said.
She knew Aemond had been married multiple times prior to her, but was her brother merely exaggerating?
In contrast to his hands, where the blood swam warmly through his limbs, his lips where the officiant asked them to seal their union with a kiss, were cold, and not forthcoming. As if he had not asked her father for her hand in marriage, but that this entire affair was so useless and merely for looks, that he’d rather be somewhere else.
That said. She could not escape the intensity of his gaze.
He seemed to focus solely on her, much to her discomfort, to the point where it seemed like he was not listening to a single prayer or hymn that was uttered in the chapel all afternoon. And though her eyes were elsewhere, to try and place the feeling that bubbled in her chest somewhere else, she often found his lilac eye drifting to the details of her necklace, to face, and pausing where she wet her lips nervously.
If he hadn’t possessed such a domineering, strong presence, she thought he would be devilishly handsome.
Perhaps a fact he already knew.
It was unlike her family to have celebrations, so they didn’t.
She gave each of the servants, some who she knew for most of her life a final embrace, thanking them for their hospitality and care where she did not receive it from her parents. And as her luggage was packed meaningfully in the back of Mr Targaryen’s carriage, with two large horses at the front, she gave her brother a tight embrace as well. Inhaling and savouring the musty smell of tobacco on his coat.
He looked saddened, but for the sake of appearances, forced a smile onto his face.
“Good luck, dear sister. Remember you may write to me, even though you are a married woman” he smiled, teasing her softly with a nudge to her shoulder.
She gave a softer hug to her mother, who usually was not keen to shower her with affection. But she supposed, she was the youngest daughter, so it was only natural.
Her father, after having busied himself in an idle chattering session with Aemond, merely tipped his hat, and did not shed one bit of emotion as she climbed into the carriage before her husband. Aemond's hand helped her up the step, watching as she disappeared inside.
The smell of his sandalwood perfumes on his coat was stronger as he sat beside her on the cushion, instructing the handsome, olive-skinned driver to move forward and away from her home.
She only waved to her brother. And watched as he had wet eyes, stepping forward a few paces like he was about to break into a run after her.
The carriage was much nicer than anything she'd seen in her young life, and though they were for all intents and purposes, considered neighbours, it was still a half hour ride to his estate.
Dragonstone.
Her skin prickled at the mere thought of it.
She'd never seen it before. Nor had any of her family.
All she knew was that it was often clouded in fog, that when you stood at the front gates you could barely see the arching towards and dark brick in the distance anyway.
All she had heard was what people said.
That it was a frightful, maze of a place. With winding corridors and crooked doorways, and barely any servants.
He was a rich man, why not employ more?
He did not say a word the entire way home. He only sat, cross legged, and fiddle with his fingers like he was nervous. Turning them over in micro-movements.
Don't speak unless spoken to.
As Dragonstone came into view once they crossed the boundary of the iron gates, she felt her breath taken away.
And it was only when Aemond assisted her with a hand as she stepped down from the carriage that she could really appreciate the sheer size of his estate.
It was so big it was beyond comprehension.
She briefly wondered if she would get lost in such a place.
"Cole will bring your things to our room"
Her heart started to flutter, and pitter patter all at the same time.
Our room.
She had almost forgotten her one wifely duty she was to fulfil this evening.
To appease him.
The thought made a sort of tightness in her belly, though she was unsure why. Of course, her elder sister had divulged her own horror story of her wedding night. Though her sister was twenty and she herself only five and ten at the time, the nitty gritty was of great curiosity to her.
"For several hours the poor thing just cried and it rather spoiled the mood. Turned out that he had…pleased himself the morning of the wedding so as not to become too excited when the evening rolled around.
Oh well, no matter. Instead, when he had a rather excited visitor the next morning he crawled atop me and breathed heavily into my neck while he tried to get it inside me. 'Twas over in an instant dear sister and I did not feel a thing".
Though the anecdote was funny, although awkward seeing as she sat next to her brother-in-law the next morning and tried not to giggle, right now, it did little to quell the gnawing inside her.
Aemond did not seem as quiet and unsure of himself as her brother-in-law was. She doubted a man of his standing would have any issue fulfilling his role as a husband.
As he had done, six times before.
Which triggered yet another question.
Why no children? Surely all six of his previous wives could not have been barren?
Did they commit suicide? Ashamed of themselves for failing to fulfil this task? Were they all mere accidents? Or did someone break in at night to steal his plethora of fine jewels and artefacts and run into one of his unfortunate wives along the way?
It seemed entirely impossible.
She watched Aemond walk confidently to the front doors, where a couple of servants stood to greet the new Lady of Dragonstone. His coat fluttered around his thighs as he turned, the ends of his silver hair hung like they were floating.
"Wife. May I introduce you to the staff. Anything you so wish, please do not hesitate to ask them"
The two servants stood, hands clasped, looking entirely scared stiff. One was a middle aged man with an apron dirtied at the edges, and the other a maid, barely five and twenty, who offered her a polite curtsy.
She simply smiled at them, "a pleasure".
They said nothing.
There was something melancholic. Ancient. And crushing about Dragonstone.
She felt the weight on her shoulders the moment she passed those gates. Did they feel it too?
Did Aemond?
This was the only moment he seemed to smile, as miniscule as it was with a darkened gaze, was when he turned to look at his new wife and nodded.
"If you will forgive me, I have some business to attend to. I will see you tonight for supper"
His expression never wavered, even as he bent at the middle to press his lips to her hand, above the ring he had placed on her finger not a few hours before.
The servants quickly scuttled out of her sight and so she thought to amuse herself by exploring her new home. Out of habit, she started upstairs, going straight to her bedroom to inspect.
There was a large four poster bed made of what appeared to be walnut in the middle of the room, with various ornaments strewn about, but very little to suggest that he actually relaxed in here.
There were no mementos, keepsakes, and she thought briefly she couldn't get a grasp on his personality this way either.
She blushed and felt that tightness again at the thought of sharing a bed with him, of what they might have to do.
The rest of the house was indicative of the first room she ventured to. Lacking a certain personality she was sure existed in her new husband but one he refused to show.
The estate was cold and empty, with flagstone floors stretching along the long dark hallways.
There were so many doors it was difficult to know what on earth could be behind all of them. She'd so far discovered the Library, the Dining Room and even happened upon the scullery rather by accident.
And then, one room…
It had a oxblood red door, worn around the edges and the colour faded somewhat. She noted the scuff marks around the handle and the hinges, as well as the stone beneath the door where overtime, footsteps had worn it down.
So she was doubly surprised to find the door locked.
Curious.
Her skin prickled, and she was sure for a moment that she saw her own misty breath. Like that feeling that someone is watching you but you are too afraid to move an inch. The tips of her fingers suddenly felt numb.
She felt it on her neck, an iciness.
But when she turned, her breath stuck in her chest from panic, she could only see nothing but the empty corridor.
And all was silent.
There was a heaviness in her chest which seemed to pass through her like trying to walk through honey, trying to pull your feet up just an inch to step forward.
And as quickly as that feeling came, it was gone and she turned back in panic once she heard soft, careful footsteps behind the oxblood door.
She clenched and unclenched her fists in fear, trying to reason with herself.
Undeniable footsteps, ones that had started at the threshold and we're now walking slowly away from her.
The blood rushed warmly back into her fingertips, and she rubbed them painfully against her navy dress, trying to will a feeling back into them.
Footsteps…
She only heard her own as she hurried down the corridor again, her shoes clocking against the flagstone.
So desperate to get away from that heavy, morbid feeling that she nearly hurtled right into the young maid.
"My Lady!"
"I do apologise" she uttered immediately, her chest pushing against her bodice with her hurried breath, "I was not looking where I was going".
The maid curtsied, as if she'd forgotten to and straightened, "Supper is to be served, my Lady. May I-"
"What is that room? Down the hall?" She asked.
The maid raised her eyebrows, "Which one, my Lady?"
She turned her head down the hallway once again to point to the one she meant, and her words died on her lips.
The door moved.
It was unmistakable.
The shadow where the door was leant ajar quickly disappeared, and the frame was filled once more by the large wooden slat against it.
There was no click of a lock to be heard.
She was so afraid she lost herself for a moment. Going all pale. So much so the maid had to prompt her.
"My Lady?"
She shook her head, looking back to see if the door would move again, and drift open as it had before.
But it never did.
And the thought that as she was running away before, the door was slowly inching open, scared her beyond belief.
"It's nothing, I apologise" she said quickly, "Supper, thank you".
There was nothing of note for the rest of the evening.
Supper was quiet. And the table was so long with husband and wife sat at either end, that they may as well have been in separate rooms while they ate.
It was nice enough food she was grateful for that. A selection of soups and meats, and breads to fill her belly between courses.
He did not speak.
He barely moved any other muscle than his arm to fork the meat into his mouth. She watched him every now and then, over the barely dancing flame of the candelabra, otherwise the room would be completely dark.
So she drank her wine, and stayed silent. Waiting to be spoken to.
The only thing he said was right at the end.
"Shall we retire for bed, wife?"
And she could not very well say no.
She made brief eye contact with the maid as she followed her husband to the grand staircase, each step feeling heavier and more nerve-wracking than the last.
Her husband was tall, broad and she had no doubt be enjoyed the domineering aura he gave off. Judging by the dark colours of his waistcoat and trousers, as well as the leather eyepatch over one eye, he enjoyed inhabiting darkness.
She thought with some amusement that the only bright things about him were his hair and eyes.
Things he could not change.
He was certainly a marvel of a man. And truthfully, she should count herself lucky that he is at least somewhat close to her in age.
Aemond closed the door softly once they were both inside. The curtains were now drawn, and the room was filled with an amber glow from the candles the maid had lit for them.
She needn't ask him for help, for her new husband immediately stood behind her, and began to unlace her dress as if they had been married an age.
His movements were so sure. And she felt with jealousy of some kind that he had done this with six other women before her.
No wonder he was practiced.
There was no room for romance when to him, it was all just a matter of duty.
She stood only in her chemise, having pulled her hair free of her braids, feeling his gaze the entire time.
"Are you intent on remaining silent, wife?" He asked, and she heard him pull off his waistcoat with every pop of his buttons.
"Or might you become more vocal in the marriage bed?"
She felt her cheeks flush and thickness in her throat. Inadvertently pressing her legs together where a sort of excitement was blooming.
"I could not say…" she answered.
And chuckled lowly, pressing his front to her back, dragging his nose up the side of her neck, just as she had seen before.
She felt something hard press against her backside, his hips pushing it against her and moving softly, creating just a tiny bit of friction.
"Tell me" he muttered, his lips tickling her ear, "tell me what a good wife does"
She was suddenly nervous, thinking about what other people had told her.
And it was increasingly difficult to think, with his large hands pulling her chemise off her body.
"A good wife…is loyal to her husband" she recited, her breath coming in short pants, "she is…loving"
He blew air from his nose, like he was amused.
"..and she is obedient"
"That's it"
Aemond peeled the chemise off her, letting it drift to the floor.
"A good wife makes herself available to her husband"
She gasped and he revelled in it, as he pushed her newly naked body onto the bed, her body sinking into the mattress and watching as her husband bared himself one button at a time.
"Of course. There a many other wifely duties" he grinned.
His fingers moved to his trousers.
"But for now, I only care about this one".
Being touched all over was strange. There was a dull ache in her core when her husband touched certain areas, a feeling that she didn't recognise.
Her confused and somewhat distressed face at the whole ordeal was endearing to him.
Her young, plump face looked up at him with gleaming eyes and shame arched in her eyebrows.
It hurt. Not as greatly as she thought. But it still did.
"Close your eyes. It will be over soon"
She did as he said, turning her face away. But it was not over soon.
His member throbbed inside her, and she thought she'd never felt more full in her life. Since closing her eyes, she could not see the way his hair began to tangle around him, as his hips chased hers and came against hers with a soft smack.
The pain gave way to another feeling still.
That same ache she felt when he'd touched her.
Aemond smirked when he saw the confused, ashamed expression on her face. At the way she pressed her lips together.
"I think you are enjoying this" he murmured lowly, pushing harder into her like he was intent in piercing her stomach, "if I did not know any better, you would almost be moaning".
She didn't want it to feel good.
Or did she.
It felt wrong.
And yet she couldn't deny when he raised her thighs, his fingers wrapped into her flesh, it did feel good.
"Look at me" he whispered, never stopping, "Look at your husband, who is giving you pleasure"
Some excitement sparked inside him, when she didn't do as he asked, her warm embarrassed face pressed into the sheets as much as she could. Her eyes closed.
He laughed when she refused.
"Yes - you feel it, do you not? No need to act all coy. I can feel your body's response"
Shame crept into her body, her limbs going all tight just as he'd said. Feeling herself hit that irreplaceable point, she simply whimpered and felt his length throb once more before he spilled inside of her, releasing all he had to give.
She thought with lewdness, that his spend was warm inside her.
Aemond seemed to take great pleasure in making his wife shrink into herself with embarrassment and shame every time they coupled. He loved that doe eyed look she gave him, as if he did not have his cock buried between her legs every night he could since the wedding.
He would have her any way. Fully clothed if the moment presented itself.
There was something erotic about taking something that looked so innocent and filling her with his spend. How she would act all coy, with it dripping down her thighs.
He delighted in the fact that he had managed to kidnap this sweet young thing, and use her for himself and his pleasure any moment he was able. And the month that passed since the wedding, he could not think of a time that was sweeter.
So it was with great irritation that he was called to King's Landing. Some business with his brother that apparently couldn't wait.
He did not want to leave her.
He spoke firmly, stood before the oxblood door in his travel wear.
"While I am away, you must not enter this room. Do you understand?"
When she nodded without asking why, he smiled in pride and placed the master key in her small palm. Entrusting that she would do as she had promised in his absence.
He thought he'd reward her when he returned, by fucking her in the comfort of their bed sheets, until she was pink in the faxe and begging him to stop. Just as he liked her to be.
As soon as her husband left, she felt even more that she was being watched. All the little hairs on the back of her neck pointed upwards.
The maid kept clear of her, which was nothing unusual. But it was almost as if she was escaping rooms before she herself knew why. As if she knew what invaded the invisible space within them as soon as her back was turned.
Did she hear the voices too? See the dark figures and closing doors?
Anytime she passed the long dark hallway to the oxblood door, she felt her curiosity grow tenfold. But also a sense of dread, heavy in her gut, tugging her back to this wretched place.
What could be behind the door, that her husband wished not for her to see?
In the Library, the fire crackled comfortably as she turned the faded pages of her book. The maid busied herself collecting the dirtied saucers and teacups beside her, humming to herself gently.
The air suddenly went cold around her neck, and a breeze passed, evident by the dangling of her earrings. It was not only her imagination.
"A golden key. Oxblood door. Give the six souls rest, sweet child"
She looked up at the maid, "I am sorry, did you say something?"
The maid straightened and shook her head quickly, eyebrows arched in confusion, "No, my Lady"
Why did the maid always flee like that? Like someone was chasing her? With their claws at her back like an animal in the forest?
The key was ornate, with winding patterns and several notches at the top. And when she held it in her small palm, it felt hot to the touch like an iron rod.
Aemond would punish her.
How? She did not know.
She slotted the key into the door, without the energy to turn it. And her limbs felt heavy, and her knuckles cold, like someone was pushing on it. Forcing her will.
"That's right. Insert the key into the keyhole, and turn…"
A voice echoed off the stone.
A low, sweet, mature voice.
Click.
The oxblood door gave way to light, torches lit at every corner, illuminating the oxblood colour of the floor before her.
A step down.
The floor rippled like liquid.
"Our souls…"
Her shoe was slick with something oily that clung to the suede. Irreparably staining them.
Her skin prickled. Vomit bubbled at the back of her throat.
Six torch-lit figures reflected in the blood on the flagstone floor.
Hung, wrists bound over their head. White skulls in various stages of deterioration, with strings of what was once luscious hair drifting past their bony shoulders.
She saw with dread, they were still wearing dresses that hung off their ivory skeletons.
She was sure she collapsed with grief, a scream echoing around her that did not feel like her own. The only sound she registered was the clanging of the key as she dropped it in shock, blood of Aemond's ex-wives enveloping the brass.
Her throat felt sore.
She watched their empty eye sockets. The dust over their bound hands and their feet as they dangled inches off the floor.
Breath hot in her lungs like she was clinging to life as she knew it, she scrambled for the key and pulled the door shut behind her with a mighty boom.
Darkness crawled up her skin, now that she knew what was behind it.
Was this her fate?
If she displeased him, would she be their successor?
She was sat, with head in hand, in a state of complete distress with sweat on her brow and neck as Aemond returned.
She had paced the room for hours she felt, wringing her hands, as if to find what she might say to him on his arrival. He'd see it on her face.
He would know she had seen the corpses of his precious wives on her soft, innocent features. Scarred forever by death.
His tall, broad form filled the doorframe. And he dropped his coat onto the bed with a tired huff, but said nothing.
She almost wished he would say something. To spare her this horrible anticipation.
But she watched as he took two careful steps in. His one eye flitting over to the key he'd left her on the bureau.
The blood had not lifted from the brass. She could not wash it. No matter how much time she committed to it, it would not become clean.
Her husband looked back at her like she was something to eat, his eye half open with only half his iris visible.
She sobbed and cried when he advanced and held her to the wall by her neck with ease, slamming her small body against it.
"You thought you would get away without punishment, hm?"
She sobbed like a child, her tears wetting her cheeks and neck, to his fingers. Her own tried to pry his away, feeling that he was hurting her effortlessly with his grip around her throat.
"Please…husband…"
He could have laughed.
"Now is no time for begging. Tell me, how should I punish you, wife?, he grinned widely, his tone low and condescending as he spoke to the small woman before him.
"Please…you may do as you like with me - just first, let me pray-" she begged with a hoarse, tired voice. Never feeling that she could be scared of him in this way.
He pulled his head away, looking down at her past his nose, his lips tight.
She felt his grip loosen, but the places where his fingers had been were sore and red.
"I shall do as I please. But since you asked so nicely to pray. I shall let you"
She felt herself breathing like she was swallowing fire a she stepped out the door, allowing her privacy to pray before he inevitably drove a dagger through her, or something of the like.
She rushed to the master key and locked the door with a quick slam and click, locking her husband out and flinching when his palms pushed with urgency on the other side. Rapping on the wood like an animal who couldn't see their prey.
She had no intention of praying.
"Open this door! Now!"
Her eyes scanned the room anxiously and with urgency. She felt her fingers shaking as he pushed the window open, looking down at the great height she would have to jump to escape him.
A sure death.
She clambered over the bureau, her knees knocking painfully on the wood as she advanced in a panicked state towards the ledge.
Her brother.
If she could just escape to him.
He would save her.
A clang of metal rattled against the floor as her husband, as strong as she was, sent the door flinging off the hinges. His large arms wrapped around her waist as she writhed, fearing her life. Expecting a blade to her neck. Or perhaps to be dragged to the oxblood door, to never return.
"Husband - please - have mercy-"
"It is too late for 'please'. It is time for you to feel the consequence of your actions"
She struggled so much, he tackled her to the floor, holding both her forearms behind her back in one hand, pushing her front to the cold stone floor, her warm cheek moulding to the pattern of it.
"I beg you - have mercy and kill me quickly-"
Her tears wet her face entirely, feeling his body over her back, pressing his hips into her backside, letting her feel his wrath.
"Mercy?" He chuckled darkly, "why would I show the likes of you mercy?"
"You who I have treated with care and respect. You who has disobeyed me"
"My Lady shall learn this lesson now"
His voice was dark and low, and it scared her more than the whisperings of the paranormal and the sight of what was behind the oxblood door.
She panicked with a warm face as he rucked up her skirts to her waist, flinching when she felt two of his thick fingers swipe across her hot centre while he continued to hold her down.
"I do not often take pleasure in teaching my wife a lesson. But, for you, I shall make an exception"
She pressed her lips together, not wanting to anger him with her whimpers and whines as she felt him slide his trousers down and rub his hot, throbbing member, ready and waiting for her, against her cunt, collecting her wetness on his length for ease of entry.
He sighed longingly, his breath tickling her neck, his eyelashes fluttering against her jaw.
She choked on her breath as he slid into her, his fingers holding her hips desperately to widen her legs to accommodate him deeper inside her.
"None of them were worthy - fucking none of them -" he breathed, his breath hitching with each soft smack of his hips against her, stretching her walls to the shape and size of him and groaning at the way her hot insides parted.
"Do you wish me to give you a child, hm? None of them - fuck - none of them could give me what you do-"
She whimpered, feeling his length fill her repeatedly and bully the end of her, each blow against that rough spot inside increasingly making her shame and despair at his use of her body ebb away into a forbidden and unknown feeling.
"If you do not behave, you will not be allowed that pleasure" he muttered, his breath coming in short bursts, his thrusts as well becoming sloppy and unconfident.
Her gut warmed with his length piercing her insides. And she felt as though she was missing something he was telling her in his own way. Eyebrows arched in confusion.
Even now, while he fucked her on the floor, she felt afraid for her life.
"Oh, little one, I am almost disappointed that it took so long for you to realise that I do not intend to kill you.”
Her wet eyes cracked open to turn her head in discomfort to him. Her cheek rubbing against the stone floor as he pulled her hips up to fuck her deeper.
"No. You shall give me children. Many of them if you wish to please me"
She tightened around him completely out of instinct, and Aemond groaned loudly above her, pushing his chest so hard against her back she felt she might break.
And her hands clenched into fists, absentmindedly pushing her hips back to him to chase the remnants of that sweet rapture she was sometimes awarded when coupling with him.
A sweet escape from this prison.
He laughed, when he realised that she was quite resigned to her fate.
That she, compared to his other wives, was finally worthy of giving him children. Of satiating his desire to dominate a woman so easily. How he enjoyed watching the look of shame and pleasure on her face, as she battled with herself to submit to him or not.
He slammed with a wet squelch back into her again, filling her with his warmth with a long, shuddered groan. His grip so hard around her forearm, she was sure blood did not reach her hands.
He continued to move shallowly into her, pushing his spend as deep inside her as it would go. As if, whether she wanted to or not, he would fuck his child into her and watch her grow fat and round.
And then, once she had one, would fuck yet another into her.
Her breath came fast and hot from her swollen lips as she trembled around him, unknowingly prolonging his pleasure inside her.
His lips brushed against her ear.
"No other words before I begin?"
It was difficult with her head pushed against the floor, but she nodded softly in confirmation. Relief flooding her as she saw her husband's smirk rise to his lips, both his hands dropping to her hips to tug her back onto his length.
"Then let us begin"
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barbieaemond · 5 months
Text
Iron on Silk
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Pairings: Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader
Warnings: mild angst at the beginning, definitely angst at the end, smut, oral sex (f and m receiving), choking, fingering, p in v, war dirtytalk.
Word count: 3.2k
Author's note: This was my little gift to you for the Aemondsversary. And it's still a gift now, for thanking you for 500 followers in such a short time since I remade my blog. There's a filthy extra in this filthy piece. Enjoy! :)
MASTERLIST
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He wears it proudly. He wears it cruelly. It falls on his head like a halo, holy and dark. Black iron on white silk, and little stars of blood.
The crown is heavy with conquest, with tyranny, with the fire that forged it and the blood shed in its name.
"It looks better on me than it ever did on him."
It is true enough, but it does not make it any less heavy. He hides it well, but you can see it, as if looking down at a thick layer of ice, still and cold, and seeing the raging abyss underneath.
You can hear it in his deep sigh, even more in his short ones, when blinding rage is gaping its jaws to swallow reason.
You can feel it in the way he fucks you every night. Relentless. Ruthless. Merciless.
Hopeless.
Desperate to shake it off, to shake off the burden—the crown's burden, the death's burden. The one he lashed out on his family, the one who took Jaehaerys’ life, and Helaena’s. For Helaena is good as dead.
You tend to her every morning, at least you try. You try to get her to take a bath, to hold Maelor. Maelor, who cries and looks for his mother. Maelor who laughs and looks for his mother. You look at her and see her ghost while she still breathes. You look at the Queen Mother and see a shadow of flesh.
You look at him sitting in the Small Council, wearing iron on silk, and see a crown of thorns piercing through the skull.
“Does it hurt, my love?” you ask in the empty room while he strokes the skin around the sapphire. He mumbles something in return, and you walk to his seat at the end of the table, leaning your low back against it.
“No.” you say quietly “I meant the crown.”
He looks up and just stares at you, jaw clenched to trap words, the storm in his eye bubbling up from the depths.
“I have a war to plot.” He says, and that’s all he’s been saying for days.
“You have done nothing else. You look at your Lords and wait for a stab at your back. You look at our bed and see a battlefield. You lay with me holding a knife to my throat.”
He rests his lean shoulders against the seat and the wrinkles on his forehead unfold. "Tis' the first time I hear you complain about my marital duties." he says tilting his head with a cruel grin "It didn't seem much of a burden when you begged for more right after I spilled in your mouth last night." 
"Must it always come back to duty? If I wanted to spread my legs for a cock to warm me every night, I would've thrived in any brothel of Flee Bottom."
He laughs at this, but it comes out wrong, like a rusted gear, oiled too little. "Such lewd words for a Queen."
“Is that what I am?” You ask with a half-teasing smile “I thought you chose not to style yourself as King.”
“Hmm.” he muses, taking hold of your waist with his long fingers, to pull you to him. “I am wearing the Crown, am I not?”
You lean over him, placing your hands on his shoulders, looking at the sharp black edges cutting the soft white silk, wondering how it could have fallen on his head by mistake when it seems that the Gods have always meant to place it there.
Your back collides against the table and you slowly hop on it, your gaze fixed on him, whose eye widens slightly, mesmerized and thrilled. A rustling of paper fills the room, and he looks at the table and then back at you, lips curling up.
“Those are my war plans.”
“It seems my husband is not capable of talking about anything else these days. Fine, then.” You incline your head, mirroring his smile “Tell me about your war.”
He remains still and quiet for so long, looking at you with that glint you know so well, so much that your chest goes up and down fast, and his hands are not anywhere near you.
But then he stands up, forcing you to raise your chin, and leans over you, slowly, silky hair tickling your chest. “It seems my wife is in need of some warfare lessons.” he whispers, ghosting his lips against yours, and you eagerly part them to kiss him.
“Ah.” he counters, pulling his head back with a sly grin “First, we need to ensure our armies are ready.” his deft and long fingers climb on your corset and he starts to pull harshly at the laces, making you jump twice.
“What if someone enters?” you ask, as shivers run down your back like ice drops.
“Indeed, what if someone enters?” he turns your question around and stops his unlacing, challenge and hunger dance on his lips.
“Then you tell them you are the King and the King can fuck his Queen wherever he wishes to.”
His eye blazes under the candles, and after a moment of trepid silence, he brings both his hands to your corset, and with a swift and strong move he rips it apart.
You fall with your back on the table, your breasts are out, nipples hardening for the cold air and the arousal slowly coiling in your belly. He grabs your ankles and pulls you close to him, making you slide on the table to tie your legs around his waist.
You pull yourself up, holding onto your elbows and frantically reach for his belt but he stops your wrists. “Alreay eager to surrender?” he hums with amusement, eye roaming on your exposed body and the hold on your wrists grows impossibly tight, hurting. “If you were in charge, we would lose the war within a day.”
“Or win it.” you suggest, tightening your legs around him until you feel his hardening crotch, winning a quiet whimper from his throat. “Women could end any kind of war, my King. We own the most powerful weapon.”
“Say it again.” he orders, hands hiking up your skirt until it’s nothing more than a heap of fabric around your waist.
“My King.” You say, shuddering as his long fingers hover on your thighs, almost tickling—a gentle touch born out of so much violence.
“Again.”
“My—King.” The words come out wrong, broken by a soft gasp as his fingers unexpectedly breach your walls. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel him go deep inside, deeper than ever, and your mouth falls open.
“You are not so bold about your weapon now, are you?” he asks with a tone ridden with cruel enjoyment.
“Tis’ unfair.” You mumble, resting your head on the table.
“There is no fairness in war, my love.” he says, looking down at your damp flesh and how it clenches endlessly on his hand, and he watches and watches, wetting his lips as if pondering which move to strike on a war map. “It’s best not to be caught…unprepared when you expect an assault from your enemy. Do you know why?”
You whine quietly, biting your lip as he pumps his fingers deeper and deeper and his thumb draws circles on your apex. He does not accept that as an answer, so he slides out, and his large hand grabs your core, fully and almost painfully. “I said, do you know why?”
His tone is demanding, words laced with thunder as he does when commanding the Lords. “Why?”
“Because” he says lessening the grip on you “you give open field for what comes next.”
Air feels scorching in your throat as you look at him, black and silver and blue.
“What comes next?”
He grins like the most ruthless general at the front, the one who takes no prisoners and wipes the bloodied sword on his green cloak. “Siege.”
In a blink, your legs go up on his shoulders, a frame of flesh around iron, silk and sapphire.
He takes his seat again as if sitting down to feast, and you lift your head, breathing hard with anticipation, meeting his eye as his face hovers over your center, feeling his scorching breath lighting a fuse that quickly burns away every rational thought left in your head, if there ever was one since he touched you.
“Aemond, please…” you beg shamelessly, hands flying down to touch him, to bring his head closer and closer.
But he grabs your wrists and holds them still on your stomach. “Call me properly.”
“Please…” you say with your voice cracking, like the nerves in your neck because you can't stop looking at him “Please, my King.”
“Do you know how to conduct a siege?” he is speaking so close to your apex that you can feel his voice reverberating through your skin long before hearing it. “You strike first, hard. And then you wait, watching your enemy starve to death, until they surrender.”
He puts his words into practice by running his tongue flat on your folds and then he is sucking, hard, so hard you fear he is about to devour you.
He moans contentedly, closing his eye for a moment as his jaw moves nimbly and his tongue pierces inside. Your head falls back and you cry so loud you are sure the guards outside are aware of what's happening in the Small Council room.
Just when your hips are beginning to rock on their own against his face, feeling the bone of his long nose, he licks a long stripe and then pulls back.
You raise your head with a sound of protest, but his hands are still pinning your wrists like iron chains, and he is looking at you with a victorious smile, face all wet. And he licks his lips, thoroughly. "If only my enemies tasted half as sweet as your cunt."
With cruel delight, he watches you writhe beneath his hands, breathing hard and unconsciously rocking your hips on nothing to soothe the painful ache between your legs.
“Perhaps I should say mine by now.” he ponders, roaming his gaze on your whole body “This siege seems to be surprisingly short. Do you wish to surrender, my Queen?”
“Yes. Yes, I surrender.” And you press your ankles on his shoulders, hands desperate to free from his hold and seize him, to force him to seize you.
He finally releases your hands and stands up, your legs sliding down and your hands going to his breeches. You pull two laces, but then your right hand locks on his wrist as you see him about to take the crown off his head.
"No, keep it."
His eye turns pitch black, making a deadly contrast with the sparkling blue of the sapphire, and your hands go back to the laces, pulling quickly until you have just enough room to slip your hand in and grab his hard cock.
His lips twitch as pleasure makes his head numb, makes his limbs heavy and his blood boiling and falling down, right where you can feel it, harder than the iron resting on silk. You feel his breath changing with every stroke of your palm, his waist moving almost imperceptibly as he chases your skin, like falling into the warm embrace of a siren’s chant.
The sight only makes you smile, though it stokes your ache for him so much that you mirror his heavy and slow breaths. “Who’s besieging who now?” you point out, almost regretting it when he grabs your neck, squeezing lightly with a dark promise curling his smirk.
“This is your lesson, not mine.” He declares, despite the labored breathing.
You swallow, quietly gasping for air as you look at him.
“Who told you to stop?” he asks, with the same cold purpose he questions the up-and-coming Lords who seek council in that very room, tightening the grip on your throat, almost relishing in the choked sound that escapes your lips.
“Did you forget, sweet girl? You surrendered.” His eye lingers on every detail on your face, and his free hand flies through your hair, tucking a lock behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, almost delicate, the opposite of the hold of steel around your throat. Hostility and devotion doomed to a ceaseless chase to purge one another.
“Siege is over.” He says, sliding his hand up your chin “Now it’s time to claim.” two of his long fingers breach into your mouth, grazing your tongue, and you sense the faint taste of yourself. “There will be some fool who will rebel against the new order. But the rest? They will kneel before their new King.” he leaves your mouth only to grab you by your cheeks, angling your head so he’s whispering to your ear “And who will you be, my dear wife? A fool on a spike or a dutiful subject?”
You recognize that tone, playful but dangerous—the one that will make you wonder if the next grip will be hostile devotion or the opposite. “What if I’m both?” you whisper, moving your head so you can look at him once more. “What if I want to serve you and die by your hand?”
“Then kneel.” He orders, but in your ears is the sweetest death sentence.
His eye glints as soon as your knees hit the ground; it thrills him, it always does, to have you like this and he’s not shy about showing it, for how his chest heaves more and more rapidly as you part your lips to pledge to him.
“No.” he croaks, almost sneeringly given the trepidation pulling his bones so taut, so close to snap. “Look at me and speak the words.”  
“I pledge my allegiance to you, your Grace. I vow to honor and serve you until the last of my days." you swear and there's no acting in it. "Long may he reign.”
Your mouth closes around him and he gasps deeply, jaw falling slack as he looks down, at your lips so perfectly laced around the tip, at your eyes looking up with devotion, no hostility. Never. “Gods, you are so beautiful like this.” He pants, pulling your hair away from your forehead and immediately thrusting his hips so you can take all of it, up to the base.
It's a matter of moments before his hand tangles in your hair, pulling and pushing slightly to give you a steady pace that leaves you breathless and gasping for air. It doesn’t matter though, not when his eye almost rolls back for the pleasure you’re giving him, not when he’s so lost for words that he has not even breath for his snarky remarks. He just moans and groans like a primitive beast, thrusting his cock as deep as he can, growling when you hollow your cheeks around his wet and hard flesh.
Suddenly he tugs at your hair harshly, pulling away as you recline your head to look at him, mouth open to catch your breath. “Why?” you whisper, panting “Did I not serve you well, my King?”
He helps you get up only to make you sit on the Small Council table once again. “You served me exceptionally well, my love. But you will serve me even better by taking my seed into your sweet cunt.”
He hikes up your skirts and revels in the way you spread your legs for him. “Do you wish for a King to fuck you?”
“Not a king, no. My King.”
“I shall do more than that.” He says, panting slowly, eye all foggy but urgent with pleasure, and he takes your face, cradling it between his hands. “I shall put a child inside of you, to strengthen the Crown and see you swell with my offspring.”
“Here?” You tease “On your war maps?”
“Fuck the war.” His delicate hold turns to iron, and then he’s kissing you, as he always does, harshly, smothering, slumping his tongue into your throat.
His hand moves yours away, and your jaw falls slack as he thrusts into you, sliding easily all the way in. You fasten an arm around his shoulders, your parted lips brushing against his, struggling to breathe. He ties your legs around his slender waist and climbs halfway up the table, leaning over you.
Papers rustle and fall to the floor, a sound soon covered by your flesh clashing hard against each other as he ruts into you, and you are utterly besieged. The air fills with moans and growls, and you are not sure whether it is him or you as you climb together toward the final peak.
"Look at me." He laces his fingers around your neck, squeezing lightly. "Look at your King."
You do as he asks, straining to keep your eyes open, frowning with painful pleasure. "Yes, like this, my good girl." He praises, panting loudly, "My Queen."
He thrusts even harder, sweat dampening your skin and his forehead, and he is the most beautiful and dreadful sight you have ever seen. Black iron and white silk, blue sapphire and fire, fire and fire.
"I want you to come with me." He whispers, grabbing your chin with his fingertips, his hand still clutching your throat. "Can you do that for me?"
"Y-yes." You manage to choke out, "Anything."
"My beautiful wife. So dutiful." he says laying wet kisses on your chest "So perfect for me."
His words, uttered so gently compared to the violence of his sieging thrusts, only pushes you up and up, staggering to not fall. "Aemond, I can't—" you whine, digging your nail into his shoulders "I can't last for long."
Your legs are trembling helplessly around his waist, but he fastens the grip on your throat, hard, making you gasp for air. “Hold it.” he orders, groaning because he’s close too, “Just a little more, my darling. I know you can take it.”
It is true, but it does not make the coiling pressure between your legs any less painful, beautiful and painful. He turns sloppy, panting and cursing each time more loudly while you whine, pleading under your breath for him to let you fall into a depth of bliss.
And finally, when your muscles were starting to ache for how much you were holding it back, you hear his breath change, slow and labored, and you know the end is near.
At last, he comes with a choked groan, making sure that not a drop of his seed goes to waste. And you are falling with him, spasming all around his waist, shoulders and cock.
His head falls on your chest, covered by silk and iron, and perhaps the crown has never been less of a burden as it is in this moment, while he rests against your collarbones, as a place where he can lie, or even die.
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When sunbeams filter through the bars of your cell, you look through them, though no heat is able to warm you anymore. Except for the life growing inside you.
From a distance, you hear a clamor of men in the courtyard, guards getting ready to carry out the sentence.
If you stand up on your toes, you can even catch a glimpse of the pike on which your head will be mounted in a few days, or perhaps a few moments.
It doesn't really matter.
You look at the puddle of mud on the ground and think of the lake.
You wonder if, at least under the Gods' Eye, the raging abyss beneath the ice has gone quiet, or if the waters have simply swallowed him.
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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]
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Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...
Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.
Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 5.3k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜
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Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 
You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.
“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”
“Hurry up.”
“You’re going to break my wrist—!”
He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”
He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.
What does he want from me?
Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.
To kill me?
But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.
To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?
Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…
Unless he knows who my father is.
You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.
Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.
There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.
He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.
“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”
“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”
Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”
He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.
“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.
You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”
“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.
The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.
“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.
“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”
“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”
Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.
Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.
“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.
Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.
“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”
“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”
“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.
“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”
The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”
Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”
They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”
He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”
“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”
Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”
“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”
“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.
“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?
“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.
“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”
“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.
“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”
“But he survived.”
“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”
The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.
“What’s it made from?” you say.
“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.
“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.
Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.
“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”
“Since the day he was born, I promised…”
“I know.”
“Your mother…”
“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”
As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.
“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”
“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.
There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”
House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”
He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”
You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”
The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”
“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”
“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.
Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.
You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”
They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.
Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.
My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.
In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.
And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.
~~~~~~~~~~
Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.
“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”
“Why not?”
Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”
“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”
“I like being useful.”
“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”
“He’s in pain?”
“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.
You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.
“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”
“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.
“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”
“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”
“Aegon—”
“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.
Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”
One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”
“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.
“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”
Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.
“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.
“You must,” Aemond says.
“What if it was Vhagar?”
“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”
Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”
No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”
Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”
“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.
Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”
“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”
Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”
Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”
“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.
“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.
Aemond does not understand. “See who?”
“Sunfyre.”
“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”
Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”
The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.
The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.
“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.
Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.
Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.
Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.
Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.
~~~~~~~~~~
The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.
“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.
“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.
“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”
A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”
“He has other things on his mind presently.”
“Like what?”
Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”
“He doesn’t like you?”
“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”
Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”
This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”
“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”
You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”
“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”
Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”
What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”
“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”
You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”
“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”
“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.
You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.
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alysrivrs · 7 months
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❛ ♡. gif credit. ⎯⎯ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍. ❜
★ ⎯⎯ prince aemond and his betrothed take a stroll together in the royal gardens, though a bit more happens on this ‘stroll’ than he had previously anticipated.
𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: i don’t really know what this is, but i was heavily caffeinated & wanted to write something with mostly fluff in it, so… happy reading & enjoy ! ♡
𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: mdni, suggestive themes, slightly dark!aemond, profanity, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, first kiss (reader), period-typical sexism, misogyny (women are more than breeding machines, aemond!), innocence kink, breeding kink, possessive & obsessive behavior, pet names, romance, fluff—any grammatical errors are my own -- in advance, i sincerely apologize.
𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 1.7k
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𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒.
aemond could recall the way you smelled by memory—like freshly ripened strawberries, white roses, sweetened vanilla, your hair was always luscious and soft, like the white satin dress you chose to wear today due to the summer heat in king’s landing.
or maybe, you wished to seek him out and gain more of his attention?
if aemond were to be honest with himself, it worked—oh, how it worked.
“tell me, darling—is the color of your lily-white dress an indication of your virtue?” he mused, causing your cheeks to flush and become dewy from the early afternoon sun, blooming flowers surrounding the two of you.
you couldn’t speak, too embarrassed by your betrothed’s sudden teasing—besides… how scandalous would it be if someone were to eavesdrop on your conversation with the one-eyed prince?
aemond smirked, amused by your shy reaction.
‘twas not as if you were in private, no—the prince demanded your presence once he had finished with his morning training, wishing to take you on a stroll in the royal gardens of the red keep, knowing how much you adored the sight of flowers.
still, no matter how scandalous your dress seemed to others, the heat in king’s landing was quite stifling—even more so with aemond carefully observing you, his amethyst eye sharp and intense as he walked alongside you, not paying any attention to the flowers around you both.
aemond was content to just simply gaze down at you, his own pretty, little flower—soon to blossom into a woman grown, as soon as he would take you under his protection as his lady wife, as far as traditions go.
he made you incredibly nervous—with his long strands of silver hair, his sharp yet handsome features, his prominent nose, his lithe but strong frame, his tall height (which towered over you), those soft, naturally curved lips of his… seven above, you could go on and on!
unbelievably, you seemed to have his full, undivided attention, which made your heart flutter—having the prince all to yourself?
you felt as if you were in some sort of dream—perhaps, you were.
especially with the way aemond treated you—respectful and kind, though you could always see a darkened gleam in his one-eye, as if he were holding himself back from something.
it made your soft, inner thighs slick with arousal—it also had you praying to the seven above each and every evening before bed, begging for forgiveness for your depraved thoughts of your betrothed.
in any case, aemond was much, much worse than you.
aemond could not seem to control himself around you, his cock hardening by the second the more he spent his time with you—alone.
“my sweet lady,” he murmured, interrupting your compliments of the colorful flowers, as he allowed you to do most of the talking as you two walked together, side by side.
aemond was never big on conversation, he never had been, preferring to stay silent and keep his thoughts concealed to himself, in fear of being mocked as he was when he was just a child.
you paused, looking up at the prince—his one natural eye was amethyst in color, the other a sparkling sapphire gem he’d stuffed into his left eye socket when he was just a boy, after his eye had been stolen by his bastard nephew.
however, as you looked up at aemond, there was only one word in your mind—beautiful.
still, he was touched that you didn’t seem afraid of him—in fact, you seemed greatly insulted when he would wear his leather eyepatch around you, claiming it unnecessary and that you wished to see your betrothed whole—every single inch of him.
perhaps, that was the moment aemond one-eye fell irrevocably in love with you.
a moment of silence passed—not uncomfortable, just two soon-to-be lovers gazing at each other.
“may i kiss you, my lady?” he questioned, watching your doe eyes widen, your pink, plump lips parting open slightly in surprise.
“k-kiss me?” you stammered, so sweet and innocent and his.
you didn’t have it in your heart to deny him—in fact, you wanted nothing more than to feel his plush, curved mouth upon yours—desperately.
you nodded, eagerly giving him your consent.
aemond chuckled, quiet and breathy, amused by your sudden eagerness—his shy girl no longer.
immediately, without waiting another second, the prince moved to cup the sides of your flushed face with both of his big, calloused hands, before bending his knees slightly and capturing your lips in a needy, passionate kiss—hearing you release a soft, breathy moan of bliss.
aemond hummed, pleased.
unexpectedly, you kissed him back with just as much enthusiasm, though a bit clumsy, making him think to himself that perhaps this was your first kiss—your first kiss with a man.
the thought excited aemond, which also caused his cock to ache with need—to feel your wet, tight little cunt wrapped around his cock, squeezing him like a vise, right before he would start fucking into your warmth at a frenzied pace, mad with lust for you.
you were a soft, sensitive little thing, with a heart made of glass, meant to be protected, loved, spoiled… and aemond was the perfect man for the role.
he’d cherish you like his queen, love you with every breath he took and beat of his heart—the kind of love that would be told for centuries to come—legendary.
after several seconds of growing accustomed to the way your lips molded together—so perfectly—aemond easily slipped his tongue into your mouth—exploring its delicious sweetness.
strawberries, white roses, and sweetened vanilla.
your scent, your taste—it all filled his senses, making his cock strain even more inside of his leather breeches, while he continuously kissed you more and more, like a man starved until he thought he could never stop.
clearly, you did not wish to stop either.
your soft hands clawed at his back, tugging on his long strands of silver hair, clinging to his lithe form with desperation—a need so strong, aemond had half the mind to bend you over the nearest bench, lift up your pretty, satin skirts and fuck you from behind like a wild beast in his rut.
after several longer moments, you pulled away, gasping for air, though your lips still continued to gently brush against his, both of you panting and sharing the same breath—lips kiss-swollen and desperate for more from one another.
aemond’s eyes were heavy lidded and filled with lust—his amethyst eye practically dilated black and his sparkling sapphire eye shining dangerously with the need to touch you, to fuck you, to spill his seed deep inside of your womb—so deep, you’d be carrying his son by morning.
nevertheless, aemond was a gentleman—he could be patient, though that didn’t stop his depraved thoughts of taking your maidenhead on your wedding night, which was quickly approaching by the days—thank the gods.
soon, you’d be his wife—his lady targaryen.
his and only his.
“perhaps, we s-should return b-back inside, my prince? ‘tis nearly lunchtime… the queen mother requested my presence—she wishes to go over the flower arrangements for our wedding,” you spoke breathlessly, your voice slightly shaky from the intensity of the kiss you both shared.
aemond hummed, nodding his head once in agreement, his face returning back to its usual stoic expression—though his cheeks were still tinted pink and his cock was surely leaking inside of his breeches now… as if he were a little boy once again!
how fucking ridiculous, that he had gotten hard after just simple kissing—however, technically it wasn’t just ‘simple kissing’, not when he was so hopelessly in love.
instantly, aemond offered you one of his lean arms, a silent offer to escort you to his dearest mother’s private solar… and maybe even indulge in some of the ladies newest gossip about your upcoming nuptials—if only to spend more time in your presence.
aemond could not give less of a fuck about what any of the simpering, aggravating noblewomen had to say or gossip about—he only cared for you and what you had to say.
therefore, he would endure the torturous boredom of the ladies of the court, even if he thought each and every single one of them were poisonous, nasty creatures.
be that as it may, aemond would only do such a thing to remain by your side for the rest of the day… and to harshly glare threateningly at any lady who even looked at you the wrong way.
it seemed, the longer aemond spent his time in your gentle presence, the more he grew obsessed—your beautiful and relaxing voice, your sweet smiles, your gentle touch, your naïveté.
seven hells, you were the most breathtaking creature he’s ever had the pleasure of seeing, even with only his one-eye.
when aemond did observe you, which was quite often now as he couldn’t bear to tear his eye away from you, he’d notice the little things about you—causing his world to stop and revolve only around you.
you, you, you.
snapping out of his lovesick thoughts, aemond glanced down at you as you looped your own arm around his offered one, making his blackened heart give a tiny flutter as you smiled so prettily up at him.
“shall we, my sweet lady?” he questioned, his voice a low rasp, controlled and steady, but he did try his best effort with being soft with you, not wanting to scare you off and have you believe the vile rumors spread about him from the court gossipers.
he knew he had quite the temper, the targaryen madness, they called it.
you giggled, “of course, my prince.”
fuck, aemond was quite certainly fucking doomed by having you as his future lady wife—so sweet, caring and loving, the way you seemed so docile and yearned for children of your own… you’d make a lovely mother to his sons, that he was certain.
just as a lovely mother to his future heirs, you’d also make the most perfect wife, he decided.
obedient, doting, gentle, tender and loving—aemond could not wait to make you his little wife, and have his firstborn son swelling inside of your womb.
until then, aemond would portray himself as the perfect gentleman (as usual)—that is, until your wedding night arrives.
fin
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percentstardust · 11 months
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gatekeeping my male muses for now on.
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valeskafics · 8 months
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"Seeds of Love" - Hades!Daemon Targaryen x Persephone!Reader
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a/n: the second installment of my greek gods/goddesses au! the next one will be hephaestus!aemond or dionysus!aegon 🤭
Summary: Daemon, the God of the Underworld, claims you, the sweet Goddess of Spring, for his own.
TW: dubcon, canon typical incest (reader is a velaryon), profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, abduction, fingering, oral f receiving, p in v sex, size kink/breeding kink if you squint
Word Count: 3,200 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
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Sometimes, Daemon loves his position as God of the Underworld. He is not tied to King’s Landing and all its politics, rather, he is free in his own domain. Perhaps it is a bit dark and a bit gloomy, full of the dead, of course, but it is his home. His kingdom. He was always meant to be a king, he thinks, and in a way, Viserys has given him that. So, he does his best to be grateful for the life he has been given.
However, there are days when even his three-headed dragon, Caraxes, is not enough to bring him joy, days where his nymph lover, Mysaria, is not enough to soothe the emptiness inside of him, the darkness that threatens to consume him whole. On those days, he travels to King’s Landing, walking through the gardens, the Kingswood, anywhere he can bask in the sun, if only for a moment.
It is on one of those days that he sees you for the first time. The Goddess of Spring, the sweet daughter of Corlys, the God of the Sea, and Rhaenys, the Goddess of the Harvest. From what Viserys has told him, your parents have kept you safely cloistered away, far from the eyes of any gods who may wish to claim you. The God of War, Aemond, and the God of Wealth and Luck, Jacaerys, both sought your hand but were swiftly denied by your mother, who went so far as to hide you on Dragonstone for a time, fearing that one of them would steal you away.
However, it would seem that you have returned to King’s Landing. Daemon remains in the shadows, watching as you walk, adorned in a dress of fine white silk, a symbol of your purity, flowers in your hair denoting your status as the Spring Goddess. He watches as you walk, flowers blooming everywhere you step. He cannot take his eyes off of you, admiring the way the sunlight glows on your skin, your dainty bare feet that prompt flowers to bloom, the curves of your body barely hidden beneath your dress…
Daemon watches as you enter the Kingswood, accompanied by your entourage of nymph attendants, one of whom begins braiding your hair. You look beautiful, he muses, as you braid one of the nymphs’ hair in return before turning your attention to weaving yourself a crown of flowers, specifically daffodils. Daemon notes with no small degree of delight that your mother is nowhere in sight. So, he approaches you, the nymphs scattering when they see him approaching, his presence formidable.
You, however, do not notice him at first, a fact which amuses him greatly. He takes a few steps closer before saying your name in a soft, almost whispering voice.
You turn to look at him, your lips parted in surprise, “Yes?”
He smiles at this, finding your reaction to his presence adorable. His violet eyes seem to almost pierce through you as he stands tall before you, taking another step closer, his gaze flickering down to your lips, so soft and so very kissable. He feels a heat growing in his chest, a desire to take you back with him to the Underworld and claim you for his own. However, seeing the trepidation in your gaze, he realizes he must be careful.
“You are the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld,” he says in a smooth baritone.
You stand up, backing away slightly, seeming to recognize him, “Does my mother know you are here, Prince Daemon?”
Daemon is not in the least bit put off by your reaction. In fact, he feels excited by it as he takes a step closer to you, his eyes greedily drinking in the sight of your curves as you move, so graceful and smooth.
“No, we happen to be away from your mother,” he says, not once looking away from you.
“Aren’t you meant to be in the Underworld?” you ask him, curious little thing that you are, gazing up at him, “Mother says you hardly come to the Keep.”
Daemon grins at you, moving in ever closer, “Sometimes I feel the urge to leave. To revel in the sun and its warmth. And when I do leave, I enjoy the company of beautiful women such as yourself.”
“She’ll be quite angry if she sees me talking with you,” you trail off, a bit uncertain as you continue moving away from him.
He continues walking toward you, slowly, almost like a lion getting ready to attack its prey, his gaze appraising you, “Why? Does your mother not trust her sweet daughter?”
“She trusts me,” you protest, your back hitting a tree, stopping you in place, “She says that it is men who cannot be trusted.”
Daemon’s grin grows wider at the realization that you cannot continue to move away from him. He moves closer to you, a primal urge deep inside of him taking control, a hunger growing in his stomach, though not for food. His eyes are filled with lust and his breathing grows heavier. He swears he can hear your heart beating just as fast as his.
“Does it not bother you to have people treat you like a fragile flower?”
You glower up at him slightly, bristling with annoyance, “I am a goddess. I am not fragile.”
Daemon enjoys the way you stand your ground, the fire in your eyes, as a mischievous smile graces his lips, “Oh, I know that, sweet one. The only fragile thing here is the restraint I am having to show in not just taking you and claiming you as my own.”
You arch a brow, crossing your arms and looking at him with an unimpressed expression, “I see why my mother says men are not to be trusted.”
He chuckles, loving the way you hold your own against him, your pride only further intriguing him, “That is a very narrow-minded thing for you to presume, my sweet, most men may be bad but not all. But,” he leans in close to you, his breath tickling your lips as he murmurs, “I do have bad intentions.”
You gaze up at him through your lashes and question, “And what bad intentions are those?”
Daemon’s eyes run the length of your body before returning to your eyes, then down to your lips, “My intentions are bad, wicked. Dark. I have never felt like this before, but right now I feel like I have to have you, no matter the cost.”
You are about to answer him when none other than your mother appears, giving Daemon a scathing look for having dared approach you. She drags you off, Daemon is sure, lecturing you all the way on the dangers of speaking to him. Yet, you turn and glance back at him over your shoulder, curious, as you disappear back into the Red Keep. Daemon’s gaze on you is hungry. You may have eluded him this time, but there will certainly be another day.
Daemon, for the first time in a long while, goes to Viserys, the God of Lightning, his dear older brother, for advice. And Viserys, happy to spite Rhaenys, is glad to give it. After all, a goddess of your age should not be sequestered away in the Red Keep, as far as he is concerned. So, the two hatch a plan, one that will ensure that Daemon gets what he wants.
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He finds you a few days later, gathering flowers, looking as beautiful as ever. He observes you for a few moments, the heat inside him rising to new heights. He thinks of the plan he and Viserys concocted, his blood feeling as though it is boiling beneath his skin. Daemon makes his approach, grabbing you by the hips from behind.
“Hello again, my beautiful goddess.”
You freeze in place, though not for fear of him, he realizes as you respond, “I am not supposed to speak to you.”
You turn to face him and Daemon stares you directly in the eyes, moving closer, “Your mother?”
“Yes,” you say, slowly backing away, dropping the flowers you were gathering.
There is something in your eyes that Daemon cannot quite put his finger on as he gazes at you. Curiosity? Or perhaps something akin to desire? He has every intention of finding out. He grabs your wrist, though not roughly, pulling you flush against his chest.
“I think you ought to learn to listen to how you feel rather than what others tell you,” he says, eyes darting between your lips and your beautiful eyes which continue to gaze at him.
That is when you hear it. A rumbling. You gasp, looking around as the ground begins to shake. And soon, a great chasm opens near where you and Daemon stand.
“What’s happening?” you breathe, panicked.
Daemon grins at you as he pulls you into his arms, dragging you down with him, murmuring into your ear, “You are coming with me, sweet flower.”
You close your eyes in fear as the two of you fall for what seems like an eon, but truly isn’t more than a few moments. When your eyes open, you realize where you are. Daemon’s domain. The Underworld. You look around, realizing you are on the bank of the River Styx, staring somewhat awed at the sight, only to panic once more when a restless spirit attempts to drag you into the dark waters. You yelp and cling to Daemon, your chest pressed against his side in a way that allows him to feel you in all your splendor.
Your sweet little noises excite the God of the Underworld even more as he holds you close, “Do not panic, little one. There is nothing to fear. I will take you to a place where no one will be able to find you, not even your mother. A place where you will be mine.”
You mumble under your breath, “I do not like it here…”
Daemon lifts your chin so that you meet his eyes, “You will soon,” he pauses before adding, “Have you any idea how badly I want you right now?”
You are about to answer when you are interrupted by a low growl, one that does not come from the man beside you. You all but shriek and grab onto Daemon even closer as his great three-headed beast, Caraxes, approaches, staring you down.
“Fear not, little one,” Daemon chuckles, “You are perfectly safe with me. Caraxes knows you are under my protection.”
As if on cue, Caraxes approaches you, one of his heads licking you playfully, the other nudging you, prompting you to laugh softly, resting your hand against his warm scales, “He… He is quite friendly.”
Daemon pats his third head, smirking, “See, my goddess? He likes you. Perhaps he knows you are meant to be my queen. Even he can feel the connection between us.”
You turn to Daemon as Caraxes wanders off, no doubt in search of food, and speak, “The Goddess of Spring is meant to remain untainted-”
Daemon raises an eyebrow, resting a hand against your face, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb, “Do you truly think you remain untainted, my sweet? You so enjoyed the attention I gave you in the woods, did you not?”
He places his free hand on your lower back, moving it upward until he reaches the end of your dress, his fingers tracing your bare skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He feels you shiver slightly, your body responding to his touch.
“I know you enjoyed my touch, your body responds to me in a way you cannot deny,” Daemon whispers, his thumb moving from your cheek to your lips.
They are so plump and soft that all Daemon can think about is kissing you, feeling your lips against his skin. You part them slightly and he moves his thumb between them, into your mouth. You gaze up at him in surprise, your lips closing around his thumb, suckling at it slightly. Daemon feels his breeches grow tight at the sight, loving the way you so naturally seem to know what it is he wants. He removes his hand, unable to rest any longer, pressing his lips to yours.
Daemon kisses you with an insatiable hunger, as though he wishes to devour your very being. And you do not wish to deny him. Your kiss is more shy, hesitant really, but you wrap your arms around him, returning his kiss with ardor. He bites your lower lip, just enough to get you to gasp and part your lips, his tongue moving into your mouth, dancing against your own as they meet. He picks you off the ground, carrying you off to his chambers, dropping you gently on the bed, staring down at you, his gaze ravenous, famished.
“But where will I sleep?” you ask curiously, looking around.
Daemon smirks, “Right here with me. We will do more than just sleep beside each other, however. You will be my wife.”
“My mother will never allow it,” you say, a bit bitterly as you watch him move to lay atop you on the bed.
Daemon smirks, “She will have no choice in the matter.”
He runs his hands down your sides, caressing your waist, down to your hips, then your thighs. Your back arches off the bed as you gaze up at him, entranced by his every move. You weakly protest that your parents will be furious but Daemon quells your fears with his lips against yours. Your body is so soft and supple against him, it drives him almost mad with want. He moves to kiss your neck, biting down on your soft skin, leaving his mark on you, evidence of his desire for you. His mouth moves toward your collarbone, your hands threading through his hair, nails raking against his scalp.
Daemon makes quick work of your dress, sliding it down your body, his eyes greedily drinking in each bit of your exposed skin, your bare breasts, your hips… He removes his tunic, smirking as your delicate hands reach for his breeches, unlacing them with haste. You take his cock in your hand, so long and thick and heavy. He throws his head back as you move your hand along his length, slow and curious, before gently pushing your hand away and pressing his lips to yours, wanting to feel you.
He moves his hand to the apex between your thighs as he kisses you, his fingers teasing your entrance before he pushes one in. You feel so tight around him that it’s almost hard to move when he adds a second finger, but he continues, reveling in the little mewls of pleasure. His mouth moves to take one of your pert nipples in his mouth as he adds a third finger, pumping them in and out of you at a languid pace, his tongue tracing over your sensitive bud as he gazes at you, his eyes hooded, pupils blown wide with lust.
He brings you to your peak, feeling your walls squeeze tight around him, soaking his fingers with evidence of your arousal. He soon replaces his fingers with his tongue, wanting to properly prepare you for the moment he takes you, lapping at your folds eagerly, keeping his eyes on you all the while. Your hands fly into his hair yet again, fingers twisting in his platinum locks, both wanting to push him away and pull him closer. He alternates between suckling at your pearl and licking and sucking your sensitive core, making you cry out his name, reaching your peak against him once more.
Daemon pulls back, his lips shining with evidence of your arousal as he moves up to kiss you again, making you taste yourself on his tongue. The sensation is erotic, to say the very least, and you moan against his lips, whimpering slightly as you feel him running the tip of his cock along your center, teasing you yet again. You squirm, slightly oversensitized by his previous ministrations, but that is long forgotten when he pushes himself inside you.
He fills you up so perfectly, and gods, the way he makes you feel when he begins rutting against you, the the head of his cock brushing against your sweet spot with every thrust, his lips attached to yours, hands holding yours, his thumb tracing over your pulse point in a gesture that feels so very intimate. He’s so big that it is almost painful, but not quite, all you can concentrate on is the mind-blowing pleasure he is giving you. He pushes your knees up to your chest, allowing him to fuck into you at a deeper, faster pace.
Daemon feels you squeezing around him, knowing your release is imminent, and moves his thumb to circle your pearl, your release triggering his own, as he spills his seed deep inside you. As he pulls out of you, he replaces his cock with his fingers, eager to make sure his seed takes, to breed you. And you simply smile at him, blissed out in your post orgasmic haze.
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Daemon makes the arrangements for you two to marry shortly thereafter, and as he said, you come to see the Underworld as your home. He has one of the minor goddesses, Alys, the Goddess of Magic, create a garden for you to tend so that you may be near your beloved flowers, something you find to be entirely thoughtful and romantic.
However, your blissful time as newlyweds is cut short when Viserys arrives with Rhaenys and Corlys on his heels, declaring that you must be returned to your parents, that Rhaenys has kept the mortal world in a perpetual state of winter, demanding your return.
You try your best to tell your parents that you love Daemon, that you want to be with him, but they refuse to listen. Your mind wanders to something Daemon had told you months ago, that if one partakes in food from the Underworld, they are bound to return, mortal and immortal alike. He never wished to trap you here, so he had Alys or one of the others go to procure you food from King’s Landing.
But you see a juicy, ripe pomegranate sitting on a plate before you, one that Daemon was just about to eat.
You look between your mother, her face stern as she stares back at you, and at Daemon, who seems entirely forlorn at the thought of you leaving him forever.
And so? You do the only thing you can think of.
You walk to your husband and take the pomegranate from his plate. You take a breath before biting into it, allowing the juices from it to drip down your chin, almost making it seem as though you are soaked in blood. And you kiss your husband once more, in full view of the Goddess of the Harvest, the God of the Sea, and the God of Lightning.
Never again will you allow your fate to be decided for you.
You have chosen him, and you would choose him again, given the chance.
Your Daemon, your husband.
Your king.
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