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blckfyres · 1 year

Note

Hi hi! Okay so those song prompts are magnificent. How about ‘17. And at once I knew, I was not magnificent - Holocene, Bon Iver’

It would be good to have something where Aemond l sees the reader for the first time at a ball or something and his own little view that he is superior to others comes crashing down because he is in absolute awe of her? Feel free to alter/tweak/change whatever!

thank you so much @littlemisscaptainfandom ! i ran wild with this one. feral. i love the idea of aemond being outplayed because of his smugness, and the ball idea - enjoy!

request a song prompt!

Magnificent

Warnings: Aemond being in deep denial lmao WC: 3333 (nice)

Prompt 17: "And at once I knew, I was not magnificent" - Holocene, Bon Iver

He heard you long before he saw you – the uneven heel clacking of a noble’s daughter who had shirked one too many dance lessons.

“No,” he heard a lilting voice laugh, impatiently. “Like this - right foot second, you dolt.”

Dolt indeed – the instruction was lost on the girl, whoever in the Seven she was. Yet another sacrificial lamb to lure the unwed dragon into marriage, no doubt. Even with one eye and a turned back, Aemond could practically smell her family’s pathetic attempt at temptation – a corset two sizes too small and a family ambition two leagues too large.

The prince didn’t deign to watch the scene. He preferred the game of gleaning, observation – seeing without seeing. Creating the tapestry in his mind and tracing the threads to know which to pull to watch it all unravel. It had long been said by the Maesters that when one loses a sense, the others bolster themselves, and indeed, all he had to do was listen.

Aemond heard the Dolt relinquish a dramatic sigh. “It seems that I simply must retire to the fray then Elyana, lest I bring shame upon our most noble house.”

The younger – Elyana – huffed.

“It would be wise. How father expects to make you a dragon bride, I will never know. You cannot dance, or sing, or embroider –”

“Yes, and lest we forget my stunning lack of maternal instinct,” you lamented. “Remember when Darya’s little one bit me?”

Aemond smiled – smug, slight, vulpine. He was right, of course, as he always was.

The sudden sound of shattered glass upon flagstones jerked Aemond out of his wager. He acted on instinct, as he always did, head whipping towards the drunken laughter and breaking his reverie. Behind him indeed stood two girls, as different as the sun and moon. The younger, dressed in fine lilac gossamer and silver, swiftly began to chase the bard and beg for another song.

And then there was you. Aemond’s eye roamed your figure, appraising the rich, dark olive of your gown and its deep, square neckline – Braavosi velvet, he’d wager, a show of wealth to have such long sleeves of the stuff. A little demure for an attempted seduction, he mused. Perhaps her family thought to appeal to mother’s piousness.

The prince would never admit that this was the longest he had stared at a woman. He simply wanted to improve his skill of gleaning, listening, to compare the observations he made with the reality before him. It was imperative to absorb every detail; the way that your gold pendant heaved with your shallow, shocked breathing, and the sliver of hair resting on your cheek. There was a power in your tensed shoulders - coiled, reactive, ready for the threat of weight. Aemond felt his fingers twitch against his will, a yearning to carry it for you.

He snapped himself back to reality with an internal grimace - the dragon cannot lie with the lamb. The music had begun again, and you finally turned towards him, face blanching at his discovered proximity.

“Prince Aemond,” you started, eyes wide, muscles coiled – caught in the courtly snare.

The lamb is too stunned to curtsey, he mused, watching your quick fingers wringing the golden band on your thumb. You certainly were the most radiant of the sacrifices offered to him so far. Though, he parried, there would be little use in marrying a fool.

Aemond hummed, relishing in your panic for a few seconds longer than any decent gentleman would.

“I’m half-blind, not half-deaf,” he said lowly, taking a step closer. “One would do well to be wary of the court, my lady. You never know who might be listening.”

Your eyes narrowed imperceptibly – a flash of something Aemond didn’t quite recognise, gone as quickly as it appeared. Idiots have trouble accepting their transgressions, he supposed, but her polite smile had something hidden behind it, like the dark side of the moon. Deep within the tides of the fray, Alicent observed the scene with a ghost of a smile. She watched the girl hide fire and intelligence in her muscles like a coiled serpent, and bitterly wished that she had the same instinct as a girl. Perhaps then she could have avoided her fate of staring at ceilings and dancing with dragons.

Her prayer was silent as she observed you, implored with eyes instead of the tongue: Keep buying your time, sweet girl. Her second son was much too perceptive not to see through your mummer’s moronity eventually – she could already see Aemond’s eye probing your mask.

“Aemond,” the Queen beckoned with a regal nod of her head.

Time. She thought, noting the way your minds danced around each other, palpable. Love matches were rare, mind matches even more so – but she could see the way you looked at one another. Time and choice. She would gift you the mercy the gods denied her.

The prince pried his eye away from you with great effort, waiting for you to answer him. You remained silent, gaze unwavering.

Interesting. He conceded as he walked towards his mother. For a dolt.

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Your eyes narrowed through the dim candlelight. The crowd ebbed and heaved like fresh seafoam, and you searched for your sister, your anchor in the waves, like the Oldtown lightower would a lost ship. In truth, you felt uneasy without Ely, your sworn shield against courtly attentions. It had been like this ever since you were children – a symbiotic relationship, the tide to your moon. She would sing and whirl through your father’s halls, a gossamer dervish, drawing the attention to herself and leaving you free to pursue your histories and hidden halls, and hone your sharp tongue.

You finally spotted the girl by a large table of ale, humouring a dark haired young lord who had not yet grown into his long limbs. You weaved your way through the crowd to reach her, forming a courtly, waxen smile to begin your manoeuvre.

“Sister!” You gasped, watching Elyana’s dark eyes twinkle as she recognised your ruse. “Mother requires you at once–” You cocked your head, silently wondering how every little lord fell for it. “Something about Ser Randyll?”

The little lord – Arryn, you’d wager by his gleaming brooch – blanched at the sight of your mother in deep conversation with Lord Reyne and his son. You stifled a laugh watching his chest puff up slightly at the challenge – your work was done. You pried your sister away from the little falcon’s talons, barely managing to stifle your laughing fit until he was out of earshot.

“Seven hells, Y/N, it took you long enough!” she huffed, preening over your shoulder to make sure that the young Lord Lannister hadn’t seen the exchange and think her spoken for. She had always been a romantic, excessively so, even for her six and ten years.

You pinched her dimpled cheek with a grin. “That’s for having far too much mirth in calling me a dolt earlier.”

Elyana rolled her eyes, batting your hand away. “It was your grand strategy, if I recall.”

“Yes, and I accounted for the pinch.” You said wickedly, before surveying the hall.

“A job well done I’d say, The Prince heard our performance. I even refused to curtsey. He’ll no doubt relay my idiocy to the Queen, and we’ll be home in no time at all.”

Elyana regarded you pensively, gently taking hold of your hand. Her gentleness felt like a cage to you, sometimes – perceptive, inescapable. “You know you will have to marry one day.”

Your sister watched your eyes flutter, soaking in your surroundings like a sponge. Your reply was barely audible over the internal hum of your own thoughts. “Not like this.”

You had decided that long ago. You knew you couldn’t escape a married fate – all women were cursed with the knowledge of how their lives would go from the moment they stepped into their first etiquette lesson with the septa. But, if you were to be married, it would be on your terms.

Impossible, father often branded you, but always with a fond smile. If you could not escape your fate, you would fiercely guard the little time you had with your freedom as the kingsguard would protect the king.

Though sometimes, when alone in the vespertine hush of your chambers, you could admit the presence of a longing in yourself, a desire to be seen for who you were by whoever you might be sold off to. Such longing is dangerous, you told yourself. Expect the swing of the sword, never mercy. Especially if you found yourself drawn to the wielder like a moth to flame – you were lucky to have honed your courtly mask so well upon seeing his handsome face. Though you had heard takes of the “one-eyed brute”, there was little account of the beautiful shadow his cheekbones cast, and his knowing, surveying gaze.

Your sister pulled you out of your thoughts, head nodding to a balcony alcove. She knew the price you paid for duty as the eldest. “Go. Take your refuge. I’ll be with mother.”

You offered her a tired, grateful smile before wading through the crowd towards your sanctuary, too close to paradise to be aware of the shark circling.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t as though Aemond had been watching you. Mother had always taught him to be an attentive host - he was merely cultivating good will, bolstering support for the war to come. He watched you grab your third - no, fourth - glass of wine, an irritated huff escaping his nose. He supposed there was little use in lying to himself any longer - he felt pulled to you the same way he felt called to the skies. Perhaps this was the lust that seemed to drive Aegon to the depths of Fleabottom every night - maddening.

The more he watched you, the more his one good eye narrowed in bewilderment. Supposedly too dim to follow a septa’s simple instruction and notice the ears of court, yet cunning enough to weave your way through this nest of dancing vipers and their hungry sons. You could redirect the attention of a young lord with a single word, and charm your father with the raise of an eyebrow. You moulded the scenes that unfolded around you, parrying dance requests with a skill he’d only seen with Ser Cole and his morningstar.

So why the overt blundering before him? He leaned against the pillar, pensive. The only rational explanation he could fathom was that you had heard stories of him and thought to demean yourself as a marriage prospect. The prince scowled. Of course. What woman such as her would want a one-eyed beast as a husband? Aemond felt his insides twist and his fingers twitch, barely containing the ire towards himself.

Despite your repulsion of him, Aemond felt his curiosity turning ravenous in his stomach as he watched you approach your sister. He could not help but want to map you as The Conqueror once did his lands – even if you did not want him, he could watch your mind work from afar. So watch he did, as your sister held your hand in hers like water. He mapped it all to memory – your hushed words, the steely set of your eyes and jaw, your deceptive smile; a sliver of his favourite crescent moon.

The hour was late and the candles burnt low. Nobody would begrudge any of the young ladies for retiring for the night – the young Tyrell girl had already sunk so far into her cups that she had to be carried to her chambers like an overwatered rose. Yet there you slithered to the alcove, alone, alert with empty company and a full cup.

Aemond had begun to follow you long before his mind registered the movement of his legs. He followed your trail through the flurry of bright skirts, drunk on the hunt. His long legs strode with a purpose that was lost to his conscious mind, stopping when he reached the boundary of the lush, red drapery. Aemond stood outside of your sanctuary for a long while before breaching it, in an act that almost reminded him of protection. From what, he did not know. A mangled dragon guarding its hoard, he thought wryly, before stepping onto the balcony with the silence of a predator.

The prince wasn’t sure what he expected. A maiden in tears after being shunned at court, perhaps – he wasn’t sure how far you’d go to keep up the show. But there you were, in the furthest corner of the alcove, with your elbows on the dark stone and your eyes to the stars. He glanced at your now-empty cup before clearing his throat.

You sighed imperceptibly before turning to face him. So you knew I was here, then. The thought made him hide a smile - the idea of you sensing his presence and ignoring him anyway, even if you tried to hide that fact. Insolent. He thought. Magnificent.

You bowed this time, with a tired, chagrin smile - an apology for earlier. “Forgive me, my Prince. It has been a while since my sister and I have been in the capital. The intricacies of court politics appear to be lost on me.”

Aemond hummed, ignoring the way his innards clenched - my prince. He rather liked the sound of that. “Yet not so unhoned that you managed to avoid that Lannister whelp,” he paused, brow raised. It made him feel less shame to know he was not the only one you rebuked. “Not to mention that little Manderly lordling.”

The Prince enjoyed watching you war with yourself - needing to keep your shield up, yet too tired and full of ire to keep up the ruse for much longer.

“Evading them hardly requires a honed mind, my Prince.” You snorted. A clever answer. He thought. Too clever.

“Aemond.” He corrected. You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious. “If I am to play along with your farce, let the rest of it be real.” He amended, making his way next to you but never prying his eye away.

You breathed a laugh, toying with your rings again. “You see more with one eye than most do with two, Aemond.”

The prince hummed. “It is of little consequence. They still brand me “one-eye” after all.”

“Little,” you snorted again, a glorious sound. Real, he thought, the soft skin of your hand calling him as your voice did. Real enough to touch. “Perhaps everything seems little to the rider of the largest dragon alive.”

The mention of Vhagar earnt you a small smile - a true one that you couldn’t quite look away from. Somehow you knew that it was Aemond’s version of a face-splitting grin.

You basked in comfortable silence for a while, noting how he had placed you on his right side – away from his eyepatch. The revelation made you frown, but left your vision unobstructed. It gave you a better look at the way his hair fell, an estuary of molten silver. You committed his profile to memory - the sharp edges that were strong, true, until he suddenly met your eyes. For once, you were speechless - the lush darkness of the night and the sweet smell of gardenias were suddenly oppressive.

“I really can’t dance, you know.” You blurted.

Aemond artfully raised an eyebrow in question.

“Earlier,” you clarified. “what you heard.” You tucked your hair behind your ear with what you hoped was a self-effacing smile. “I really am a terrible dancer, it was no lie.”

Aemond nodded grimly in understanding. “There is no need, my Lady, I understand your distaste for the match.” He stood taller, and tapped his eyepatch lightly.

Aemond watched ten emotions cross your face at once, until you settled on the one that most puzzled him; anger. Your eyebrows furrowed deliciously, something he noticed you did before you wielded your barbed tongue, and your lips parted. He did not see how your heart caught in your throat, nor the way your hands almost sprung to hold his shoulders. You slapped your palms onto the cold stone instead.

“Gods no. No, that is,” you breathed, warring with yourself before finally conceding. “It is not you, Aemond. Nor the sapphire eye that likely costs more than my entire dowry,” you jested half-heartedly.

You steeled yourself for honesty, looking into the sky once again and sneering in defiance at the gods who watched. “If I am to be sold off, I at least want to choose my buyer.”

Aemond’s gaze never left you, probing your truth as if he were caught in its net. He finally understood, and you knew he did. There was little that could be said, he thought.

Your eyes were almost crazed with a repressed frustration that was finally breaching the walls of your dutiful facade. A longing to be understood that matched his own. He saw fire – not that of ‘fire and blood’, but the fire of lightning. Beautiful, terrible, calculated in its strikes. Magnificent.

You trembled as if to cull the rage from erupting out of you. Years of playing placater, unable to unleash the true potential of your mind and spirit. Aemond’s eye flitted down to the stone, observing the shaking of your hands.

He did the only thing he knew how to and rested his hand gently over yours, the same way he would calm Vhagar. Real, he thought. Warm. Much too warm. You calmed under his touch. He understood, you know he did – years at court culling your own ambition at the expense of duty. Aemond created the “one-eyed brute”, just as you created the “little dolt of a lamb”.

You placed your hand over his. Horribly improper – it made you smile under the valleys of his scars and callouses. You wondered if you could map them in your mind as the maesters mapped the stars – a sky that was your own. Aemond felt your pulse thrum under his fingers and let it reverberate – his hands, his ears, his heart, his bones, it was all you. He knew you would have to leave soon enough, but for now, he would bask in you, knowing you’ve scorched him for life.

“Aemond,” You said, hushed. “How far can a dragon fly?” You looked up to meet his faraway gaze, relishing in catching him off guard. His lips were slightly parted as he stared at your own. It took every ounce of his steel restraint not to pull you to him and show you the meaning of fire and blood.

Instead, he hummed. “Vhagar has been known to make the trip from here to Dorne in a day, give or take - ”

He stilled at the interrupting shake of your head. If you had met his eyes, you would have noticed the questioning squint of his eye. Instead, your eyes were now trained above him, not wavering from the star-spittled sky.

“No,” you began, the gold of your necklace jingling as you craned your neck - as if the stars would be able to hear you better that way. “How high? Your maesters would not tell me.”

Aemond stared at you for a moment, finally following your gaze upwards with a slight smile. You asked the maesters. Of course you did. The thought of you badgering them in the palace library filled him with a disturbing level of fondness.

“Perhaps we could find out.”

Your head whipped towards him, eyes sparkling in the dark. “We?”

Aemond hummed again, this time in affirmation as he took your hand in silent question. “If I’m steering Vhagar, who will take note of the scientific observations? Maybe you are a dolt after all, my lady.” You squeezed his hand in your own, and your answering grin was like the sun. Magnificent.

#song prompts #my writing #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond fics #hotd #hotd fics #unbowed unbeta'd unbroken #mine #magnificent

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blckfyres · 1 year

Note

can i request #41 with aemond thank you!!!

btw i’m so excited about this and if you’re up for it im so down to send you more requests but i don’t want to overwhelm you 🖤

i'm alive! life got in the way but your dear author managed to get a big job! this is my first time writing smut so i’m not super happy with it, but please enjoy take on a blackwood!reader's reaction to aemond returning from storm's end with some slowburn gratuitous smut. our aemond is a tough nut to crack.

request a song prompt!

The Bloody Post

Warnings: smut, slightly sub!aemond dom!reader, choking, murder, kinslaying aftermath

WC: 4586 (i wish i were sorry)

Prompt 41: "Love will save you from misery, and tie you to the bloody post" - Love Will Save You, Swans

The palace halls were filled with a turgid emptiness tonight. Smoke hung heavy on the cold stone walls, flame from the torch sconces stuttering death rattles in the biting cold. You pulled your thick robe closer to you as you hurried, leaving a trail of hushed condensation behind you as you breathed like dragon smoke.

It was desolate nights like these that made you miss home, where your mother kept all of the hearths lit, ready for your return from the barren gardens of Raventree Hall. You would often sit at the dead weirwood, even as a girl, chattering to the Old Gods and petitioning your dreams on the necroding white bark. You did not need a reply to know they heard you – you could always feel it in the sprawling coil of the white roots, more familiar to you than your own blood.

Targaryens had their occasional dreamers, but the blood of the First Men ran thick with greensight – you, who could hear the whispers of long-forgotten gods, and things yet to come to pass. You were a long way away from home, but you could still feel that magic in your bones – thrumming, cold, knowing.

It’s how you were jolted awake tonight – dreams of a dragon’s jaws at your throat, and a mother’s screams in your ears. It’s why you scrambled out of your room before your legs had even registered moving, and how you could always feel him before you saw him. When it came to your love for eachother, neither of you had ever needed eyes.

Your feet traversed the freezing flagstones bare – you had been too hurried to find your sandals, hearing the roar of Vhagar’s return from the east wing as soon as you crossed the threshold into the hall.

Something in that roar made you sure it belonged to Aemond rather than his mount, and your already-freezing blood ran colder. You had awoken for a reason, then. You could feel him more strongly now – the sensation of cold rain spittle on his neck was keeping him anchored. Outside.

You didn’t think twice about the sudden turn you made towards the palace gates. You felt talons of broken stones slashing the skin of your soles as you walked outside, and thanked the blood you would leave in your wake. My debt for the warning, paid in full. Paid to the Old Gods in blood.

The downpour became heavier the closer you got to the palace walls, and you searched for your lover desperately through the thick, mummer’s drape of a storm.

Your legs became victim to the biting cold, as numb as his resolve felt to you. You needed to find him before his family did. He needs me. You thought, as your wet shift slithered against your legs. He won’t be able to wash the blood from his hands by himself.

Out of both breath and heat, you surveyed the grounds again. Lightning struck two leagues north of the castle, illuminating the grounds and the tall figure you suddenly noticed stalking towards you. You watched Aemond lurch closer, you – a phantom in his path. He could walk right through me, you thought. And I would let him.

You had barely registered the distance he had closed before you felt Aemond’s freezing hands grip the hair closest to your scalp– desperate, stinging, a shipwrecked sailor clinging to dissolving driftwood. The little breath you had left was crushed against him like a paltry sacrifice.

Your voice was little more than a guttural choke as you grabbed his shoulders. You hoped your grip was iron – you couldn’t feel your hands.

“What is it, what’s happened?”

Aemond stared at you, and his silence was as telling to you as the whispers of your gods. But you needed to hear it, gods, you needed to hear him say it. You needed to know what to fix - for him to tell you where to sew his flesh, even though you could see the gaping wound.

Aemond watched you implore him with your eyes, unable to do much else than bask in the overwhelming comfort of your presence as he gripped you, the same way he used to imagine gripping dragon reins as a boy. You were two rusted anchors clinging to each other for dear life so you wouldn’t fall apart. You were sure that your nails had pierced through his leathers by now, how could they not have?

Another bolt of lightning illuminated the tableaux in front of you again, and this time you could see the state of of the prince clearly. His naked eye was half-crazed, his silver hair a matted ash, and arms trembling as they held his hands to your head. You had never seen him panicked before, not like this.

Aemond’s arms dropped from your hair - gone was the strength he had to hold them up. They tumbled down your body, and his hands gripped whatever of you they could find to keep afloat, drowning you as he held you. He didn’t know what he needed, he just needed.

Your lover’s sudden cold touch pulled you back to the present, your mind suddenly sobered – you needed to know what you had to prepare for.

“Aemond.” You barked, ripping his hands off of your form.

The panic in you rose like bile, shrouded in your demand. You weren’t sure if the roaring in your ears was Vhagar’s or your own.

Aemond took a deep breath through his clamped teeth, breathing between his teeth as he yanked you towards him once more, gripping you even tighter than before.

He shook his head like a child in denial, and dread gripped your lungs like a tourniquet. You struggled against the steely muscles of his arms, looking up desperately to read his face.

“Storm’s End,” He searched your eyes for a wisdom that evaded you. “Luke.”

It was the first time he had called his nephew by the name used by the boy’s mother. A mother’s love, transfigured to an uncle’s guilt. And that’s when you knew. Perhaps, If you were honest with yourself, you knew the moment you awoke - your gods have never deceived you. Denial. You thought. A pretty, pretty thing.

The prince began to scramble at your silence, though brusquely, justifying it to himself just as much as you under the bluntness of his tone.

“It was an accident. I only meant to scare the boy, and Vhagar –”

Only. You gripped his leathers again, like you were trying to tear at his skin. You wanted to howl at him, rend his flesh like a wild animal, to peck at his eye like the ravens on your weirwood – rage. Rage at his arrogance, his stupidity, his pain, his projection.

But all you could do was sob, move your attention up to hold his weathered face in your hands, and hate yourself for the gentleness of your touch.

He needed you, and you would carry him as you would his sins, paint yourself with the same brush and blood-red paint. He would not be alone. Tonight, you would fix him, and tomorrow, you would break him down again – repaired, reborn.

This is what love is, you supposed. Getting blood on your own hands because you can’t help holding theirs.

Aemond pressed his forehead to yours in desperation, as if to meld into you to make you see, understand. You would never forgive it, but he knew you would face the seven hells with him, hand in hand.

You caressed his face through your tears, and pressed your lips to his suddenly, needing comfort in him just as much as he needed you. You forgot your own hatred for vulnerability when it came to Aemond. Aemond, who would raze kingdoms and caress your cheeks with gentle thumbs in the same breath. Love. You thought. All it is is your blood on the line and your head on the block.

You caressed your lover’s eyebrow with your free thumb as you kissed him slowly, and you felt the tension in his body dissipate at your tenderness, your acceptance of him despite his sins. But the tenderness was little match for the violent need you both felt.

Your lips danced against his in their usual battle, and he clutched at the soaking underclothes that clung to your body. You felt him fight tears of his own, his despondency turn into desire. Aemond pulled you against him tighter, like he wanted to dissolve into you, consume you. He got like this sometimes – all gnashing canines breaching lips, and moans more violent than dragonsong. But you couldn’t let him succumb yet. Not here.

You stopped him with a flat palm to his chest, an action that usually made him crack a smile. Dohaeris, you would whisper wickedly, before he pushed you down to devour you from under your skirts.

He didn’t stop kissing you this time, a man too starved to serve. But you needed time with him – away from the tumult of war councils and the retribution the gods might strike down on him, a kinslayer.

“They’ll be looking for you,” You murmured against persistent pecks against your lips, letting his fervent kisses wash that ugly word away, if only for tonight.

You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to steer you through the hidden tunnels of the castle to his chambers. He ignored you, lips harsh against yours once again, hands rending the robe from your shoulders with a snarl as if its mere existence offended him. You did your best not to arch into his touch – it was liquid wildfire.

You knew that he would fuck you right here if you allowed it, and your core clenched at the thought. He grunted in victory when he noticed your reaction, and moved his attention to your collarbone and neck – he bit and kissed languidly, in the way he knew made you writhe.

You fought the urge to yank his head back and claim his mouth with your tongue, your body was beginning to betray your sound mind – you weren’t sure if the wetness between your legs was the rain or your own.

“Aemond.” you said weakly, tugging at his hair to try and reveal his face to you.

Aemond grunted against the valley of your neck, licking a hot trail up to your ear to distract you. He needed your hands on him now – he would break apart without them, crumble to ash.

“Aemond.” you commanded, nails digging into the scruff of his neck to get his attention.

He pried himself away from you with a hiss, tenderness rearing its head at the familiar, steely stubbornness of your gaze. He could never deny you, not really.

“Unless you want the entire palace to see me bare,” you challenged, eyebrow raised.

You stepped closer to him, hand on his chest once more. You reached up to caress his neck, lips against his ears in a whisper that you were surprised was not lost in the storm. “Or am I not yours?”

Aemond stared at you for a moment, your heaving breasts and wild eyes, the way the rain hung from your lips. He knew exactly what you were doing, yet he never had the strength to resist you. You, his conniving, feral love.

Aemond hummed without a word, taking your wrist and pulling you with him towards the unsuspecting wooden door you would often use.

If it were any other time, you’d have the strength to smile. You could always rely on your lover’s jealousy, if nothing else.

The walk to your chambers was a short one through the passageways, though this time you made the journey in complete darkness. Something about his unusual lack of restraint had you wetter than ever before, and now you were the one dragging him behind you, his hand protectively on your waist as if you’d disappear if he ever let go.

You weren’t certain about how you got so close to your bed – it was all a flurry of tongues, teeth, and desperation. You had never felt him move this fast before, save in his sparring matches. The prince’s need was palpable, a forest fire raging in the blood, forcing him to burn and lick like flame.

Faster than you could register, Aemond moved behind you and gripped your back against him, hard.

His pale palm was firm against your throat and clear in its instruction. You sighed at it, arching your neck back against his shoulder - bare and willing against the jaws of the dragon.

The prince’s other hand held your lower half flush to his clothed cock, and began to rock you against him. The friction was all-consuming, and you suddenly understood how the clash of battle could be glorious. You cursed his leathers for the distance they put between the two of you, and began to blindly move your hands behind you to free him from them.

Aemond snarled at the feeling of you trying to weave your way through his grip. Insolent. He readjusted his grip with a hiss, moving the source of his pressure to your clit as he continued to grind. He needed you still, to tame something, someone — he fumbled for control as if he were holding water with open fingers.

The dual friction ended what little control you had over your hands. Your eyes rolled back as they would during your visions, but the only god you saw this time was a dragon, devouring what little restraint you had left stored in your neck and shoulders.

Aemond groaned at the feeling of you jolting against his cock, sharply lapping at your ears and neck and biting what resistance your muscles dared present into submission. You fought to keep your head clear, grappling for a tether in a thick fog of pure want.

As your mind cleared, you began to feel the tremble in his hands, how his eye refused to open, his unwillingness to remove his leathers. A struggle for control.

You felt your resolve strengthen against his blunt bites to your temple. No. You thought. Not this time. Not like this. He needs me.

You took a deep breath, a final bolster before you tore yourself from his grip and whipped around at a speed that mirrored his own.

The dragon may have strength, but the raven has cunning and speed.

You watched his pale face balk in shock, lips parted and eye wide and heavy. Before he could revert back to his scrambled dominance against you, you brought your soft, uncalloused fingers to the sliver of scar tissue that peeked out from his eyepatch.

You stroked the raised, pale flesh with your thumb softly, and feeling the muscles jump, unused to contact. His eye began to flicker closed slightly, nostrils flaring. You watched him fight against his reflexes, unravelling like a half-tamed serpent.

When you replaced your lone thumb with two fingers, Aemond’s breathing stilled entirely, and for a moment you worried you had gone too far. The candlelight of your room was suddenly oppressive, seeking the reflecting glint of the sapphire underneath the eye patch.

You fought to remain eye contact, and swallowed at the intimacy of the gesture – somehow you felt like the one laid bare, as if the jaws of the dragon were stilled and coiled to strike. The metallic scent of danger did little but strengthen your resolve, and you pressed your lips to his, still parted in shock.

You caressed him as you always did, lulling him into the familiarity of your embrace to calm him. The kiss did little to dampen the fire between you, try as you might – there was always something within the both of you yearning for the other, like fire and blood.

“Ñuhon,” You whispered into his mouth, your rudimentary Valyrian holding a rustic beauty he had yet to find in even the libraries of Oldtown. “Ñuhon se sȳz.” Mine. Mine and good.

Aemond growled under the praise, and tried his best to mask his desperate, preening sob with a low grunt. Your core clenched at his response, fighting the urge to guide his fingers into you.

You shook the thought from your core. Not tonight.

You continued to caress his scar as you kissed him, paying little mind to the tense coil of his balled fists and thrumming heartbeat. You could feel him slowly softening into your languid ministrations, a low pant forming at the apex of his burning lungs as you continued to touch his scar.

You moved your other hand to massage his scalp in encouragement. Your movements were repetitive, deliberate – it was as if you felt afraid to frighten a stray cat. You felt his neck erupt in gooseflesh when your tongue grazed his bottom lip, the tension in his muscles stark against his involuntary preening.

Still fighting me.

Your kisses were plush and languid with the promise of wildfire. When you opened your eyes to meet his, he simply stared at you. Your eyes were probing, imploring in a way that made him fight the urge to panic.

You sighed as you ran your hands along whatever lands you could reach: chest, fangs, fingers, lips, talons.

“Ivestragī nyke,” you whispered, thumb soothing the sharp contours of his eye. Let me.

There was a long pause before you saw him nod, almost imperceptibly.

You pulled him to you once again, and this time, his hands moulded against your curves in silent submission. You sighed as you felt his tension dissolve in a way that made you want to sob.

You began to move him against you, wings in the wind, and he moulded himself around you like a wave to the moon.

His forehead slowly dropped to rest against yours heavily, exhausted, as you began to unbutton the stiff leather of his doublet. You would burn it in the morning.

You rubbed your nose against his in comfort, your heart straining at the relieved huff he let out.

You struggled slightly against the latching of his leathers, hands still freezing from the storm. But he was patient, eye closed and almost serene.

His skin looked more pallid than usual in the candlelight, and you observed the stark contrast of skin between the two of you as your hand found his bare chest. You imagined this was how he felt taming Vhagar as a boy — raw muscle, the touch of the untouchable.

You felt Aemond’s abdominal muscles tense at your cold touch, and then relax slightly at the feeling of your full lips on his chest.

Aemond felt your tongue against his flesh, a violent gentleness that took his breath away. It felt like the old gods rather than the seven – primordial, familiar, scorching. Devastating, but gentle nevertheless — as gentle as wildfire could be.

You marked your territory slowly, kissing and licking whatever bare, scarred skin you could find in front of you until you felt Aemond’s muscles begin to tremble in earnest.

You lost yourself in the act and in his warmth, whispering whatever broken Valyrian you could remember under your breath as you mapped the contours of his flesh: Dohaeris. Serve. Nuhon. Mine. Rapa. Soft. Gevie. Beautiful. You suddenly knew how Aegon the Conqueror felt when he looked out on his lands.

You tore your lips from him with great effort, finally looking up at his face when you felt him let out a long-held breath.

You felt the slick from your mouth leave a trail connecting your lips to him, and your stomach jolted when you saw the way he looked at you.

His eye was heavy with something you didn’t recognise, and his cheeks flushed. You licked your already-wet lips and felt your own face grow as hot as your core – he had been watching you the entire time, with a religious reverence and a hard cock.

The sight of him more wrecked than you had ever seen him, his scarred, bare chest and straining leathers ignited something deep within you – perhaps that dominance, that aggression that your parents had tried so hard to cull.

You stared at him through heavy lashes, pushing his shoulders down with a nod of your head. Aemond heeded your instruction without argument, sitting at the edge of your ornate, mahogany bed without his eye leaving yours.

There was something deeply erotic about the way he was looking up at you, and you both knew it. Your chest was heaving under your damp shift, now eye level with your lover as you stood over him. You wanted to break him, and then make him again, like a god. There was a pulsating power in the air, and it belonged to you. Is this how dragons feel?

You observed the way his lips parted in need – had it been any other night, he would have pulled you flush and taken your nipple into his mouth with a desperate urgency. But this time, he simply waited for instruction, single blue eye begging as violent need consumed him from the inside out.

Your fingers weaved their way into Aemond’s scalp as you kissed him with a sudden ferocity that you had little strength to fight, relishing in his grunt as you climbed and straddled his lap. You didn’t wait to remove his trousers, swallowing his groans of relief as you loosened the ties to relieve the tension.

He could have sobbed when he finally felt your hand make contact with his strained cock. He could already feel the tip weeping, and could do little to stop the flow of precum that escaped when you began to lick at his ear and neck as you pumped him.

“Ñuhon,” You repeated in unison with his strangled grunts. “Aōhon.” Mine. Yours.

He did not need to hear anything else but that broken phrase for the rest of his life.

He clutched you like he did Vhagar’s scales when he claimed her when you began to remove his eyepatch. Your hand never faltered on his cock as you stared at him, pupils dilating when you revealed the sapphire nestled deep within sensitive scar tissue.

You felt all that he did, he knew. He could see it in the way your pupils swallowed your irises whenever you would swipe a thumb over his tip.

Those eyes will be my undoing, he vowed, finally closing his open eye and letting it roll back into the blackness where the Stranger no doubt waited for him.

You relished his hiss of ecstasy when your free hand yanked at the hair close to his scalp, punctuating the pull with the squeeze of your hand on the tip of his cock. Aemond finally let out a strangled moan, all grunting restraint forgotten.

“Ivestragī jikagon,” Let go. You commanded, feeling yourself gush onto his drenched leathers at sight beneath you. You couldn’t stop yourself from rutting against his thigh, joining his moans to create a symphony that sounded closer to dragonsong.

You felt something ignite in you when you remembered his eyepatch in your hand. Spurred on by the prince desperately fucking himself into your hand beneath you, you quickly placed it over your lover’s head and guided it to sit around his neck. Pretty, you thought.

Aemond’s eye snapped open at the sudden sensation, eyes darkening as you slowly started to pull the leather tight. The pleasure that shot through Aemond almost winded him, his groans built from the pit of his stomach as you began to choke him.

“Kessa,” Yes. He repeated it like a prayer, though it still sounded too much like a command for your liking.

You couldn’t look away from each other as you began to fasten your pace on his cock and wind the strap tighter. Aemond’s pupils were blown and his teeth bared, your instruction forgotten as he began to desperately tug your core over to his cock.

You felt his entire body tremble and his cockhead darken even more – he would not last long, judging by his desperate need to sheath himself in you. You ignored the agony between your legs, that desperate ache to ride him – your work was not done.

You nipped at his shoulder in reprimand at his attempt to put you off of your strategy, punctuating the bite with another tug at his neck. You relished at his flared nostrils and his wrecked gaze. His eyes were pleading, desperate, adoring. If you didn’t know better, you could see tears begin to form.

“Ivestragī jikagon, Aemond.” Let go, Aemond.

He growled at that, defiant until you shifted your weight to hover your core over his cock. The sound the prince let out was more dragon than human, and it made you tighten your leash and hold his gaze — daring him to disobey you and fuck up into your warmth.

Gods. You groaned at his heady glare. You would need to be quick, your own resolve was becoming little more than dornish sand.

You weaved both hands into your lover’s silver hair and you straddled him, carefully holding your weight. You lowered yourself slightly and slowly with a hiss, until his cockhead barely breached you, nestled in the very opening of your walls.

The prince cursed within a groan. Aemond’s grip on your hips was bruising – the wetness between your legs did nothing to put out his fire. He groaned at the heat, legs shaking at being held over the edge like this.

He almost toppled over as he felt your tongue on his scar and your core clenched around his tip.

“Kessa ao ivestragī jikagon hen bisa?” Your words were a honeyed, panted command. Will you finally let go of this?

It was all too much for him. Your wanton acceptance of the ugliest part of him, the way you fit perfectly into his hold. He found himself nodding slightly, begging, and the overwhelming feeling of acceptance wormed its way through his core.

Something about the ease of it after all of these years was infuriating. He could do little else other than adore you, and beg for his destruction at your soft hands.

“Yes, yes I –” He shuddered as you began to let more of him in, the scorching warmth of you enveloping his cock until you were fully seated.

“Fuck,” You whimpered, feeling him completely fill your walls, everything you had.

You threw your head back as you began to ride him, sobs escaping you at the sheer feeling of fullness and the sound of him begging, babbling in Valyrian.

He watched you, enraptured as your hips began their familiar, snake-like dance against him. In his haze, he wondered how you, his anchor, had your palms anchored onto his chest.

You smiled at him slyly, something unspoken resolved during the whole affair – it felt lighter. He felt lighter. “Would you like to be released, my prince?”

You punctuated the address with a swivel of your hips, a clench of your core, and a caress of his balls behind you.

“Wretched woman.” He groaned weakly, gripping you for dear life as he tried to ward off his release. Impossible. “You save me from misery and tie me to the bloody post.”

His words did little more than spur you on. You lay flat against him, your chest on his as you began to ride him faster. The fire in your core was stronger than it had ever been, punctuated by your squelching wetness as you rode him. You let your lover adjust you so he could hit that sweet spot within you – he needed to please you, he always did. You allowed it, arching to allow his fingers to resume their familiar, circular position on your clit.

Your vision behind your eyes was bright white, brighter than the heavens as you felt your release chase after you. You weren’t certain your body would be here when you awoke, you were on fire. You would both be little more than ash when you awoke, and you would love each other more for it.

You felt the coil tighten past human comprehension for the both of you, an ouroboros of pleasure as you fed eachother. You saw your tears before you felt them, falling onto the prince under you like flutterings of volcanic ash.

“Let go, Aemond.”

Your final command was weak, but he followed it anyway, his eyes black and his throat hoarse as he released into you with a series of sobs and bites.

You stroked his scar as he came, barely registering the action past the involuntary shakes of your own release – white hot, powerful, older than time itself. Aemond watched you as you came, a creature, the goddess Syrax herself. Made for him, whatever he was now. Kinslayer. Made for you.

Aemond held you flush against him in the quiet aftermath, your head nestled into his shoulder. You continued to ride him slightly, slowly, wanting to drain him fully and feel it deep within you. He groaned softly as you did, attempting to get his shaking muscles under control before his grandfather came to find him. His eye felt sharper, his head clearer, and his heart lighter. Something had shifted.

You lifted your head with great effort, noting the long tear tracks on his cheeks. You have never seen Aemond cry, and you never would. But this was close enough. He met your thoughtful gaze with a serious look, searching. Almost as if he expected a recoil from him after the lustful haze. He found none, hoping his eye conveyed his gratitude — it was a weight his tongue couldn’t possibly manage.

Instead, you did as you always did. Unmake him and whatever wisdom he thought he had, while you gripped his hand in yours.

“You cannot control a dragon.”

He huffed.

“You control me well enough, my love.”

#song prompts #my fics #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader smut #hotd #hotd fics #unbowed unbeta'd unbroken #mine

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