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wolfiec · 12 days

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Scandal

Part 16 - more here

Pairing- Cillian Murphy and Reader - Not based on real life.

Thank you for your support, would love to hear your thoughts!

“I know my sweetheart, it’s itchy isn’t it?” You cooed at your daughter. “Mummy is trying to help,” Holding her arm, you rubbed some lotion across her skin. She had got more spots as the day had progressed. “Is that better?”

Picking her up, you found Cillian leaning against the doorframe. Having had a shower, he wore a towel low around his waist. Just observing you both. It felt surreal for him, all being back together again.

“Is it helping?” He asked, crossing the room. Kissing the top of Harper’s head.

“Not really, she’s just so unsettled,” you sighed. “I remember having chicken pox when I was about six. My Mum would cover me in lotion, put socks on my hands so I couldn’t itch,” you laughed.

“I still have a scar now, I told you I think?” You continued. Wondering why you were just babbling. It just felt so awkward being here together. You wanted to relax, but it was always in the back of your head.

What he had done… And who with....

“Yeah, just here,” he smiled, stroking just below your breast.

"Can you take her while I have a shower?" you asked, not having had a minute to yourself all day. People coming and going from the apartment, Cillian had been to stock up on some supplies for you all.

"Come to Dada, you gonna come to Dada, my big girl," taking Harper, she instantly started to cry for you. Pushing away from Cillian, big oval teardrops rolling along her chubby cheeks. He had been away working so much, he hadn't actually spent any time with her alone.

She was very attached to you.

"Ah no, what's the tears? It's Dada," he tried to reassure her, looking hurt.

"I will be quick," you shouted, rushing to the bathroom.

Locking the door, you text Alex. Why you locked the door? You weren't sure, he wasn't going to pounce on you. "Hey did you get home ok? Thanks so much again babe, I owe you big time,"

Turning the shower on, you awaited her reply. Noticing another message, from Paul.

“Hey gorgeous, how's the little one? Been thinking about you xoxo,"

Shit, you didn't want to lead him into thinking something was going to happen. You definitely were not in the head space for that.

"Hi, thanks for asking, she has chicken pox! I'm stuck here until they scab over. Hope you enjoyed your night," No kiss, it didn't seem appropriate.

Harpers screams flooded through the door, so you locked your phone and got into the shower. Letting the hot water wash away any stress. You just had to make the best of the situation. What choice did you have?

"She's worn herself out," Cillian stated, as you walked back into the lounge. He was still sat in his towel, Harper sleeping against him.

"It's bedtime anyway, here I will take her to my room," you offered, bending to pick her up. Separate rooms, that's what you had agreed to. It was like you were flat mates. Not husband and wife.

When you returned, Cillian was dressed, sitting on the sofa with two glasses of wine. Contemplating sitting in the small chair, you flopped down next to him. Wearing an oversized t shirt and shorts. Long legs on display.

"Thanks," you mumbled, watching him scroll through his phone. The noise of the tv playing in the background. Picking up your own phone you read the text from Alex. Asking after Harper, and there was another one from Paul.

You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, as you read it.

“I'm still in London tomorrow, if you need help. Not that I am a baby expert. Would have preferred to spend the rest of the night, in your company?"

Cillian noted your expression, wondering who you were texting. Was it a man?

“Been asked for a statement, about our so called fight in the corridor," he announced, breaking you from your thoughts. "Gonna get Craig to tell them to piss off,

"Was that what it was?" you smiled, over the rim of your glass.

"We never used to argue, did we? Or maybe we did, was that..." You stopped yourself mid sentence. Not wanting to know the answer, to your question.

"No," he replied, looking over at the window.

"That wasn't why, I did.... what I did. I honestly... fuck... I don't even have an answer, What a coward, hmm?"

Standing up, he paced the lounge.

"And she's gonna see all this... when she's older and she will know. Harper will know, Y/n. How I ... broke your heart,"

The thought hadn't actually crossed your mind. You had released the texts to the press, she would see all of that too. Did that make you just as bad?

"We need to keep it all out of the press. No statements, no interviews about it. We both just have to try, and get on with our own lives,"

Draining his glass, he poured out more wine. "My therapist said... I have to be honest, don't hold everything in. Don't hide, try to express my thoughts,"

"Ok, so be honest. Have you had any contact, with her since... since it all came out?" you blurted out.

"She was sending me messages. I keep blocking her, I haven't responded, not once." Cillian confessed, resting his hand against your leg. "I can show you,"

Shaking your head, you moved away from his hand. "I have a question for you, Y/n." He swallowed the lump of emotion, sitting in his throat.

“Do you hate me?"

Tears filled your eyes, hate him? Hate? That was such a strong word. How could you ever hate him?

"No... how could I ever hate you? We were so in love, I thought that was us ... for life," your voice cracked, as you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Just makes me question everything, everyone. The trust Cill, it's gone...."

“I know… you’re right, I can’t just expect us to just go back to normal,” Cillian replied, clearing his throat. “I just really want us to try, I want to make you happy again,”

A loud cry from Harper, disturbed your heart to heart.

“I’ll see to her, you get some sleep,” you replied, slipping from the room. Going into your own room, and closing the door. With only a thin wall between you, it still felt you were a million miles apart.

After a restless night, you were pacing the floor at 5am with Harper. Surely Cillian could hear her? What was the point of him being here, if he wasn’t going to help? Or was he fucking googling words, from a therapist?

“Shh shh,” you tried again, offering her the dummy. When there was a knock on the door. “Come in,”

Cillian entered in his underwear, holding a mug. “She’s really suffering, I made you some camomile. I will take her, look I found bunny, Harps.” Cillian smiled, holding the soft you towards her. “Here’s bunny,”

Craning her neck, she reached for her father. “You get some sleep, baby.” He smiled at you, taking Harper from the room.

Eventually waking with a start, you checked your watch. 11am! Shit … you had slept a solid six hours. The apartment was quiet, running your fingers through your hair. You went into the bathroom, to brush your teeth.

You couldn’t wait to get back to your own house, to your own bed. Get Harper back in some sort of routine. But why, did the thought of being on your own again scare you?

Leaving the room, you found Cillian sitting on the rug with Harper. Playing with her toys, she was sitting in between his legs. Seeing you approach, he smiled. “You sleep ok?”

“Sorry, I did yeah, you should have woken me up,” Bending down, you kissed Harpers little cheeks. “You feeling better, my baby?”

“You needed the sleep, I gave her some calpol at 9,” Cillian stated. Reaching for you, Harper grabbed your hair. “Show Mama what you can do, Harps,”

Shuffling back, he made sure Harper had her balance. She was learning to sit up, but hadn’t managed longer than a few seconds. But here she was quite happy, sitting on her own. Cillian’s hands ready to catch her.

“No way,” you gasped, clapping your hands for her. “Look at you, our big girl,”

Catching eyes with Cillian, you both felt it.

The love that was still there…..

You had decided, you would attend the therapy with Cillian. It could help you both move forward…

Tagging-

@cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @being-worthy @janelongxox

@thenattitude @katsav17 @answer-the-sirens @kathrinemelissa @queenshelby

@geminiwolves @lyarr24 @ysmmsy @margoo0 @mysticaldeanvoidhorse

@dolllol2405 @cheekybluefox @alreadybroken-ts @look-at-the-soul @lespendy

@cillmequick @raychhh @captivatedbycillianmurphy @castellandiangelo @blondie-22

@midnightmagpiemama @elenavampire21 @camilleholland89 @cljordan-imperium @peakyscillian

@muhahaha303 @already-broken144 @pono-pura-vida @cillshot @ietss

@powerlvr25 @kmc1989 @nadloves @amberpanda99 @bernelflo

@trixie23 @cilloak @laylasbunbunny @lau219 @surfin-the-sun

@fiokw @in0320 @brummiereader @girlwith-thepearlearring @neonpurplestars89-blog @ladyvenera

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wolfiec · 13 days

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wolfiec · 17 days

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Courted By the Dragon - Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Chapter 1 - Spring

Chapter 2 - A Court of Sharks and Dances

Chapter 3 - Secret Admirer

Chapter 4 - Solitude

Chapter 5 - Cyvasse

Chapter 6 - Total Annihilation

Chapter 7 - Crumbs

Chapter 8 - Dance of the Dragon

Chapter 9 - Favour

Chapter 10- Gallantry and Bravery

Chapter 11 - Remedy

Chapter 12 - Storm Chaser

Chapter 13 - Issa Jorrāelagon

Chapter 14 - Secrets and Sapphires

Chapter 15 - Coming Soon

Aesthetic 1

Also available on AO3

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wolfiec · 17 days

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MELISSA BARRERA as SAM CARPENTER Scream VI (2023)

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wolfiec · 22 days

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Ewan Mitchell as Billy Washington | Trigger Point, ep.3

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wolfiec · 22 days

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INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE | 1.03 "Is My Very Nature That of the Devil"

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wolfiec · 23 days

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jorraeliārzus (beloved) │ Chapter 2: Need

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You crave.

I am sorry for how long this took - to be fair, it's been months since I wrote actual smut and I was nervous to re-pop my smut cherry, ahahahaha. Yes, this chapter features actual smut, hallelujah for Reader! This doesn't technically mark the end for the troubles, however deceptive the ending is. Depression is a process, and sometimes we go through ups and downs with it. We're facing an up here! Ish.

Thanks be to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and offering much-needed pointers to make this chapter coherent and well-rounded. I cannot post without you holding my hand ever, and I love you for putting up with it.

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of PPD, penetrative s*x, lactation and lactation kink.

Wading through the waters of this curious state of mind is no easy process.

Melancholy. Mother’s malady. Madness. Whatever it is called among differing circles, you now know it is not uncommon. This knowledge does not ease the despondency that comes in waves, threatening to shatter any semblance of the control you are tenuously rebuilding. There are days when you feel as though you cannot even bear to lay eyes on your boy and girl, that the merest act of sighting them will somehow cause their unhappiness, that you will ruin them by being near them. There are times when you believe yourself to be the only woman in the world who cannot simply love her children as mothers ought to, free of the complication of treacherous notions slithering through the mind like draughts of poison, silent in their destruction. There are moments when you think that perhaps you should never have allowed them to spring to fruition, that you should have found a way to tear out the blooms that had sprouted within your belly before they had the chance to become living, breathing creatures.

That last thought is particularly repellent.

It is not your fault for thinking these things, though. They are ideas sprung from this affliction, designed to cause uncertainty and create chaos. It does not stop you from thinking that you may well be the most despicable monster to disgrace the earth. If you were left to your own devices, it is indeed likely that you would remain abed for days on end, resigned to misery.

But it is not a fate that you are allowed to succumb to. On the mornings when you find yourself unable to depart the cocoon of your sheets, your ladies coax you up with surprising and uncharacteristic purposefulness. Gone is their cloying timidity, replaced by creatures of determination as they all but drag you bodily upright to clothe and feed you, to immerse you in cheerful chatter while they work.

Gerardys comes to visit you, followed swiftly by Ūlla, newly returned from her journeys. The two rather predictably bicker over how best to approach any potential treatment.

“My colleagues at the Citadel recommend bloodletting,” the maester says with a frown, glancing nervously at your healer, “to restore imbalanced humours.”

Ūlla levels him with a foul look. “Are you stupid? Princess making milk. Losing blood is bad for her, and the babes!”

“If she remains hydrated, any complications will be minimal.”

“Tell Prince,” she shoots back challengingly. “See if he agree.”

“Forgive me, but Prince Daemon does not have the final word here, my lady. As Maester of Dragonstone, it is my responsibility to ensure residents are—”

“Losing blood hurt Princess, and babes, too! Stupid man!”

She storms out of the room with nary a word further, and you find yourself resigned to the possibility of enduring fattening leeches hanging off your skin. Gerardys begins to talk you through the process, though in truth you are not minding him as closely as you ought, but it does not seem to be long before Ūlla re-enters.

“Here,” she says, pressing a nondescript pouch into your hands. All the while, she is glaring at the maester. You inspect the contents, your nose tickling at the mild citrus scent that emanates from within. “Lemon balm,” she explains. “Make into a tea.”

Alas, you think ruefully. More tea. At this rate, it is a small wonder that your urine has not taken on the various aromas and hues of the remedies you are made to consume.

The tea does help, though, or perhaps it is simply in your mind. Perhaps the tea is not the cure, but time. Perhaps it is the magic that lives in your blood, that unites you to your dragon and ties you to the fate of a long-dead dynasty, that best eases your path forward. You still have hours and days where you fare poorly. But gradually, these moments come with less and less severity, feelings that do not fade but are ones you can muse upon, chew about like toffee sticking to the crowns of your teeth. Uncomfortable, difficult to cleanse yourself of, yes, but possible where you perhaps had not even been aware of their existence before. You learn to appreciate them for what they are, no more or less than calls for a defeat that is not yet yours to claim…

Because, despite the war in your head, your babes are happy. They are settled. They thrive. If you truly had been failing, this would not be so.

And thus, you persist with the teas and tonics and tepid baths recommended to you, with the dogged joviality of Jeyne and Bethany, with long walks at Ser Lysan’s side marked by the whip of salty sea air and the faint pulsing warmth of the sun. With visits to your boy, your Athfiezar, his smoke-breath and scaled mass and the thrum of a secret kinship clearing the muck of unhappiness from your view and restoring, in parts, a clarity well-missed. Through it all, you realise—bit by bit, hour by hour—that there is more beyond the sorrow. That something is blossoming, weak and spindly and scarcely living, but there, right there below your ribs and growing, a sickly weed straining toward the light. Something like hope.

It unfreezes the most poisonous of your tender ambitions, slackening the bonds of your inflexible drive to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys alone. ‘Tis a hard-won concession, but one necessary to your wellbeing and theirs. Still, you cannot help but feel your bond closest when they are swaddled against you, tiny hands pressed against your breasts and greedy suckles drawing from the wellspring of nourishment your body has created for them.

“Have they latched well, Princess? Ought I assist in any way?”

You glance up with great effort, nearly incapable of tearing your eyes away from them both. Freda feigns nonchalance, but it is easy enough to tell that she is anxious. Your rather spectacular histrionics are not easily forgotten by all.

Shaking your head, you smile. “They are fine, thank you. They are perfect.”

Never have you spoken truer words. You are constantly marvelling at how dissimilar they are to the shrivelled little beings that you had laboured to bring into the world scarcely two moons ago. Their hair, pale at birth, has only grown brighter, solid where it had been opaque. Much of Aelys’s has fallen out, which you have been assured is quite usual. It certainly makes it easier to differentiate between the two on sight, though this is becoming more and more simple as their differing features have begun to assert themselves. In Rhaenar, you see the promise of Daemon’s strong nose; in Aelys, the shape of the eyes. They share your mouth, even if Aelys’s pout reminds you more of Rhaenyra. These little things make them individuals with each passing day, untangle the singularity they are oft referred to as and begin to show those around them that they are becoming their own person.

You know now that your wish to gather them close and tuck them out of sight of all others is not simple maternal instinct, and instead a symptom of this malady. Through Freda’s tales, you learn that many are involved in the rearing of common-born children; through Ūlla’s considerable experience and your sister’s anecdotes, you begin to understand that your original undertaking was never feasible. It grates you so, but you try to take heed of their womanly advice more than you truly desire to, obliging their recommendations to allow the twins to sleep in the nursery during the night. But in the daytime—in the now—they are all yours.

“That they are,” Freda says, snapping you from your hypnotic reverie. “A bonnier lad and lass I’ve never met, you can be assured of that!”

Even though you know she likely feels duty-bound to say so, you cannot help the flush of pleasure. Their nursing has slowed, eyes heavy-lidded and noses huffing warmth against your skin. It is gratifying to see them so satisfied.

As soon as Rhaenar’s lips pull away, smacking wetly as he gurgles and smiles, Freda is ready to lift him into her arms. His head rests upon the cloth tossed over her shoulder, fists waving with each pat she makes against his back.

“Another meal for the little Prince and Princess,” she says, grinning. “Well done, Your Highness!”

“It would seem so.” Aelys is done, you think, but working her mouth still for comfort. It seems to please her to continue the act long after your milk has emptied. You cup her head, running your fingers through the wispy locks in a manner you hope is soothing. “It is relieving to have finally managed it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Rhaenar belches, kicking his legs when Freda makes a startled noise as she always does. “But what an impressive feat, milady—nursing one babe to a full belly can be difficult enough, never mind two! That thistle tea must be something special, indeed.”

It is not only the tea, you think.

The memories of Daemon’s lips at your nipples, his body hard against yours, the low lusty grunts of more than just gustatory delight—and there are many, as many memories as nights in which his faithful service so oft takes place—elicit a soft, secretive smile even as heat rushes to your face. This heat travels further, down, down, reminding you uncomfortably of another dilemma you are facing.

Desire. It is something which you ponder greatly upon over the next days.

When you had just given birth, you did not think you would ever be capable of it again. Of course, this sentiment had followed a rather gruelling several hours of agony, much of which you cannot recall, and the overwhelming fear that you may perish as your mother had done. With your lower half all but mangled and shedding the remains of what processes your body had devised to best facilitate your children’s growth, the notion of letting your uncle couple with you had seemed positively dreadful. ‘Twas akin to the thought of him rutting into the gaping maw of a fresh wound. But the blood of that night had passed, and the pain had faded, and in your mind, it is almost like it had never happened at all. You do not remember the sensation.

You have not resumed your courses save for some light spotting in your smallclothes, though that is apparently to be expected. Your breasts are ever noticeable, large and leaking or shrunken and soft depending on the time of day, always sensitive regardless of state. Your belly is quite nearly back to the state it had been before carrying the twins, save for an additional laxness and the crawling lines of dark delineating the places where your flesh had most stretched. These are all changes, differences that you have come to anticipate, understand.

It is likely why the return of carnal longings is so utterly strange, so abnormal in its normality. How can a form so changed experience something so… banal?

Even so, you find yourself drawn to the minutest of details when in Daemon’s presence: the corded strength of his arms; the elegant line of his ringed fingers; the set of his jaw and the shadow of his brow. His voice singing lullabies of old to the twins brings a sort of frantic exhilaration, a dampness pooling between the legs instead of drowsed comfort. His easy grin makes your heart pound as though from great toil. When his attention is elsewhere, you admire the span of his shoulders and the planes of his chest, knotting scars of savagery setting you to swooning.

You feel like one of his fawning admirers, breathless and fluttering and giggling at his innate charm. You feel desperate.

And, worst of all, he does not notice. He fails to recognise the reciprocation of your sighs and moans as he feasts from you for the invitation that they are. His touch is gentle, like he is afraid you will break, even when you press yourself into him so eagerly that it seems no small wonder that he cannot read it for the provocation you intend it to be. He is careful not to make his acts of self-pleasure too obvious, pushing your hands away with a kind murmur of, “Rest now, sweetling, I’ll take care of this,” as though you are incapable of doling out the satisfaction he had taught you so well to perform, as though it is an inconvenience to you rather than he that his member rises so readily at the sight of you.

This state of affairs cannot last. It ought to be an easy thing for you to entice him to act on your shameless thoughts, the way you had so often before the babes had entered the world. You feel frozen, trapped in your abstemious existence as you have been for sennights. How to make him see? How to make him comprehend?

When Rhaenyra hears of your plight, disguised in the politest terms you can muster, she laughs.

“Go on and tend to your brother,” she says to Luke, nodding towards Joff. Based on the quiver of little Corwyn’s lower lip, Joff has thrown one of his toys at him again. He appears poised to do so a second time, wooden dragon carving clutched tightly in an upraised fist. “Have him build a tower with you, perhaps.”

Luke sighs, ever wearied at presiding over the play of the younger two. Still, he abandons the book before him, revolves on his heel and trudges over to the pair of tots, prying the dragon from little fingers and leading them both to the far safer pile of blocks.

Satisfied, Rhaenyra turns back to you. “Have you tried speaking to him?”

The abrupt shift takes you aback. You must cast your mind past the immediate happenings—away from the sound of delighted giggling, the thwock of blocks placed by clumsy hands—to recall your previous conversation.

Oh, yes. Daemon.

“Not… not exactly,” you say, hesitant. “I did not think I would need to ask my husband to… well…”

“There are occasions where you think too highly of him.” Rhaenyra shakes her head wryly, a fond curl to the corner of her lip. “This is one of them. Just because he knows you best of all doesn’t mean he’s not still a man.”

“But he is a man who… enjoys certain acts! Perhaps even more so than other men.” Your thoughts supply you with ample evidence of such a claim, unbidden. How frustrating it is that your thoughts are your only source of carnal satisfaction at present. You swallow nervously, praying that such lewdness or its resulting vexation does not reveal itself in your expression. “Why is he being so obtuse?”

She tilts her head sympathetically. “You forget he was there during your labours. They’re pains easy enough to forget when you’re the one experiencing them, but not soon disregarded as the spectator. He remembers your suffering—he does not wish to revisit any further upon you.”

A flattering observation of him, though you note the lack of supposition in her tone. Intrigue washes through you.

“How do you know? Has he been speaking to you?”

“Oh, darling. He’s frightfully easy to read.”

For a moment, you envy her. She is so alike to Daemon that it is hardly any wonder that she knows his thoughts so well. You, on the other hand, do not share their temperament. It is a fact you often appreciate, for the gods know how calamitous such a warring pair would be in matrimony. It had once been said, you recall not by who, that you were the ice to their fire—but now, you feel the comparison is lacking.

If Rhaenyra and Daemon are a blazing conflagration, then you are the steady warmth of the candle flickering in the evening. Soft, controlled, but carrying the same propensity to burn and maim. A dragon, same as all the rest, but with one rather unique quality: mastery of will. The calamities inflicted by your family might have been averted had past generations indulged their wild spirits a little less.

An odd, haunting echo whispers along the back of your neck, a voice you feel you ought to recognise yet lies beyond the precipice of knowledge, just out of reach. “Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. A dragon is not a slave.”

No. But Targaryens have ever been beholden to their tempers. Mayhaps there is freedom yet to be won.

Rhaenyra clears her throat, brow raised pointedly at your obvious distraction. “Use your words. If you want him to fuck you, you’ll have to make it clear beyond implication.”

You flush, and not only for your inattention. You may be far more accustomed to vulgarity now than you were before marriage, but it does not mean that it is entirely comfortable to hear your sister speak it. Never mind the fact that she is discussing the affairs of your marital bed in so cavalier a manner! You remind yourself that it had been you who had approached her.

“Thank you.”

“I hope I helped. And to be frank, I hope I never need to help again. It’s difficult enough to contend with unspoken.”

A clear enough dismissal: you rise from your seat beside her, squeezing her arm in silent farewell. She catches you just before you turn toward the door, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“And remember,” she says. “If all else fails, just drop your shift and grab his cock. That ought to be enough to encourage him.”

“Rhaenyra!”

It takes a great deal of strength not to follow through on your sister’s recommendation when next you meet with Daemon.

He returns to your chambers following another of his training sessions, sweat-soaked and streaked with grime, grunting as he slips the belt from his waist and sets Dark Sister against the wall. Your ladies avert their stares as he unbuckles the clasps of his leather jerkin and discards the thing across the table. At the sight of his disrobing, Jeyne and Bethany stand, genuflecting hastily before all but rushing from the room. Try as you might, the pair are still somewhat uneasy around him. Characteristically, he appears not to notice their departure—indeed, it is unlikely he truly even noticed their presence.

“I do hope you plan to wipe that table clean,” you call out to him, doing your best to affect a tone of light-hearted teasing. In truth, you feel more than a little faint. It is positively sinful, the way he looks.

Daemon rolls his eyes, bundling up his tunic. He tugs it over his head, exposing the undershirt made translucent from the vigour of his activities. Through it, you can see the scars of old, the firm planes of his chest and belly.

“We have people for that, or did you forget?” he asks. The tunic falls atop the jerkin. A chair screeches across the stone, and your husband seats himself with a wearied sigh to work at the buckles on his boots. “Fucking miserable, this lot. I’m half tempted to drag them to the Stepstones. Perhaps the threat of war might make them more inclined to follow orders. Best way to turn the green ones into true men.”

You know it is mere complaint, but the thought of his flying off to battle is still enough to make your chest pang with worry.

“Not funny,” you say, thumbing the needle in your hand. “Aelys would never stop screaming with you gone. Rhaenar would keep himself awake until your return.”

He grins. “Never fear. I’ll not leave you to manage our little beasts alone.” He pauses; glances toward the cradle. “How are they?”

“See for yourself.”

Hardly needing encouragement, he pads sure-footed toward the sounds of soft gurgling and cooing, the sturdy frame keeping the pair of infants out of your immediate sight. Bending low and extending both arms down, you can hear him murmur, “Rytsas, ñuhys zaldrītsossas.”

Hello, my little dragons.

A high-pitched squeal is his response, no doubt Aelys’s welcome. You try to focus once again on the seam you are patching, though it is hard not to be drawn into the conversation that appears to be taking place to your far left.

Rustling, and a plaintive whine. Daemon sighs. “Daor, ñuhus jorrāeliarzis—jemī ōregon koston daor. Yne aōhi muña asēnilus lo jemī vaogēdan.” No, my loves—I cannot hold you. Your mother would kill me for dirtying you.

“Kony drēje issa.” That is correct, you say archly. You nod toward the screen. “Kōdrion aō syt ilza. Īlvon parklondo go, aōlot rāenābā, kostilus.” There is a bath for you. Wash up before our supper, please.

When he pulls away, the pair squawk their dismay. Luckily, he knows best how to resolve the ensuing fit before it can reach fruition—he jerks his final layer off over his head, depositing the threadbare shirt into the cradle. Their cries fall abruptly silent. You wrinkle your nose at the prospect of their bedding wicking the odour of perspiration, though you are forced to acknowledge the efficacy of such an action. Babes find comfort in the scent of their parents.

Daemon drops a strip of leather on the desk, shaking his head of now-loose hair. On his path to the tub, he stops before you.

“Ynot tolī syz iksā,” he says, rough-hewn palm dragging your chin upward. You are too good to me.

It is all you can do not to moan like an eager slattern as his lips slot against yours and the musk of him rattles your bones like tinder to firewood, bursting and sparking with banked heat. Acerbic, mingled with smoke and the particular fragrance of ashy mud found nowhere else but here upon the isle, it is strong enough to taste upon his mouth, feel upon your skin. Before you have the mind to deepen it, to drag him down and haul your skirts up, he is gone, naught more than a tender dirt-smudged stroke to the cheek to mark his departure.

You collapse back against the chaise, bewildered and hot, the heavy glide of his favourite coat finally breaking free from your lap and to the floor, needle and thread and all. Meanwhile, you hear him whistling to himself as he removes his breeches, his groan of relief as he steps into the water.

You have half a mind to disturb his bathing, for how dare he leave you so bereft? But it is not his fault. Well, to be fair, there is no fault at play here, for there has been no fault committed. Unless being far too handsome is a fault, you think.

Alas, there is no recourse but to wait for the opportune time to strike. It cannot be now—supper is still to come, and the babes must be put to the nursery.

‘Tis this thought you must repeat over and over again. Not now: Daemon is dressing for the evening meal, even if you truly only want to have him remain without clothing, to prowl about with his considerable endowments on display for your avid gaze, and something alarmingly like grief twists in your stomach with each item of clothing that further conceals him from you. Not now: you take your girl and he takes your boy and the four of you make your way through the halls, and you must ruthlessly quell the driving lust from your core with each step, for there can be no notions of lechery with a babe curled in your grasp just so, an innocence you will not dare risk tainting with the impurity of your designs. Not now: the Keepers are explaining that the twins’ dragons “are becoming unruly, my Prince”, and “they will need far more outdoor enrichment than we had previously discussed”, and you must nod your head in sage agreement even as you press a kiss to Rhaenar’s forehead, then Aelys’s, all too aware of the low thrum of Daemon’s voice while you say goodnight to Freda and the children.

Supper comes and goes in a burning haze, marked by the knowing looks you receive from your sister across the table and the pervasive awareness that he is right there next to you, so close and yet untouchable, not now, not in the way you want. When you are done eating—and honestly, you do not even remember putting food into your mouth, but your plate is empty and your belly pleasantly full so you must have—you are forced to just sit, all too conscious of the arm Daemon has carelessly draped across the back of your chair, the rumble of his laugh as his cups flow amply with the free and easy conversation between he and Harwin and Laenor. And then, and then, you are returned to your chambers after minutes or hours or days, so wound up on the inside that you feel close to madness of a different kind, near to bursting, blood bubbling effervescently like the sharpest of Northern wines.

All night, you had been anticipating this moment. Why now does your nerve fail you?

“Come here,” he says, disturbing the panicked wheelabout in your mind.

For a moment, you wonder whom it is he is speaking to—but then he glances up at you, frowning quizzically. You realise you are the only other being in the room. Wringing your hands and cursing your foolish transparency, you trail toward him, stopping expectantly when you are within reach.

Silence.

“Well?” he asks, raising his eyebrow. You look about, trying to determine what it is he wants. He sighs, and adds, “Do you plan on sleeping in that dress, or would you like a hand with the laces?”

“Oh!”

Like a poorly performing puppet, you whirl around spasmodically, breath stuck somewhere between its starting and finishing point, suspended in your chest as he shifts your hair to one side and begins the methodical task of unthreading you from your fabric prison. Each wrench of cord is as keenly felt as a thrust between your legs, or the memory of it, hushing your careening passions to the metronome of the tug tug shwip at your back. Daemon’s breath is sweetly fragrant, hot upon your neck, near enough that you can hear his every exhale before the pressure of air caresses your skin. It is an eternity before the gown slithers to the floor, followed by the soft-boned corset you have favoured in recent moons.

“Shift, too?” is his next whispered query, fingers already at the ties and tugging, palms dragging it clear from your collarbone and down, down, down. It bunches at your waist, but it is far enough for his liking, and he turns you in his grasp to back you unerringly to the bed. A kiss, then, “Make yourself comfortable, talītsos,” and he moves away to remove his own clothing.

Your heart sinks at the familiarity. The routine. Make yourself comfortable, followed by abortive sensual touches and the hard suckle of man at teat before your breasts are dried up for the night, then squirming alone in the dark to the furious beat of his fist over his length across the room and the barely groaned “Fuck!” as he spurts his release on something, anything that is not you.

Even so, you crawl onto the mattress, nipples tingling with the gentle sway of movement and shift pooling over the convergence of your thighs. Kneeling, you wait, torn between hiding and fully baring yourself to the cooling chamber.

He joins you thereafter, body rising over yours as his mouth sinks to touch your own, tongue chasing the give of your lips to feed you the heady prickle of inebriation in a plush glide. Too soon does he break from you, the ridge of his nose pressing a warm line through the wet of his kisses along your jaw, your throat. He bears you slowly down, back against the pillows, grip sliding up your thighs and bypassing where you need him entirely, up your hips, up, away—

“Wait, wait,” you gasp, fumbling at his wrist to make him pause in his pursuit.

He leans back, concern carving lines in his face. Before he speaks—before you lose all semblance of courage—you try to make it plain without words.

You part your thighs flat to the bed. Slowly, without thinking too hard, you draw the rumpled hem of your shift up over your belly, rasping against your flesh, and you show him the dewy softness that awaits, begging for his favour. You imagine it glistens in the low light of candle flame there, dappling gold on tender flesh starved for touch.

Daemon stares unblinking, surprise transforming liquid, dark. “What’s this?”

“I need—” You drag his fingers to your mound, resisting the urge to shudder. “Please?”

He huffs, not a sound of amusement but one of seeming triumph. Idly, as though indifferent, his thumb coasts a path along your folds, taking care not to part them. The nail catches just so upon the hood of your half-hidden bud, sparking and fizzling straight to all the pleasure centres of your body. “Look at you. I’ve left you wanting, have I?”

“Ye—yeah.” You tip your hips up invitingly, breaths like little pants coming quicker, too loud in the quiet. “It’s been so… so long since…”

You bite off a gasp as he crawls forward, lowers, deliberately splaying you open with the blunted, veiny drive of his shaft. He hisses at the pressure, the sleekness, the heat. You feel it too, the scorch of iron striking molten, and you tip your head up in search of some relief from the ache of it.

He stirs himself there, making no attempt to push in where he catches.

“Since what, sweetling?” His arms lock you in place, hand falling warningly to your throat as his teeth make divots in the lobe of your ear. “Since I touched you? Fucked you? Put my seed in your belly?”

“Yes!”

You nod furiously, clutching his fist around your windpipe tighter, squeezing so that you can feel the threat of it through layers of muscle. Grinding your hips up at him, your entrance tightens painfully as he once again slides above where you want him, knocking where you are most sensitive. Need drips slickly to the bedsheets beneath your core.

The enthusiasm of your agreement lures a noise of satisfaction from his chest. “Thought I was doing the right thing. Thought I was being a good husband, keeping my cock away from my poor little wife, scarcely free of the birthing bed.”

He reaches between your bodies with his other hand and grasps the root of himself to slap his cockhead against your petaled opening, the collision of skin producing an audible sucking sound. Your nipples strain to the ceiling, your reason tethered like wire to the churning of your belly.

Daemon grunts, grip shifting to wind against your nape, tugging sharply at the hairs there. “But I forgot, didn’t I? That you’re a whore.”

“I am,” you say, pitchy and breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you, kepus.”

He tugs again, grimacing as finally—finally—his girth aims true. The broad head of him slips inside, filling the empty spaces in you with weight and heat and heft until your cunny is as wide open as your lips are, a silent scream of sensation. Time slows and all the ages of the earth roll into the seconds that he piles himself inside you, forcing through the stubborn clench straight to the root. You wince, the fit tight like you remember, struggling to breathe at the deep-seated throb from somewhere below your ribs where he has engraved a path.

“Fuck.” He moans quietly against your shoulder, more to himself than to you. His cock digs deeper, harder, and you cry out, neatly unable to bear it. “Fuck, how are you still so tight?”

You squeeze around him at the words, revelling in the choked growl even as your body tries to curl in on itself from sheer stimulation, legs hitching up around his waist to drive him to your will. Embracing him, you bury your nose in his hair as he tilts you to his liking and withdraws, returning with a jolt that sparks uncomfortably in your gut. His mouth drags and leaves bruises along your neck as his thrusts start tentative, grow bold.

It is a testament to his own longing that he does not continue rattling off the filthiest declarations imaginable, fists clenched over your thighs and at the base of your skull with a strength that will mar you come morning. You smile at each throbbing plunge, bask in the squelch and judder of your forms moving in tandem, sweat smoothing the way. He pants, overcome, and you echo his sounds in a rhythm like ancient music.

Daemon’s lips venture lower, spine hunching atop you. He crows, jubilant, and you realise that your arousal is not the only fluid your body has released. Rising up, he takes you by both hipbones and settles you atop his thighs, tugging you over his lap and admiring the sight you make below him. He does not stop moving, length sluicing in minuscule revolutions, a constant bevy of sensation.

“Look at you,” he says again, palm smoothing flat over your stomach and gliding up over your breastbone, diverting to tweak one of your leaking nipples.

You squeal, feeling the rush of milk dribble down your breast. His nostrils flare, thumb stoppering the fall and chasing to its source before withdrawing and licking it from his skin with a lewd pop. You think he means to incite the other, only his digits venture lower and twist cruelly at your straining pearl. Tears spring to your eyes as something like the memory of peaking kindles in your stomach.

“Ah, there—all of you cries for me now, little girl. Isn’t that nice?” Callous satisfaction harshens the curve of his grin. “Eyes, tits, cunt… weeping for Uncle. And I’ll drink everything down.”

He presses the backs of your knees to the bed and descends, latching onto your nipple as his onslaught renews, pleasure in duality crystallizing at your chest and below and melding into one. You lose track of where you end and he begins, where the relief is greatest. He drags you to that elusive end in a swirl of writhing limbs and salt-musk sticking to the roof of your mouth as you call for him.

His thrusts come faster, shallower, making direct contact with the locus of feeling with each forward movement. The entirety of you gears toward the crest of the mountain, that moment of great and glorious bliss. When you finally reach it, you keen, bones and muscle coiling inward as a great wave surges outward.

You twist uncontrollably, fingernails scoring through his flesh as you come.

“Kepus,” you hear yourself babbling, clinging to his head at your other breast as you lurch discordantly across the mattress. “Harder, harder, more—”

You turn into a glutton desirous of this particular form of punishment, ravenous for the ache and the sting and the burn of it, and he responds in kind.

“Yes, yes, yes…”

Each plea for more meets with a plunge of girth that sets you to shrieking, pushing yourself into them though your body urges you to flee. More, more, more. You are drunk on it, greedy for the assault. He is ever obliging to fuck harder, harder, faster.

And then—

Daemon withdraws, climbing over you with frantic disregard, hand a blur between his legs. He pushes you down, wrenches your jaw up, apart, digging into the hinge.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he snarls, mean and monstrous with his cock aimed straight for your face, panting and slavering as he works himself over.

You stick your tongue out for good measure, straining against his hold for just one taste, but he does not let you. His fingers curl into the meat between your skull and spine, pain making you cross-eyed, and he shifts urgently on his knees.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

Seed spurts hot on the corner of your mouth, along your cheek, across your closed eyelids before he brings his length to your lips. You pull eagerly at him, rising to bring him further into your mouth even as his fist knocks unkindly against your teeth. His caustic flavour, familiar and missed, spreads across your palate, and you drink of him like a penitent come to worship at the altar of the gods.

Mindlessly, he grinds down at you, softening girth making you gag ever so slightly. Spend clings to your lashes and stings in your eyes as you look up at him, but you cannot care.

He stills, winded, chest expanding and collapsing with a thirst for air. Then, with a gentleness lacking in these last moments, he works himself free of you, flopping to your side with a sigh and a weak noise of contentment. He looks relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in weeks. Moons, even.

You brush stray strands from his forehead, smoothing starlight from his weathered temples. He turns into the touch, mouth meeting the inside of your wrist.

“You really are too good to me, sweetling,” he murmurs.

His lips press to the tip of your nose, palm warm and comforting on your back. Fingers trace patterns into your flesh, at first seeming meaningless until you recognise the strokes, deliberate and sure, for what they are.

‘Avy jorrāelan.’ I love you.

“I know,” you say, answering both spoken and unspoken sentiment, your heart utterly full. In turn, you trace the same glyphs on the skin of his chest. From the smile that fills his eyes with light incandescent, he knows, too.

You lay in the quiet, basking in the surety of each other.

But it cannot last. You are loath to break the serenity, though you speak nonetheless, making a weak gesture to the pearly gleam that clumps your lashes, streaks your face.

“Do you mind… perhaps getting me a washcloth? I… cannot see.”

It is only now that he appears to notice the state he has left you in. With another kiss and an amused bark of laughter, he moves to do your bidding.

You settle back, content, watching your uncle stride fully nude to the wash basin to wet the cloth he has scrounged from its resting place. While you wait, you count all your many blessings: your babes, happy and settled and thriving. Your sister, skilful and kind in her confidence. Athfiezar, fierce and devoted and liberating when the walls feel as though they are caving in. Your tutor, your healer, your maester, your attendants, your life here on this isle, in this time and place and season. Your husband, your lover, the very benefactor of all you have come to hold dear.

Daemon kneels beside you, sponging away the worst of his deeds with a sure hand and steady smirk. “I’ll be sure to mind my aim next time, hm?”

Next time. An implicit vow.

You feel it again—a glow like the pinprick of daylight at a tunnel’s end, warming the chill from your bones and the frost from your heart, slow and sure and stubborn in the face of the complications that are yet to come. Something thawing, soothing, deadening the weight of grief and hardships past.

“Yes,” you murmur, eyes closed at the sensation of his frame moulded against yours, real and true and necessary. “Next time.”

Something like hope.

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EWAN MITCHELL as AEMOND TARGARYEN House of the Dragon (Official Trailer) | Season 2

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Lady of the Ashes: Chapter 9

House of the Dragon Season 1

Aemond x TargaryenOC

Chapter Word Count: 5523

She was his everything… For her…he would do anything.

From the moment of her birth, Aemond Targaryen swore himself to the protection of his niece Aelinor Velaryon. As the two grew up inseparable, they find themselves entangled in the Dance of Dragons, battling to stay together even as their families try to pull them apart.

A/N: Started a new job this week so things have slowed down a bit! Only three chapters left!! Thanks for reading! Cross posted on A03

Let me know what you think!

Masterlist A03

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 P.1 P.2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Aelinor did not come back to herself until after the King had been carried away, his moans of pain swallowed by the din of the crowd. Luc had her by the hand, pulling her along as they all hurried from the hall.

“It is an outrage, Mother!” Jace was protesting. “He cannot just give Aelinor—”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra cut him off, one hand rubbing her stomach. “He can. And he has. Now we must find a way forward.”

“Don’t worry, Sister.” Luc squeezed her hand. “We’ll fix this.”

“I don’t think that this is a thing to be fixed, Luc.”

They pushed through the main doors, and out into the corridor when they became aware of people following them.

“Aelinor!” Aemond was pushing through the crowd, his brother at his side.

Aelinor paused, starting to turn. She needed to speak with him. He was probably the only person in the world that she wanted to speak to at this moment.

Gods above, they were betrothed . Her mind had not quite wrapped herself around what that meant. To think only a few hours before she had been celebrating her brothers’ betrothals, and now she had one of her own.

She supposed that it had always been somewhat of a possibility. Aemond would certainly never have been an option in her mother’s mind, but as the daughter of the Heir, Aelinor had always known that she would be betrothed to some lord somewhere, if she did not end up marrying Jace. She had once even heard rumors that many years ago, when things were better between their families, that Rhaenyra had suggested marrying her to Aegon. All of these options had seemed impossible and distant to Aelinor, a series of mediocre options when she knew there was only one person in the world who she cared for enough to marry.

And now, thanks to her grandfather, it was a reality.

“Aelinor!” Aemond shouted again.

She stopped, facing him as he came to a stop in front of her. He was breathing heavily, his eyes alight with something she didn’t recognize. His gaze slid from hers, down to where Luc held her hand, and then over her shoulder. She glanced back, surprised to see Prince Daemon standing directly behind her. Something passed between the two men, something that sent a chill through Aelinor’s veins.

“We should talk.” She said quietly, drawing Aemond’s focus back to her.

She half expected him to reject her, to meet her with the same hostility that he had held when they spoke before the trial. But she needed to speak to him, to find out how he felt about all of this. Aemond wasn’t one to appreciate having his life chosen for him, and she worried that he may resent her for the King’s announcement.

“Yes, we do.” He nodded. “Perhaps we should—”

“Aelinor,” Luc tugged on her hand. She was very aware of just how many people were watching this interaction, and she very desperately did not want to have this conversation with an audience.

“Aelinor, we need to go.” Jacaerys was at her other side, pulling on her arm.

She gave Aemond an apologetic look. “Perhaps we can—”

But Aemond was sneering at her brother. “I have a right to speak to my betrothed.”

“You have no right!” Jacaerys shouted.

“She isn’t your anything!” Luc protested.

“Can we well just—” Aelinor begged, trying to pull Jacaerys back as he stepped forward.

“Children!” She had never been so grateful to hear her mother’s voice. “Enough, all of you.”

Rhaenyra came to stand between them, casting a long glance over Aemond. “The King has requested a dinner this evening, Prince Aemond. You can speak then. As it is, my family and I will retire to our chambers.”

She watched Aemond clench his jaw, clearly unwilling to contradict the Princess when they were surrounded by so many other people.

“Mother,” Aelinor said gently, managing to shake free of Jace’s grip and reach for her hand. “Perhaps Aemond could walk me back? We’d only be a few minutes behind.”

“Absolutely not.” Jacaerys said. “It would be—”

“That will be fine, Aelinor.” Her mother acquiesced. “But do not take too long.”

She gave her mother a grateful smile, and the one Rhaenyra offered made her appreciate her mother all the more. Even though she did not want to, she was listening to what Aelinor wanted, giving her some of the control in this situation. It was more than most parents would offer.

“I won’t.” She promised.

Rhaenyra took Jace by the arm, leading her family away. Aelinor was left surrounded by nobles, a seething Aemond at her side.

“Arm.” She hissed.

“What?” He looked confused.

“Offer me your arm.” She repeated.

Snapping back to awareness, Aemond quickly offered his arm. She looped her own through his, wrapping both of her arms around his as they started to walk. There were appearances to keep up, after all.

Once they were walking, the nobles fell away, not bold enough to be so obvious in their eavesdropping.

“Well,” She began. “That was eventful.”

“Are you alright?” Aemond asked. “Those things he said, and your…Prince Daemon…that can’t have been easy for you to see.”

No it hadn’t been. Aelinor could handle being called a bastard and a whore, and would much rather that those insults be directed at her than at her mother or brothers, but she had never seen someone die before. She had certainly never seen someone be cleaved through the head. But that wasn’t what she wanted to spend her time with Aemond talking about.

“Grandfather’s announcement,” She looked up at him. “Did you know?”

“No,” He gave the answer she had expected. “I have not spoken to my father in….in a long time. I don’t think anyone knew what he intended.”

“No, certainly not.” Aelinor sighed. “I thought my mother was going to faint.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed her.” Aemond’s steps were slowing, trying to draw out their time together before she was returned to her family. “Lina…it’s…”

She could not bear to hear his rejection, which was surely coming. “I do not know what I thought he was about to proclaim. He could have been betrothing me to a Baratheon for all I knew, or gods forbid, a Lannister.”

Aemond tensed. “That wouldn’t have been…ideal.”

“No,” She dipped her chin. “I’m sorry, Aemond.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He said stiffly. “I’m certain this was not what you wanted either.”

Either . He did not wish to marry her. He had all but said it outloud, and she felt her heart crack a little bit.

But Aemond was still speaking. “Having our betrothal be announced as a political machination, after bloodshed was never what I wanted for you.”

They were nearly at Aelinor’s family’s chambers, and she slowed nearly to a stop. “What are you saying? I thought you were unhappy to be betrothed. You looked…honestly you looked horrified when your father announced it.”

“I was horrified,” Aemond turned, grabbing his hand in hers. “I was horrified for that terrible moment when I thought you were being promised to another.”

“Oh?” She breathed.

“I have never truly imagined myself as having a wife,” Aemond said. “But I think…if the idea ever did enter my mind, there was no one I would have pictured but you.”

Aelinor let out a shaky exhale. “Truly?”

He squeezed her hands. “Truly. And it is I who must apologize to you.”

“What for?” Her mind was still reeling, trying to process what he was saying.

“I was harsh with you, this morning, and you did not deserve it.”

Aelinor gave a small laugh. “You were upset. For reasons I still do not know, and which I intend to uncover.”

He looked troubled. “It should not concern you.”

She clicked her tongue. “It will always concern me when you call yourself a monster, Aemond. You are not capable of being a monster.”

His eyes darkened. “I’m capable of a lot of things.”

“But never that.” She believed that wholeheartedly. Aemond might be prickly at times, he might be quick to anger and a bit too rash, but he could never be monstrous. “As it is, we have bigger things to worry about.”

“Yes, you do.” A voice spoke from behind them, and they both turned to see Jace and Luc standing there.

“Oh, would you two just leave me be?” Aelinor groaned.

“Sorry, little sister.” Jace shook his head. “Mother’s orders.”

She sighed, turning back to Aemond. “Well, I guess there is no arguing with that. Will I see you at dinner?”

“Of course.”

She gave her a small smile before reluctantly dropping his hand and walking away. As soon as she was within reach of her brothers, Luc linked arms with her. She caught both of them looking behind her, but when she turned Aemond was quickly walking away.

“What was that?” She asked. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing, Sister.” Jace placed a hand on her back. “Come, we have much to discuss.”

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

The sight of family gathered in the parlor, solemn expressions on their faces, was enough to force Aelinor to push all thoughts of her conversation with Aemond from her mind. Her mother was seated on a couch, a cup in her hand and a frown on her face.

“Are you well, Mother?” Aelinor shrugged off her brothers and sat down. “That was a great deal of excitement for you and the babe.”

She leveled a glare at her father, who leaned against the window frame. “I’m sure the impromptu decapitation did not help.”

“His insults were not be borne,” Daemon said. “Or are you so soft that you thought we should let him go on his merry way.”

“Of course he deserved to die,” Aelinor said, meaning every word. Vaemond had questioned her brothers’ legitimacy in front of the entire court. It was treason. “I only think that there was perhaps a more…polite way to do it.” Her father gave her a curious look, as if he were trying to figure out exactly what she was thinking.

“Though perhaps not so effective.” Rhaenyra sighed. “Aelinor, did you have any idea about this…this betrothal?”

“No!” She exclaimed. “No, of course not.”

“Then where would my father get this idea?” Rhaenyra asked, looking to Daemon, who just shrugged.

Aelinor felt her blood run a bit cold as she remembered her conversation with her grandfather the night before. Well, conversation may be slightly overstating the exchange. She had begged aloud for a solution, and she thought he had been in too much pain to hear her, let alone answer. But perhaps he had heard her. Perhaps this betrothal was his answer to her pleas. A way of bringing their families back together.

“It is madness,” Rhaenyra was saying. “Am I to leave my eldest daughter in this pit of snakes? Are we to take Aemond back with us to Dragonstone?”

Daemon shook his head. “She will stay here, with his family. That’s how these things work.”

“It can’t be!” Jace protested. “I’ll…you can’t leave her with Aemond. He’s dangerous.”

“He is not!” Aelinor exclaimed.

Rhaenyra gave him a questioning look. “I know the incident with Vhagar has left its mark on you, but that was many years ago. I admit Aemond is a little wild, and almost certainly under her mother’s thumb, but why would you say that he is dangerous?”

Aelinor tried to silently plead with Jace, begging him to keep the secret, but he just shook his head and pulled aside the collar of his tunic. “He did this to me. Last night, over an imagined insult.”

Rhaenyra gasped, holding one hand to her chest. “He attacked you?”

Aelinor stood, her fists clenching at her side. “Jacaerys!” She cried. “That is not the truth of it. He may have overreacted but he’s…he’s protective of me. And it was not an imagined insult.”

“What is this insult?” Luc asked, looking thoroughly confused.

Aelinor spoke before Jace could offer his interpretation of events. “Aemond felt that the announcement of Jace and Luc’s betrothals were a slight against me. There were some people gossiping at the ball, and things just got out of hand.”

“So he was defending you…against your brother?” Rhaenyra clarified, her face softening a bit.

“Exactly,” Aelinor said. “And I have already spoken to him about it.”

“It is because I am your brother that I cannot allow this to proceed!” Jace was still arguing, and Aelinor wanted to stomp on his foot. “What if the next misunderstanding lands Aelinor at his mercy? And gods forbid she have a run in with Aegon. Do you know the things they say about him? Would we expose Aelinor to that violence?”

“I am not a child!” Aelinor protested. “I can handle Aegon. And Aemond would never hurt me. Besides, we cannot disobey the King.”

“To hell with that!” Jace shouted. “I am your brother! I’ll challenge him, if that's what it takes, but you will not marry him.”

“It isn’t your decision!” Aelinor shouted back.

“No, it isn’t.” Daemon’s voice was low, such a jarring change from their own that both Aelinor and Jace turned to look at him.

Daemon picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Do you object to marrying Prince Aemond, Aelinor?”

She gaped for a moment. “I don’t…what do you mean?”

“It’s a fairly simple question. Do. You. Object?”

Aelinor’s silence was answer enough.

“That will be quite enough of that,” Rhaenyra sighed. “Whatever our feelings on this arrangement may be, there is not a solution to be found today. We must prepare for dinner this evening. And you all must be on your best behavior.”

“Do you intend to voice your objection?” Aelinor asked quietly.

Her mother leveled her with a long look. “Do I intend to argue with my bedridden father? Or to sow discord during a family meal? No, I do not. As I said, this will not be solved tonight.”

“So we’re just supposed to go to dinner?” Luc asked, incredulous. “And what…not address it?”

“Exactly.” Rhaenyra said. “We will not address it beyond what is required to make polite conversation.”

Her tone ended the conversation, and Aelinor sank back onto the chaise as her mother and father left the room. No doubt there had been too much excitement to be good for the babe, and there was certain to be more excitement to come at the dinner that evening.

“Are you alright, Aelinor?” Luc perched on the armrest, reaching out to play with the ends of her hair.

She gave a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Luc.”

“Well everything is going to be alright,” Jace was pacing by the window. “Because you aren’t going to marry him.”

“Can you just stop talking?” Aelinor begged. “Please?”

“Sister, he is dangerous ,” Jace glared at her. “I know you think I am being harsh, but I care for you too much to see you married to him. It would be the same if you were married to some Dornish savage or a Northman who bathes in blood. I would protect you.”

“Aemond does not bathe in blood , Jacaerys,” Aelinor shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“He will hurt you.”

Aelinor was growing tired of having the same argument, and she tilted her head back against the cushion.

Luc ran his fingers through her hair, his ministrations serving to calm the tension boiling through her body. “This is a pretty hair bauble, Sister. Where did you get it?”

Aelinor lifted a hand, feeling the dragon pin on the back of her head. “Oh, that. Prince Daemon gave it to me this morning.”

“Isn’t it Valyrian steel?” Luc asked.

“I believe so.”

“What?” Jace strode toward them. “Why is Prince Daemon giving you Valyrian steel trinkets?”

“Good gods, Jace,” Aelinor jerked away when he reached for it. “It’s like I’m five years old again. Tell me, is it a natural instinct to snatch away anything I might have, or is it a conscious choice? Would you like to toss this into the hearth as well?”

A shocked silence met her words, and when she looked up she saw Jace drawing his hand back to his chest, guilt in his eyes.

“You know I…I have never meant to hurt you, Sister.” He said quietly.

“I know.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I did not mean that. As obtuse and idiotic as you often are, I have never questioned your affection for me.”

“Which is second only to mine,” Luc teased.

Aelinor snorted. “Oh certainly. There is no contest there.”

Jace rolled his eyes. “You two are insufferable.

Aelinor tilted her head forward and let Luc play with the pin, shaking her hair free when he finally pulled it out.

“Why did Prince Daemon give this to you?” Luc asked.

Aelinor’s breath caught in her throat. She had often wondered if her brothers knew the truth of her parentage, if they knew that neither Laenor Velaryon nor Harwin Strong was her father. Some days she thought it was too obvious for them not to know, and other days she prayed that they never discovered what she felt in some ways to be a double betrayal. The man who raised her was not her father, nor was the man who had carried her about the palace when she was young. Ser Harwin had kept her cradled in a single arm, never wavering no matter how long he held her, carrying her from room to room to distract her in those first weeks after her hand was burned. And Ser Laenor had always been waiting for her when she returned to their family’s chambers, a plate of stolen sweets and a tale of his father’s seafaring ready to distract her from the pain. Those men, she believed, had loved her. They had loved her brothers.

But neither of them were her father.

“I don’t know,” She lied to Luc. “It’s pretty, though.”

They were silent for a long moment, all of them reeling from the morning and trying to come to terms with what was next.

“I will not cease to object,” Jace began slowly, holding up a hand when Aelinor opened her mouth. “But I will not challenge him.”

“You won’t?”

“Unless he hurts you,” Jace said sternly. “But if you are choosing to be so foolish, then you will have my support. As you always do.”

“Dear Brother,” She held out a hand, which he took in his own. “Thank you.”

Jace just huffed, looking slightly put out by her display of affection.

“It’s not like the Aemond we know would ever hurt Aelinor,” Luc added. “He might have always been an arse, but he wasn’t cruel.”

Jace pulled aside his collar, pointing to the bruising.

“As I said, he’s an arse.” Luc snorted. “Perhaps you should have put up a better fight.”

“Oh quiet, both of you!” Aelinor protested. “He isn’t an arse now, and he wasn’t then.”

“He’s an arse.” They said together.

“You’re both arses.” She stood, retrieving her hair pin from Luc’s grip. “Now, I intend to get some sleep, and prepare for what I shall pray will be a quiet family dinner.”

“Throw in a prayer from me as well,” Jace called after her. “We’ll need it.”

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

Dinner was not going well.

“You do know how the act is done, correct? Where to put your cock and all that?”

Aelinor resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands as Jace reprimanded Aegon, who had managed to be nothing but crude and inappropriate in the five minutes they’d been seated. When she glanced to Helaena sitting at her side, her friend made no reaction to her husband’s remarks.

Choosing to focus on her grandfather, Aelinor tried to turn back to the center of the table.

Someone, and she wasn’t sure if the more likely culprit was the Queen, her mother, or Jace, had sat her on the opposite side of the table from Aemond. He had offered her a strained smile when she had taken her seat, but they had been unable to speak.

“And, of course, the bond which will strengthen our great house, the betrothal of Prince Aemond, to my dear granddaughter, Princess Aelinor.” King Viserys was standing, offering her a smile that seemed to pain him. She did not know how he had the strength to live, let alone to stand and make speeches as he was doing. Still, she smiled brightly at him, trying to convey her love for him.

When she glanced back at Aemond, his expression was unchanged.

The others began to make speeches, her mother, then the queen, but Aelinor was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to listen.

Aemond was being…strange. She could not quite put her finger on it, but she knew that something was wrong. She had thought from their conversation earlier that he was satisfied with their betrothal, and yet his body was wracked with tension. Every glance he sent her way was softened, but quickly returned to ice as he studied the others. It unsettled her, and made her wish that she could just take him by the hand and lead him away, so that they might sort this out once and for all.

Jace was sitting down — why was Jace making a speech? — when Helaena muttered “Beware the beast beneath the boards.”

“What was that?” Aelinor whispered, but then Helaena was standing too.

“I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena and Aelinor. They’ll be married soon, and it isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you, except when he’s drunk.”

Aelinor’s heart broke as her aunt dropped back into her chair, her hands shaking as she took a sip of wine. Someone called for music, and Aelinor reached forward to take Helaena’s hand.

“My darling, are you alright?” She whispered.

Helaena shrugged.

Aelinor glanced across the table, finding Aegon guzzling a cup of wine. When she looked over at Aemond, she thought she saw something like anger flicker across his eyes. Aegon had never been her favorite, nor had she ever particularly liked him. She would never have chosen him for Helaena, who was sweet and docile and required far more patience than Aegon could ever offer. But for him to be so callous to her obvious distress….it made hatred sink deep into Aelinor’s bones.

“Yours will be different.” Helaena mumbled.

“Mine…you mean me and Aemond?” Aelinor asked.

Helaena gave a jerky nod. “Aemond is not Aegon.” Before she began to sing something quietly under her breath.

“No, he isn’t.” Aelinor agreed, sitting back in her chair. She had almost relaxed when she realized what Helaena was singing. “Blood and bars and iron. Blood and bars and iron.”

The words sent a chill down Aelinor’s spine, as if she had heard them before.

Suddenly Jace was right next to her, leaning down to offer a hand to Helaena, sweeping her away into a dance. She had to give it to her brother, he knew how to liven up a somber affair, and soon everyone was laughing and clapping. Her grandfather chuckled weakly, his laughter soon giving way to a wheeze.

Aelinor stood slowly, attracting only the notice of Aemond and her father, the rest of the party too engrossed in the dancing.

Stepping around her mother, Aelinor moved to the King’s side, kneeling on the ground next to him. The azure silk of her dress pooled beneath her knees as she lightly rested her hand on her grandfather’s elbow.

“Grandfather?” She said quietly.

“Aelinor, my heart.” He turned her way, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

“You have given us all quite the surprise today,” She said, aware that people on both sides were listening in.

A familiar twinkle lit up his eye. “Not so much as the one I received when I visited my library the night before last.”

Her mouth dropped open. “That was…you were…” She wouldn’t have thought he would have the strength to get out of bed, but then, hadn’t she and Aemond heard someone moving in his chambers, heard the door creak closed behind the voyeur.

“I hope you are not upset with me, my heart,” King Viserys lowered his voice so that only the two of them might hear. “Only, I thought to make you happy.”

Aelinor glanced up, not at all surprised to immediately find Aemond’s eyes on her. “I think you have, Grandfather. I hope so.”

“Good.” He patted her hand, before collapsing back into his chair.

Aelinor returned to her seat, her heart feeling a hundred times lighter. Her betrothal to Aemond was not some grand political machination, nor was it a result of old age or delirium. No, her grandfather had wanted to make her happy, as if that was all that mattered.

She met Aemond’s eye when she sat, and something in her expression caused him to look away. But it did not matter, because once he knew the truth of their betrothal, he would come around. She knew it.

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

Aemond had had a long time to think. Over the course of the rest of the day, and the first half of this agonizingly long dinner, during which he had done nothing but stare at Aelinor, he had reached three conclusions which were almost certainly going to ruin him.

The first he had learned from watching his brother egg on his nephews, and from hearing his mother rant and rave about how the trial had gone that morning. He was not sure that she had realized that he was listening, but he had heard regardless. As he watched his father get wheeled away, little more than a rasping husk in his chair, he realized that the civility of this dinner thus far had been nothing more than a performance. They might be a family, but they did not like each other.

The second realization was that Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon were not going to allow him to wed their sister. He had spent the better part of the day wondering what might have happened if he had refused to let them take her into their family’s chambers, if he had just insisted that she stay with him. But he knew that they would never have relented, that they likely intended on standing in his way, as they always had when they were children. He wished he could forgive them for it, for it wasn’t completely understandable. He likely would have had the same objection if his father had chosen to marry Helaena to one of the bastards. But his resentment of his nephews ran deep, and it was not something that he could forgive.

And the third was that his attachment to Aelinor could surpass these two obstacles. In his mind he rationalized how they would convince her brothers, how they would do what the King had intended and bring their families together. For when Aelinor returned to her seat after speaking with the King, he saw such bright hope shining in his eyes that he knew he would do anything to make their future a possibility.

Their future .

Gods, he didn’t even know what that would mean. He only knew that he would have to find great strength to look past decades of anger, to put her first so that all could be well.

But then they set the pig on the table.

Lucerys Velaryon laughed .

And Aemond was remembering all the reasons that he could never forgive them, never try to make peace. He remembered that damned pig with the wings, remembered Aelinor’s hand in the fire. The sound of his eye being cut from his head, of hands pulling on Aelinor’s braids. Of them laughing, laughing, laughing.

No, it was because of Aelinor that he would not let them be. Let them live their lives unscathed by the pain they had caused. Pain that had scarred not only him, but also the sister they claimed to care so much about.

“Final tribute,” He was standing, a cup balanced in his outstretched hand. All eyes were on him. “To the health of my nephews Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.”

“Aemond,” His mother said quietly.

But he saw only the black hair of the bastards, and he steadied his gaze on them over the rim of his glass.

“Each of them wise…handsome…” He watched Aelinor push up from her seat, but she was too slow to stop him. “And Strong.”

“Aemond!” His mother said, louder now.

“Let us drain our cups!” He declared. “To these Strong boys.”

“I dare you to say that again!” Jacaerys stepped forward.

“Jace,” Aelinor was hurrying around the table. “Stop it.”

“Why? ‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

“Aemond, stop it!” Aelinor cried, leveling him with a look of disappointment that made his insides curdle.

But Jacaerys was stepping forward, and then Aemond was pushing back, and the bastard was sprawled on the floor. Aegon was shoving, punching maybe, and he thought one of the other girls, either Baela or Rhaena, might have been screaming.

“Stop now!” Aelinor stepped in front of him before he could lunge for Jacaerys again.

Aemond stopped himself, stepping back at the same moment that Prince Daemon appeared between them, lifting a finger to ward off Prince Jacaerys.

“Go to your rooms, all of you!” Princess Rhaenyra declared.

Aelinor stared at him over her father’s shoulder, her eyes narrowing in a way that let him know how upset she was. But she listened to her mother, storming from the room with her brothers at her heels.

He could have challenged Prince Daemon there and then for coming between them, but he did not. He could not be sure whether it was the look of amusement that Prince Daemon cast his way, or some bizarre respect afforded to Aelinor’s true father that stayed his hand. He would never admit that it was cowardice. But he followed the others into the corridor.

Everyone else was already gone, so he took a moment to lean against the stone.

Gods, why had he done that? It wasn’t that he regretted it, not truly. The bastards deserved everything they got and more. He only regretted that Aelinor had been hurt by it. He could not find satisfaction in his insult, not when Aelinor was probably in her family’s chambers already, comforting her brothers as they licked their wounds.

A throat cleared behind him, and he turned quickly, surprised to see the Princess Rhaenyra standing there. He did not feign politeness with a bow.

She clasped both hands over her stomach. “Aemond.”

“Princess.”

She sighed, sounding so motherly and disappointed that he wondered how they could be siblings. She seemed so much older than him, something in her gaze making him feel like a small child.

“I will not insult you by attempting to scold you for your behavior,” She said. “You’re a man, and because of that, you must live with your actions.”

He did not respond.

“I only wish to remind you,” She continued. “Of two things I once asked of you. I asked you to protect Aelinor all your life, and you swore to do so. Do you remember this?��

“Of course.” He had only been five years old at the time, yet the memory rang clear as day in his mind.

“And I once asked you not to call my sons….not to call them what you called them today,” He thought that the Princess might have looked a bit uneasy, a bit unsteady on her feet. “Do you remember that?”

“Do you remember that your daughter was being held down by maesters as they repaired the flesh that your sons had mangled beyond use?” He hissed.

“Yes!” Rhaenyra snapped. “And her screams echoed in my mind for years. They echo still. But my sons were boys then, as were you. They were punished.”

Aemond could vaguely recall several months in which Jacaerys and Lucerys were not permitted in the Dragonpit, and were not permitted dessert at their meals. But at the time it had seemed unsatisfactory, hardly justice for what Aelinor had suffered.

“I advise you not to live in the past, Aemond,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “Aelinor has moved forward, and I should hate for you to drag her back.”

She started to walk away, her head lowered slightly.

“Do you return to Dragonstone, then?” He asked sharply. “On the morrow?”

“We do,” Rhaenyra said.

Something sharp drove into his heart, something final that threatened to send him to his knees. She was leaving again. Aelinor had barely been home for three days, and already she was leaving him.

“But Aelinor will remain.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“It is tradition,” Rhaenyra sighed. “Since you are betrothed, she will remain in your household for some time. I will return on dragonback when I can.”

He swallowed. “Aelinor is…to stay here?” With me , he thought desperately.

“As I said,” Rhaenyra sighed, carrying on down the hall. “Unless she does not wish to after tonight.”

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