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A Beast Without Teeth

Aemond Targaryen x Commoner!Reader

Part 2 of the A Dragon Without Wings mini-series. Contains spoilers for future seasons of House of the Dragon.

Read Part 1 here!

Summary: After he kisses you for the first time, you and Aemond begin to lust after each other.

Warnings: NSFW, Fluff and smut, this chapter is spoiler-free and can be read as a standalone smut fic.

Word Count: 4.2k

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A/N: If you are reading this as a standalone, Aemond has short, dyed brown hair, and has had the reader sell his sapphire for money in this fic because he is in hiding. Reading part one is encouraged but not necessary, especially if you are avoiding spoilers.

This was supposed to be 2 parts but I wrote too much so it's gonna be three lolol. Not beta read,

As ever, reblogs and comments fuel me. Ilyyyyy <3333

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“Rytsas,” Aemond says.

“Rytsas,” you repeat. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘hello’.”

“Rytsas,” you waved at him in mock greeting; he rewarded you with a tiny smile.

It had been over a year since you’d first found Aemond, bloody and half-dead. In that time, you'd come care for him deeply. With that care came curiosity: you wanted to learn everything about him, his family’s histories, their culture.

As a commoner, survival into adulthood was not a given. You considered yourself lucky to have lived as long as you have when so many others you grew up with died.

You were so focused on staying alive that you never concerned yourself with history or poetry. Such things were frivolous, nonessential.

When you confessed this to Aemond, he’d laughed–he thought you were making a jest and had been terribly embarrassed when you told him it was true.

Since then, Aemond had taken to giving you little lessons while you cooked. Westerosi and Valyrian history, the stories of Nymeria the Rhoynish warrior queen, and today, the language of High Valyrian.

“Kirimvos,” he pronounced slowly, “it means ‘thank you’.”

“Kirimvos?” You echoed back, placing three cleaned potatoes on the counter.

“Good,” he praised, leaning back against the counter beside you, watching you work.

“Here,” you hold the knife out to him, “cut these for me, will you? I need to prepare the meat.”

He took it, holding it awkwardly. For someone so skilled with a dagger, he was incredibly clumsy with blades that were not explicitly weapons.

“Kirimvos,” you acknowledged him with a grin. He stared for a moment, eye flicking with a mixture of pride and amusement at your use of High Valyrian.

“Biarvose,” he replied, cautiously chopping the potato into two halves.

“Is that ‘you’re welcome’?” You guessed, busying yourself with the pork, slicing it into strips.

Aemond hummed in affirmation, focused intently upon the potato, slicing both pieces into two.

He looked so focused that you couldn’t help but giggle, drawing a confused look from him.

“You’re doing well,” you encouraged, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I am not laughing at you. You’re just..” you shook your head in affection, “sweet.”

He snorted dismissively at your words, but you could see the faint flush that dusted his cheeks.

“How do I say ‘sweet’ in Valyrian?”

After some consideration, he answered your question. “Dōna,” he mumbled at the potatoes before him.

“Dōna,” you told him, smiling up at him.

He ducks his head, finishing with the potatoes and placing them beside the stove, setting the knife aside.

“You need to sharpen your knives,” he informs you after a moment. “Yours are too dull, you could scarcely protect yourself.”

You glanced at him dubiously, setting aside the meat and lighting the stove.

“They are for cooking, not fighting,” you remind him, “I don’t use them to kill people. A whetstone is expensive, anyway. I do not need such things; as long as it cuts, it serves its purpose.”

“Hm.”

You set the pot boiling, dropping the pork bones into the water to start a broth. Aemond peered over your shoulder curiously, his chin hovering just above it–a habit he’d picked up as of late when observing your menial tasks.

While he knew how to fight, read, and of the finer things of life, he didn’t know how to cook or clean, let alone wash clothing or survive off of scraps as you did.

The privileges of being born into royalty, you supposed.

“Would you like me to teach you?” you glanced up at him. “In exchange for your lessons of culture and history.”

He met your gaze, the curve of his pretty mouth pursing as he considered your offer.

“Kessa–that means, ‘yes’,” he translated before you had the chance to ask.

You tipped up your chin, grinning at him, “Alright,” you pointed to the pot, “I’m boiling the bones, to make the broth. You can always make a vegetable broth as well, but the pork is better, in my opinion.”

You chattered on, explaining each step you took in the process, holding up the different herbs and spices you intended to use, telling him what order to add them to the pot.

After a few minutes, you realize that he is no longer watching you cook.

He is watching you.

“Aemond, are you alright?” you quip, shaking him from his reverie. “You seemed far away.”

He nods, not looking away from you.

“Ao issi gevie,” he murmurs after a moment, his eye glowing warmly, “I enjoy watching you talk about the things you care about.”

“Translation?” you prompt him, your cheeks flaring with heat. Although you did not understand what he had said to you, you could tell from his tone that it must have been a compliment.

He smiles softly in response. “That is a lesson for another day,” he says, pointing back to the soup. “Please, show me. I will remain focused, I swear it.”

You know he is evading the question, but you leave it be for now, knowing better than to press him on things he was not yet ready to talk about.

Instead, you simply huff with affection, returning to your work.

“Cut the rest of the vegetables then, hm?” you quip.

He complies with a nod, picking up the knife with apprehension, singularly focused on his task.

Try as you might, you cannot help the way your heart flutters when you look at him, and you dare not think of what that could mean.

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In recent weeks, Aemond had regained some of his former strength. He was not as strong as he used to be, to be sure, a fact which you can tell that he grows frustrated with, although he is still better than any other swordsman for miles.

He trained relentlessly, and lately, you’d begun to notice the swell of muscle in his chest and shoulders beneath his tunic, the sight of which makes your body prickle with heat.

You tried to stop yourself from staring–although the pair of you exchanged little kisses and touches of affection, nothing more had happened between you, which puzzled you to no end. Most men would have tried to get under your skirts the second they had the chance.

But not Aemond.

It had been weeks since he first kissed you now, and you began to wonder if he would ever try anything more. You were humiliatingly attracted to him–he was gentle with you in a way a man had never been before, and newly eager to learn as much as he could about the Riverlands. About you.

It also didn’t hurt that he was devastatingly handsome, especially on the rare occasions that he would spare you a genuine smile.

You tried to keep your fixation on him to yourself, only allowing your eyes to linger upon him when he wasn’t looking.

This morning was no different–you’d caught sight of him while he was outside training and could not tear your eyes away.

He was a sight to behold: glistening in sweat, brow furrowed in concentration as he moved with deadly grace. Enthralled, you snuck glances out the kitchen window to observe him practicing with his sword, the steel blade arcing through the air dangerously.

You were staring for far too long, but you didn’t care.

When he finished, he tugged his shirt off over his head, stretching his lithe arms upwards, head tipped back to feel the sun upon his face. He set about washing himself with a bucket of water, the rivulets tracing down the hard planes of his body.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of his bare torso, your stomach dropping in shameful arousal. He was beautiful. There was no other word for it.

It took all your strength not to walk out to him and beg him to take you right there in the open. It had been so long since you’d laid with a man, and you would be lying if you said he didn’t drift into your head late at night when you had enough energy to touch yourself.

You chewed your lower lip, whatever task you’d been doing before long forgotten. Then his eye flicks to the window. He makes dead eye contact with you and a grin curls onto his lips when he realizes that you’ve been watching him.

You tensed and looked away quickly, but it was too late now–you had been caught.

You filled two bowls with the porridge you’d made, putting a tiny pinch of sugar–a luxury you could only afford thanks to Aemond’s sapphire–atop them both.

A few moments later, the door swung open behind you, but you did not acknowledge it. You hear Aemond’s familiar tread crossing the room toward you and stopping a few feet behind you, and you turn, porridge in hand, finally forcing yourself to look up and meet his eye.

The smug bastard is smirking at you.

His cropped, dyed-brown hair is damp, pushed away from his forehead carelessly, and a clean white shirt hangs loosely from his broad shoulders, the wetness of his body turning parts of it see-through.

“Enjoying the view?” his voice has a teasing edge.

You raise your eyebrows, feigning innocence.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” you inform him shortly, setting both bowls on the table with a thump. In a flash, he reaches out, catching your wrist gently in his hand, rough and warm from training. It feels like fire against your skin.

“There is no shame in it,” he quips lightly, sliding his hand down your wrist to take your hand, “I like looking at you too, my Lady.”

My Lady. A title that was certainly not befitting a peasant, but he always insisted upon it anyway, his tone laced with affection. You blush scarlet.

He tugs you closer, eye dancing over your face, drinking in your flustered expression with delight.

“Is that so?” you manage, your voice breathy and foreign to your ears. He’s so close to you that you can feel the heat of his body radiating through both of your clothing, and can smell the scent of soap from his wet hair.

“Mm,” he hums in confirmation, closing the distance to steal a slow, sensual kiss from you. “In fact, I would prefer it if you looked at me like that all the time.”

“And how, exactly, was I looking at you, pray tell?”

He slots his lips against yours again, his hands heavy on your hips, dangerously low. He bites your lip gently, and you press your thighs together tightly, grateful that your layers of skirts hide your reaction to him, at least somewhat.

“Exactly how I look at you,” he murmurs against your mouth, “with desire.”

You audibly whimper at his words, and a wicked smile splits across his face, your reaction stoking the flames of his ego.

Then, he steps back, dropping your hips as turns away, taking his seat at the table.

“Aemond..?” you breathe, confused and weak in the knees, “what–”

“Breakfast,” he points at the porridge as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As if you had not been this close to letting him take you right there on the table.

You can tell he is not unaffected–his pupil is blown wide with lust, and his legs are spread wide to accommodate the visible bulge in his trousers.

You realize then that he is toying with you, trying to see how far he could push things before you cracked and begged for him.

You sit across from him, smiling brightly. “Ah, of course,” you agree. “We wouldn’t want it to go cold.”

He stares at you in surprise, his lips slightly parted, and you shrug in faux nonchalance, taking a bite of your food.

Two could play at that game, and you knew you could play it better.

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The pair of you engaged in your game of cat and mouse for the next few days, teasing each other with increasingly bold touches and salacious words.

You started leaning over far more than necessary when you placed food in front of him, putting your breasts directly into his line of sight.

In response, he started exclusively wearing his white shirt for training every morning. He would sweat through every time, his skin visible through it when the fabric turned sheer with moisture and clung to his body.

Next, you began to do your chores around the house in your chemise, and you thought you’d won too, until he started kissing at your neck while you cooked, leaving you as soon as your body started responding to his touch.

You were going to go mad any day now, you were sure of it.

All of the teasing came to head one night when you were washing up after dinner, and purposefully dunked your hands into the washbasin, splashing the warm water up onto your chest.

As had become your habit over the past few days, you wore only your chemise, and the moment the water touched it, it went transparent, just as Aemond’s shirts did when he trained.

You faked a gasp and turned on the spot, your eyes locked on him. The cold air against the damp fabric pebbled your nipples and you knew he could see everything.

As intended, his eye is fixed shamelessly upon your chest, a low, unsteady breath escaping his lips.

Slowly, he steps towards you, his gaze jumping back and forth between your face and your tits as if he couldn’t decide which he wanted to look at more. You blink back at him innocently, though your heart beats wildly in your chest and a pang of arousal shoots through you in response to the wild look on his face.

He halts in front of you, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Seeming unable to stop himself, he reaches out with one hand to touch you, setting it on your hip experimentally.

“Can I just…” he trailed off, his fingers tracing up your waist to the swell of your breast, his fingers skimming along the side of it, his eye never leaving you.

You shudder at his touch in pleasure, your eyes fluttering. “Yes,” you sigh, “you can touch me, Aemond.”

That’s all the permission he needs.

His hand cups your breast experimentally, testing the weight in his palm. He runs his thumb over your covered nipple, and you gasp at the faint jolt of pleasure it sparks in your core.

He slid his hands up your chest, nimble fingers slipping beneath the straps of your shift, glancing back to your face with hesitation, asking silently for your permission. You cover his hands with your own and guide them to push the straps from your shoulders. It pools around your feet and he inhales sharply, his eye dropping to your chest.

“Seven Hells,” he whispers reverently, as though he were praying. He traces his fingers down your sides, over your waist, mapping every inch of your exposed body that he can reach.

Your breathing grows uneven at his touch and you lean into it, desperate for him to do more. To caress you. To fuck you.

He leans down to kiss you, palming at your breast and squeezing. You return his cautious kiss with hunger, wanting nothing more than to taste him and let him possess you completely. He returns your fervor eagerly, his tongue tangling with yours.

You feel his hips grind against you; feel his length hardening against your willing body, and you whimper, gripping him tightly by the back of his neck in a desperate attempt to get him still closer. He could be fused to your body, and it would still not be enough. You would never stop craving him.

You break the kiss, plucking at his shirt, urging him to remove it, and he compiles immediately, yanking it over his head and mussing his hair. You stare at his bare chest brazenly, the fire inside you only burning brighter as you hungrily took in every scar, every burn, every freckle upon his skin.

You could spend all day mapping the marks scattered across his body, but right now, you craved more.

He seems to agree with you, reaching down to hold the back of your head against his palm, pulling you up to meet his lips. His hand doesn’t squeeze, he simply holds, his touch impossibly soft despite the intensity of his kisses.

You dip your hand between your bodies, unlacing his trousers with more fumbling than you would have cared for. Aemond chuckled at your struggle and you nipped at his lower lip sharply, chastising him for his teasing.

His laugh turns into a low moan and he grasps at your ass sharply, seizing a handful of flesh in his palm. You inhale at his touch, your pussy throbbing in response, your sensitive nipples pressed into his firm chest.

“Nyke jaelagon ao,” he snarls against you. “I want you,” he translates, claiming your lips again desperately. You can feel the evidence of his want, hard and heavy against you, and you spit in your palm and dip your hand down the front of his trousers, grasping him firmly by the base of his cock. He swears under his breath in response and a thrill of satisfaction courses through you

“Then take me. Unless you are afraid you cannot perform?” you goad him, moving your hand along his member, the shuddering breaths he gives you in response making you clench around nothing, your cunt desperate to be filled.

He lets out a half-feral growl and tightens his grip on you, breaking away to pull you to your bedroom, attacking your lips hungrily again the second he had you laid out before him.

You smirk triumphantly from where you lay below him, arching up into his touch when he boldly grasped at your breasts again. He groans at the sight of you, bare before him, dropping his head to your chest, sucking and biting at your tits like a man possessed. His mouth encircles your nipple and he drags his tongue over the sensitive nub, allowing his teeth to scrape against it ever so slightly, making you keen.

“Ao issi gevie,” he breathes, his hand stealing down to cup your sex, humming in approval when he feels how wet you are, dipping his fingers between your lower lips.

“You keep saying that,” you whimper as he deftly circles your bud with his middle finger, “but you will not tell me…what it means.”

“You are beautiful,” he translates without hesitation this time and you let out an obscene moan at the combination of his praise and the precise, quick movements of his finger.

“Aemond,” is all you can manage to say, your head falling heavily upon the mattress below you.

He slips his hand lower, teasing at your wet entrance, barely dipping the tip of his finger inside of you and retracting it, so close to giving you what you need. At last, he sinks it into your fluttering pussy, purring with satisfaction at the way you clench around him.

“So wet..” he muses, slowly beginning to work his finger inside of you, experimenting with the angle of his fingers until he finds the spot that makes you arch off the mattress with a cry of pleasure, “Such pretty noises.”

He zeroes in on the spot, deep inside you, caressing it first with one finger, then adding another. He humps at the mattress, rolling his hips to gain some friction of his own, edging you closer and closer to the edge with his fingers, the coil in your gut tightening frighteningly fast. His fingers are thicker than yours and reach deeper, dragging wanton moans from your mouth.

You are in bliss, but somehow you need more.

“Please,” you manage through your delirious whimpers. “Please, Aemond, I need you inside of me. I need your cock.”

His hips stutter against the bed and he gazes at you in wonder, his cheeks redding at the lewdness of your words.

Rather than respond verbally, he simply gives you what you want.

Retracting his fingers from your clenching heat, he groans as your walls flutter, trying to keep him inside. He makes quick work of his trousers, kicking them off haphazardly, and then he is upon you again, aligning his cock with your dripping hole and sliding home in a single thrust.

You both sigh loudly in relief, and he kisses you tenderly, resting his forehead against yours for a second before he begins to move.

He fucks you hard and fast, his hips pounding against yours wildly, his finger rubbing furiously at your engorged clit.

“I apologize,” he gasps raggedly, “for I will not last long. I have wanted you for too many months. Imagined filling you when I heard you touch yourself through the walls.”

You cant your hips up to meet him, clenching desperately around him, unable to do anything but cry out in ecstasy as he angles his hard length inside of you just right, the head of it finding that spot deep inside of you again.

He bites at your shoulder–hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to injure you–muffling his sounds against you. You know there will be a mark there come morning, and you preen at the thought, pussy fluttering around him.

“Stop that,” his voice comes out strangled. “Stop clenching, or I’ll come inside of you.”

You nearly tell him to do so, but your last remaining shred of logic forces you to nod, biting your lip tightly between your teeth until you taste blood.

“Issa hūra,” he breathes. “You are too perfect. I do not deserve you. Don’t deserve to fuck you.”

You want to argue with him, to tell him that yes, he does, but you’re too dizzy from his attention to form a coherent sentence.

“Nyke jaelagon naejot mazverdagon ao issa ābrazȳrys,” his head buried in your shoulder, hips rutting into you with abandon. “Issa gevie byka ābrazȳrys.”

You can only pick out the words “you” and “beautiful”, but they are enough to push you over the edge.

You toss your head back, arching your spine as your limbs go rigid. Your cunt spasms wildly around him, and you cannot hear a thing save the blood thundering in your ears. Your hips jolt up with a mind of their own, and you’re distantly aware of Aemond growling praises, telling you how good you feel, how well you’ve done.

You slowly come down from your high, but as he continues fucking you, your pleasure begins to build again.

“Fuck,” he snarls, “Ao issi vok.”

You wish desperately that you could understand all that he is saying to you, but you whimper at his tone nonetheless. He sounds wrecked and ragged. He sounds desperate.

“I’m going to finish,” he warns, his voice cracking. “Where..?”

“My tits, come on my tits,” you answer before he finishes his sentence, reveling in the animalistic snarl that escapes him at your words.

He pulls out of you quickly, shuffling forward on his knees to angle his glistening cock above your breasts. He fists his length tightly, rough little grunts spilling from him as he drags himself closer and closer to his own release, his eye locked upon your chest.

You want his seed, want to feel it on your skin, want to be marked as his and only his.

“Aemond?” you breathe, catching his attention, his gaze switching to look at you. “Ao issi gevie,” you whisper up at him and his eye widens at the sound of you praising him in High Valyrian.

“Come for me,” you order, and he obeys immediately, hot spurts of his seed spilling from his tip as he jerks himself harder, moaning loudly at the sight of it painting your tits white.

You moan at the feeling of his warm spend dripping down your skin, watching his face scrunch up as he comes, his nose wrinkled, mouth hanging open.

At last, he goes boneless, just managing to push himself off of you before he collapses, his chest heaving from exertion. After a moment, he pushes himself up, grabs a handkerchief from your bedside table, and cleans his seed from you.

He casts it aside as soon as it is gone and flops back down next to you with a grunt.

He opens his eye, smiling at you lazily, sated. “Are you alright?” he murmurs, reaching over to stroke your hair away from your face. You return his smile and nod, moving your body towards him, missing his warmth already, and he reaches for you too, slinging a heavy arm around you and pulling you in tightly.

“Do you plan to translate any of what you said?” you murmur, your face tucked in against his neck. “Or shall I live in ignorance?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Eventually,” he promises, “just not tonight.”

You shake your head in mock exasperation, leaning up slightly to look into his eye. “You will have to, now that I know how much you like it when I use it in bed,” you tease.

He groans in embarrassment at your words, closing his eye. “Not tonight,” he repeats, though his smile remains firmly intact, assuring you of his amusement.

“But–”

He silences you with a kiss and you melt into it at once, your protest now long forgotten.

You did not dwell on the ache of your heart or the spinning of your head at his kiss.

Going down a path of affection was foolish, and you knew it.

It was better, for now, to ignore it.

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Translations:

Ao issi gevie (You are beautiful)

Issa hūra (My moon)

Nyke jaelagon naejot mazverdagon ao issa ābrazȳrys. (I want to make you my wife)

Ao issi vok. (You are perfect)

Tag List:

Note: Due to how spoiler heavy this fic is, I'm creating a separate tag list from my main Aemond one--if you would like to be added, let me know!

@danielle-leah1997 @sleepy-may @xcharlottemikaelsonx @sahanna @the-fire-lady @dollfaceyourfear @aphroditesmoon @skikikikiikhhjuuh @w7kkio @kage-no-sonzai @exitpursuedbyavulcan @arcielee @caught-in-the-afterglow @actualhawkesworld @nika-sophie05 @schniiipsel @theanxietyqueen17 @honey-allergic @lauraneedstochill @aesouth @tempt-ress @hiatuswhore @issshhh

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