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dreamfyre03 · 21 days

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“I would rather love a monster than fear my own husband.”

Atone From a Lone Prayer

Pairing • Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Tags • toxic relationship, slapping, name calling, choking, rough sex, consensual sex

Wordcount • 2,765 words

This work contains domestic abuse. Both Aemond and his wife are abusive toward one another, they are physically violent and verbally abusive toward each other.

This lust is a burden that we both share; two sinners can't atone from a lone prayer. Souls tied, intertwined by our pride and guilt.

—David Kushner, Daylight

On that night a storm was wracking the great, crimson frame of the Red Keep. An air of sickness and decay had polluted the hallways and corrupted the minds of many—King Aegon was dying from his wounds, a slow death that kept everyone suspended to his every breath, starting with your husband Aemond.

For months now the whole court hung to the King’s every gasps and heaves, hoping for a sane word, for a sign that his health was improving.

But as lost as he was to the milk of the poppy the Maester supplied him lest he wailed in agony, his thoughts didn’t seem to stay on the right path and wandered to unstable lands. Aegon was utterly lost, and would never be able to rule again.

Instead the crown had passed to his younger brother Aemond, and even if at first he took on the burden with gratefulness and eagerness, he only grew weary as time went by.

You started to think that the Conqueror’s crown had some sort of dark magic associated with it, that it corrupted all it touched and leeched the spirits of the man who wore it.

You had convinced Aemond not to wear it for a fortnight, and for some foolish reason that had to do with his devotion to you, he had accepted. However it had borne no fruit, and Aemond still grew more sullen and quicker to anger.

You came to realize it wasn’t the crown, but the station—the realm was still at war, with no clear victor. The troops were exhausted as winter advanced, and some sort of stalemate had been reached when it came to political advantages and alliances.

Something had to give, somewhere, or they would remain stuck in this neverending conflict for years to come, and the weight of that responsibility fell on your husband’s shoulders.

As the storm was picking up speed and force outside, wreaking havoc on the dilapidated gardens, the windows of the small council room shook.

Late-night meetings were not a rare occurrence, but you hardly ever sat in them anymore. It was not that the subtleties of politics were lost on you, simply that you had grown weary of the men’s ease to resort to senseless violence, and the blindness it caused.

“We need to take Dragonstone if we are to succeed, your grace,” Lord Tyland offered, ever so certain of the validity of his own opinion. “If we cannot cut the monster’s head for now, we can at least crush its eggs.”

Aemond seemed to consider the proposal for a moment, and your stomach turned to stone. Feebly, you spoke up. “Surely you are not suggesting we assassinate Daemon and Rhaenyra’s young sons?”

“It might be our only way to gain advantage,” Aemond replied in a smooth, even tone. “No matter how distasteful it is.”

“Distasteful?” you gasped. “There is no strong enough word coming to my mind to describe the horror of what you are considering.”

“If you are not here to support his grace, perhaps you should retire to your chambers, my queen,” Tyland continued, and the insult felt like a slap to the face. You turned to Aemond, expecting him to come to your defense, but his next words crucified you to the spot instead.

“If those talks are too difficult for you, my wife, then it is best you retire,” Aemond said in what you could have considered tenderness once—now you only perceived it as a cold dismissal. “I will join you shortly.”

A heavy silence fell over the room as you swallowed your protest and your mounting tears, instead retreating with your head high. As you walked back to the chambers you shared with Aemond, which was uncommon for a royal husband and wife, hot tears stained your face and nausea curled your stomach.

You had only begun to settle your nerves again when the heavy doors to your chambers creaked loudly and Aemond entered, and the gentle slam of the door as it closed resonated in the silent rooms. Your back was to him but you refused to turn, frightened of what you would see on his noble features.

“Did you reach a conclusion?” you asked bitterly. “Did you order the murder of innocent children?”

“I did what I had to do,” Aemond replied placidly, and as you turned to look him in the eye, he witnessed the struggle of your heart. Time seemed to move differently across your face, as in a split second he saw your features contort into utter surprise, then confusion, only to settle on sorrow.

"Who are you," you whispered through your teeth as though you were seeing a ghost. "I don't recognize you anymore."

"Oh don't be ridiculous," he spat out in answer, his temper flaring quickly. He was exhausted and dreamed only of resting his weary head on your chest and finding comfort in your sweet embrace.

He hated how you had a flair for the dramatic, your emotions always spilling out—he had loved that quality about you in the first months of your marriage, as he had never seen anyone so joyful and passionate as you.

However war had tarnished you, as it had tarnished many other things he loved. Little by little your joy had faded into frustration rather than sorrow, and nothing he could do seemed to please you anymore.

"Oh but it is true," you thundered, your voice rising in the air as you clutched the sides of your dress, ready to pull your skirts up and flee his company. You could hardly seem to look at him these days, even less stand to breathe the same air as him. “I don’t recognize the man you’ve become.”

“Can we not leave the troubles of the realm outside, for once?” he asked, desperate for a moment of respite.

"How dare you. Night after night you come here, bearing nothing but your bitterness and I have to be silent and take it!" you shouted.

Aemond recoiled, a ragged breath leaving his mouth, strangely akin to a dragon's groan. When he had vowed to cherish and protect you before the Gods, you had in return vowed to love and obey him and never before had you put those vows into question. You had been the steel in his back all these months as he bore the heavy weight of the crown, and your resentment of him felt like the cruelest of betrayals.

"Well I have had enough of it!" you wailed as he failed to answer.

The sorrow of the last months escaped through a sob, but when the breath returned to your lungs there was nothing else to it but a pain that burned your stomach. Your insides twisted as it mounted in you and a strange sort of pleasure curled around your heart as you released your venom.

"You thought you could do it, couldn't you? And easily so," you sneered, a twisted smile tugging at your lips. "You thought that given the opportunity you could easily replace your brother on the throne but the truth is you are not cut out for it either!"

Aemond marched to you, determined to silence you and to have your submission but you were relentless. You rushed around the dinner table, still holding your skirts as though you could lift yourself up with them, floating above him as he was powerless to take the brunt of your anger.

"You were born a second son because you are not made to be the heir, to be the king!" you almost spat in his face as he rounded the table and came to tower over you.

"Enough of your insults!" he roared as you stepped back, your elbow colliding with the back of the chairs until you had circled the dining area completely and retreated into the reading nook of your chambers.

Aemond's handsome face was contorted in fury and you knew your words had cut him deeper than he would ever admit. You felt both sick to your stomach and utterly triumphant, a storm of contradicting emotions swaying you from left to right.

"Did you really think you could throw your insults and I would take them without answer? Did you really think you could anger the dragon and not get burned?" he thundered as you stumbled back, catching yourself on a nearby bookshelf. "Answer me, wife!"

Your answer came swiftly, but not in words—his cheek stung as you struck him across the face with the flat of your hand.

"You will pay for that," he growled, his sharp features twisting in utter fury.

You felt the scales tip and your advantage failed you. You knew Aemond's anger to be formidable, and you were distantly aware that his carefully composed demeanor hid a cruel sense of righteousness. What he deemed to be his he took mercilessly, and held a taste of revenge close to his heart.

In your sudden fear you raised your hand again, only crying out as he caught your wrist in his vice-like grip. "Release me at once!" you wailed.

"Not until you have paid for your offense," he declared.

"The only offense here is your weakness, your impotence," you taunted, but it was pure folly. “Your resort to senseless cruelty because it is the only weapon you possess!”

Your own trap had closed around you and you were now throwing yourself fully into it—you had fallen into the dragonpit, knowing full-well you could not climb out, and instead of curling into a corner you decided to face the dreaded fire.

Aemond fell for the bait as you knew he would, but instead of an answering slap to the face he pulled you by the wrists and spun you. Your breath was knocked out of your chest as your back collided with the writing desk, Aemond lifting you until you were lying flat atop it, your wrists pinned above your head.

“You have never witnessed senseless cruelty from me,” he rasped, his face coming closer to yours. In the dark of the stormy night his violet iris seemed pitch black. “But if that is all you think me capable of, then I shall not disappoint you.”

Before you could comprehend his words or reconstruct his line of thought, Aemond had grabbed a nearby letter opener and slid it under the laces at the front of your dress, effectively cutting through them and opening your corset. “Aemond, no!” you cried out, but even with only one hand he was strong enough to hold both your wrists.

He ignored you, the shadow of a grin pulling at his mouth as he threw the letter opener away and pushed one of your knees up, breathing through your attempted kicks like you were a mere feather struggling in his grip. You cried as he pushed your legs apart, and finding his way on your body with practiced ease, teased what he was about to do with a swipe of his thumb.

It had been weeks since he had shown any interest in touching you, and his gesture angered you rather than frightened you.

“Am I so cruel now,” his voice rumbled against your chest as he dipped his head, licking a trail across your exposed breast.

His hand retreated from your body and fiddled somewhere else between your splayed knees—you heard the sound of a belt coming undone, metal buckles clinking.

“Damn you! Damn you to the Seven Hells you pathetic—”

You cried out as he pushed into you in one, smooth thrust. He groaned aloud as he sheathed himself fully—you were tight, almost unbearably so, and he laughed as you struggled, bitter tears stinging the corner of your eyes.

"It hurts," you whined, and he pressed his victorious grin to your pleading mouth. "You are hurting me."

"No more than you hurt me," he hissed, his hand coming to grip your face viciously. He looked more gaunt in that moment than ever before; outside the storm was raging and as lightning struck, his sapphire seemed to glow for a split-second, startling you into submission.

Aemond pressed on the delicate column of your neck and you complied, parting your lips to catch some air. Instead his mouth descended on yours and you sighed as his cock dragged against the rough spot that made your core clench despite yourself, despite the burn of the sudden stretch. Burning pleasure swirled along with the stinging pain and you swallowed your moan, refusing it to him.

"Am I still so weak and impotent?" he asked as he thrusted into you relentlessly, making the desk rattle against the wall loudly.

"Yes," you replied through gritted teeth.

Finally, you freed your hands from his grip, suspecting he had let you go, curious of what you would do. To your own surprise you reached up and gripped his hair at the back of his head, forcing him to look at you—you knew how he hated to show his face when he was in the throes of pleasure, how conscious he was of the marks in his skin.

His protest came in the form of a rougher thrust that made you cry out in pain, and his grip tightened on your neck. You pulled his hair roughly and he snarled, his white teeth flashing as he choked the breath from your throat.

“You are weak and pathetic, and if you think I will take pleasure from your cruelty then you are wrong,” you sobbed with the last breath he allowed you before pressing forward again, making you heave.

“You love me,” he hissed. “You love me when I am tender, you love me when I am cruel.”

Tears stung your eyes once again and you tried to shake your head, to refuse him once again, but the heat of his embrace was the only comfort you had found in him in weeks, if not months. The familiar pull of his body was indeed a cruelty, as it was taunting you with your own ruin.

He stilled, buried in the cradle of your hips and buried in your soul, and you couldn’t find it in your heart to send him away. He breathed in rhythm with you, two mouths panting into the humid air of the evening, and you realized with startling clarity that he was waiting—for a refusal, for an insult, for proof that he was still the man you loved.

He trembled as you gasped, and his voice was as shattered crystal when he spoke again. “Would you truly refuse me now that you see me for what I am?”

His palm found the curve of your thigh and propped your leg up on his hip, his other hand letting go of your throat to seek more of your skin. His fingers trailed the curves and lines of your body, as though by mapping you he could find his way to himself again. War had bent him out of shape until he didn’t recognize himself, and he hoped an image still remained in your memory, in your heart—an image of the young man he’d been.

In that instant you were reminded of your vows, of your pledge to remain devoted to your husband through sickness, through trials and tragedies. In the way he was looking at you, fighting against your grip that pulled his face away from yours and back into your line of sight, you found an answer.

“Even in your greatest cruelty, you are still the man I married,” you murmured, and he swallowed your next words with greed and hunger. “I would rather love a monster than fear my own husband.”

Your fingers intertwined and you surrendered, dropping your head back onto the desk—as you looked up to the ceiling, a curtain of white fell around you as Aemond pressed himself up, crowding you. You wrapped your legs around his slim waist, your nails digging into this scalp, closing your eyes as you fell prey to the relentless rhythm of his passion.

“I shall love you, no matter how monstrous this war makes you,” you vowed, and your pledge was sealed as your back bowed and your neck extended, pleasure wracking you to the core.

In his cruelty hid his greatest tragedy—that of needing to find his purpose in fear, as love was harder to give and to keep, but fear came easily to the heart. He would never be a loved king, only ever a feared regent, but in this brief taste of power he would find his perdition, you knew, and you would fall along with him.

Dividers by @saradika

Thank you to my lovelies @thenameswinter99 and @whitedarkmoonflower for helping me with this fic. I appreciate you so very much ♥️

Taglist 1: @darkenchantress @bellameshipper @itscatlien-blog @yentroucnagol @castellomargot @cardi-bre91 @avengingangelfanfic @malfoytargaryen @mari0302 @iamfandomnerd @diosademuerte @hb8301 @serrhaewinn @mariannnavao @svtansdaddyx @its-sam-allgood @amarillys92 @namgification

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dreamfyre03 · 23 days

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If you receive this, you make somebody happy! Go on anon and send this to 10 of your followers who make you happy or somebody you think needs cheering up. If you get one back, even better🌹💕 - valeskafics

BELLLLLL MY ANGEL ILYSM BEAUTIFUL

me whenever you pop up on my feed lots of (consensual) kithes baby

#asks #fave asks

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dreamfyre03 · 23 days

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If you receive this, you make somebody happy! Go on anon and send this to 10 of your followers who make you happy or somebody you think needs cheering up. If you get one back, even better🌹💕

awwww tysm ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

#asks #my first ask!#❤️

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dreamfyre03 · 25 days

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Hit Like If you Think fae Best writer & Smart In the world 🤠

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dreamfyre03 · 1 month

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A Dragon's Love

Warnings: None

Chapter 17: A Proposal and A Rescue

Daenys began to lose track of the days, they all blurred and melded together in one long, ongoing night of grief. Jace increased his visits to her, but not even his kindness nor his company was enough to pull her out of her grief. She hadn’t eaten, she lost weight. The healthy flush and glow of her skin was gone, and she simply looked like a ghostly shell of herself.

That night, Jace sat with her as he tried to urge her to eat some of the lemon cakes he brought from the kitchens, which he learnt from her were her favourite.

She simply shook her head when he tried to hand one to her. He signed, setting the plate aside, and saying, “There is something I must speak to you about.” Her tired eyes met his, and he nervously wiped his hands on his breeches.

“I’ve been thinking, about your safety, and your position here. I’m afraid Daemon’s bloodthirstiness has rubbed off on my mother, I confess sometimes I do not recognise her. I worry that even I would not be able to shield you from her anger should it come to that.”

“Unless you plan to help me escape, there is very little that can be done, Jace.” “Not necessarily. Marry me, Daenys. Marry me and become my wife. Let me protect you.” He proposed. “Jace-“ “We could be happy together, if you let us. I confess I look forward to visiting you more than anything, and I know you hold some affection in your heart for me. No one could hurt you if you were my wife.” She sighed. “It is clear this war has no care for who is married to who, or who is a Prince or a Lord. Death follows us all like a shadow.” He took her cold hands in his. “Please consider my offer. I would gladly love you as my wife, my friend, the mother of my children. I’ve grown to feel for you more than I could have foreseen, and although the desire to have you has my wife stems from the moment we reunited in King’s Landing, I still accepted that I must do my duty and marry Baela as I have been bid. But not anymore. I would honour you and our marriage, I will not be disloyal to you. You would be the future Queen.” “I have no desire to be Queen.” “Please. Consider what I have said. I cannot guarantee your safety otherwise.” He said, getting up to leave.

She nodded, as he left her alone once again. She didn’t want to marry Jace. Of course, she had a fondness for him, but she never forgot that his loyalties always lie with Rhaenyra first. But she didn’t yearn for him, desire him, love him. Her heart belonged to another man, and it always would. Even were it not for matters of the heart, she couldn’t betray Aegon. Marrying Jace would mean openly declaring herself against Aegon, and her siblings, and she could never do that.

Her time seemed to be up here at Dragonstone, and she knew there was only one option left, no matter how risky it was. She needed to escape.

Days passed, and one night, in the dark, lonely hours of the night, her door creaked open. She glanced at the door, expected to see Jace, when an unfamiliar face appeared, a woman. Seemingly a maid. “Princess, thank the gods you are alive.” She bowed before her. “Who are you?” She asked suspiciously. “Forgive me, Princess. I work for the true King, King Aegon, Second of His Name. It has taken time, but I’ve finally been able to see you with my own eyes, to confirm to his Grace you are alive, and being held at Dragonstone.”

“You are a spy?” “I am simply a pair of eyes and ears, loyal to the true King.” She replied. Daenys got out of the bed and stalked across the cold stone floors. “Can you help me escape?”

“I’m afraid Dragonstone is too well guarded, Princess, both in men and dragons. But I can send a message to King’s Landing for you, but you’ll need to write it now.” Daenys huffed in frustration. “I haven’t any parchment, or ink.” The unnamed woman smiled, and pulled out a scrap of parchment and a quill, with a just barely empty bottle of ink from under her dress. “This’ll have to do, Princess. Be quick, it isn’t safe for me to be here for long.” Daenys nodded and quickly began to scribble a message to her brothers. She folded the parchment and handed to back to the woman, who nodded and disappeared as swiftly as she appeared.

Aemond sat with Helaena and Daeron outside in the gardens, after weeks of begging her to leave the confinement of her rooms. Helaena sat with them, her eyes sad and lost, as they stared out into the skies, watching her dragon fly above them. He was grateful that she even bathed and washed her hair, much less finally came outside. The grief of Jaehaerys had manifested itself differently in both his brother and sister with Helaena falling into a deep depression, and Aegon spending his time shouting and raging at his small council, demanding that they act and take vengeance for his son’s death. In the first few nights following his nephew’s death, he knew Aegon and Helaena shared a bed for the first time since she got pregnant with Maelor, and simply laid there and wept for their son. It was the first time Aemond ever saw them bonded over something as man and wife, and not brother and sister, even if it was in grief.

Aegon didn’t take kindly to his council’s resistance to action, Daenys’s absence weighing heavily on him, as it did for all of them. The death of his son only made him more eager to see the blood of the blacks run in the streets. No one could calm Aegon when he took on such a fit of anger and rage, and Aemond always felt a pang of hurt when he remembered that if she were here, she would be able to. “She’s alive!” He heard Aegon shout as he ran over to them, his Kingsguard trailing behind him. Aemond’s eye darted over to him, his heart in his chest as Aegon breathlessly handed him a crumpled piece parchment. He immediately spotted Daenys’s handwriting, and Helaena and Daeron looked at him expectantly.

“Brother, I am alive, and being held at Dragonstone. I fear my time is running out. I’m trying to find a way to escape, but I boast no weapon to wield. Jace has offered his hand in marriage to me, as means of protecting me from Rhaenyra, but I will not kneel to her, to any of them. No matter what you hear, I am always on your side. I love you all. Daenys.” He read aloud to them.

The idea of Jace trying to steal her away in marriage, and claim what wasn’t his, left Aemond fuming, and determined to run his sword through his nephew and watch him suffer a slow death.

“We must attack. Now. Attack Dragonstone and get revenge for my son, and get out sister back.” Aegon said.

Aemond nodded, already on his feet. “Come. We will assemble the council, and plan our attack at once. It’s time to bring her home.”

The rest of the day was spent planning battle and assembling the troops, who immediately began their march to Dragonstone, where they would launch an attack at sunrise. With Daemon at Harrenhall, they wouldn’t have to deal with Caraxes, but they still had four other dragons to deal with, but Aemond was confident once Meraxa came with them, a sure victory was certain.

Meraxa spent the day soaring the skies screeching and roaring along with Vhagar, the two no doubt sensing their rider’s anxieties and worry, despite the distance. Aemond almost couldn’t wait for sunrise to come, and wanted to mount Vhagar and fly to Dragonstone at once, but he wouldn’t risk getting her killed because he wasn’t patient. Just a little longer, and she’ll be back home. Back in his arms. To take him to husband.

Sleep did not come to anyone that night, and Aemond instead paced the Red Keep, to find Aegon sitting in the council room, alone, thankfully sober. “We waited too long.What if she is already dead?” He wondered aloud to him as he entered. “Then I shall fight to Stranger and bring her back to the land of the living.” Aemond replied, sitting at the table with him.

“I will wed her, when we get her back.” Aemond stated, not asking permission, but telling him. “I know. It shouldn’t have taken you this long.” Aegon responded.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

“It seems that sleep evades us all on the eve of battle.” Daeron’s voice came from the doorway. “Indeed.” Aemond said.

The three Targaryen brothers sat at the table, as night reigned down on the Red Keep, in silence, until Aemond spoke. “This battle is one that we cannot lose. We fight not only to bring our sister back, but to avenge Jaehaerys.” “Rhaenyra will know the meaning of the words fire and blood when we are done with her.” Aegon affirmed.

They sat there together, for the rest of the night, until the dawn came, and the brothers three, donned in their armour of red and black, mounted their dragons, and took to the skies, Meraxa already ahead of them, to ride into battle.

#aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #alicent hightower #house of the dragon #helaena targaryen #aemond fic #hotd #aegon ii targaryen

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dreamfyre03 · 1 month

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A Dragon's Love

Warnings: Grief, mentions of death

Chapter 16: Grief and Dreams

Daenys sat in her room reading another book Jace had brought her, this time, a novel about a princess who fell in love with a dashing prince, but was stolen away by the evil sorcerer. It was quite engrossing, and she almost didn’t hear when the door opened, and Rhaenyra entered. “Sister.” She greeted her, surprised. “Daenys.” She stood across from her.

“Have you come to kill me?” She asked her. “Despite my earlier outbursts, for now, your life is safe. You are better off to any of us alive than dead, and I’m no kinslayer.” Her sister replied. “Then why are you here?” “To give you a chance. The first strike has been landed against the greens, justice for their crimes. You can escape their fate, if you swear allegiance to me as your Queen.” Daenys felt fear creeping up her spine at her sister’s eerily calm voice.

“Rhaenyra… what have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything. Daemon, however, has many friends, people in all places, in King’s Landing.You might be especially interested to know her a butcher they call Blood, and a rat-catcher they call Cheese.” She revealed. Daenys imagined the worse praying that her siblings were alive… Aemond…

“My son’s death has been avenged, sister. A life for a life. A son for a son.” She said in a menacing fashion.

She felt a ringing in her ears, and her heart hammering in her chest. The realisation hit her so hard it physically sucked all the strength out of her body that kept her standing. Daenys fell to her knees, as a sob overtook her. Aemond had no sons. Which could only mean…

No.

Not sweet Jaehaerys. Not the little boy she held when he came out of her sister’s womb, smiling and giggling happily. Not Helaena’s pride and joy, and Aegon’s little miniature.

Daenys felt the last thread of hope in her snap, letting out a guttural cry as she mourned the loss of the nephew she loved as her own son. “He was a child, Rhaenyra! An innocent child!” She screamed, not even feeling the stone floors bruising her knees. “So was my son!” Her sister shouted back at her. “But this is war, and war is not fair sister. You have a choice. You can choose your rightful Queen, or you can leave see what awaits you if you lay your life down for the Usurper King.” She said, shutting the door behind her as she felt.

Leaving Daenys there, wailing and crying on the floor, nothing but a ball of grief on the ground, truly and utterly broken.

She laid there on the floor for hours, not even registering the soft opening and closing of the door, and Jace’s voice that softly called out her name. She felt numb, lifeless. She knew Rhaenyra would want some form of debt for Lucerys’s death, but never did she think her sister was capable of masterminding the death of an innocent boy. The war was raging for probably a month, but to Daenys it felt like an eternity. Perhaps it was her grief, or her captivity talking. She felt like the days before her father died were nothing but distant memories. Dragonriding with Helaena, drinking and laughing with Aegon, poor Daeron, she wished she had more time with him, and Aemond, her beloved Aemond. It wasn’t until she felt her body being raised up and she saw Jace’s face did she register his presence. “Please talk to me, can you hear me?” He asked nervously, and she felt a cool hand touch her cheek.

“He was just a child, Jace. Barely a boy, still so much like a babe. He still slept with his sister. When he was a babe, when he first said my name, he called me ‘Dany’. Just like Aegon did when we were children.” She didn’t know why she was rambling on like this, but surprisingly, Jace just sat next to her on the ground and listened. “Alicent was overjoyed Aegon had an heir. But Helaena, my sweet sister, she was just happy to have a child. She was so young when she had him, but I saw in the childbed, the moment she held him, there was nothing but love in her eyes.” Jace took her hand in his reassuringly, and in her grief she didn’t give the gesture a passing thought.

“Aegon was terrified to hold him, and Jaehaera. But when I finally convinced him to, it was as if all the pain in his heart simply melted away, and he felt genuine, true happiness in those moments. And now, that sweet child, a ray of light in his parents’ lives, is gone. Gods know I would have traded my life for his in a heartbeat.”

“Don’t say that.” Jace spoke softly. She turned to look at him. “I would. I wish Rhaenyra had chosen to take my life to settle the debt, than his. I would have laid my life down smiling. I have spent my life trying to love my family, protect them, with what little power a woman has, and I could not help him. I left to go North to give them all a better chance of staying alive, and it has all been for nought.”

Jace simply kept holding her hand, and Daenys had to ask. “Did you know?” “No. I had no idea until we received a raven from King’s Landing, announcing the death of Prince Jaehaerys, and proclaiming Prince Maelor as Aegon’s heir.”

“I suppose you are glad, your brother’s death is avenged.”

He sighed. “Killing a child is not justice. Only killing the man responsible is.”

Her mind instantly went to Aemond, Daenys had no doubt he was blaming himself entirely. She needed to feel his arms around her, she needed to cry and grieve in the arms of someone who loved those children as much as she did.

“Please, eat, and get some rest. I’ll come back to see you in the morning.” He said, getting up, and helping her to her feet. She rose and went and sat at the table, where a plate of food was, she didn’t even recall hearing or seeing a servant come in.

Before he shut the door, he turned around and called her. “Daenys?” She looked at him.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You mother would be livid if she knew you were in my rooms at such an ungodly hour.” “Ah yes, but she won’t know, will she, sweet sister?” Aemond grinned as he watched her sitting up on the floor in front of the fire in her room, letting the heat warm her skin as they shared a bottle of Dornish wine Aegon left in her rooms earlier that day. Her skin was flushed from the heat and the wine. Her hair was slightly tousled from being roused from sleep, but she didn’t mind. He had a nightmare, and couldn’t return to sleep, so he sought her out instead, needing her presence to clear his mind. The firelight on her skin made her appear like a goddess radiating the beauty of Old Valyria, and when she drank again, and passed the bottle back to him, his eye couldn’t leave her frame as he watched her slip her sage coloured robe from her shoulders, exposing her pure alabaster skin to him, her shoulders bare but for the straps of her nightgown. Her wine stained lips curved into a kind, empathetic smile. “Do you feel better, brother?” She asked him softly, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair.

“Mmm” was his only response, as his eye closed, relaxing into her touch. She giggled, the wine’s effects beginning to show. “Aegon will be jealous when he learns I’ve taken his drinking partner.” Aemond said. She laughed. “I suppose you’ll have to learn to share me.” “I don’t think I could ever share you with anyone.” The wine loosened his tongue, and he realised his words, worrying that they would perturb her, but she simply gave him an affectionate smile, and shifted over to lie into his chest, and he tried not to look down her nightdress, but couldn’t resist the urge, and glanced downward to see the curve of her breast. “Well, you’ll have to learn. I received a letter from Daeron this morning.” “Mmm” “He’s excited to return for my name day. I told him he should come for yours instead, it’s only a few moons after, but he aches to return home.” “I would imagine so.” He couldn’t resist the urge and took advantage of their wine induced states, and pulled her closer to him, keeping his arm on her waist. She was so warm, and soft, and-

Aemond woke with a start in his bed, his sheets soaked with sweat, and Daenys’s name on his lips. Even in sleep, she haunted him. But he felt it was a blessing that she haunted his dreams, at least that way, the gods let him see her face.

#aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #alicent hightower #helaena targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond fic #aegon ii targaryen

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dreamfyre03 · 1 month

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A Dragon's Love

Warnings: Death, Violence, Grief, Descriptions of Blood Chapter 15: A Son Avenged

“There can only be two options. The princess is being held either at Harrenhall, where Prince Daemon has set up camp, or at Dragonstone.” Otto said at the small council meeting that day. It had been three days since the news of his sister’s kidnapping had broken, three days with no sleep, no food, just doing all he could to find her. Yet still, it wasn’t enough.

“And what do you suggest, My Lord Hand? We are not ready to launch attack on Harrenhall, Prince Daemon’s forces outnumber the crown forces at present. With the Riverlands declaring for the Princess Rhaenyra, we’ve lost their men as well.” Tyland Lannister said.

Aegon huffed in frustration from his seat at the head of the table. “This is fucking ridiculous. We have dragons. We have Sunfyre, Vhagar, Tessarion, Meraxa. We can burn them all to the ground and take her back.”

“Meraxa has been unapproachable for days. The dragon keepers cannot tame her.” Aemond said. “Kidnapping my sister is an act of aggression against my rule. We must rain fire and blood down on them!” Aegon shouted, having lost patience. “What if they have her at a third location? We would waste our resources to retrieve her, only for her to be somewhere else entirely.” Otto said. The doors suddenly swung open, and a messenger slowly approached. “I’m sorry, my Lords, Your Grace. We have received a raven from Harrenhall.” Otto took the parchment, and read it, his face darkening.

“What does it say?” Aemond asked. “You owe my Queen a debt. Lucerys Velaryon will be avenged.” He read aloud. Aemond felt his guilt eating away at him. If Daenys died because of his actions, he would never forgive himself. He would make the Stranger take him too, for the only thing keeping his heart beating was that he knew she was still alive. She had to be, because Aemond couldn’t imagine a world without her. He wished he took her to get wed before he left, consequences be damned. Then she would still be here.

The meeting went on for another hour, and he when it was over, he went to the library, and made his way to their spot in the corner, the settee where they sat the night of his name day ball, and she looked at him as though he was more than her brother for the first time. His head was throbbing, he couldn’t think of what else to do. Helaena was utterly distraught, and she tried her best to maintain a happier disposition, but when Jaehaerys and Jaehaera kept asking for their Aunt Daenys, he saw the pained look that crossed her face.

“Brother. Helaena said I would find you here.” Daeron’s voice distracted him from his thoughts.

Aemond just grunted in response.

“We will find her. And bring her home.” Daeron reassured him. “She doesn’t deserve this. I would rather be the one taken, locked away so that she could be here, safe. Rhaenyra has lost her baby, then her son, because of what I did. If Daenys dies because of me, I will never forgive myself. Never. It would be all my fault.” “And do you think she would want that?” His younger brother asked. Aemond looked at him, knowing he was right.

“She would tell you to stop the self pity. No wallowing, no moping. When I first got sent away, and all my letters to her were nothing but gripes and complaints, she sent a firm response saying that she won’t stand for my self pity. To always remember that I was a dragon amongst men, and to never let my time there make me forget that I’m a dragon.” He told him. “As gentle and kind as she is, she never could stand it when we pitied ourselves.” Aemond finally replied. “Indeed.”

The brothers sat in silence, until Daeron said, “She’s always had a special love for you. I’ve always seen it. She loved Aegon like her best friend, even though sometimes she had to act as a mother, just like with me. To Helaena they were sisters in every sense of the word. But with you, it was different. She was always her happiest with you.”

Aemond felt his chest heavy with pain as he heard his brother’s words, and pictured her smiling when they went dragonriding together, or when she squealed in excitement when he gave her his gift for her name day. He remembered how she would scold him for losing his temper on the training grounds as she cleaned his cuts and bruises. She may have been her happiest with him, but he was only ever at peace when he was with her.

“We will find out where they are keeping her. And we will strike and take her back, and they shall never see us coming, to rain dragonfire upon them.”

Daenys hadn’t left the rooms she was being held in since she was brought to Dragonstone. Servants brought her food, clothes, and one even brought her a book on the history of Dragonstone, although she didn’t say who sent it. She contemplated every day to summon Meraxa and escape, but with Syrax, Vermax, Tyraxes and possibly Meleys all surrounding Dragonstone, she knew it would be a losing fight for her dragon. She couldn’t risk Meraxa’s life like that, her dragon was a part of her. She sat watching the sun set over Dragonstone, when she heard the door open behind her. Rhaenyra hadn’t been to see her since her first visit, and she was surprised at the thought that she might visit her again. But when she turned around, she was met not by the face of her sister, but her nephew Jacearys. “Jace?” “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come. I’ve just returned from Winterfell a few days ago.” Her heart was hammering in her chest. Had Cregan Stark sworn to Rhaenyra? “I’ve nowhere to go, so I suppose it does’t matter.” She replied. He sat on the chair in the corner, watching her as she sat on the inner ledge of the window. His brown hair was windblown, and judging from the state of his clothes, she could tell he’d been dragonriding. His face was tired, and he looked much older than he did a few weeks ago.

They didn’t speak for a few moments, until she said, “I’m sorry for you loss.” “Which one?” “Both of them.” He sighed, and she saw the combination of sadness and anger in his brown eyes. “My brother was innocent. Aemond will pay for his crimes.” Was all he said. She felt her chest tighten at the mention of her brother. Every day she looked out the window praying to see Vhagar soar over the horizon, but they probably didn’t even know where she was. Maybe after her leaving, he didn’t want her to come back. “And what of me?” She asked.

“I’ve convinced my mother to keep you comfortably in these rooms. You are a princess, you do not belong in the dungeons.” She felt sickened at the idea that Rhaenyra initially wanted to throw her to the dungeons. “I am grateful for that, but am I to live out my life until the war is over in these four walls? That is no way to live, Jace.”

“I won’t let any harm come to you. I sent you a book, did you like it?” He asked. She nodded, forcing a smile to her face. If she was going to escape, she needed allies. She got up and walked over to the edge of the bed, sitting to face him. “That was very kind of you, thank you.” He looked at her, gazing at her face, then down to her chest that was pushed up by the gown provided for her. He let his eyes trail down to her hips before coming back up to her eyes. “I know they are your family; but so are we. You can still change your alliances, marry and secure your position.” He told her, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“You are a good person, Daenys. You are kind, and loving, and good. You are nothing like them, do not condemn yourself to the fate that awaits them because your care for them has led you astray.”

“I am already betrothed.” “Your engagement has been broken. Cregan has declared for my mother.” He revealed. She slumped her shoulders in defeat. So this was all for nothing.

“You say you too are my family, but my sister can barely be called my sister. The only one of you who has showed me any kindness, or gotten to know me, is you.” She admitted. “Perhaps if time was on our side, you could have gotten to know us more. But there is still time. Please, Daenys.” He begged her.

“I am sorry, Jace. Just as your love for your mother and siblings means you cannot forsake them, neither can I forsake my brother. I love him, and I cannot betray him. I only hope this does not change what goodwill there is between us.” She maintained.

He sighed, and stood to his feet. “Our loyalties may be different, but I cannot hold it against you. No matter how much I’d like to.” He replied, as he left, shutting the door behind him.

Jace began to visit her rooms regularly after that, often in the evening, while the sun set, but sometimes later at night also, and at first she was conscious about sitting and talking to him while he was in nothing but his shirt and trousers, and her a nightgown, but after the first few nights, she grew more comfortable.

As week had passed, they talked about many things, and many times, in the moment she often forgot of the circumstances that brought her to this position. He spoke of his childhood, and always acting as the protector of his siblings, and of how it difficult it was to live with the whispers of his legitimacy behind his back, and even to his face. “I suppose I understand what it feel like to feel responsible for your siblings.” She said as she took a grape from the plate of fruits he brought with him.

“Aegon was the eldest boy, but I was eldest overall, and I felt responsible to look out for them, especially when their mother wasn’t often kind, or frequent in maternal warmth.” “It is admirable, to take up such a responsibility. You didn’t have to.” He commented.

She smiled softly, memories of her childhood running through her mind. “It never felt like a burden. I love them, and I loved caring for them. It is what family must do.” She expressed, a hint of sadness in her voice.

They were silent for a moment, before he said, “I know you would have liked that from my mother. I’m sorry she never opened her heart you. It might be difficult to believe, but she can be very loving, and kind.”

“It’s alright. I believe you, she is your mother, and I know that she loves you.” She replied.

As much as she sometimes didn’t care to admit, she looked forward to Jace’s visits, they became the highlight of her day. He was kind, and understanding, even funny. Maybe she was simply feeing the effect of her imprisonment more and more. She never forgot where his loyalties lay, and even though she saw the change in him from the lighthearted humorous boy she grew to know what felt like a lifetime ago, she still saw him come out when they talked. He would even make her laugh sometimes, telling her funny stories about mischief he and his brothers would get into. Her heart still yearned for home, for her siblings, for Aemond. But Jacearys’s kindness and company made her captivity a bit more bearable.

Aemond dumped the glass of water on Aegon’s face as he laid in his bed, hungover, after drinking away his sorrows yet again. His brother let out a gurgled cry as the coldness of the water jolted him awake, and shouted, “Fucking hells, brother!” “We’re to meet with the council again, to see if we can spare resources to attack Harrenhall first, to find Daenys. Get up.” He commanded harshly. While Aemond spent every waking moment drowning in books of war strategy, sending out spies all over the realm, doing anything he could fathom to work on getting their sister back, Aegon went back and forth between unbridled anger, and drowning his frustrations in wine, or in whores. He groaned and sat up, his eyes dull and tired. He looked out the window and said, “It’s nightfall.” “I know. We cannot wait until morning to assess such a thing. It’s too important.” Aemond replied. “Very well, I still think I should take Sunfyre and Meraxa and look for her.” His brother said as he pulled on some clothes. “We need a strategy. We’ve no room to fail, if they know we’re actively looking for her, to attack and get her back, we lose the element of surprise.” “I suppose, but-“ Aegon was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream that echoed throughout the hallways. Both brothers ran, Aemond with his sword already drawn, ready to fight. They followed the screaming to the nursery, and when Aemond’s eye took in the horror before him, his blood ran cold.

The rug that covered the expanse of the floor was soaked in blood, and Helaena was on her knees in the midst of it all, the limp, butchered body of a child in her arms. Jaehaera stood in the corner, Maelor clutched in her little arms, her arm bruised and her nightgown torn. “My son! They’ve killed my son!” Helaena screamed, her sobs could no doubt be heard throughout the Red Keep. Aegon dropped to his knees beside her, and pulled her and the body of their son in his arms and for the first time in years, Aemond saw his brother come apart, weep as he and his wife mourned their child. The guards finally made their way to the rooms, and it was only then Aemond realised those posted outside the rooms were dead on the ground. “Lock off every entrance and exit to the castle. No one, no man, woman, servant, not even a rat, to leave this place. I want whoever did this to be found. He won’t be spared any mercy. Go!” Aemond commanded them. His mother and Daeron were running down the halls, and Aemond saw her collapse into Daeron’s arms at the sight, wailing and crying out for the death of her grandson. Aemond snapped out of his daze, and went to the two frightened children in the corner, picking them both up, and holding them to him. As he was about to stand, he spotted a piece of paper on the ground, and picked it up. The words he read would haunt him for the rest of his life.

A son for a son. Lucerys Velaryon has been avenged.

#aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #alicent hightower #helaena targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fic #hotd #aegon ii targaryen

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dreamfyre03 · 1 month

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A Dragon's Love

Warnings: Minor Violence

Chapter 14: The Wrath of Aemond Targaryen

After returning to King’s Landing, and informing the council of Lucerys’s death, he wanted nothing more than to be in Daenys’s arms. He longed to inhale her scent of jasmine and lilies, to hear her soft voice comfort him, after being screamed at by his mother, and yelled at by his grandfather. Thanks to him, the first strike of war had been landed. The greens made the first move.

He took the tunnels to her rooms, and when he entered, he stood there briefly, stunned. Her dresses, her books, her parchments and perfumes, all gone. Nothing of hers was left, except the lingering scent of her in the sheets. With a rage he was becoming more familiar with every passing second, he stormed the council room for the second time that day, jolting them all in surprise, and asked darkly, “Where is she?” Aegon looked at him confused, while his mother and grandfather exchanged a look. “Where is she?” He yelled, slamming his fists onto the table, as his eye darkened with anger.

“Where is who?” Aegon asked, genuinely puzzled. “Our sister.” He spat, and Aegon sat up in concern. “She isn’t here?” Aegon paled as he said the words, no doubt thinking the worse.

His grandsire rose, and said, “She is safe. She is off acting on behalf of the crown.” Aegon stood, his face serious. “How can she be acting on behalf of the crown? I certainly haven’t sent her anywhere.” He said to the Hand. “Where is my sister, Lord Hand?” Aegon asked again.

“Clear the room.” Aemond addressed the council. They hesitated, glancing back at Otto, then Aemond. “You heard my brother. Clear the room.” Aegon said harshly, his gaze never leaving their grandfather. The men of the council scrambled out of the room, leaving the brothers alone with their mother and grandsire.

“Tell me where she is. Now.” Aemond drew his sword, much to the horror of his mother. “Aemond, please!” She cried out, looking to Aegon desperately, but he ignored her. “She’s on her way North. To wed Cregan Stark.” His grandsire finally said.

Aemond felt his blood run like fire. No, no, he wouldn’t let this happen. She was his, no one else’s

“You grant yourself the power to decide my sister’s marriage without so much as my input? She is sister to the King, and you do not even deem it necessary to inform me of my sister’s departure?” Aegon shouted angrily.

Aemond stood there, in silent rage, his mother watching him fearfully, no doubt praying for her father’s life. Good. She should be. “Your sister knew what she had to do. We need the north’s support, she will do her part to get it for us. I made her understand this, and she is willing to do her duty. As we all must.” His grandsire said stiffly. “Your forget which of us sits the throne, and wears the conqueror’s crown. Get out.” Aegon said lowly. His mother and grandfather looked at him, no doubt in shock to see him actually act like a King for the first time since he was crowned. “Both of you. Get out!” He yelled.

They both walked out briskly, and when the brothers were alone, Aemond said, “I won’t let her marry Cregan Stark.” “I know.”

“Someone else must have known she was leaving.” Aemond mused. They both seemingly thought the same thing, and quickly made their way to Helaena’s rooms.

As they burst through the doors, they saw Daeron, who just arrived, sitting with her, as they talked and played with the children. “Did you know?” Aemond cut them off. Helaena shook her head. “My maid gave me this letter the moment you were spotted returning on Vhagar. It is for me, Aegon and Daeron. This one is for you.” She handed him a letter, where he recognised his sister’s familiar cursive scrawl.

His heart pounded as he opened it, and Aegon sat with their sister to read the other letter. My love,

By the time you read this, I will be on the roads to Winterfell. I want to apologise, for leaving without saying goodbye. I was ordered by your grandsire to not tell any of you, I sense he knew our closeness would prompt unwanted resistance, and he wanted me to leave and secure the North’s support through a marriage alliance as soon as possible. As much as it pains me to admit, he is right. Aegon needs as much support as he can get from the noble houses. I have spent the days since his coronation flooded with nothing but worry and fear for all our lives, helpless to do anything. Do not for a moment think that my leaving has to do with the feelings in my heart changing. This couldn’t be further from the truth. You spoke the truth, brother, when you said the gods made us to burn for each other, together. I realise that now. But I cannot bear the thought that me forsaking my duty means a greater chance of losing our family. Although I am to be Lord Stark’s wife, my heart, my soul, my desires, are forever yours. I pray that the passage of time allows you to forgive me, so that when we meet again, you hold no ill will against me for leaving. I would rather us be apart, but know you are alive, than watch you die knowing I could have prevented it. My darling brother, my love, my dragon. We will meet again soon.

-Your beloved sister,

Daenys.

Aemond let out an angry shout as he punched the wall, making his niece and nephews jump in fear. He didn’t even hear Helaena instruct her maid Diana to take them out to the gardens. Aegon sat across from Daeron and Helaena, the conqueror’s crown off his head, and on the table between them. “What did yours say?” He asked them. “That she’s sorry she left without goodbye, that she loves us all, and is doing her duty to make sure Aegon’s claim is stronger against Rhaenyra. To keep us safe.” Daeron answered quietly, as Aegon seemed to be staring into space.

“She’s always been looking out for all of us. Our whole lives.” Aegon said suddenly, breaking the silence that had descended upon them.

None of them responded. The truth hung over them all as they realised that she was gone, off to marry to try and keep them safe, something she had tried to do all her life. While their grandsire used them as pawns, and their mother often followed his stead, she was there, since they were children, at for every injury in the training yard, every argument, every flight atop their dragons, always with her kind smile and loving heart, even when some of them didn’t deserve it. He remembered when Daeron was first sent to Oldtown, how his little brother cried, and Daenys soothed him, promising to write to him as often as they both could, for just because he would be somewhere else didn’t mean she would forget him. And she never did, writing to him all the time.

Helaena sniffled, crying silently at the reality of their sister being gone all the way North, not knowing when they would see her again, knowing they wouldn’t see her smile everyday, or hear her laugh, watch her fly Meraxa, or play with the children.

Daeron wrapped his arm around their sister, quietly soothing her, and Aemond heard Aegon say, “I couldn’t give a shit about the North’s support. She doesn’t want to marry Stark. Her place is here, and that is where she must stay.” “I’m going to get her back. I won’t entertain this for another moment.” Aemond said, and as he was about to leave and go to mount Vhagar, their mother entered, with a seemingly battered and bruised Ser Arryk.

“Something’s happened.” She said quietly, unable to look at them. Aemond felt his heart clench.

Ser Arryk looked between Aegon and Aemond nervously, as Aegon instructed the man, “Speak.” “My King, I was with the guards escorting the Princess Daenys to Winterfell. We were ambushed, and I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, the Princess was gone.” He revealed.

Aemond drew his dagger, and had the man backed into the wall, his dagger pressing against his throat in a flash. “You mean to tell me, the Princess was kidnapped? Under your watch?” Aemond growled, pressing the knife in deeper, feelings great satisfaction when he saw blood begin to seep through. “Aemond!” His mother shouted, pulling him off the knight.

“This is all your fault!” Aegon shouted angrily at her. “You sent her away, without even telling your King, and now, my sister might be dead, or gods know what else!” He continued.

“Leave, mother. Aegon and I will decide what to do from this point on. If our grandsire so much as lifts a finger, I will cut it off myself.” Aemond warned her. She nodded, and quickly left the room with Ser Arryk behind her.

The siblings were left alone again, nothing but the sound of Helaena’s sobs muffled as she wept on Daeron’s chest filled the room. “I will find her.” Aemond vowed.

As he spoke, the siblings heard Meraxa screeching and roaring out painfully into the sky. “I will rain down Fire and Blood on every man, woman and child in this Kingdom, but I will find her. And whoever took her from me will know my wrath.”

Daenys awoke with a pounding sensation in her head, and she groaned as she sat up in the bed. As her eyes opened, she took in her new unfamiliar surroundings, the walls grey and carved of stone, with rich tapestries adorning the wall. She could hear the waves crashing into rocks outside, so she knew she couldn’t be in Winterfell. Her dress was slightly torn, and she looked in the mirror, and saw bruises on her chest and a cut on her forehead. Where was she? She went to the door, and tried to open it, but it was locked, and she banged on it with her fists, shouting at her unknown captor to let her out. There was no response, and after shouting and screaming for what felt like hours, she gave up, with nothing to show for her efforts but a hoarse throat. She ran over to the window, and saw the ocean stretching out into the distance, and black, sharp, jagged rocks on the ground below her. The door opened, and she turned around to face her captor. “Rhaenyra?” She gasped. “Sister.” Was her cold response. Her sister seemed to have aged rapidly in the days since she last saw her. Her eyes bore dark circles, her eyes red, her skin dull and tired. She wore their father’s crown. “What am I doing here? Where am I?” She asked. “You are on Dragonstone. You are here, because you are a traitor to the crown.” She answered. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about your plot to wed Cregan Stark on behalf of our traitorous brother, and win the North’s alliance?” “Sister, please understand-“ “No!” Rhaenyra shouted, angry tears brimming her eyes. “Any kindness and understanding I might have extended to you for our father’s sake died when you stood by our half brother’s side when he stole my crown. They killed my baby, then they took my son!” She yelled, and Daenys just realised the bump of Rhaenyra’s belly had disappeared, and tears filled her own eyes as well. “I’m so sorry, Rhaenyra-“ She began but her sister wouldn’t hear it. “I don’t want your apologises. They took my daughter, then my son. Aegon will pay for this, they all will.” “Your son?” Her mind immediately went to Jace.

Her sister laughed almost manically. “Oh have you not heard? The brother you love so, who dotes upon your every word for all to see, he and his dragon killed my son in the skies above Storm’s End. My son, my Luke,” Her sister wiped away her tears, willing herself not to cry. Daenys approached her carefully, and said as she too wept, “I am sorry for your loss, sister.”

Rhaenyra looked at her with angry eyes, as if stunned at her words, then raised her hand and slapped her, and Daenys felt the stinging sensation as she heard the sound echo throughout the room. “You do not get to mourn him. Or cry for him. You love our traitorous brothers so much, perhaps I’ll send your head back to them. Either way, get comfortable, sister. You aren’t going anywhere.” Rhaenyra said cruelly as she got up and shut the door behind her.

Leaving Daenys alone, with nothing but the pain in her heart and the bruises on her body.

#aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #alicent hightower #helaena targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond fic #hotd #aegon ii targaryen

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dreamfyre03 · 1 month

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BELLLLLLLLLLL GODDAMIT BABY THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD PLOT TWIST WAS JUST SLAY SLAY SLAY Three Targ men? Yes Ma'am I think so Reader is who I aspire to be pls thanks Rest assured I shall indeed whip out the vibe later when I read this immaculate fic again- it's literally perfect ilysm bel my love

"Bewitched" - Aegon Targaryen II x Witch!Reader x Aemond Targaryen

a/n: a request from @dreamfyre03 combined with one from @the-shadow-queen02 🤭🩷

Summary: Bewitching the men of House Targaryen and bringing them under your thrall proves quite easy.

TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, manipulation, mommy kink, dom!reader, breeding kink, p in v sex, unprotected sex, face sitting, oral f receiving, tiddy succin, ass eating, anal sex, jealousy

Word Count: 1,625 words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷

When Aemond returned from Harrenhal, his mother could not hide her shock at who he had brought back with him. He said he found you on the side of the road, thrown from your horse, bleeding from your temple with little memory of how you came to be there. He, of course, did the chivalrous thing and took you into his care. But Alicent can tell that it is far more than that when she sees how he looks at you. With care, affection, but something much darker as well. Possessiveness. Intense desire, hunger even. You were quite beautiful, disarmingly so, and it is no wonder her sweet boy was so taken in by you. Buxom with crimson red lips, eyes that seemed much wiser than the age you claimed to be, lined with kohl and framed by long lashes that you knew how to bat oh so prettily at the prince. Your gaze pulled people in. There was a mysteriousness to you, a danger she could not quite name.

And she hated that Aegon seemed to be just as entranced by you the moment he saw you, descending from his throne to take your hand and press a kiss to the back of it, giving you his most charming smile. The dowager queen saw the way Aemond’s nostrils flared, the way his jaw clenched. You were going to be a problem. And you knew the way you had both the king and the prince wrapped around your little finger. Your smile was one that looked as if you were hiding some deep, dark secret. One that could ruin everything Viserys wanted her to do. A peaceful reign for Aegon, his legacy maintained.

But when she suggests that he send you away, back to the Riverlands where you belong, Aemond raises his voice at her, shocking her entirely. He glares at her, gnashing his teeth as he declares that you are to remain by his side. That you are his guest, his lover, and anyone that has a problem with that will be put to the sword. What sort of spell have you put on her son, she wonders? Are you some kind of enchantress? Some witch who has seduced him with false promises, with the affection he’s so desperately craved all his life? She does not know. But what Alicent does know is this - people are frightened of her third-born for good reason. She has never been on the receiving end of Aemond’s anger before. He’s always revered her, as one reveres the Mother herself. But it would appear that you have replaced her as the most important woman in his life. She watches as you rest a hand on his chest, looking up at him and calming him with a few honeyed words and a bat of your lashes, his eye fluttering shut as you caress him. A low moan escapes from his lips, one that she truly wishes she did not have to hear.

And it’s no wonder what the spell you’ve put him under is. The way he stares unabashedly at your breasts as they strain against the bodice of your dress, the way he licks his lips when you give him that coy little smile. You have seduced him into your grasp and she wonders if you will ever be willing to let him go.

Aemond watches as you move to get up from his bed, the moonlight shining through the window and reflecting upon your bare body as you walk. He stares without shame, admiring your full breasts, the curve to your hips, your soft thighs as you move to grab yourself a robe. He can already feel his cock twitching, imagining burying himself inside you once again, filling you with his seed, tasting your sweet, wet cunny-

His train of thought is cut off when you hand him a goblet of wine, having already poured one for yourself. You smile at him playfully, moving to sit in his lap, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a soft sigh of contentment, leaning into your touch, feeling your nails scratching at his scalp. You do not judge him for it, the way he clings to you like a babe, his lips finding your breasts, suckling greedily, his tongue laving attention onto your pert nipple. You just continue running your hand through his hair, soothing him. Aemond’s other hand moves to squeeze at your neglected breast, only to have you wrap his knuckles, fixing him with a sharp glare.

“Do not be greedy, my prince,” you say in that silvery voice, scolding him affectionately, the sound making him grow all the harder, “Now, I must go see your brother.”

Aemond shakes his head, arms wrapping around your waist, “No. You have to stay here with me. You are mine. You belong to me. I will not let Aegon take you away from me. He has gotten everything he has wanted all his life. I will not let him have you.”

You run your fingers along the length of his scar, smirking slightly when his breath hitches at your soft touch, “My sweet, sweet Aemond. Surely you remember my vision. To make it a reality, I have told you what it is that I must do.”

“It does not mean I have to like it. Or even approve of it,” he mumbles, burying his face in your neck, nipping at your soft skin, “You are mine.”

“Of course I am yours,” you coo affectionately, “When you sit the Iron Throne, I will be at your side. You will wield Blackfyre, the Conqueror’s crown upon your handsome brow.”

“And you will be my queen,” Aemond insists eagerly, letting out a groan as you sink down onto his cock, the subtle bounce of your breasts as you move your hips mesmerized him, “Oh Gods, you take me so well…”

Your fingers trace his throat all, squeezing gently, a grin spreading across your lips when he lets out a lewd moan of your name, “Yes, my king. I will be your queen. And you will breed me every night. Perhaps this is the night your seed will take and your heir will begin to grow inside of me.”

The thought of you, your breasts heavy with milk, your belly swollen as his child grows inside of you… It is all almost too much for him to bear. He feels you tense around him, his seed spilling inside you at the feeling as you milk his cock for everything he has. You always take him so perfectly, as if you were made for him and only him.

He hates watching you brush your air, applying some scented oil to your neck before taking your pitcher of wine and leaving the chambers you currently share with him. Aemond knows this is all for the greater plan, the vision you saw in the fire on the way to King’s Landing. Him on the throne, his babe in your belly. Aemond tries to stay in his chambers. He tries to play the part of the responsible, dutiful man. To let you do what the two of you planned. You will whisper in Aegon’s ear, bewitch him with promises of a life far away in YiTi. You will get him to abdicate his claim to the throne, allowing Aemond to take his rightful place. And to do all of this, Aemond knows seducing him, bedding him is necessary. But he cannot bear it.

So he storms into Aegon’s bedchamber. He sees you there, sitting atop Aegon, much as you did atop him mere hours earlier. Aegon’s hands hold your hips, his eyes blown wide with lust as you ride him. Aemond is transfixed by the sight. You look so beautiful, so powerful as you give his brother pleasure, as you take your own from him. You grab Aegon’s hands, pinning them above his head as you roll your hips faster and faster. Aegon moves to take one of your breasts in his mouth, whining pathetically when you smirk and move back just out of reach.

Aemond glowers at the two of you for a moment before storming up to you, gripping your hips from behind. You glance at him over your shoulder, a wicked smile curling on your lips as you pull him into a hot, wet kiss. Aegon watches the two of you, his lips parted as he continues bucking his hips up against you before finally spilling himself in your cunt with a pathetic whine of your name. You smirk at the two men before speaking in a cool, measured tone.

“There’s enough of me to share, darlings.”

The two stare at you in awe as you move to straddle Aegon’s face, turning to Aemond and glancing downward. Immediately, he knows what you expect him to do. Before you, he never would have thought of himself as being interested in this sort of depravity. But while you ride his elder brother’s face, his own tongue teasing your puckered hole before preparing you to take his cock, he realizes that he has very much grown addicted to you.

The night continues this way, the three of you losing yourself in your shared pleasure, each brother sound asleep on either side of you. You slip from the bed in the dead of night, putting your robe on once more and preparing to meet a figure, hidden under the shroud of darkness. He waits for you in King’s Landing, near Mysaria’s brothel, a smirk on his face.

“How is the plan progressing, little witch?”

Your lover pulls you into his arms, groaning against your lips as you palm at his cock, “The plan goes well, Daemon. Very well.”

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dreamfyre03 · 1 month

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AHHHHHH my love I will be waiting with bated breath

okay actually babes ima do the targ sandwich fic today after the feyd fic and the solo fics later. my girl @dreamfyre03 sent me SUCH a good request a while back im dying to write it

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dreamfyre03 · 2 months

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this was so perfect from beginning to end it just got better and better <3

Strongpoint

HOTD: Aemond Targaryen x twin!reader x Rhaenyra Targaryen (with a side of Aemond x Rhaenyra)

Castling Collection

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2k

Warnings: heavy on the Targcest, hand job, oral (f receiving), minor blood play, biting, domme!Rhaenyra, fingering, threesome, praise kink

You witness a private moment between your siblings and wish to be included

*comments/reblogs are appreciated

You awoke to the feeling of sunbeams warming your bare skin. A soft sigh escaped as you stretched out in the bed, whisps of silver hair clinging to your cheeks and forehead. The sheets tangled beneath you still held the musky stench of sweat, flesh, and arousal. As your eyes adjusted to the morning light, a deep moan startled you. You quickly bolted upright in the bed, erratically looking around your chambers to find where the noise had come from. A gasp caught in your throat at the sight before you.

Rhaenyra was stretched across the long, plush velvet chaise in front of the hearth; the dying embers crackled softly and emitted a muted amber glow. She was naked, with Aemond positioned between her spread thighs, his back resting against her chest. One of her hands was wrapped around his engorged cock, stroking and pumping his heated flesh as he shivered against her. His head was tilted back in pleasure, jaw slack, silver hair falling across Rhaenyra’s bare skin and intermixing with her wavy strands. His pale toes curled against the vibrant red cushion.

“Sȳres taobus, valonqus (good boy, little brother),” she purred, her nails trailing over his hips. You were certain Aemond preened at the praise she lavished on him.

Your heart had ceased pounding in your chest as you relaxed, stretching onto your side to enjoy the sensual view. It was most intriguing to watch how Aemond’s hips would keen against Rhaenyra’s ministrations, the pink flush spread across his alabaster skin, and the sweat beading in the contours of his muscular flesh. Rhaenyra’s rosy, pebbled nipples scraped against the taut skin of his back, and you had no doubt arousal pooled between your sister’s thigh, leaving a damp trail against Aemond’s back. You slipped a hand down your belly, warmth spreading through you until you reached your slick cunt. The tip of your finger immediately sought out your swollen pearl to rub delicately. Daemon oft teased that you had a voracious appetite once hunger awakened in you.

“Kirimvose, mandȳs (thank you, older sister),” Amemond murmured, his voice weighing heavily with lust.

Her teeth scraped over the curve of his neck, speeding up her movements, and your toes curled at the needy whimper that fell from Aemond’s flushed mouth. It was a rare but lovely sound that sent you on edge as you applied more pressure to your swollen pearl. Your thighs trembled as you danced on the brink of pleasure, your moans bleeding into Aemond’s as you each reached a delicious peak. You left a slick residue against your fingers as Aemond spurted pearly ropes onto his eldest sister’s hand. A throaty chuckle chimed through the room.

“I do believe our sister was enjoying the view,” Rhaenyra commented, smoothing her clean hand down Aemond’s damp hair.

“I am certain she was. She has the most salacious appetite,” Aemond hummed, his pale chest heaving gently.

“One I have not been able to sample often; you and Daemon are quite selfish when it comes to her,” Rhaenyra pointed out.

“You are both aware that I am laying right here, yes?” you quipped, skin warmed and flushed.

“Indeed, idañus (twin)),” Aemond’s lips curved into a smirk, the sunlight catching on his sapphire eye.

You scooted onto your knees, hair cascading down your shoulders as you fixed each with a sultry gaze. “I demand you come join me; it was rude to ignore me so.” There was a playfulness in your tone.

“You are certainly bold, making demands of your queen,” Rhaenyra retorted.

“I fear she is quite spoiled when it comes to getting her way,” Aemond smirked.

“I could think of a better use for your tongue, sweet sister, instead of spewing such demands and cheek.”

“I am eager to hear,” you smirked, excitement tingling through you.

She hummed softly before rising to her feet and moving to the basin to cleanse her hands of Aemond’s mess. Silence hung heavy in the room as you waited anxiously for her words. It was clear she enjoyed making you wait with bated breath as she took her time drying her hands with the crimson cloth. Her long, silver hair fell below the curve of her arse, glittering in the sunlight that streamed through the part curtains as she perched on the edge of the chaise, fixing you with a firm gaze.

“Crawl to your queen,” she instructed. The snap of her fingers echoed through the room.

You eagerly slipped to the floor, balancing on all fours before crawling across the smooth marble and kneeling dutifully in front of her. Her fingers carded through your mussed hair, and the gentle tugs and pulls made you shiver. Her fingers curved against your chin, holding you in a firm grip as she forced you to look into her violet eyes. It felt slightly unnerving, almost like you were staring at your reflection. Aemond shifted behind Rhaenyra, legs draped over the edge of the chaise as his chin rested on her shoulder. One arm looped around her midsection, and the sight of them leering at you sent a familiar throb between your damp thighs. Rhaenyra’s thumb traced over your plush lower lip.

“Your queen commands your wicked tongue buried in her cunt,” Rhaenyra smirked, and an amused chuckle fell from Aemond’s lips.

“As my queen commands,” you purred, hands settling on her inner thighs, slowly parting them for you.

Arousal glistened on her slick folds, resembling silken rose petals drenched in early morning dew. Your mouth watered at the sight as two fingers rested against the delicate area, parting her slowly before leaning in to drag your tongue lazily across her. You savored the taste that gathered on your tongue. You eagerly sought her engorged, sensitive bud, circling your tongue around it, and felt her tremble with pleasure as her fingers tangled in your hair.

“Dōnus hāedus (sweet little sister),” she purred, rocking against your mouth, sending shivers down your spine as you basked in the praise.

While you eagerly lapped between her thighs, Aemond rolled her rosy, pebbled nipples between his fingers. His warm mouth clamped around her shoulder, teeth sinking into her flesh while you suckled on the delicate bud. Your tongue delved between her folds, sinking into her cunt as her throaty moans echoed through the chambers. A soft squelch permeated your ears, followed by a burst of wetness that coated your mouth, tongue, and nose. You were gleeful and triumphant, having made your sister release so intensely. You sat back on your haunches, licking your mouth clean as if a cat satisfied with the most delicious bowl of cream.

Rhaenyra’s cheeks were flushed, her violet eyes hazy and darkened with lust, and her chest heaved as she rested in Aemond’s arms. Your twin flashed you an approving smile, eyes locking with yours.

“To what do we owe this visit, sister?” you purred, scooting closer to rest your cheek against her heated thigh.

“I wished to visit my siblings and remind you of the impending coronation celebration within a fortnight,” she explained, twirling a strand of your silver hair around her ringed finger. The impressive ruby glimmered under the white streams of sunlight.

“We are looking forward to it and can assure you that we shall be in attendance,” Aemond murmured, reaching down to stroke the top of your head.

“I had no doubt. However, I could hardly blame either of you if you departed on dragonback to start a new life. The war took its toll on all of us,” she stated.

“While that is true, here we stand. Alive and well, eager to usher in a new era for the Targaryen dynasty,” you smiled.

“You are as wise as you are wicked, dear sister,” Rhaenyra chuckled.

“True words indeed,” Aemond laughed before rising. You took in the sight of his lithe, leanly muscled body. He emerged a clean cloth into the basin, wringing out the excess water before wiping himself down. He was not one to leave himself in a messy state. You did not mind at times, enjoying the feel of spend clinging to your flesh.

“I was hoping to visit with Naela and Tygar before I depart, as well as Jaehaera, if she permits,” Rhaenyra smiled.

“Oh, yes, they would love to see you. Naela has grown so much, and Jaehaera seems to be coming out of her shell,” you beamed, taking great pride in your children and niece.

“Should I be expecting a new babe on the horizon?” she teased.

“No, but you shall be informed when it happens again,” you laughed before slowly standing to your feet, stretching out your naked body before making way over to Aemond, who was perched on the edge of the bed.

“It hardly seems fair that our sister was able to enjoy your cock, and I’ve been denied the pleasure,” you pouted, straddling his lap and balancing against his muscular thighs.

“You act as if you are denied my cock often, idañus,” he scoffed, hand snaking around your throat to hold your gaze with his, “You had it plenty last night.”

“One never tires of it, valonqus. I crave Daemon buried inside me quite frequently,” Rhaenyra chuckled, her warm body looming behind yours as her hands rested on your shoulders, “Desire should never be denied. Why is that, hāedus?”

Her breath tickled the shell of your ear. “Because we are Targaryens. Dragons do not play by the rule of men.” Daemon’s words rumbled through you, spilling hot and thick from your mouth like dragonfire.

Her fingers slowly worked the tight knots in your shoulders and back as you rubbed your slick cunt against Aemond’s hardening cock. Carnal lust overtook the three of you as bodies toppled onto the sheets, teeth and nails claiming flesh. You curved between them, one leg strewn across Rhaenyra’s hip as Aemond’s cock teased your dripping entrance. He sunk inside, your walls fluttering around him as you adjusted to his girth. Rhaenray’s fingers dipped between your thighs, slowly circling your swollen pearl. Aemond’s teeth sank into your shoulder just enough to send blood blossoming under the skin as your mouth wrapped around one of Rhaenyra’s nipples.

While Aemond set a steady pace, each thrust hitting the delicate spot inside you while Rhaenyra’s fingers slowly sunk into your throbbing cunt to join his cock, making you feel incredibly full. He rolled your warm blood over his tongue, leaning over to capture Rhaenyra in a passionate kiss, sharing the taste of your blood with her. It sent a rapturous feeling roiling deep in your belly, making the band snap as you rode out your peak, becoming a trembling mess as you spilled over Aemond’s cock and Rhaenyra’s fingers.

You grasped at Rhaenyra’s shoulders as Aemond slipped free, his nose rubbing gently over the mark he had left on your shoulder. Your sister stroked your cheeks, cooing softly as you came undone between them. You felt as if you were soaring through the clouds on Drimmi’s back and allowed yourself to be overtaken by it.

Once you regained your strength, you stood, draping the diaphanous robe of pale pink silk over your bare frame, “Might I tempt you both with a warm bath? I know I would enjoy one.”

You resided in the chambers that once belonged to your ancestor, Visenya, and she had carved an ornate tub into the floor, large enough to accommodate multiple people. You had enjoyed luxurious soaks with Daemon, Aemond, and Rhaenyra in the past, though not all three at once.

“That sounds rather lovely,” Rhaenyra said, and Aemond gave a simple nod of agreement.

Tag List: @the-wonderland-madnesss @watercolorskyy

#perfection

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dreamfyre03 · 2 months

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A Dragon's Love

Warnings: Threats of violence, death, kidnapping, kinslaying Chapter 13: The Skies of Storm's End

After days of negotiation with Lord Borros, and promising his brother Daeron in marriage to one of his many daughters, Aemond had secured to Lord of Storm’s End’s support for his brother. He itched to get back to Daenys, already planning to fly them to a Septon he had located far from King’s Landing as soon had he returned. He missed her voice, and her presence that calmed him. She was his guiding light, and every moment he spent away from her was like falling further into darkness.

All seemed to be going well, until a certain brown haired Strong boy made an appearance. Lucerys Velaryon, the bastard who never paid his debt.

“Wait, my lord Strong.” Aemond said. He felt nothing but anger and a lust for vengeance boiling in his blood from the moment his nephew walked in.

“Did you really think, you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” He asked him, unwilling to let the opportunity before him go. No mother or stepfather to shield him from Aemond’s cruelty.

“I will not fight you. I came as a messenger, not a warrior.” He responded timidly.

Aemond smirked.

“A fight would be little challenge. No, I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.” He demanded, ripping off his eyepatch, revealing the glittering sapphire he put in his lost eye’s place.

“One will serve, I’ll not blind you” he said in a terrifyingly calm manner, unsheathing his dagger and tossing in on the ground towards him.

“I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.” He told him, menacingly.

“No.” His nephew responded firmly.

“Then you are craven as well as a traitor.” He shot back.

“Not in my hall!” He heard Lord Borros shout.

“Give me you eye, or I will take it bastard!” He shouted, his voice laced with pure hatred. In that moment, Aemond was blind to everything else except the need to watch this boy suffer. He knew he wasn’t a good man, and he didn’t care. He relished in it.

Lucerys quickly drew his sword, and the guards did as well, as Lord Borros got up and yelled, “Not in my hall! The boy came as an envoy, I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof.”

Aemond heard the crash of thunder outside and smiled cruelly, letting the guards take Luke to his dragon. If little Luke thought he had escaped Aemond’s wrath, he was very sorely mistaken.

Aemond sat atop Vhagar, watching the pieces of Arrax fall into the ocean. He could smell the flesh on Vhagar’s jaw, he could see the blood dripping down below them. His heart hammered in his chest, as the rain beat down on him. Luke was dead.

Aemond killed him. He only meant to scare him, but he lost control, and Vhagar sense the hatred in her rider’s heart, and devoured the boy.

He spent his life yearning, training, waiting for the perfect moment to exact revenge for the loss of his eye, to make his nephew pay the debt he spent his life feeling owed. He felt the rush power as he taunted him, as Vhagar soared overhead tiny Arrax, and let his menacing taunts echo the skies that were dark and stormy, as though it was an ominous foreshadowing of the months to come.

Luke was dead.

Aemond was a Kinslayer.

War was coming.

Daenys woke the next morning with dark circles under her eyes. She woke before sunrise, and dressed with the help of her maid. The Hand and Queen Mother asked her to travel by carriage, fearing that flying on Meraxa would alert Rhaenyra and Daemon as to their doings. Reluctantly, she agreed. She knew Meraxa would come North to her when it was time.

Her last act before leaving was summoning Helaena’s maid, Diana, to her chambers, with an important message. The young woman stood before her nervously. “You haven’t any reason to fear, Diana. I would like to ask a favour of you.” Daenys said. She looked surprised. “Of me? What can I do for you, Princess.” “I am leaving for Winterfell. I ask that when my brother Prince Aemond returns from Storm’s End, you give him this letter, along with this one addressed to the King and Queen, and Prince Daeron. I ask that you do not let anyone know of my whereabouts, not even Queen Helaena.” Diana looked hesitant, and Daenys knew it would hurt her to keep such things from Helaena.

“You have brought my sister much happiness, Diana. I know I ask a lot of you to withhold information from her, but it is for the good of the realm.” “Very well, Princess.” She replied, taking the letters and putting them in her dress pockets.

Daenys dismissed her, then walked to the courtyard, where she was set to leave. On the way, she stopped in the nursery, needing to bid her niece and nephews farewell.

Tears brimmed her eyes as she watched them sleeping peacefully. She was the first to find out Helaena was with child, she was in the room when they were born. She spent almost every day of their lives playing with them, or singing to them. She loved them as if they were her own, she always saw her brother and sister in their faces. Whenever she felt sadness, or loneliness, she went to the children and allowed their childish innocence and love to uplift her spirits.

“My sweetest darlings,” she whispered, careful not to wake them. “I shall miss you terribly. I pray that I will see you again very soon. Remember how much I love you.” She quickly dried her tears and gently kissed each of them, before walking out to the courtyard, and giving the Red Keep one last look, not knowing when she would see it again.

Two days into her journey, and Daenys felt like a shell of herself. She barely slept when they stopped, and when she did, all she dreamt of was Aemond. His smell, how it felt when he held her, his voice whispering reassurances to her. She knew he probably found out she was gone, and no doubt hated her for leaving him. But she promised she would do whatever she could to help her family, and keep them safe.

She tossed her book aside in the carriage, unable to focus on the words. The carriage came to sudden halt, and she gripped the seats to ensure she didn’t fall. “Ser Arryk? Is something the matter?” She called out. “All is well Princess, just-“ Her Kingsguard was cut off with a groan, and thudding sound of his body hitting the ground. She felt herself become paralysed with fear, and cursed herself for not being able to even wield a blade. The door to the carriage swung open, and she was greeted by three men whose faces were covered. “Come on now, Princess. Time to go.” One said cruelly, as he grabbed her by the ankle and yanked her forward. She screamed and kicked in resistance, sickened by the feeling of their hands on her body as they struggled to bind her, until she felt something hard hit her head, and her vision went black.

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dreamfyre03 · 2 months

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beautiful, stunning, gorgeous

The King of Qarth II

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

PART 1 | SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

Warnings: mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of child bride, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, grinding, handjob, knife kink if you squint, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k

Author's note: Aemond and the Salt Queen gets to know each other and do some good ol' bonding on shared trauma(s).

English is not my first language.

Taglist: @zae5 @arcielee @multyfangirl @zaldritzosrose @succnfuccubus @kckt88 @venmondiese @mariahossain @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs @alphard-hydraes-blog @gemini-mama @freyaniobe @toodlesxcuddles @youngestxhearts @helen06dreamer

“Don’t run from me, kori” he screamed as she ran into the night “Please! Come here!”

He tried to chase her but her feet were faster, barely touching the ground as the nine-year-old girl ran away from the Palace of Dust.

She felt she could run forever, that she could not stop, not until she had forgotten what she had seen. What were those invocations? Why was that woman naked and screaming? Why was her father slaughtering animals on a stone altar and drinking their blood?

“Knowledge comes with a great cost.” was all Fydor repeated when the jarring rumors about what was being done in the House of the Undying reached her young ears and her mother, when the Shadow of the Evening had already stained her father's lips and fingernails blue for good.

“What does it mean, Father? What knowledge?”

“Any kind of knowledge, kori. Everything that was, that is. Everything that could be.”

But she did not want to know. Knowing had cost her her mother. She just wanted to run, but the black-barked trees with blue leaves seemed to envelop her like shadows in flesh, a labyrinth changing its thousand deceiving paths with every step she took.

For a moment she turned, her father was running after her but he was far. Until he wasn't.

She went crashing into him as the other Fydor continued to run behind her. He had done this before, all the Warlocks of Qarth did, appearing in several places at once.

White as a sheet, she watched her father lower himself toward her in that strange embroidered tunic like one who performs a ritual. Even in the darkness of that labyrinthine wood, the blue stood out on his lips and in the sclerae of his eyes.

“You don’t have to be afraid...but why? Why did you come here?”

“I heard the screams.” the little girl said with her lower lip trembling “When is Mother coming back?”

“She won’t, kori. It’s only you and me now.”

It was the first and only time she set foot in the Palace of Dust. Visits to her father were rare, although he longed to see her. Sometimes she could swear she could hear him talking in her head, telling her that the shadows protected her, that he protected her through them. Other times she would give in and invite him to the Palace of Salt, almost glad to see him but not quite.

There were always two opposite grooves in her lips when she looked at him. He was the man who avenged her and lost his tongue for it; he was the man who drove her mother to flee, abandoning their daughter.

She felt like that right now as she walked away, as she ran away from him, just like when she was nine. She could hear him echoing in her eardrums, as she left the courtyard with Prince Aemond, with the voice of the past, as if he had regrown his tongue.

“What did he say?”

“Trees wail…leaves are bleeding…” she hears, not the Prince speaking.

Aemond pulls her arm and feels her tensing at his touch, blinking at him as if she wasn’t there up until now. “What?”

“Your father. What did he say before we left?”

"Nothing of your concern.” She says lightly and resumes her walk. He stands still for a moment, sure, as he is sure of the noble blood in his veins, that whatever the warlock said through his hands, did concern him.

Unfortunately, he’s forced to set that thought aside as they leave the Palace; Aemond halts his stride, narrowing his eye at the strange wheelhouse waiting before him. A wheelhouse without wheels, and not even a carriage; more like a bed waiting to be moved, with veils and curtains on each of the four sides. A palanquin, he recalls the word from some book he read. This is how aristocracy moved in the East.

He turns his head as air shifts behind him, and a moment later he’s almost growling at one of the Sorrowful Men, bold enough to lay hands on him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The Salt Queen rolls her eyes and walks to him. “Leave it. I’ll deal with the Prince. He’s already accustomed to having my hands on him, am I right?” she says with a tight, luscious smile, and oddly enough, but perhaps not so much, he doesn’t flinch as she starts to search his blue silks for any weapon.

Her hand slips beneath the soft fabric, gliding on his bare skin, chest and ribs, and she stares at him deliberately, just like him. “Perhaps your Highness just couldn’t wait to get her hands on me again.” he retorts with the ghost of an obnoxious grin.

She says nothing, staring at him as she searches his waist and then through the blue folds underneath. “Ah.” she tuts at one point, slowly drawing his faithful dagger. “And here I thought you were just pleased to see me. You won’t need this.” she says, keeping the blade. “Unlike you, I don’t bite. Unless asked of course.”

He hears the stretch on the word asked and nods slowly, plastering a fake, chastened frown. “I see. My deepest apologies. I didn’t think I had to ask since you have been throwing yourself at me at every corner. Speaking of which, your husband seemed quite proud of your performance earlier at breakfast. Will you be rewarded for your noble services?”

She only blinks at his vitriolic remark, but there is not a trace of outrage on her face. “Someone might say it is not wise to insult someone, especially a woman, when she is armed.”

“Why, do you know how to use that?” he asks, lowering his gaze and tilting his chin to point at the blade.

“No, but how difficult could it be considering how little it takes me to get you to let your guard down? Just like any man, I might add.”

He has no time to bite back, annoyingly moving his jaw at being deemed an ordinary man who crumples at a woman’s touch, while she turns her back and moves the curtains aside to enter the palanquin.

Aemond follows and finds himself cursing internally as he tries to adjust inside that odd, restricted transport. He wouldn’t even call it that. It’s nothing but a mattress with soft cushions on it.

Were Qartheens accustomed to doing everything lying on those damn cushions?

He might just sit, but he is too tall, and the canopy of the litter is too low, greeting his head with a slight bump. The Queen stifles a smile, already settled on the cushions with her legs tucked under her, and she watches him sigh deeply, resigning himself with clear annoyance to lie down on the cushions, holding onto one elbow.

Aemond tries to look at ease, not bothered by the woman and how much she's close to him, as close as if they were to confide a secret to each other, and just as he thinks he has settled down, the Sorrowful Men are lifting the litter, and he is jolted forward, slightly on top of her.

She lifts her arm to hold him by the shoulder, and in that split second, Aemond ties his hand around her arm to keep his weight off her. She tenses, just as before, just as she did the night before in his room. To her misfortune, she is now the one who suffers from too much proximity, or rather, a total lack of space. She feels the long single braid dangling on her, tickling her chest. She can see the specks of blue in his iris, the small cleft on the tip of his nose, the way that vicious mouth flaunts a perfect shape.

If only she could actually read minds, she would know that that last thought mirrors in his head.

He shouldn't care, he shouldn't even linger on that thought. This woman has done nothing but trample on his pride, has done nothing but mocking and taunting, and she seems quite adamant on keeping doing so. But perhaps it's because her mouth is close now, and for once silent, slightly open; an offering hiding a thousand more. And he had not taken it. In the throes of rage and pleasure, he had not kissed her. And he wishes. He wishes to know. Would she taste sweet? Tart?

Would she taste like salt?

The thought slips to the back of his mind as she clears her throat and straightens up, forcing him to distance himself, although they are still uncomfortably close. With one hand she knocks twice against the canopy, and the Sorrowful Men start walking.

Aemond leans better on his elbow to curb the swaying of the litter, and sighs glancing at the woman beside him. “Never heard of horses in this part of the world?”

“Horses barely survive in the desert, ask any Dothraki. Besides, what you Westerners do with those poor beasts is barbaric.”

His eyebrow is raising, ready to rebut, but as he opens his mouth, she offers him a small plate full of dates and dried figs. He moves his hand to dismiss it, causing her to frown. “Do you ever eat?” she takes one fig between her fingers and bites. “You should try one. Perhaps it’d make you less…bitter all the time.”

He glares at her but in doing so, he stumbles upon her mouth and the saccharine juice pasting her lips. She reads this as if he is reconsidering, so she stretches the half-bitten fig, and given their closeness, it takes her little to bring it to his mouth.

Aemond tilts his head back to decline and sighs. "Do you always think about eating here?"

"God no, we have much more pleasant pastimes." she says, chewing the other half of the fruit. "Would you like to hear about some of them?"

Aemond is not looking at the woman, and yet he can feel her luscious smile like something vivid, prickling his skin. "I can imagine."

"Can you? It doesn't seem so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, perhaps our intimate encounter misleads me, but...you seem that kind of man who fucks his wife only on all fours, to feel in power and all those manly excuses."

"I am not." he hisses.

"Really?” She tilts her head curiously and looks at him closely. “Ever let her be on top? Ever been tied up? Blindfolded?"

He looks away at that, scoffing. "So, it's either eat or fuck."

Aegon would have thrived here, he thinks dimly.

"Fine. What should we talk about then?"

"Why do we have to?"

"The war? I, for instance, think it's only your father's fault. He wanted a son, right? And he had three. People unfit to take a decision should not be allowed to rule, if you ask me. On the other hand, though, what your mother did upon his death—"

"Keep my mother out of your mouth."

She hears the threat in the hissing way the words come out of his mouth, so she hushes, and turns her head toward the bustle of the city blurred by the veils and curtains of the litter. “Silence it is.”

And silently, he thanks the Gods for a moment of peace, free of this constant enquiring and teasing. That same silence though, only makes him think of Alicent. Is she still in chains? Is she wondering about him day and night or did she choose to banish him from her mind as he banished her?

Perhaps now that he is in a rather civil city, he could send word to her? Let her know he’s alive and that he was…what was he doing here?

But even if he did know, he could not trust any of these people.

“What is exactly your husband’s plan now?”

“What do you think? You promised them dragon eggs. They won’t let you go until they have their little lizards to play with.”

Aemond scoffs, glancing distractedly beyond the curtains “Do you think you can fool me? Speaking of them as if you are not into it as well.”

“I am not. We may have different customs, but even here women are pawns in the hands of men. Men choose what we shall do, who we shall marry…how they shall fuck us.” He drags his eye back on her at this, watching her as she adds “But I have no interest in keeping you here, or having a creature spitting fire as a pet. I prefer cats, if you must know, or snakes.”

“I see. So, you just follow his orders? He tells you to fuck whoever is housed under your roof, and you obey?”

“I fuck who I wish to. And if you don’t want to taste how sharp your dagger is, you might want to stop addressing me as a whore.”

“Who you wish?”

“Yes.” She catches a glimpse of his eyebrow raising in a rather boastful way and looks away, huffing. “Quit it, dragon prince. You might be handsome, but it wasn’t that special.”

“Why? It was hard to tell in the midst of all that begging.”

“Because I don’t like to feel like I’m ten again.”

The smug expression on Aemond's face disappears as quickly as the Salt Queen speaks those words, wrinkling his forehead as he grasps their meaning. But she looks at him with a passive face, and she speaks of this person, herself, and yet another, with the distant tone with which one speaks of the dead.

“I was raped when I was ten. Bent over my small table while I was painting seashells.”

Aemond looks genuinely startled, and why wouldn’t he? He is not sure he can trust this woman’s word, but something in the back of his mind, namely the way she was tensing like steel as he took her from behind, tells him she’s speaking the truth. After all, it seems her tongue is made of nothing else.

“Don’t look at me like that.” she says “I’m not telling you to make you say you’re sorry. Everyone knows. There is no such thing as secrets here. It helps the trades, makes for more honest negotiations.”

The litter stalls as Aemond barely registers they must have reached the walls, but he doesn’t move, staring at the woman, cautiously, enquiringly, as something unfolding right before him.

“And what are we trading?”

She was starting to move to get out of the palanquin, but she halts at his question, raking his half-lying figure with her eyes, the long slender hands laced together on his abdomen, the little smooth portion of chest peeking from the blue silks. “It depends on what you are offering…”

They share a long earnest look, unwavering on both parts, until the curtains are moved. “Your Highness, we have reached the walls.”

The woman blinks and takes a light breath. “Let’s go, shall we? Before your lizard starts chewing the walls.”

She barely moves and he’s seizing her wrist, drawing her eyes back on him instantly. The Queen witnesses something new curling his features, cracking his mouth open and then shutting it back—a reluctance, almost a regret that does not settle well on that ever-so-strict face; it seems unwanted, rejected, and yet it keeps coming back, twitching his mouth twice. “Had I known…I would’ve behaved differently.” He says staring down, whereas she stares right down at him, at the grimace twisting his lips, as if tasting salt. “I know how it is…to feel—”

“Powerless?”

In more ways than one.

He doesn’t utter the words, but the way his eye pierces through her is nothing but a confession.

“You could have stopped me.”

“Yes, I could. That’s what troubles me.” She says in a hushed tone, and now she’s the one staring down, grimacing. “I didn’t want to.”

Being a dragonrider, one might think Aemond should be used to deal with strange creatures. And yet, his brow is furrowing steeply as soon as they’re out of the city walls. There are some men waiting for them, common men dressed in dark robes, acting as keepers for a four-legged animal that Aemond has never seen in his life. A camel.

The Salt Queen fakes a frown upon reading the confusion on his face and says “Surely you didn’t think we would walk in the desert.”

“Because it’s hot or because it goes against all the lying around you do here?”

She bursts into a short laugh, drawing his eye to her, and says “It seems you have found your humor. I’m glad. I like men who can make me laugh.”

It was not really his intention, rather a mere observation, but he says nothing, lingering for a moment on her lips curved up, before returning to look at the creature before him, slowly ruminating something as it stares at him with two dark, waning eyes.

“I don’t know how to ride this—thing.”

“Ah, it’s a bit tricky. You see,” she goes to stand right beside him, leaning against him so that he feels her bare shoulders against his arm, and as she gestures towards the camel, she says “You have to get on it and keep yourself balanced on the hump with one knee. Very dangerous, I must warn you. Most men die by merely trying.”

She turns to look at him with her lips cracking in amusement, but as she sees the earnest, not at all amused, face he’s wearing, she sighs deeply. “And it’s lost again.”

“It’s just a bit slower than a horse.” She explains taking a step away as one of the Sorrowful men hands her some blue fabric, like a scarf. Aemond sees her handing one to him and she speaks before he asks about it. “For your skin. To shield you from the sun if you don’t want to peel your face off because of burn blisters.”

He grabs the cloth, unfolding it between his hands as, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Queen wrap her own around her head, leaving only a crevice for her eyes. He tries to mimic her gestures, but his braid gets stuck, so she walks to him raising her hands, and without a word she helps him, wrapping his head and face in blue.

“Come. Since it’s your first time, you’ll ride with me.”

Then, she moves towards the camel, while the armed men will follow on foot, dragging the cart of dead pigs and goats. With silent relief on his part, Aemond finds out that it seems even easier than riding a horse. At first.

The camel kneels on the sand on his four legs, and Salt Queen straddles it, sitting in the saddle. She swings each leg on both sides of the creature, her silks gliding like water, effectively baring her skin from the ankles to her thighs; she makes room for him, turning her head to beckon him to sit behind her and, inevitably, she sees him staring down at her bare legs. “So, you found something else to stare at other than my breast. Good.”

Aemond looks up and then away, moving to get this over with. He sits on the saddle, behind the woman, their bodies barely touching, at first. As she grabs the reins, she slightly turns her head saying “Follow my lead.”

She pulls at the reins and since camels stand up with their back legs first, Aemond is jolted forward, colliding against the Salt Queen who promptly instructs him. “Lean back…”

He does so, and she does too, resting her shoulders against his chest. “And now forward.” She adds when the animal gets onto its front legs. Aemond lurches forward, and having no handhold, he grips her left side not to crash his body on her.

“Pigaí.” She says in Qartheen and, slowly, the camel starts walking. Aemond briefly looks behind, watching the Sorrowful Men move accordingly, four of them dragging a wooden cart full of carcasses, but soon he finds himself too occupied with keeping balance to spare a glance behind.

A camel’s walk is nothing like the gait of a horse. It’s odd, irregular, jerky; it keeps jolting him backward and then forward, each time forcing him to bump against her back, to hold onto her, sometimes her arm, sometimes her hip, her thigh even, like a toddler who's just learning to walk.

Hearing his short and clearly annoyed sighs, the Queen smiles behind the tajel, keeping her gaze fixed on the dunes at the horizon, and softly shakes her head. “Always so rigid…”

“What” he asks without even intoning the question, because the camel and this hiccup-like swinging is getting on his nerves, not to mention the heat, sticking the silks on him, or the woman's body which, for all the right reasons but rather inconvenient under the circumstances, is making his blood flow down too fast.

“You are too rigid.” She says, slightly raising her tone. “You have nothing to prove to this poor beast, or me.”

She takes his hand that he held like an iron clamp on her side and turns her head a little, enough to catch his eye. "Let yourself sway, don't fight it."

Keeping his eye on her, his grip lessens, just as all the stiffness in his body. She feels him sway, brushing naturally against her without tensing every time their bodies touched. And yet her throat stiffens as he keeps swinging against her, and she’s glad she’s giving her back and wearing a tajel, so he cannot see her lips parting as air hitches in her mouth.

The camel’s hooves avoid human and animal remains in what is nothing but a Garden of Bones; the sun is scorching, the air so humid, heavy, it feels like cotton when swallowing. But fortunately for them, she is not late to come into view amid those white dunes.

"By all the Gods..." The Queen cries out in disbelief, widening her eyes as she sees a huge black spot in the middle of the yellowish-white desert; a mountain, of flesh and fire.

The camel must sense her agitation, or perhaps he’s wise enough to know what he is up against. He starts to flail, to paw, and the Queen is forced to pull on the reins, unbalanced back and forth. Aemond holds her by the arms with his eye strained on Vhagar, but the quadruped seems to have no intention of staying there a minute longer.

He screeches to the point that both Aemond and the Queen are thrown from the saddle, landing on the sand, one on top of the other. The camel flees, despite one of the Sorrowful Men attempts to catch him.

That little cackle, however, awakens the dragon, or perhaps she simply sensed her rider. Vhagar raises her huge head from the cat-like crouched position she was in, her amber eyes wide as well as her giant wings. Aemond is barely in time to stand and help the woman do the same when the earth beneath them shakes as if in an earthquake.

The Queen of Salt whitens like a sheet as she sees that terrifying beast advancing from a distance, a distance that drastically runs out because each stride of the dragon covers miles.

She freezes on the spot, her mouth wide open, because the dragon keeps advancing, and for a moment she seriously thinks she is breathing the last breaths of her life.

Aemond shields her with his body, and Vhagar stops herself by opening her mouth wide and roaring so loudly that the queen brings her hands to her ears. Even Aemond scrunches his face under the scorching gust that sweeps over him, so scorching that the glimmer of flames ignites at the back of her jaws. She's not happy to see him. Or rather, she's not happy about being abandoned to starve in the desert, even for one day. Aging makes even beasts more irritable.

“Lykirī, Vhagar!” the Prince shouts “Lykirī!”

But she does not listen, not immediately at least. She continues to roar, intent on voicing her disappointment. Then, finally, she closes her jaws. The Queen looks at her with wide eyes, her chest rising and falling quickly, her hands laced firmly around Aemond's arms. Vhagar lowers her head toward him, still showing her fangs, and flares her nostrils, smelling something, someone, foreign.

“What is she doing?” the Queen asks in a whisper.

“Hush.”

She tilts her head back, looking at him from behind and still whispering, says “Need I remind you my father is a warlock? If your dragon eats me, I will come back to haunt you.”

He doesn’t bother to retort, even more so because Vhagar makes a sudden movement, turning her head sharply as her nostrils smell what she has been craving for too long. Aemond follows her gaze, barely having the time to register the Sorrowful Men on the right, at a good distance but not far enough for a starving dragon.

“Get away from there!” the Prince warns them “Move!”

As soon as that last word leaves his mouth, Vhagar moves with impressive speed, given her size and age, but hunger quickens her limbs. Her head sinks on the cart as the armed men scurry away without logic, raising a cloud of dust and sand as her fangs pierce wood, flesh and bone.

She perches on the sand to enjoy her much-needed meal, which disappears by the second under the gaze of Aemond and the Salt Queen, still pale as a sheet and stunned by what she's witnessing, flinching every time she hears jaws snapping and bones cracking.

“Where are you going?” she asks as Aemond tries to take one step.

He turns, glancing at her hand gripping his arm, and looks at her for a moment before raising his eyebrow “Scared, are we?”

She gives him a flat look as if he has just informed her that the sky is blue. “Self-awareness is not cowardice.”

Aemond moves, circling the beast, and the woman dims it wisely to never leave his side, keeping a constant eye on the beast, unaware she’s still gripping his arm as she moves. The Prince stops somewhere near Vhagar’s left wing and the Queen watches as he seems to inspect it closely. Out of curiosity, she does the same, spotting a large wound toward the right end, healed but not quite. Aemond places one hand on the scales but as soon as he does that, Vhagar turns her head sharply, blood coating her jaws and fangs, and growls, clearly still annoyed with him or maybe just unhappy to be bothered during her meal.

“She’s just like you, isn’t she?” the Queen remarks “Sour and petty.”

Aemond ignores her, taking a step back, momentarily resigning not to tend to his dragon, as long as she’s in that mood. “Perhaps you could stop gripping me so hard now.” he says at one point, feeling the Queen’s nails digging through the silk.

She looks lost for a moment, and then withdraws her hand, looking away. She finds though that all she can look at is Vhagar, her giant dimension blocks her view entirely.

“How did you manage to tame such a monster?” she asks at some point, eyes full of dread, and yet wonder.

“She is not a monster.”

“No, of course not. She’s as sweet as a kitten.”

She observes the beast, her green and bronze scales, battered in several spots and frowns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, and I rarely am, did not dragons take decades to grow? She seems very old and you...” pausing, her eyes scan him from head to toe “you don’t look older than twenty-five?”

Aemond keeps his gaze fixed on Vhagar as he answers, that empty egg made of nothing but stone lost somewhere in the back of his mind. "My egg didn’t hatch. I claimed her when I was ten.”

"Ten?” she asks, disbelief and awe running together on her tongue.

He turns his head and tilts his chin down, and then up, as only pride can do. "Ten.”

She looks at him, not able to hide a righteous gleam of admiration, but then she’s crinkling her forehead, in that peculiar way of hers.

"Was it worth it?” she asks, upon acknowledging that new piece.

"What?”

"The exchange. Was it fair? Your eye for a dragon.”

Do not mourn me, Mother. His mouth twitches as he remembers, almost relives it. It has been years and yet, he can almost feel the right side of his head numbed with too much pain, the stench of his own dead flesh. The needle going in and out but not actually stitching anything back together.

“How did it happen?” she asks, and her tone is different now. That constant veil of mocking in the way she phrases her questions is nowhere to be found.

“Do you want me to believe you don’t know yet?”

"I told you twice. I cannot control this…power, it comes and goes. I must admit though, it is coming quite often in the last few days…I wonder why…”

Aemond looks at her, sees her search on him a mystery to which he has no answers in the first place. He learned this from Alys.

Magic repels answers, it must live and thrive on mystery.

On chaos, you mean.

And what’s the difference? That’s what you really yearn for. Chaos.

He sighs to cast her out, and says “My nephew took it with a knife.”

"And you killed him. This is why they call you Kinslayer, is it not?”

She cannot see his expression behind the tajel, only his good eye, still, cold and unwavering, like a star, and beautiful in the most cruel way.

"We may have shared blood but he meant nothing to me. And he got what he deserved.” he said, trying a flat empty tone, but she hears the edges quivering, crumpling, like salt eroding rocks.

"And what about that boy? Did he get what he deserved?”

"What boy?”

"The ten year old you.” His eye seems to glow with new light at her words, like the sun catching the flashing steel of a blade, and even with the blue scarf hiding his face, she knows his teeth are grinding. "I was never one for revenge.” She concedes, turning her head to the desert. "It may be the sweetest morsel, but somehow it never leaves you sated.”

"It sounds like you have tasted it.”

"Yes.” She admits, turning to look at him. "But it’s stuck in my throat.”

Aemond doesn’t need to ask, because as she said, there are no secrets in Qarth.

"You must have wondered why my father cannot speak.” she tells him, looking away, dredging up from her mind, from her memories, traces of a child who is no more. “There’s an ancient tradition here, when a wedding takes place. It’s called the sacred exchange. The bride and the groom can ask each other for one favor, anything, and they cannot refuse.” She returns her gaze to him, and says “My husband asked for my father’s tongue as my sacred gift.”

“Was it him?”

"No, not him…the night before our wedding, Irryo, Xavos’ brother, came into my room to give me his wedding gift. The purest silk I’ve ever seen. He made me wear it, stripped me bare with his own hands…said he wanted to see how I looked...”

She doesn’t need to utter the words. Aemond sees a little girl, a child, painting seashells, unfinished, falling from the table in a clatter of tinkles and choked cries.

"The wedding took place in a hurry an hour later. I said my vows with my silks still stained with blood. They were scared of my father’s wrath, you see. But it came anyway. Irryo died during the wedding feast. His eyes burst into his skull.”

“Your father’s doing.”

“Perhaps." she shrugs "I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, as I don’t know what to make of it now. I didn’t ask him to avenge me. All I wanted was for him, anyone, to say they were sorry for what had been done to me.”

Did he not want the same?

Apart from punishment, and then revenge, did he not want just one word of kindness from his father? Some sort of regret from Lucerys?

She feels his eye on her, even if he’s not really looking at her, perhaps at some ghosts locked in his mind, so she glances at Vhagar, quite contented after her meals and currently resting on the sand. “We should go back to the Palace before it gets too hot out here. I will give orders to save more dead beasts for your dragon.”

The journey back to the walls is a silent one. It spreads, silence, like an oil stain as they climb back onto the litter; each of them has caught something of the other, something similar, different cracks etched with the same cruelty, and matching.

Their gazes match, as they remove the tajel from their heads, as she hands him some water. She looks around distractedly, but the curtains are closed and even if they weren’t, the sound of water rushing down his throat brings her eyes on him, and then closely, she watches his tongue flicking outside for a moment, she watches a drop of water running down his chin. And wishes to lick it off with her tongue.

Somehow, it’s like he can hear what she’s thinking, locking his eye on her. They don’t speak, it’s almost as if both of them are waiting for something.

"Your braid needs to be redone." She says at one point, and he turns, not looking at her face, not at first. She sees his eye trailing slowly over her until he speaks.

"Is that your offering?"

Closely, she rakes her eyes on his chiseled features, and she is not even aware she is imperceptibly leaning closer. A moth to a flame, they say. But she has always been the flame. And now, she finds she’s the one willing to bathe in the light, or burn.

“If you wish."

It comes out like a whisper, drawing his eye on her lips, unearthing that same desire from earlier, the thirst to know what she tastes like. "What If I wish for something more?"

“Such as?" she asks, raising one hand to touch his braid and undo it, smoothly, as if she had done this countless times before.

"Don't be shy now. Everything is a trade in Qarth. Even pleasure."

Swiftly, he clamps his hand around her wrist, stopping her, drawing a slight wince beneath her skin.

"Pleasure is not something to be traded.” He says, and it’s the flame now that is moving. “Only taken."

The short intake of air she breathes on his mouth is a seal. His lips meet hers abruptly, they part instantly and ravenously, like a starved man tasting a morsel, and then loosening to taste it, to taste her. Perhaps it’s desert, perhaps it’s herself, but she does taste like salt. She’s bitter on his tongue, in his nostrils; she muffles his ears until he hears only her sweet sighing in his mouth as he slips his tongue inside.

And he wants more of that, just as she wants more. He feels her unfolding beneath him as he towers over her, so differently from the previous night. She’s not tense. She’s loose like water, he feels her seeping in everywhere, around his neck and shoulders, in his mouth when her tongue darts in, in his blood when she softly rubs against him. His breathing becomes heavy, from lack of air, from hardening, and maybe he shouldn't, maybe this isn't really the right place. They could wait until they get back to the palace, but then she lies back on the pillows and reclines her head, offering her neck. Without thinking, he lowers himself down on her, in fact lying on her, and she instantly makes room for him by spreading her legs wide.

She gasps softly as he trails wet kisses on her neck, growing greedy as he travels down, to what he’s been secretly coveting since the first time he unapologetically landed his sight on.

Cupping her bare breast with his large hand, he holds it firmly, humming pleasurably as he takes the hard nipple into his mouth. Accordingly, she bucks her hips against him, feeling his hardening tease her center through that thin layer of silk. Between that and the swirling of his tongue, hot and wet around her nipple, she is panting, spreading her legs wide to cage his hips and push him against her, desperate for more friction.

Despite his ache for the same and more, he glances up, still torturing her nipple, hard and slick at this point, watching her as he grazes his teeth over that darker spot of skin, forcing a choked, loud whimper to escape her mouth.

“Careful, your Highness” he teases “lest you want to give your peasants a show.”

“What do you think these curtains are for?”

“You want me to fuck you here? Now?” he asks with a playful scorn in his voice, but she can hear his breath creaking, his tone lower and throatily.

She raises from the cushions, holding on one hand while the other slips between them, hovering on his groin, brushing feathery. “I believe you want to.” She breathes on his lips, parting as soon as he rocks his waist to catch her palm.

“We could wait to be in the Palace but…” she takes his hand and brings it between her legs, on that thin layer of silk, damp again his knuckles. “Would you be so cruel and leave me like this, for so long?”

He swallows something close to a growl upon feeling how wet she is for him, how her cheeks are barely flushed as she exhales heavily, her face scrunched lustfully for the little, shallow pleasure she finds from his fingertips.

Curtains or no curtains, Aemond is deaf and blind to anything else around him. With his fingers, he moves the fabric and twists his wrist, so that his palm is straight against her pulsing core. She sighs hoarsely as her wetness coats his hand, arching just as slightly, goading him to do more. She has been watching and coveting his fingers once too many times, the thought alone of having them inside her crumples her face in a pleading way, and she has no shame in voicing it. “Please, Aemond…”

Upon hearing his name, spoken in that exotic and alluring way, he bares his teeth and harshly slips not one, but two of his slender fingers inside, watching her tilt her head back, her mouth open and out of breath, but she’s looking at him and she’s quick to regain air, barely curving her lips up. “So you do know how to use your hands…”

“You never shut up, do you?”

“Well, make me.”

His cock twitches on its own at her words, and he kisses her, roughly, flexing his hand to start pumping his fingers in. She moans loudly on his tongue, lacing an arm around his neck, still holding herself onto the cushions with her other hand, angling her back so he can reach that special spot more easily.

“Oh God—yes---” she moans when he does, rocking her hips to meet his deft fingers in a sweet lewd sound that muffles any other coming from the fuss outside that litter. Her breath grows short and labored, mewling obscenely every time he curls his fingers, his gaze on her fixed and focused like on some holy mission.

He desperately wants to bury himself inside her, right there; he’s almost thankful for the much more loose clothes they wear here instead of the constricting breeches he was used to, even though he feels his flesh on fire, and he’s practically panting on her pleasure; his own is of no concern to him right now, not when she’s so close, not when he can watch a little more of her face distorting with wanton abandon, her neck lumped with sweat, the way her breast swings with her motions.

But she, on the other hand, seems eager to end this torture, and start another. The tensed muscle in her arm gives away, making her back fall on the cushions once more, but the other is still tied around his neck, so she drags him down with her and then she’s rummaging through the blue silks, eager to free his length, but he grips her wrist and holds it firmly above her head. “No…I have a score to settle with you.”

“What? You proved quite enough you know how to use your hands.” She says breathlessly, cracking half a smile “I swear on all the Gods, yours and mine, I won’t doubt you again.”

Aemond is just about to retort but suddenly the palanquin stops, and they are abruptly brought back to the reality just outside those curtains. They hear a male voice and he looks enquiringly at the Salt Queen who visibly rolls her eyes and says something in Qartheen which, given her tone, Aemond is sure is some kind of curse.

She fumbles with her thin gowns, covering her nudity while he takes some distance, returning to lean on one elbow with once more clear annoyance, this time much more justified. And once more, he’s thankful for the loose silks, able to hide his otherwise plain arousal.

The Queen sighs deeply, to keep herself together, to stop the ringing in her ears and the aching stir below her navel; then she opens the curtains and smiles warmly. “Syradhor! I thought I recognized your voice.”

The man in yellow silks, with several sapphires embroidered in the fabric and worn on his fingers, bows for a moment saying, “Your Highness.” He takes her hand that she promptly offers and lightly kisses her knuckles, trailing his eyes on her with two eyes blind with admiration. “Any man who finds himself in the presence of such beauty can count himself as the luckiest in the world. What a blessing for me to be granted such fortune once more.”

Aemond is staring at the man, unimpressed, doing all he can not to scoff at the love sonnet-like speech, and a rather dull one. “Prince Aemond. A pleasure to see you again.”

Aemond recalls the man as one of the Merchant Kings who greeted him at the walls two days prior, but his face is all he remembers. “Which one is this?” he deadpans to the Salt Queen, evidently not happy to have been interrupted. She hears the annoyance in his voice and stifles a smile saying “This is Syradhor, the Ore King.”

The Prince barely tilts his chin down to greet him and the man in yellow takes a step forward, addressing the Queen. “Your Highness, since you are here, I am gladly extending my invitation to you as well.”

“Extending?” she asks.

“I—Yes, I was expecting Prince Aemond today, to formally receive him in my Palace.”

“Were you?” he drawls.

The honeyed benevolence leaves the man's face like a summer storm, because that's the way he is, as eager to please as he is quick to anger. “What is meaning of this? Did Xavos not inform you?”

“Of course.” Of course not, is what she means to say. But before she can utter another word, Aemond speaks. “Well, I’m afraid we have to delay this formal reception.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Syradhor.” The Queen steps in “you must understand, the Prince is new to our customs. He’s not aware of our welcoming traditions. As it happens, that was precisely what the Prince and I were discussing before you interrupted us.”

“Were we?” he says lifting his eyebrow.

She flashes daggers at him and continues with a broad smile. “I told him not to delay his visit to your Palace, for if ever a foreigner refused to visit one of the Thirteen—" she looks directly at Aemond, informing him at that very moment. “It would be considered the highest of insults.”

Aemond looks at her, unblinking, before sighing deeply, and deciding to play along. “Yes, I do recall now. Her Highness was quite vocal on the matter.”

She keeps smiling, for reasons entirely different from what the Ore King might think, and then he raises one hand towards the crowded street. “Please. My Palace is just around the corner.”

Aemond comes out of the litter, being careful to let the silks fall over all the right places.

“I hope you have a good time, my Prince.”

He whirls his head watching the Salt Queen stay still on the cushions and the Ore King looks just as stunned. “Will you not delight my Palace with your presence?”

“I am afraid I can’t, Syrhador. I was just asking the Prince for advice on some urgent matters I desperately need to attend to.” She pointedly looks at Aemond with a ghosting smile and then she shrugs, lightheartedly. “I suppose I shall take those urgent matters into my own hands.”

Her words and what they mean, stir something within him, more annoyance at the mere thought of wasting time with this little man —his shoulder reaches just above Aemond’s ribs— when he could be fucking her senseless on that litter, on his bed, hers, he’s not picky at this point. And more giddiness, making his blood boil at mere thought of her chasing her pleasure with her own hands.

But then she’s shutting him out, shutting the curtains, and ordering her men to move.

The sky is of a delicious pink-red shade when he returns to the Palace of Salt.

Four hours, that was the torment he had to endure in the presence of Syradhor and his family. Four hours in which he barely opened his mouth, and when he did, all that came out were monosyllables uttered from time to time in a manner closer and closer to snarling.

The Ore King had embarked on a soliloquy about alum, a precious mineral useful as mordant for dyeing wool, embalming animals and human bodies, and making wood fireproof. It would’ve been interesting for a former scholar as Aemond was, but it was difficult to think straight amid the chattering, duck-like squawking of Syradhor’s daughters, and even more difficult when he had brought the cup of wine to his mouth and sensed her intimate sweet-tart smell stuck on his fingers, awakening all the wrong thoughts.

In the end, he was so sick of the whole affair that he had curtly refused to be escorted to the palace of Xavos on another litter, and the Ore King had sent four of his guards to walk with him, along the streets of Qarth.

His spirits when he crosses the threshold of the Palace of Salt are at an all-time low. If only he didn't have to face another litter trip lying on cushions after spending four hours sitting on those same fucking cushions, he'd go straight to Vhagar. He's always been a solitary creature, just like her, and all these talks and pleasantries, fake or true, were like pouring a barrel of water into a narrow vase. He was toppling over.

Surprisingly though, as soon as he sets foot in his chambers, his foul spirits seem to instantly improve as he finds his room lit with candles, and not at all empty. The Salt Queen is sitting comfortably in an armchair, with her legs dangling graciously over the left armrest; a little book is clutched in her hold.

“My Prince.” She greets him as he lingers on the door, lifting her gaze from her reading.

Aemond closes the door, never tearing his gaze off her. It betrays nothing, only the faint irritation for the four hours wasted, but not the way his lungs swell upon seeing her.

“Did your Grace have fun?” she asks with sheer curiosity, closing the book with a light thud.

“Fun?” he repeats, as if she had just suggested she had proof unicorns from Skagos were real.

“Surely it was not that bad? I mean, yes, Syradhor is boring and yes, he has that annoying habit of touching you as he talks, but he has a great collection of wines. I should have told you. There’s no other way to survive him.”

“He has a litter of daughters” Aemond sneers, walking to her “each of them duller than the other.”

“Well, that happens when you fuck your relatives. You, above all, should know that.”

He looks at her questioningly and she leans forward to place the book on a little table, the soft fabric of her lilac gowns slips on her skin just as his eye slips on her bare thighs, glowing as gold under the candlelight. “His wife is his niece.” She says, looking up and catching his staring.

His eye trails slowly over her until locking her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“You forgot this.” She says, raising her hand with his dagger held between her fingers.

Aemond stops before her, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at her “You were waiting for me, to give me back my dagger?”

She takes a good amount of time, while looking at him, feeling his eye, darkened due to the dim light and boring into her, to utter a simple “No."

“Then why?”

She rises, handing the blade, and says “I believe we had a score to settle.”

Aemond takes the blade from her hands, nodding slowly, and then circles her to go sit where she was a moment ago, placing the blade on the armrest, along with his hands. “And what was it?” he asks with a faint smirk. If she’s keen on playing games, he will let her play this one. “Somehow, it’s eluding me now.”

She watches him cross his long legs, tilting his head as he awaits, and she says “Your braid needs to be redone.”

“Hmm.” Aemond looks around, almost amused, and sees his bed, not exactly in order as it was when he left, but slightly crumpled.

Did she lie on his bed? Did she touch herself and peak, writhing on his sheets? The thought alone tickles his spine, but still, he betrays nothing, only the faint tapping of his fingers against the armrest. “You’ve been here all this time to give me back my dagger and redo my hair.”

She watches his fingers moving and she’s moving. She would like to take his hand and pick up where they left off, but she just sits on his lap, forcing him to uncross his legs, and spread them a little to make her room. “I deeply cherish my guests and their welfare under my roof.” She jests, although it’s partially true.

The only difference is that she never spent hours waiting for one of her guests, or any man, nor fantasizing about all the ways that man could take her, not as fervently as she did as her hand moved relentlessly between her legs, finding but a mere flicker of the pleasure he had just started to spill from her.

“And did you…” his tone is coarse, so he pauses to swallow. He hates that his voice is coming out so low, he hates that this woman can reduce him like this in a matter of minutes, that his cock is already stirring. “Did you eventually take that urgent matter into your own hands?”

She takes a long lock of silver hair between her fingers, running them through it while she quietly answers

“Twice.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” She looks at him, while her fingers start to work on that lock, making a little braid using only one hand. “Disappointing.”

“The room or your hands?”

“Oh, the room was quite fine.” she lets the little braid rest among the other locks and trails her fingers on his chest, and a moment later underneath the silk, like tentacles. “I only wished I had your hands inside me.”

Her touch licks flames on his skin, on his chest, collarbone, and neck; she touches him with intent, as if she wishes to know what he is made of. “You could have come with me.”

“I didn’t lie, I had some matters to attend to. Besides, coming with you would have left us in quite a situation.” She reasons with diplomacy, not making a blink as her other tentacle slides over his stomach, disappearing underneath. “Sneaking around the Ore Palace to find a place to fuck.”

Aemond exhales heavily as she takes hold of him, parting his lips as she palms him thoroughly.

“Did you think of that while you were with those pretty girls?” she asks, watching his eyelid flicker “I know they’re pretty. Dumb, but pretty.”

He has no idea who she’s talking about. He rests his head against the armchair and opens his mouth as her ministrations grow cadenced and yet unbearably slow.

“Did you think of me?” she asks, softly panting along with him for the mere sight “of taking me in some hidden corner? Of putting your hands on me if I had been there?”

His nails dig into the armrest, around his dagger, until his knuckles go white. Truth is that he did. Sipping that cup of wine, the smell of her on his fingers only made him think of her, and how she would squirm if he touched her right there, under the table. How she would bite her lower lip to swallow her moans as she came all over his fingers.

“I did.” She admits with almost religious honesty. “I came twice thinking of your hands.”

Not a moment later, they are both growling with need as he slams his mouth on hers in a mess of tongues and teeth, and then she gasps, because his hand is on her core, moving already, gathering her wetness and spreading it. “Did you think of this? Hmm?” he croons, watching her closely, rejoicing upon seeing her face scrunching just as it did earlier, wantonly, pleading.

“No…” she mumbles.

“What do you mean no?”

Her hand slips behind his neck, in order to keep his head firm and his face glued to hers. “Inside…” she cooes urgently “I need them inside.”

It’s almost shameful for a proud man like him, how swiftly he obeys, but even if he didn’t want to, she’s so wet for him, dripping and coating his palm, that his fingers would’ve eventually slipped inside.

He sticks them all the way in, flexing and curling, hitting that spot and spilling a loud moan from her, who instantly sinks her hips down, rocking to goad him to start moving. He grants her this other little mercy, pumping nimbly with a squelching sound, going rock hard as she arches on top of him, keeping one hand clamped around his neck and the other on his knee, to find the right angle.

“There you go…” he rasps, watching his fingers disappear inside, feeling her spongy walls hot and squeezing “’Tis what you wanted?”

She is too occupied with trying to catch a puff of air to be bothered to answer, but he wants one. He stops altogether, winning a whine of protest and a flashing glare before her face wrinkles with desperate need.

“Not talking now?” he mocks and then swiftly, he is curling his fingers in a cruel way, drawing a choked whimper out of her throat.

“Yes. Yes, it is what I wanted.”

“Hmm. Go on, then. Take it.” And he spreads his legs a little more to give her room “Fuck my hand.”

Exhaling a small breath of air, she talks almost to herself. “A woman must do everything these days.”

“You won’t be saying that later.”

“Why, what happens later?”

“I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“That sounds a bit pretentious.”

“And you should have learned by now not to doubt my word.”

And doubt him she won’t, not now. She starts to move, swaying her hips and arching her neck as soon as pleasure washes over her. She would like to savor it, to take this slow, as she likes it, but her low muscles are so tensed and aching; she feels the peak near and can't do anything but run towards.

Aemond watches with labored breath as she rocks and grinds on him desperately, growing frantic by the moment, feeling her arousal down to his wrist, dampening his own silks, spilling a faint unbearable pleasure from the way her flesh grinds against his cock. And he finds himself moaning out of pleasure and pain as she draws near to her peak, gripping his neck hard, pulling at the roots of his hair while emitting a string of short and sharp cries next his ear, until she’s trembling all over, coming with a free and loud moan on his hand.

She tries to regain some air, panting in his ear as she rides the last throes. This, this is what she’s been fantasizing, even dreamed of it. No man has ever made her feel like this, a pulsing heart pounding in every inch of her body, a living flame bathing in fire.

Slowly, she tilts her head back and he takes his hand off her hot, pulsing flesh. She looks down, at her pleasure wrinkling his fingertips, and then up, straight into his turbid eye. He brings his fingers to his mouth to clean them, to taste her, but she snatches his wrist and, staring at him, she engulfs his index with her lips.

He’s tempted to look away, and not wonder how her perfect lips would close around his cock, but he keeps watching as she keeps tasting herself, on his middle finger, and then the ring one.

“How do you taste?”

“Me? Oh, this is not me.” She draws close until she nudges her nose against his and says “Pleasure tastes like the ones we desire.” She kisses him, slowly, darting her tongue in his mouth until he’s humming, tasting bittersweet. “This is your doing.”

A moment later she gasps, holding onto his shoulders because he rises abruptly, lacing his arms around her to hold her and take those few steps that separate them from his bed.

They fall on the soft mattress and her hands fly to his silks, willing to tear them apart until he’s bare. And he helps her, moving his lean shoulders to let the slippery fabric fall. She had thought Qartheen silks suited him perfectly, but now she thinks she’d rather have him like this all day. Her eyes roam freely on his lean body, dented in a few spots by burns and scars of war, a soldier’s body and yet not burly: he’s all refined and graceful, like a sculpture. It makes her mouth go dry, pushing her eyes down, on the thin waist and the prominent v-shape of his muscles.

Willfully, she grasps the soft belt cinching his waist, but he stops her wrists.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks with short breath, and the candles around catch the flashing steel of his dagger, held in his left hand.

“Valyrian steel?”

“The sharpest blade in the world.” and deftly, he twirls it.

It catches her eye for a moment, but then she drags her gaze back on him, relaxing on the sheets with an ounce of challenge in her eyes. “You will have to show me.”

Something wild bursts in his eye, wide and piercing. “Are you offering?”

She cracks a half heated, half cunning smile and says “I’m demanding.”

Aemond lies beside her, holding himself up on one elbow, and with bated breath, she watches his other arm move, bringing the dagger, and its pointy end, to the lilac woven shielding her torso. Slowly and cautiously, he slips the steel under a stripe of silk, locking his eye on her as she startles from the coldness of the blade. He flicks his wrist up, and the steel cuts the silk instantly and smoothly. But he doesn’t stop there, dragging the blade down, cutting all, unraveling her body, and not missing the way her stomach jolts, her breath hitches, and not out of fear.

He trails his eye all over her body, glowing under the candles, lingering on the soft patch of hair below her navel; his mouth goes dry and his mind blank. He lets the blade go and drifts down, grabs her legs and forces them open, hardening impossibly more upon seeing her previous peak still coating her cunt in a glistening veil.

She sees him hovering right on her center, anticipation quickens her breath but perhaps also a faint reluctance for what he’s about to do. She would complain about it with Dora, saying most of her lovers just sat there lapping at it like some thirsty dog in the desert. Once, she had even opened a book while having a man’s head between her thighs.

It is therefore with great shock that she abruptly gasps, out loud, when he slams his mouth on her cunt, raising his eye to watch her. She tastes sweeter than he’d expected, and he’s not one for sweet tastes, but this one, he wants it all.

His tongue swirls up and down her folds, circling slowly, making her back arch, her jaw slack open. “Oh God—” she moans once, and twice, unconsciously pushing her hips against his face, feeling the sharp bone of his nose nudging her bundle.

“If you have to sing my praises, then do it properly.” he rasps against her flesh, stopping, but not quite. He brings one hand on her apex, circling it with his thumb, torturing but not as she wants. “Please—” she begs freely, writhing beneath him.

“Please what?” he teases, licking his lips “You like to talk, don’t you? Then use your words.” He presses his thumb deeper and faster, and she whines, in pleasure and protest. “Please—with your tongue”

“Please…?”

“Aemond—”

“Again.”

He has half a mind to make her say his name until she loses her voice, but at the second time she utters it, her vowels even more open given her debauchery, he caves and grips her thighs harshly to keep them as spread open as he can. What happens next is a string of cries and choked moans as his tongue licks and sucks and pierces inside; he eats her thoroughly humming with sheer delight and occasionally groaning as, without being able to avoid it, he grinds against the mattress to gain some relief.

Pleasure coils in her belly as it never did before. She’d never been able to reach her peak like this, whether the occasional man was not that good at that practice or maybe because she’d never longed for anyone as she longs for the Prince. She’s not able to control her voice as she comes straight into his mouth, she’s not able to control her muscles shaking all over, nor her hand, flying into his hair, pulling and pushing him against her as she practically rides his face in the last spasms.

She lies there for a moment, ears numb and heart pounding like a hammer, but she has little time to come to her senses; he moves, leaning on top of her, mouth and chin slick. It makes her strangely proud to see it. This time, her hands are free to roam, discarding the last silks until he’s completely bare. Aemond slips between her legs, hissing at feeling her moist flesh against his. He cannot wait any longer, as he moves to angle her hips and bury himself inside her, she grabs his face, forcing him to look up.

“Show me.”

It takes him barely a moment to get what she means. He freezes on the spot, and looks down with a grimace.

“You saw mine.” She says sofly. And it’s true. Even if he didn’t know, he saw, he touched, her wound.

And maybe it’s because he did, and he knows it to be true that this time there’s no reluctance, or rejection choking down his words. “I am sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter, you couldn’t—”

“No. Not about last night.”

All I wanted was for him, anyone, to say they were sorry for what had been done to me.

Air hitches in her throat as she stares at him with wide eyes. He has that unwavering stone-like look on his face and she knows he means it. No second purpose could ever force his tongue into saying that, because he doesn’t have any. He had her already, and he would have her again, whether he had spoken those words or not. But he means it. He chooses all his words too carefully to waste them on lies.

All she knows now, is that she wants him. A foreign, fierce willing like the one that possessed her the night before, urging her to stay right where she was, to goad him to take her harder, instead of begging him to stop.

She grips his neck and surges to kiss him, moaning with liberation into his mouth, swallowing his soft growl as her hand slips between them, grabbing him and guiding him against her entrance. He pushes in ever so easily, and she throws her head back on the sheets, gasping at the stretch while he rests his forehead on her chest, struggling to breathe as he buries himself inside her.

The bushes pierce through his feet, bleeding on the ground, a pain he is well accustomed.

One must walk barefoot in the Wood of Shadows.

The long blue robe rustles in the wind; it is loud in his ears, wailing, as it does nowhere else.

He stops next to a black barked tree and leans his ear against it. Glancing up, a mantle of dark leaves wave in the sky, bleeding blue.

He hurries up, resuming his path. His right hand trembles incessantly as it always does next to it. Fortunately, he holds the little vial in his other hand, safe.

The Palace of Dust is covered in dark, not even a torch lighting the way. They say there are no walls or ceilings there. They say there is no such thing as time in the House of the Undying.

He opens one door and enters a round room, clothed in dark, except for one, faint white light coming from a hole in the ground. A water well, translucent; soft waves curl the surface, rippled by no trace of wind.

There is only one man standing in the light, looking into the water. The others are scattered around the room.

“Is he Seeing?” asks the man with the trembling hand.

“Hush. Did you bring it?” answers another, coming into view under the faint white light.

“Here.” He hands over the vial. “I’ve never seen so much of it. Leaves are bleeding as we speak. It’s like an awakening.”

“It is awakening.” says the other, his eyes barely visible under the cloak.

“But why?”

He receives a long scornful look. “You are weak. That is why you’re reduced like that.” the other says, glancing at his hand “You cannot bear it.”

“We are awakening.” Says another voice from somewhere “We awaken in the presence of the most ancient and powerful magic.”

“Fire?” tries the trembling man.

The one with the vial turns his head, nodding. “And blood.”

He walks to the man standing before the well. He is looking into the translucent water. He doesn’t blink. Seems like he’s not even breathing. But there’s a strange curve on his blue lips, hardly visible. Almost a smile, a fond one.

“Fydor.”

Only then, the man blinks and turns his head.

“Freshly collected.” the other lifts his arm, showing the little vial. Under the well’s light, the liquid shines with a vivid blue.

The mute warlock takes it and swiftly lifts the cap. The other hurries to take a step back, while the one with the trembling hand widens his eyes with almost dread. His fingers start to shake maniacally, as he watches the man in the light drinking the Shadow.

All the others, at once, seem to emit a choked snarling sound, as thirsty men in the desert upon seeing a pool of water.

The empty vial falls to the floor, breaking in little pieces, the water in the well moves as rippled by an opposite wind, and Fydor makes a choking sound; his eyes rolls over like in a seizure, and then they stop.

The pupil is gone, all is left is the white, but it is not white, not anymore. Too much Shadow of the Evening. His lips, nails and white of his eyes are blue for good.

At times, it lasts for hours. Others, it’s barely a minute. But there’s no time in the House of the Undying.

When it ends, it could be morning outside, they do not know, and they do not care.

“Fydor?” the same one asks when the warlock’s pupils are back in their place.

The man looks at him for a moment, and then starts moving his hands jerkily. “It is time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to act.”

“What about your daughter?”

For a moment, Fydor looks into the well. “Kori is on her own path now. I cannot interfere. She won’t let me. But seeds must be sown.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Keeping his blue eyes on the water, transfixed, he moves his hands. “What do you do with an old forest so new trees can grow?”

“Burn it.”

The man with the trembling hand looks between the two, warily. “What does it mean?”

Fydor turns, slowly, a shadow falling on his face. “It is quite simple, acolyte. For there to be order, there must be chaos first.”

thank you so much for reading!! 💕💕

#the king of qarth

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dreamfyre03 · 2 months

Text

Unbidden

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!reader x Aemond Targaryen Warnings: Cuckolding, voyeurism, smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Noticing his nephew's wife appears dissatisfied in her marriage, Daemon sets out to show them both that there is pleasure to be found within the marital bed...

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

She has scarcely been able to take her eyes off of Daemon since he first arrived at the Red Keep. He possesses the classically handsome features bestowed upon those of Valyrian blood, carries himself with self assured confidence, and embodies an air of dangerous unpredictability which both frightens and excites her in equal measure. Though it is none of these qualities that keep her gaze fixated upon him.

Her interest is piqued by how utterly devoted he is to his wife. When she stood beside her husband, Aemond, in the Great Hall, as Vaemond Velaryon challenged the succession of Driftmark, her attention was focused solely on Daemon and Rhaenyra. He had been glued to her side, his gaze always seeking hers, and when Vaemond had dared to call her a whore and her children “bastards”, he had not hesitated in unsheathing his sword and slicing the man’s head in half. She wonders if her own husband would defend her so staunchly.

She is not blind to their starkly different situations; Daemon and Rhaenyra’s union is one of love, it is plain for all to see. Her and Aemond’s is one of political necessity. Although they have grown fond of each other over the last six months of their marriage, and he has never been unkind to her, she cannot help the jealousy that swirls, ugly and acrid, within her chest at the ease of which her husband’s half sister and his uncle interact with one another.

The two children they have together already, and the one that currently grows within the swell of Rhaenyra’s belly are proof enough of their passion for one another. However, the looks they exchange at the dinner table this evening are smoldering and filled with intent. Their fingers brush against each other as they pass dishes of food between them, and Daemon’s hand seems to find its way to her stomach, caressing her lovingly, unaware he is even doing it.

Her and Aemond’s intimacy is not so effortless, though it is not from a lack of trying on her part. He beds her frequently, and she greets his advances with enthusiasm, yet his stoicism renders him incapable of ever fully losing control. He is receptive to her pleas of “harder”, “faster”, but she is always left with the dissatisfaction of feeling he is holding something back, and outside of their shared bedchamber it is rare that he ever touches her. She has attempted to broach the subject with him before, framing it as a means for them to find greater satisfaction within their marital bed, but he always waves her away dismissively, clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

She can sense something dark and urgent bubbling beneath the surface of him, and longs to draw it out, to experience the full force of the fire of the dragon that runs through his veins, but she does not know how to entice it.

It had appeared prominent in his seeing eye as Dark Sister had cleaved the Velaryon man’s skull in twain, a potent mixture of bloodlust and desire, as his pupil had dilated ever so slightly. It had sent a shiver up her spine, heat pooling between her thighs, causing her to squeeze them together to fend off the dull, throbbing ache.

She longs for that look to be cast upon her, for her to be the recipient of whatever wrath that follows, and now she is sure that it is Daemon that holds the key to coaxing the darker side of her husband out to play.

The dinner is a tense affair. Aemond sits beside her, so tightly wound she is sure the lightest of touches would cause him to shatter like glass. When he finally loses his cool, throwing barbed words towards his nephews, resulting in an exchange of blows, the evening draws to an abrupt close, with each of them being dismissed to their respective quarters. As they depart the dining hall, her husband and his uncle lock eyes, a smirk of amusement flashing briefly across Daemon’s features as Aemond’s nostrils flare in irritation.

She can feel the heat of his anger radiating from him as he strides through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, scurrying alongside him in an attempt to match his pace. That look has returned and with it her desperate feeling of lust. If she doesn’t seize the opportunity now, then she is unsure of when it will present itself again.

Reaching out for her husband, she grasps his elbow, her fingers taut against the leather sleeve of his tunic. His steps falter and he turns to look at her quizzically, chest heaving with the laboured breaths of his barely concealed rage.

“What is it?” He snaps.

Instinctively, she shrinks back, second guessing her decision as she sees the way he glares down at her, lip curled into a snarl. Despite her fear, she reminds herself that this is the side of Aemond she had been seeking, and leans into him, placing her hands upon his chest.

“I want you,” she whispers, gazing up at him pleadingly.

“Not here,” he sighs, his expression softening, as he gently grasps her hands in his, moving them back to her sides.

Though she remains outwardly calm, in spite of her disappointment, internally she feels so frustrated she could scream. The look she craves is gone, he has rebuffed her advances and she knows that once more she is destined to an evening where he will treat her as though she is made of bone china.

“I believe you were told to return to your quarters.”

The intrusion of Daemon’s voice causes Aemond to take a quick step backwards, away from her, as she turns to look. He stands before them in the corridor, posture rigid and chin raised up ever so slightly, giving the impression that he is looking down his nose at them both.

“We are on our way,” Aemond responds icily, drawing himself to his full height and staring down his uncle.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of Daemon’s mouth, clearly unphased by his nephew’s hostile demeanour. “I shall escort you both, to ensure there is no further delay.”

Before either one of them has the opportunity to protest, he steps forward, one hand reaching for Aemond’s shoulder, while he places the other at the small of her back. Aemond wrenches away, huffing irritably as he continues walking. She makes no such effort to struggle away from Daemon’s touch, his fingers feeling like a brand against her flesh through the fabric of her dress.

The three of them walk in uncomfortable silence, the only sound is the echo of their footsteps against the flagstone floor. Her eyes widen in surprise when they reach her and Aemond’s shared chambers and, instead of bidding them goodnight, Daemon follows them inside, closing the doors behind them.

Aemond stares at him quizzically, eye narrowed. “What are you doing, Uncle? If you are here to reprimand me for what was said at dinner then–”

“I am here for your wife, actually,” he interrupts, turning his head towards her as his eyes move from her head to her feet and back up again.

She feels her skin grow hot under the intensity of his gaze, swallowing thickly as he regards her as a cat would a mouse.

“What do you want with my wife?” Aemond asks, his voice lowering in quiet threat.

It is the first time she has ever heard her husband speak of her so possessively and it makes her pulse race. She wants more of this, there is an intense thrill to having the attention of two Targaryen men placed solely upon her.

“Do not think I have not noticed,” Daemon says to her, ignoring Aemond as he continues to stare at her. “You have been ogling me all day. Why?”

Embarrassment prickles at her, and she lowers her gaze. Her voice is small and pitiful sounding to her ears as she answers. “Forgive me, My Prince. I did not mean to stare.”

“Look at me when you speak to me,” he commands, “and answer the question.”

She exhales shakily, lifting her eyes to meet his. His stare is piercing, his eyes darkened and predatory in the low lighting of her and Aemond’s apartments.

“I found myself…rather taken by how you engage with Princess Rhaenyra. You are quite affectionate with one another.”

Daemon’s brow furrows slightly as he cocks his head in curiosity. “Does your own husband not show you affection?”

A wave of sadness washes over her, causing her shoulders to sag at the reminder of the lack of intimacy between her and Aemond. She spares him a glance, noticing he has not moved from where he stands. His expression could be mistaken for neutral were it not for the fury that rages tempestuously within his seeing eye as he glares at his uncle.

Drawing in a deep breath, she looks back to Daemon, answering simply, honestly: “no.” Shame shrouds her, suffocating and dense, feeling the overwhelming urge to cry, her head dipping as she focuses on the spot where the hem of her skirts meets the stone floor. She cannot bear to look at either man, knowing she has spoken out of turn about her husband, not just in front of him, but to his uncle as well.

She gasps as Daemon steps forward, crowding her space, his finger crooking beneath her chin to lift her face up towards his. The touch of him makes her knees buckle slightly and she leans back against the table behind her for support, no longer trusting her legs to keep her upright. “What a brave little thing you are,” he whispers, an edge to his voice that twists her stomach into knots.

“I–I am sorry,” she stammers, eyes flitting nervously between her husband and his uncle. “I should not have–”

“There is nothing wrong with expressing your wants, your desires,” Daemon reassures her. “Perhaps my nephew just needs a little help in learning how best to please his wife?”

She squeals in surprise as he grasps the backs of her thighs, lifting her until she is seated upon the edge of the table she had been leaning against. Lips parted and eyes wide, she turns her head towards Aemond, and though his fists are clenched at his sides, his breathing accelerated in silent fury, he makes no move to stop what is happening. That look from earlier has returned, ravenous and half crazed, she interprets it as silent consent, wanting to do all she can to keep it fixed upon her.

“What of your wife? Will she not mind you…helping us?” She asks timidly, as Daemon’s hands make quick work of rucking her skirts up around her hips.

He chuckles drily in response, dragging her smallclothes down her legs, allowing them to dangle from a single ankle. “You and Aemond have much to learn, sweet girl. Fucking is a pleasure, and Rhaenyra does not mind how or with whom we seek it, as long as our loyalties do not falter.”

The very idea seems scandalous to her, yet wetness gathers between her legs all the same. Aemond has now taken up the seat beside the fireplace, watching them both intently, his stare unblinking and fiery.

Daemon’s fingers travel up her legs, until they reach the insides of her thighs. His fingers are thicker than Aemond’s, his touch is calloused and rough, where Aemond’s is deft, yet hesitant. His fingertips dig into her soft flesh, hard enough to bruise as he pries her legs apart, a hum of approval rumbling in his throat at the arousal he finds glistening there.

“Does your husband make you this wet?” He asks with gentle curiosity.

She nods enthusiastically, looking over at Aemond and seeing a small, prideful smile ghost quickly across his lips before disappearing.

“Good,” Daemon tells her. “No problems there then.”

His fingertips swipe through her sodden folds, his middle finger quick to locate her pearl and circle it with precision. The movement makes her tense, a jolt of pleasure causing her hips to buck as she mewls helplessly.

“Does he touch you like this?”

“N–no…” she whimpers in response.

“Hmm,” Daemon glances over his shoulder, before looking back at her. “Well, ensure he does in future. I am sure he will; he is paying close attention.”

Looking back over at Aemond, she feels herself clench around nothing, her desire building with a steady, rhythmic ache as she sees the lacings of his trousers strain against his hardness. He is enjoying watching this, lips slightly parted and eye hooded. The sight of it rids her of the last of her inhibitions as Daemon moves his focus away from her bud and dares to push his two forefingers inside of her. She tilts her head back, gripping the edge of the table tightly as she feels her muscles stretch to accommodate him.

“You must be prepared, thoroughly, before you are fucked,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

Her mind is foggy, struggling to comprehend Daemon’s words as he presses the pads of his fingers upwards, dragging them against a spot inside of her that causes her toes to curl and moisture to trickle down onto the tabletop. Does he really mean to fuck her? Surely that would be a step too far? Yet she finds it difficult to care when he is pushing her towards the precipice of pleasure itself with simply his fingers. Her mind reels with the possibility of what it would feel like to be stretched out around his cock.

As his fingers pump faster, she moves her hips in tandem, chasing the urgently building pressure that is growing inside of her. He pulls them from her suddenly, causing her to whine in frustration at being robbed of her peak.

Daemon grins wolfishly as his hands move to unfasten his breeches. “I think we have learned enough in that regard, and are ready to move on.”

She averts her gaze as he frees himself, her eyes finding Aemond’s, another silent check in for consent. His throat bobs as he swallows, his knuckles almost white with the force of the grip he has on the armrests of where he sits, but he makes no move to stop what is happening.

Her hands grasp at Daemon’s shoulders as he sheathes himself inside of her, knocking the air from her lungs. Aemond and his uncle are similar in many respects, but this is a matter in which the pair of them could not be more different.

It is odd to her that, despite being between her thighs, he has not tried to kiss her. Whether it is a mark of respect for hers and Aemond’s marriage, or simply because he does not want to, she is unsure, but she is grateful for his abstinence. A kiss seems too intimate a gesture, there is nothing sweet about this.

Daemon sets a brutal pace, once she has had a moment to adjust, rocking into her with a force that causes the table legs to scrape loudly against the hard floor. He is so much more self assured than her husband, utterly unafraid to violate her, and it is freeing to be handled so roughly.

She moans wantonly as he moves a hand to wrap around her throat, applying gentle pressure at the sides. “Do not be afraid to be a little unrestrained,” Daemon grits out, a statement clearly not meant for her, even though his eyes bore into hers. “I have yet to bed a woman who does not enjoy it.”

He has the right of it. The hand around her throat, coupled with the almost violent manner in which he thrusts inside of her is dizzying and, as he slips a hand between them to stroke at her pearl once more, she knows she will not last long. It has never been this intense with Aemond before; a lack of experience, coupled with a fear of hurting her means he is always gentle, hesitant where he need not be.

The grip on her throat tightens, the ministrations against her bud grow more insistent as she feels Daemon pulsate inside of her, his jaw clenching at the telltale sign that he is close. With a final, harsh thrust of his hips, she cries out in ecstasy as the warmth of his seed spills inside of her, triggering her own release as she tightens around him in rapid, successive pulses.

“Good girl,” he mutters quietly.

He is quick to pull out of her, as she leans back against her palms, pliant and breathless from the experience. She barely registers Daemon tucking himself away and slipping out of the chamber doors, as Aemond moves into view, standing before her.

Under ordinary circumstances, the wrathful insanity she sees reflected in his blue eye would frighten her, but tonight it has butterflies fluttering ceaselessly in her lower belly. His hand moves to the back of her head, gripping her hair tightly by the roots, tugging her head forcefully backwards. Her yelp of pain is stifled by him pressing his lips firmly against hers, his tongue licking against her own in a kiss that is more a desperate display of possession than a loving embrace.

“You are mine,” he breathes, letting go of her momentarily to tug at the lacings of his trousers.

“Yours,” she whispers back, satisfied excitement causing her pulse to thrum at the knowledge she has unleashed the side of Aemond she has always longed for.

Daemon’s spend has begun to dribble out of her, and as she watches the head of her husband’s cock push it forcefully back inside of her, she knows he will remind her every night from now on exactly which Targaryen Prince it is that she belongs to.

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