#aemond stannies

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part One | Series Masterlist

Summary: his music school having been challenged by Riverrun Conservatory, Aemond is given the opportunity to come face to face with their top musician | Word Count: 4.7k~ | Warnings: smut (not with the main female character), toxic relationship, semi-public sex

Nothing quite compared to the low hum, and delicate whine of a cello. It had been that way for some time, ever since he'd discovered it.

Aemond still remembers the look on his mother's face, her chocolate eyes wide with pride and joy, when her son who was still freshly mutilated, resulting in the loss of sight in his left eye, took an interest in playing classical music.

The cello had become more than just an instrument to Aemond; it was his refuge, his voice in a world that had grown suddenly more silent and unforgiving. The accident had not just taken half his sight but had cast a shadow over his once bright future. Music, however, brought light back into his life, offering a path forward that he had never anticipated.

The Targaryen name, synonymous with power and prestige in other realms, here lent an aura of intrigue and expectation to his performances. Yet, it was Aemond's own skill, the raw emotion he channelled through the strings of his cello, that captivated audiences. His music was a blend of classical elegance and a palpable intensity that seemed to stem from the very depths of his being.

And Aemond was nothing if not a perfectionist at heart.

He perfected everything, to the point of madness some felt. And if he had not invited a feeling of deep, primal intrigue from every performance he gave, then what was the point? This innocent hobby at first, honed by his parents and caregivers alike, was now a way of life. A career. Something to strive for.

As he became older, this competitive nature never wavered once. He embraced it like a challenge to be met. And the conductor of this prestigious school, Otto Hightower, both a friend of his father, Viserys, a business giant well-known across all of Westeros, and conveniently his grandfather, expected nothing short of the best from his prodigious grandson.

He was never self-conscious either, even if he was easily noticeable and stared upon everywhere he went. And one might expect little attention from the opposite sex in a world of classical music and elegant instruments, but for Aemond this could not have been less true.

He attracted in every show, not only with his talent but with his haunting appearance. The straight long scar through his left eye was struck in the middle by a pale blue pupil, his other seeing eye stark in comparison. Women would watch his slender fingers strike fear, passion and energy into their hearts, wishing the very same could grip at their skin.

To their frustrations, he never acted on this popularity.

Alys Rivers was the only woman he ever reciprocated affections of some kind for. At least two decades his senior, his family had been less than impressed at her presence in his life. But there was no choice on their part. Aemond had made his, and Alys Rivers, like it or not, was his muse. A classical music lover at heart. And a professional critic no less.

One might be forgiven for thinking they disliked each other, they rarely exhibited romance. She was more akin to his manager than anyone else, critiquing his manner of playing and giving advice where he didn't want it. And he rewarded her, away from the prying eyes of the public, with quick, angry sex, exerting what control he did have, into intimacy.

She, like him, had a haunting presence to her, but one less mysterious. More overtly seductive. And though sometimes it seemed to irk Aemond, some felt as if they were still acquainted by convenience if nothing else.

Aemond always arrived early to Kings Landing Music College. The stuffy, wood-panelled room gave some semblance of comfort. There was something about the acoustics, the closeness, that felt almost womb-like. Safe. Familiar.

Meticulously, tuning his cello, he half-listened to the skinny, pink-faced Blackwood, practicing at the same time, “sound like a fucking dying pig.”

“Half dying,” Aemond murmured, with a roll of his eyes.

Otto waltzed in, clad in black slacks and a loose forest-green jumper, “Blackwood, get your fucking instrument in tune please. Fucking Cole could do a better job in violas.”

Criston twirled two Timpani sticks between his fingers, giving a look of mock offence from across the room, “just because I'm over here doesn't mean I can't hear you-”

“Alright, alright, before we begin today’s practice, I have an announcement,” Otto declared, his voice commanding attention. The room quickly fell silent, the anticipation palpable in the air.

“We’ve been challenged to a competition by the Riverrun Conservatory,” Otto revealed, his eyes sweeping across the room, measuring the reaction to his words. The announcement ignited a buzz among the musicians, the rivalry between the schools notorious for its intensity. 

“This isn’t just any friendly showcase. It’s a direct confrontation on neutral ground at the upcoming city arts festival. We will be judged on technique, emotional expression, and the complexity of our performance.”

Aemond’s pulse quickened. Riverrun Conservatory had a formidable reputation, known for their strict discipline and innovative performances. The thought of competing against them stirred a mix of excitement and nerve.

Otto’s gaze swept over the room, lingering for a moment on Aemond, then moving on. “I want crispness, I want emotion, and above all, I want precision. We will begin selecting the repertoire tomorrow. Today, I want everyone to focus on their sections. I expect perfection and I will accept nothing less than your best.”

With a decisive turn, Otto left the rehearsal space, his footsteps echoing his determination. The room erupted into whispers and hurried discussions; the stakes had been set.

Blackwood sighed, stress gnawing and weighing on his face. “Fuck me, no pressure then.”

“Don't fucking shit yourself. It's only Riverrun,” a lanky guy mumbled behind his flute.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

Aemond tuned his cello once more, a determined glint in his eye. He was eager to prove himself, not just as a formidable cellist, but as a key player in leading his school to victory. As the rehearsal began, the sounds of strings, woodwinds, and brass filled the room, each musician pouring their heart into the notes.

Aemond knew that every session, every note, would count. The festival was not just another performance; it was a proving ground. And he was ready to claim his place on it.

With his cello perched on his back as if it were an extension of himself, Aemond strode toward Otto’s office. The familiar weight of the instrument reassured him, steadying his nerves as he prepared to discuss the imminent arrival of their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Upon reaching the heavy oak door, Aemond knocked with a confident rhythm and was quickly greeted by Otto, who peered out from behind a mountain of musical scores. His deep-set eyes and beard, more salt than pepper, gave him an air of aged wisdom.

"Aemond, what's the matter?" Otto asked, noticing the urgency in Aemond's posture.

Stepping inside, Aemond carefully leaned his cello against the wall. "I've heard that Riverrun will be arriving tomorrow to practise here, in preparation for the festival. They’ll be using some of our facilities. I wanted to discuss how we can use this to our advantage, especially since their star pianist is said to be among them."

Otto raised an eyebrow, a slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he saw the cunning nature reflected in his grandson he perceived in himself.

"Indeed, they will be here. It’s a rare opportunity to observe them up close, to learn their strengths and possibly their weaknesses. We’ve managed to arrange different practice times to ensure there’s no direct overlap, but our paths will certainly cross."

Aemond nodded, his mind racing with possibilities. "If we could subtly observe their practice sessions, we might glean insights into their preparation and techniques. It could inform our strategy and help us focus our rehearsals where we need the most work."

Otto walked over to his desk and shuffled some papers, revealing a schedule. "Here are the timings. Riverrun’s sessions are slotted just after ours in the adjacent rooms. It’s crucial we keep our interactions professional, but keep your eyes and ears open. Understand how their pianist integrates with their ensemble— it’s not just about her solo performance."

"Should we consider adjusting our pieces or rehearsal focus based on what we learn?" Aemond asked, his voice low.

"Potentially," Otto responded, tapping his fingers on the desk. "But let’s not be hasty. First, observe. See if there’s a particular piece they struggle with or excel in. We’ll adjust our strategy based on solid evidence, not assumptions."

Aemond felt a surge of tactical excitement. "I’ll make sure our section leaders are discreet but observant. We can use this chance to refine our performance to outshine theirs."

"Exactly," Otto agreed, handing Aemond a copy of the schedule. "Use this opportunity wisely. We need every edge we can get against Riverrun. Remember, they are guests in our school, so maintain the highest standards of respect and professionalism at all times."

With a firm nod, Aemond picked up his cello, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. As he left Otto’s office, he knew the next few days could define the outcome of the festival. The challenge was daunting, but Aemond was ready to lead his school not just to compete, but to win.

Aemond was barely through the front door of his apartment before Alys was barraging him with questions. Her fine lips were lacquered with red, fingernails painted a charcoal black as she poured herself a coffee.

“I heard about the competition. Riverrun is notorious. Sure you can handle it?” She smirked behind the rim of her cup.

He sighed, setting down his cello, “yes, I can fucking handle it.” That was his only response before sinking into the sofa, laying his head flat back against the sofa, eyes shut, as if he wanted her to disappear.

He was somewhat ashamed to admit the way he tensed and then relaxed at the way her fingers expertly kneaded his shoulders, massaging the stress from him. But even more so as they trailed down, sharp nails ghosting over his neck had his lips parting and his trousers growing tight.

“Now, now. You know I only want you to do better,” she cooed, “and you will get better, with the right critique.”

He could hear her smile, her tone light and sensual as she trailed off.

Aemond turned his head and looked up at her where she was looming over him, her thumbs still pushing circles on his sore muscles.

“Critique?”

Alys’s lips curved up in a knowing smile, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that seemed to pierce through his weariness. Her green, emerald like eyes, were like daggers, hooking and reeling him in somewhere dark.

"Of course, critique," she murmured, her voice a melodious blend of challenge and tease. "Every artist needs it, even the great Aemond Targaryen. Especially with Riverrun breathing down our necks."

She moved around the sofa with the grace of a cat, setting her coffee down on the table before moving her legs either side of him, brushing her clothed core beneath her skirt against his growing hardness. "I watch, I listen, and I provide feedback that no one else dares to give you."

Aemond sighed, shifting to look at her more directly. The red of her lips was stark against the softer hue of her face, a deliberate pop of colour that matched the sharpness in her words. "And how exactly does your 'feedback' help me tonight?" he asked, his tone a mix of scepticism and intrigue.

"It helps because it makes you think. It makes you feel. Isn't that what music is about?" Alys replied, her hands now moving down from his shoulders, her fingers tracing lines across his chest through his shirt. "Besides, seeing you tense up like that, only to melt under my touch—it tells me where you're holding back. Not just here," she said, pressing briefly into a particularly tight spot. Then, her touch sank to his belt, then drifting lower and stroking his growing erection, teasing his length slowly. 

"But here too."

Her approach was intoxicating, a dangerous mix of personal care and professional critique. "You're brilliant, Aemond, but even brilliance can be polished," she continued, leaning in to whisper against his ear. "Let me polish you, make you shine brighter. Let me push you to be the best, and then push a little harder."

Aemond felt the dual edges of her influence—the softness of her caress, the hard truth in her critique. It was a manipulation he allowed, perhaps even welcomed. Her presence was woven into his life, a thread that was both comforting and controlling. Sometimes too tight. 

With two needy hands on her buttocks, he rolled up her skirt around her hips, dipping between her welcoming thighs, his ego somewhat inflated to find she was wet already. Alys did little else in reaction than assisting to undo his belt, taking his hard length in her hand and seductively massaging from base to tip.

He pulled her forcefully against him, fingers dug into her pale skin as she hovered over him and sank slowly, splitting herself open on his cock with a practised moan. Her hips moved instinctually, stretching to accommodate his thickness over and over. 

Between grunts and curses, Aemond was rarely vocal. Sex was a way to dispel frustration and invite inspiration in his clear head afterwards. Alys could be anyone. But he had to admit, he found her interesting, if not for her advice.

Her manicured and rounded nails dug into his neck as Alys moved on him with vigour, one hand stealing between them to circle her bud to try and hurtle herself towards completion.

It had occurred to Aemond that she was similarly using him in the same way.

With a bruising grip around her waist, Aemond jutted up into her shakily, coming hard within Alys’ quivering walls in the aftermath of her orgasm. And once she gained her breath, she peeled his hands off her as if he were suffocating. His member slid out of her, softened and slick with her moisture.

Alys straightened, stepping back to observe him, her eyes assessing as she wiggled her skirt back down. "Tomorrow, I'll come to the rehearsal. I want to see how you handle yourself with Riverrun watching. I'll be watching too, taking notes." Her tone was playful yet serious, a reminder of her dual role in his life.

As she retreated to the kitchen, Aemond lay there, a part of him resenting the ease with which she shifted roles from lover to critic, yet another part eager to prove himself worthy of her praise, his heart going fast still in the aftermath of their hastened sex.

 He knew that Alys's critiques, though wrapped in seduction, were aimed at forging him into a sharper, more formidable musician. In the complex symphony of their relationship, her motives played out in chords, each note crafted to challenge and change him.

The next day dawned crisp and clear, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the grounds of the music school. The building was abuzz with the nervous energy of anticipation, the air vibrating with the undertones of an impending musical clash.

As he made his way through the corridors to the rehearsal room, he could hear the murmur of voices, the tuning of instruments, and the occasional burst of laughter or a sharp command. Today, the halls of his own school would play host not just to its students but also to their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Aemond entered the rehearsal room to find it already half-filled with his peers, each one keenly aware of the significance of the day. The room was set up with chairs and stands arranged in a precise semi-circle, awaiting the arrival of the Riverrun musicians.

Before long, the members of Riverrun Conservatory began to filter in, their expressions a mix of confident smiles and cautious glances. The room's atmosphere thickened with the tangible sense of competition, each group eyeing the other, assessing and reassessing.

Amid this tense backdrop, Alys slipped into the room, a notepad clutched in her hand and a pen poised for action. Her presence was a sharp reminder to Aemond of the dual aspects of their relationship. She caught his eye and offered a slight nod, an unspoken signal that she was here in her professional capacity.

The rehearsal began with Otto taking the lead, his voice firm as he called for attention. "Let's begin with a warm-up. Remember, while we share our space today, let's show our guests the level of excellence we strive for."

Aemond took his place, settling his cello between his knees. His fingers danced over the strings, tuning with meticulous care, his gaze occasionally drifting to the Riverrun musicians who were setting up nearby. Among them, he noticed a young woman, stood between two other boys who looked over her at one another with smug smiles. They were most certainly either violinists or cellists. But the woman between them, he saw, had such delicate fingers, this had to be the pianist he had heard so much about.

All watched them perform with a sort of challenging, stoic expression, as if judging every movement, every chord and sound made. Every choice scrutinised. In the corner of his eye, between glances at the music, Aemond noticed Alys scribbling down notes.

And when their performance came to an end, Riverrun Conservatory clapped, alongside their conductor, Lyonel Strong. He was burly, red-cheeked, strict but well-meaning, as far as Aemond had heard. But the way he and Otto Hightower looked at one another was akin to some secret rivalry nobody else was privy to.

Alys slid up to Aemond’s side as he began to tidy his instrument away, her presence immediately electric. “See that man?” she whispered, nodding subtly towards Lyonel. “He conducts with his heart on his sleeve, not a metronome like Otto. That’s why they play with such passion. It’s infectious, captivating.”

Aemond nodded, absorbing her analysis. He knew of her critical acumen, but there was a personal edge to her voice now. “You sound almost admiring,” he observed, watching her closely.

Alys’s expression darkened slightly, her emerald eyes flitting back to Lyonel. “I might admire his style, but not the man. Not after everything.” She sighed, a sound more resigned than angry. “He might be the maestro of emotions, Aemond, but off that podium, he’s a different story.”

Aemond did not inquire further. If he was being truthful with himself, he didn't much care for Alys' personal grievances.

“Keep a close eye on their cellist,” Alys warned from the sidelines, watching Riverrun tune and start up their instruments for their own warm up.

As Riverrun began their performance, Aemond’s attention initially settled on the cellist, analysing his fluid technique and the rich emotion flowing from his strings. However, his focus soon drifted to the pianist, who was poised before her instrument like a painter in front of a blank canvas. Her movements were almost ethereal, feather-like, as her fingers danced across the keys, each note floating into the air with a delicate precision that seemed to transcend the mechanics of the piano itself.

The pianist's performance captivated Aemond, her connection with the music evident in the subtle sway of her body and the gentle closing of her eyes as she played. It was more than mere execution, it was an embodiment of the piece, a true manifestation of feeling and artistry.

Alys, standing beside Aemond, watched the pianist with a discerning eye. After a moment, she leaned closer to Aemond and whispered, "See how she plays? It’s like she’s not just striking notes, but weaving a spell. Each touch is thoughtful, precise yet so naturally expressive."

Aemond nodded, fully absorbed in the performance. He could see what Alys meant—the pianist wasn’t just playing, she was performing in a way that made the piano speak directly to the audience. It was an inspiring display of how technique served as the foundation for emotional expression.

"Her approach is impressive," Alys continued, her voice a mix of professional respect and genuine admiration. "That’s what we need to aim for, Aemond. It’s not just about the notes, but how you make them feel alive, how you connect them to the listener’s soul."

Watching the pianist, Aemond felt a surge of inspiration mixed with a competitive drive. He realised that this was the standard he needed to meet and exceed. The way the pianist’s performance resonated in the room, how it seemed to stir the hearts of all who listened, including his own—it set a clear benchmark.

As the piece drew to a close, and the final note lingered in the air, a hushed silence fell over the room before applause erupted. The pianist looked up, her expression serene, almost surprised by the intensity of the audience’s reaction.

Aemond clapped, his applause thoughtful, infused with a newfound respect and a burning motivation. He turned to Alys, a determined look in his eyes. "I see it now," he said. "But she's nothing special. Our pianist is just as good."

“Just as good isn't enough. We have to be better. We need to surpass them—to be so outstanding that Riverrun feels like just a prelude to our performance. They shouldn’t just be impressed by us; they should be overwhelmed."

Aemond’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he processed her words. He watched the pianist from Riverrun mingle with the crowd, her presence still resonating with the lingering notes of her performance.

The shy, timid prodigy. A story written a million times. He felt as if he saw right through her, and no way was that washing with him.

“Meet me in the supply room before lunch,” Alys whispered, turning on her heel before Aemond could reply. The swing of her hips as she moved towards the Riverrun musicians and indication of what she wanted from him. All she ever wanted from him.

Aemond merely watched on from the sidelines, arms crossed. Alys mingled with them all, shaking their hands and wishing them luck in the weeks of practice and competitiveness to come. And when she finally shook the hand of the pianist, his gaze flickered between his lover and the delicate frame of this stranger he had yet to know.

Everything about her was different to Alys. She wore sheer black tights, and sensible shoes. Her skirt was flowy and ended mid tight, covered only at the top by her high-necked top, also black. And it was here he recognised a similarity in her and Aemond's dress sense.

Alys on the other hand exuded sexuality. Tight fitting skirts and dresses, no tights and heels at least four inches high. And while Alys wore a sleek straight style, the pianist was loose and free, if not slightly frizzy.

He watched the two women talking animatedly. Alys no doubt congratulating her on how well she plays.

He'd never been in more need of a cigarette then right at this moment.

“I apologise for him, he’s usually more expressive on stage than off,” Alys joked lightly as they approached, teasing Aemond in her usual manner.

The pianist extended her hand to Aemond with a firm, confident grip that surprised him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve seen your performances online,” she stated, her tone straightforward, skipping the usual pleasantries. Her directness was refreshing yet unexpected.

Aemond took her hand, a bit taken aback by her assertiveness. “Thank you,” he responded, realising only after the words left his mouth that she hadn’t actually complimented his work, just acknowledged it. “Your performance today was quite remarkable.”

“Thank you,” she replied, nodding politely, her smile brief. There was no reciprocal flattery, no effusive praise—just a clear, concise acknowledgment.

Her straightforwardness intrigued Aemond. It was rare for him to encounter someone who didn’t engage in the typical exchange of mutual admiration among peers, especially when one had just praised the other. Her confidence and lack of concern for social niceties made him rethink the usual dance of compliments that often felt more obligatory than genuine.

Their exchange maintained a professional veneer, but Aemond felt a distinct chill in the air as the pianist held his gaze with an unyielding intensity.

“I'm interested. How do you prepare for a performance of this calibre?” She asked in a probing manner, clasping her hands behind her back. And when she swept her hair out her face, a dash of her perfume hit him, light and floral, he noted.

“I focus deeply on the composition's technical demands," he responded crisply, his voice carrying a cool, almost detached quality. "Emotional expression is secondary to flawless execution.”

She bit back a smile he noticed before she could hide it, “that is quite a disciplined approach.”

"It’s the only way to ensure a performance is beyond reproach," he stated flatly, eyes scanning the room. "Judges appreciate perfection.”

“And the audience?”

He shrugged, “whether they do or not, it doesn't change my approach.”

She nodded, leaving a long pause, as if laying a trap, “interesting,” she mused, "I always believed that connecting with the audience was the true measure of a performance’s success."

“Emotions are too subjective.”

Alys, sensing the growing tension, interjected with a light laugh. "Aemond here is all about the technicalities when it comes to music. He believes in precision over passion."

The pianist tilted her head slightly, considering his response with an analytical gaze before a playful glimmer appeared in her eyes. “Are all aspects of your life subject to such rules?” her tone light, but probing. “Musicians are usually branded as romantics, after all.”

Aemond's brow twitched, a subtle annoyance. “There is a time and a place. In a competition, it's about control. Discipline.”

She hummed, slightly amused, “how practical. Does it not get lonely, striving so often for perfection?”

He shrugs, “it doesn't matter. Wins are measurable, feelings not so.”

“Musicians are not remembered for their wins. They're remembered for the feelings they tease out of people.”

Aemond’s gaze held steady, impressed by her ability to intertwine light-hearted banter with serious debate. “Maybe so, but I’d rather be remembered for setting records than stirring hearts.”

There was a long pause, her eyes never leaving him as if trying to piece together a delicate and intricate puzzle. And she had to bite her lip to contain her smile, simmering frustration in his chest.

“Interesting,” she mused, releasing her lip from between her teeth.

She finally broke their intense gaze, stepping back slightly as she prepared to leave. "Thank you for the conversation, Aemond. It was... enlightening," she said, her tone serious and reflective. "I'll be interested to see how your focus on the technicalities plays out in the competition. Good luck."

With a formal nod, she turned and walked away, her demeanour composed and professional. Aemond watched her rejoin her group, the interaction leaving him with a lingering sense of disquiet. Her straightforward, no-nonsense approach had challenged his views subtly yet profoundly, pushing him to reconsider the balance between technique and emotion in his performances.

Something he'd considered very little.

And as he fucked out his frustrations with Alys in the supply room, pushing her front against the wall and plunging into the tight warmth and solitude she offered, the encounter had ignited a new sense of challenge within him, or perhaps it was a hint of doubt, unsettling the confidence he had always felt in his methodical approach to music.

The usual clarity with which he viewed his musical career was now clouded with questions, thanks to a simple yet impactful exchange. It was a confrontation of ideals that made him both wary and intrigued.

It was clear now that the competition had escalated to more than just notes and rhythms—it was a clash of philosophies, a duel of passion in dual meaning.

And he was prepared to meet it head on.

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[randomdragonfires]

Moon Song | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He killed Lucerys, but Aemond sees the ghost of his nephew wherever he goes - especially in his sweet wife's eyes.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; ANGST; Delusions; Incest; Dark Themes; Kinslaying; DD;DNE!

WORD COUNT | 6.6k

A/N | Originally written as a birthday gift for @humanpurposes. Nothing says happy birthday like a dark fic about madness and murder I guess? :)

RAIN-SOAKED AND WEARY, AEMOND TRUDGES THROUGH the murky streets of King's Landing, his cold and damp riding leathers offering no respite. Each step echoes with the haunting images of Vhagar's reckless attack on Luke, the small, agonizing details etched into his mind like a deep carving. The city, shrouded in an eerie mist, seems to mourn his nephew in silent empathy.

A scared face. The cracking of jaws. The sight of Arrax’s wing flapping aimlessly down into the sea. Luke, falling free through the skies…

The Red Keep looms ahead, its imposing towers piercing the darkened sky. Aemond ascends the ancient stone steps in silence, his solitude a curtain shrouding the tempest raging within him. The guards watch him cautiously, sensing the palpable storm that accompanies the one-eyed Prince’s return. As he passes, the torches on the wall flicker, casting grotesque shadows that dance along the corridor walls.

Entering the shared chambers, Aemond's presence goes unnoticed at first. His wife awaits him, her gaze filled with a mixture of concern and anticipation as she sits at the edge of the bed, finding his gaze and immediately making note of his distress. He can feel her scrutiny, her eyes seeking answers he isn't ready to give. With how disappointed she may be, he is not sure that he’ll ever want her to know. But he knows she must, and that he’d rather it come from him than anyone else.

Words remain unspoken as Aemond, drenched and disheveled, closes the distance between them. She hasn’t moved, holding onto him by the waist as he encloses his cold hands onto the back of her head, finding some semblance of comfort in the warmth of her hair. His wife's face softened, ready to welcome him, oblivious to his guilt and agony. In the silence that hung thick in the air, he braced himself for the storm about to engulf their world.

“You’re cold, Aemond. Let me find you something warm to wear,” she says. He doesn’t let her leave him; he will not let her leave him, ever. In heavy times like these, he’s always quite liked having her to hold - and right now, it seems like she understands it just as well as she always does. She is a part of him, made to be by his side.

She’s my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else’s!

He remembers the words. It was the night he had come to, after his eye had been slashed out. The marriage pact had been brokered in the aftermath, a compensation for the losses suffered. His nephew's tantrum and those venomous words had sown the seeds of a bitter possession, one that manifested in the subtle manipulative gestures that followed.

He had reveled in taunting Luke, relishing in the knowledge that he had triumphed over his nephew in more ways than one. Aemond had married his niece, a Princess of Targaryen blood, a strategic move with which he had alleviated the stain of bastardy off of her. He’d spend years taunting Luke over his wins, and he’d finally taken his life too. And now, his wife was about to cast him aside for it. 

As he confessed to his wife, his eye, haunted by the accident, bore into hers, seeking understanding, pleading for empathy. The air grew dense, the chasm between them widening like an insurmountable abyss, a reflection of the irreversible consequences that now consumed them. 

I need you to believe me.

In the flicker of candlelight, hope clung to Aemond like a shadow, a desperate desire for his wife to see beyond the tragedy. Yet, her features twisted in disbelief, mirroring the horror within him. He had not expected any less, but to see it happen is like a dagger twisting in his heart.

He’s losing her. He cannot lose her. As she tries to draw away, he lets desperation take over him. He would be damned if he let her slip away over something that he did not mean to happen. 

His grip on her tightens to the point of choking, her eyes widening as she realizes that she is trapped. Not just in his hold, but in this marriage with a man that would stop at nothing, and is not even above killing family to survive. How long before he kills me too, she probably thinks. 

He longs to assure her that he wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head, but she is angry. She does not want to hear from him, so he will settle for her forced presence for now. Surely she’ll see. He cannot bear for her to look scared and fearful - she looks too much like her twin when she does. The last thing Aemond needs is to be reminded of him. 

Her sobs soak through his already damp clothes. She tries to push him away, but he is like a never-ending nightmare - the more she tries, the tighter his hold becomes, refusing to give her the solitude she craves. He wants to, he is simply scared - what if she never chooses to welcome him again?

Why?

His touch, once a source of comfort, now repulses her, but he remains oblivious to her inner turmoil. In the midst of her agony, he lowers her gently onto the bed, attempting to offer solace through caresses and kisses, unaware that his touch has become a reminder, a brand of her brother's murderer. She refuses to believe that it was an accident, and he is further pained at the dark realization that he may not be above killing her if she tries to betray and leave him over this. After all, if he cannot have her, no one else will.

"Stay with me, wife. Stay with me, and you will be kept alive and safe.” Try to leave me, and you will not live to see the next sunrise. 

The unspoken threat hangs in the air, a chilling promise that holds its own through his silence and her sobs. She closes her eyes, her unease palpable, a fear of the man she shares her bed and heart with. Aemond, too, watches her drift away, inch by agonizing inch, knowing he will have to learn to endure. He’ll have to, if her place is by Aemond’s side - and the day he married her, he’d solidified that.

What he won’t quite get used to is realizing how much like Luke she looks in fear, and how her eyes make it seem as though he is boring into his nephew’s instead. The resemblance unnerves him as he is taken back to the skies of Storm’s End in his mind once again - Luke had looked just as fearful for his life in his last moments. She is a reminder of what he’s done, of the half of her who is now lost.

How could he have expected that his own living, breathing wife would haunt him so?

THE LIBRARY IS CLOAKED IN A HUSHED DARKNESS as Aemond buries himself in his book, the words flying over his head as he tries to comprehend them. The oppressive silence of the night presses upon him, mirroring the strain in his heart. His worry for his wife weighs heavily on his mind, a persistent ache that refuses to be ignored. She has withdrawn from him, choosing silence over conversation, and the void between them grows deeper with each passing day.

In dreams, Luke sits atop his fledgling dragon, looking at him with a somber expression that makes him appear at peace. They are in the skies of Storm’s End again, only this time, neither of them is involved in a chase. They face each other, and each time, Luke talks, and Aemond seems to have no choice but to listen.

This did not have to happen, uncle, he would say. You could have let me live.

Every time, he wakes and resists the urge to slam his fists and pull his spun silver hair out as he wills the fragments of Lucerys to leave him be. He had initially blamed the shock, but even as he gains his bearings, the visions, dreams, and voices only seem to become louder, stronger, and sharper. It would seem that the more desensitized and ready to face war he becomes, the more his nephew insists on haunting him - reminding him that he is no war god, but simply a boy forced to grow into a man too soon.

This did not have to happen, uncle. You made a terrible mistake.

“Leave me in peace bastard, be gone!” He would scream as he slams his fist into the table and sends parchment flying. 

Aemond's torment continues unabated, the ghost of Luke lingering in every corner of his life, a silent spirit that refuses to be exorcized. Late at night, as Aemond lies in bed, he catches glimpses of Luke's face in the shadows that dance on the walls, his eyes hauntingly fixed upon him. The weight of his gaze bears down on Aemond's soul, making sleep an elusive and tormenting escape.

In the courtyard, where the echoes of laughter resound, Aemond finds himself frozen in place, the air heavy with Luke's presence. The wind carries whispers that seem to be the soft murmur of Luke's voice, leaving Aemond questioning his sanity. He can almost feel Luke's hand on his shoulder, a touch that sends shivers down his spine and leaves him grasping at the emptiness.

During war strategy sessions, Aemond's mind plays cruel tricks on him. As he pores over maps of wargrounds and fortified keeps, Luke's reflection materializes beside him, scrutinizing terrains with an otherworldly knowledge. Aemond's fingers tremble as he traces the borders, half-expecting Luke to offer his uninvited and foolish insights, but the silence remains.

In the Great Hall, where feasts were once lively celebrations, Aemond finds himself unable to escape the ghostly presence. The sound of revelry - that Aegon insists upon as they celebrate Luke’s death - becomes a haunting cacophony, and he can almost hear Luke's laughter intermingling with the echoes of those who celebrate his demise. Aemond often finds himself raising his goblet in a futile toast, the wine swirling like a macabre dance, mirroring the torment within him.

Even in the solace of nature, where one would hope to find peace, Aemond can't escape the ghostly reminders. Trees cast shadows that resemble Luke's silhouette as Aemond and Vhagar fly overhead, and the chilly air seems to whisper secrets that he strains to understand.

As he closes the book, a phantom chill creeps into the room. A sense of unease claws at him as he tries to erase the recollections from mind, as though doing so would remove the occurrences altogether. The chilly night air outside intensifies, causing the candle flame to dance wildly before it sputters and extinguishes with a subtle hiss. Aemond dismisses the notion, attributing it to a mere draft, and turns away from the now darkened candle.

As he turns, his reflection in the ornate mirror catches his eye, but instead of his own weary countenance, the mirror unveils the ghostly image of Luke. Aemond's breath catches in his throat as he stares into the haunted eyes of his nephew. The dim light casts an eerie glow on his ethereal almost-figure, and the air in the library seems charged with an otherworldly energy. The weight of guilt and the eerie manifestations converged, leaving Aemond paralyzed in the haunting stillness of the library, caught between the realms of the living and the departed.

"This did not have to happen, uncle," Luke's voice carries a weight of unspoken sorrow, each word etched with the regret of an untimely departure. The ghostly echoes linger in the air, weaving through the ancient shelves of books that stand as silent witnesses to this mad exchange.

Aemond - his breath catching in his throat - struggles to find the right response. The weight of guilt presses upon him as he gazes into Luke, dazed. The regret, palpable and suffocating, threatens to consume him. Luke lingers, a reminder of all his irreversible choices. Caught in the grip of the moment, Aemond feels a lump forming in his throat. "I never wanted it to end this way," he whispers, his voice tinged with regret that he would never have admitted to feeling if he hadn't had to voice it out loud. 

"You made a terrible mistake," Luke's voice echoes, the accusatory tone cutting through the oppressive silence of the library. 

Aemond's eye meets the hollow gaze of his nephew. "I am aware, and I am burdened by it… by you." He confesses, the weight of guilt hanging heavily upon him. Memories of happier days in his marriage pass his mind, and he is once again left with the gnawing pain of not knowing if she will ever seek him out again. Is he going to be made to live with this chasm between them forever? How could she live without him?

And immediately, as thoughts of his sweet wife cross his mind, the image of Luke transforms into when he was much younger, his curls a lot more prominent and his face a bit more round. He says the words again, the same words that Aemond had heard him say about his marriage - and it is all he can do to not fall apart. "She's my twin. She is mine. Her place is by my side, and nobody else's!" Luke's words resonated in the stillness, each repetition intensifying the haunting atmosphere.

The air crackles with unresolved tension as the words loop, a haunting refrain that refuses to fade. Each spoken phrase intertwines with the musty scent of ancient books, filling the room with a lingering sense of melancholy. As the words pass through the room, the library stands witness to the unfolding chaos. Dust motes, disturbed by the weight of the conversation, hang suspended in the air like transient memories. The ambient firelight, filtered through the stained glass windows, casts a surreal glow on the troubled face of a man who desperately tries to escape the consequences of his actions. The words create ripples in the stillness of the library, a transient disturbance.

His fists clench, and with a roar of frustration, he lashes out at the mirror. The impact shatters the haunting reflection, the fractured pieces falling like a cascade of broken memories. Aemond, panting and wild-eyed, stares at the shattered remnants of the mirror as drops of his blood stain them all an angry, bloody red.

ON A DARK, EERIE MORNING, Aemond decides he will seek refuge in combat training with Cole. The rhythmic clash of steel on steel promises a momentary escape from the haunting of his tormented mind. In these fleeting moments, he clings to the hope that the precision demanded by the dance of death will anchor his thoughts, keeping them disciplined and resolute.

But the training ground transforms, and the air shimmers with the echoes of unsheathed swords. In the midst of training, Luke materializes. The world blurs as Aemond's gaze locks onto his nephew's phantom form, the arrogance etched upon his face mirroring the smirk that haunts him. A tempest of confusion descends, and in the blink of an eye, he lunges forward, sword clashing against an illusion.

Reality slips away, and he finds himself ensnared in a mirage - a realm where the dead dance with the living, taunting them with all they have left. In the throbbing aftermath, the truth bears down on him like a relentless storm.

He killed him. The admission echoes in the hollow chambers of his conscience, overtaking him completely. The clash of blades morphs into a funeral dirge, and as he stands amidst the lingering consequences of his actions, the training ground transforms into a graveyard of memories. The air hangs heavy with the scent of remorse, and the phantom of Luke lingers, a silent witness to the torment that now possesses Aemond.

How he wills for his nephew to leave him alone. How he wishes he could turn back time, to a day when his wife was happy with him, when he was not the object of repulsion in her eyes. How he wishes she would welcome him with open arms again...

But why would she, uncle? Why would she, when you have slain her twin and taken me away from her? Her true other half?

He swings his sword once more, the blade cutting through the air with a desperate force. Each slash is a fervent plea, hoping that the slashes would tear up the ghost of his bastard nephew to ribbons that fly away with the wind. Even in death, his nephew is a stain on his life that refuses to let him live in peace. First his eye, now his wife.

Her place is by my side, uncle. And by killing me, you only reminded her of that.

The echoes of Luke's haunting words reverberate through the empty training ground, as Aemond battles not only the illusions before him but also the relentless demons within. The weight of his actions, the echoes of his nephew's voice, and the damning truth merge into a haunting symphony that accompanies each swing of his sword, forming an enemy much more dangerous than the Blacks that he’d sworn to kill.

The air is thick with the acrid scent of remorse. Aemond's movements become more desperate, as if trying to carve out a safe haven from the phantoms that encircle him. The blade slices through him, yet Luke's voice persists, an unyielding reminder of the havoc wrought upon not just his life but everyone’s around him.

Amidst his violent dance with illusions, Aemond longs for the solace that has eluded him since that fateful day at Storm's End. His sword becomes an extension of his anguish, a vessel through which he hopes to banish the nightmares that torment his every waking moment. The words resonate, mocking his attempts to escape the repercussions of his actions.

Aemond's grip tightens on the hilt of the sword, the struggle etched across his face as he battles the intangible. The illusion persists, refusing to be vanquished, a testament to the indomitable force of guilt and regret.

He lowers his sword and the ghostly echoes of Luke's voice linger. The training ground falls silent, a wave of unresolved grief as Aemond grapples with the realization that, even in death, his nephew remains an inescapable presence in the twisted tapestry of his existence.

Luke smiles once more, and Aemond slams the tip of his sword into the gravel, watching it fall to the side as he screams. Luke’s reflection is a sharp image on his blade, but when he looks up, the ground is empty, save for a worried mentor that watches him from the side. What must he do to gain solitude again?

The air in the training ground seems to thicken further as Aemond walks away to put his sword aside. The haunting memories of his past misdeeds cling to him like a shroud, and the distant echoes of Luke's words continue to reverberate in his mind. The once-familiar grounds feel like a journey through a desolate and forsaken landscape as he somehow registers the distant sounds of Cole calling out his name in worry.

As Aemond picks up the sheath, he senses an eerie silence enveloping the surroundings. The wind carries whispers of his regrets, and the atmosphere is charged with an unsettling energy. He looks up to see his wife standing at one of the windows, her gaze fixed on a seemingly endless point beyond the horizon. The pain of a fractured marriage weighs heavily on his shoulders, and his arrogance, once a shield, now crumbles under the weight of remorse.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. He reads the emptiness in her eyes, an emptiness that reflects the void he has created between them. Aemond's heart sinks, realizing that his mistakes have irreparably damaged the bond he once took for granted. The echo of Luke's haunting voice intertwines with the desolation that surrounds him.

She is his, but he does not want to have her like this; unwilling. Unable to withstand the haunting gaze, Aemond turns away. The clang of metal against metal resonates in the air as he sheathed his sword. The once-sharp blade now feels heavy, burdened with the weight of his own sins.

Before he leaves, compelled by an unseen force, Aemond looks up at the tower once more. But this time, it is not his wife who meets his gaze. Instead, the window frames the ghostly figure of Luke, staring back with fear etched on his face. Before he can further contemplate the vision, she is right there again, looking away. With the many sightings of Luke that he is subjected to, Aemond is not fazed anymore. But he is once more reminded of how similar his nephew and wife look in fear. He does not like seeing her this way.

A shiver courses down Aemond's spine as his gaze meets the ghostly visage of his nephew. Before he can avert his eyes, the apparition transforms into his wife, each manifestation carrying an accusing, sorrowful, and frightened expression. The visions alternate with unsettling speed, a haunting dance where Luke and his wife exchange places in the blink of an eye. 

Aemond is unnerved by the rapidity with which the pair appears almost indistinguishable, their features blending into an eerie resemblance that sends chills through his soul. The accusatory eyes of Luke and the sorrowful gaze of his wife interchange with a disorienting fluidity, leaving Aemond trapped in a whirlwind of regret, fear, and a gnawing sense of the uncanny.

He walks away, steps definitive and terror-struck as he steps into the tower. The silence is deafening, broken only by the echoes of regrets and the distant wind. Aemond, haunted by the consequences of his actions, contemplates the surreal encounter. The armor-laden grounds, once a place of training, now serve as the stage for the haunting manifestations of his past. The ghost of Luke remains and so does his remembrance of a happier wife - who, for reasons he cannot fathom, reminds him of his biggest mistake. A constant reminder that redemption may be forever out of reach.

THE WORD HOLDS TOO MUCH EMOTION than he can bear to pour into his voice, but he says it all the same.

“Wife.”

As Aemond approaches her, he takes in the sight of her, a weak vision of House Strong's distinct features marked by dark hair and blue eyes. The vibrant happiness that once defined her has been replaced by weariness, one that seems to have settled into the very core of her being.

Her brown hair, once a shiny cascade, now hangs in loose tendrils, lacking the luster it once possessed. The dim light highlights her fatigue, revealing the toll that the sorrow of losing her brother has taken on her. The lines etched upon her face speak of countless nights spent wrestling nightmares and the strain of unanswered questions. Her eyes, once bright and expressive, now carry a perpetual sadness and seem to bear the weight of all her losses.

Does she grieve for them too? For their marriage? For him and all the time they’ve lost?

As Aemond gathers the courage to approach, he can't help but feel a pang of regret for the role he played in casting this shadow over the woman he once knew and still loves. The air around her seems heavy with declarations unmade, the room echoing with the quiet desperation of a fractured connection that he is grasping at to mend. Aemond, yearning for reconciliation, steels himself to bridge the gap that has grown between them, hoping to heal not just their relationship, but her as well. 

She turns to look at him, the faint moonlight from the window hitting her face as she assesses the man that stands before her. Not her husband, no - Aemond knows how she looked at him when she loved him. Now she simply stares through him, understanding that it’s her brother’s killer that she is facing. He doesn’t know what hurts him more - her grief, or her cluelessness. 

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t walk away either, empowering him to take a few steps further. He reaches out to her and takes her hand, and smiles by the corner of his lips when she doesn’t grab her hand back. 

“Are you… well?”

The idiocy of the question while he sees how tired she is does not escape him, but in all honesty, she has him tongue-tied. Aemond has missed her touch, and simply getting to hold her hand again has set a fire ablaze in him that he cannot seem to quell.

“As well as one can be, considering the circumstances.”

Time stands still as he takes in the sound of her voice, hoarse from not having said much in a long while. His mother tries with her, but even the Queen can’t make his grief-stricken wife budge - she would stay until she couldn’t, leaving his wife to her thoughts. What could she say to make things better anyhow?  I’m sorry my son killed your brother? I’m sorry you’re caught in a war that is not of your making? I’m sorry you cannot look at your husband with anything but disdain?

He is rendered well and truly silent as he tries to measure her feelings, but she beats him to it as she speaks again - addressing the elephant in the room as quickly as she is able. “Are you here to apologize for murdering my brother?”

“It was an accident.”

He knows he shouldn’t be arguing, but what was he to do? He’d let the world speak cruelly of him and brand him a kinslayer, but he cannot have his own wife hate him so. His defense of his actions only seem to spur her further as she pushes her free hand into his chest, and he holds onto her hand tighter, unwilling to let her go like she wants to.

“Don’t demean yourself by justifying your venom, Aemond. You have hated Luke your entire life, and I’d rather you not make years of hatred seem like nothing in your pursuit to make a better name for yourself with me now. You’re well past that, valzȳrys.” She spits out the last word, making him feel hurt and horrendously out of place. husband

“You don’t believe me.”

“You killed him!”

She sobs, her tears making it very clear that he is a lot less in her eyes now than he used to be. He fights the urge to scream, to hold her by the shoulders and shake sense into her. He wants to remind her that he is not what she thinks him to be, and that he genuinely would never do anything to hurt her. But he has. And he is now facing the consequences of weighing the choices and choosing wrong. How he wishes he’d simply let Luke leave - Aemond had won, why didn’t he?

Her sobs echo in the strained silence, the air thick with the weight of unspoken grievances. In a moment of raw vulnerability, she hits him square on his chest - each strike of her closed fists carrying the weight of accumulated sorrow, an outward manifestation of the tumultuous emotions that have festered within. Aemond, initially taken aback, winces. 

Yet, even as the blows intensify, Aemond doesn't recoil. Instead, he envelops her in a desperate embrace, a gesture born not out of defiance but of a shared longing for understanding. The chamber becomes a battleground of emotions, the struggle to make sense of their fractured marriage playing out in light of all that has taken place.

“I want to hate you so much.” She says, the words choked out as her voice comes out muffled. Her lips are branded onto his chest as she mouths the words over the leathers he wears. “I want to. You’re a monster, that's all I see. I hate you so much.”

He pretends to not hear any of the damning words, for fear of hurting her in the anger that they rouse in him. She looks up at him, and all he wants is to crush her in his hold as he feels the anger creep up on him. But what she says next knocks the wind out of him, reminding him of why he has taken the trouble to come here to try and repair their marriage. 

“But I love you all the same, and I don’t know if I hate you or the love I hold more.”

It is all the confirmation he needs. She is not out of reach just yet. Aemond, grappling with the weight of her words, feels a heavy tension in the air as her lips remain pressed against his chest, the muffled admissions still hanging in the space between them.

As she lifts her head, her eyes, red and swollen, meet his. Aemond sees the internal conflict etched into the lines of her face, torn between the desire to loathe him and the persistent, undeniable love that refuses to be extinguished. He remains silent, understanding the gravity of her admission, aware that any response from him could tip the fragile balance they are trying to restore.

In a moment suspended between resentment and longing, she tentatively reaches up to touch his face, her fingertips tracing the contours of his jaw. Aemond, still holding back the urge to speak, feels the warmth of her touch, a gesture that speaks volumes. Then, as if guided by an invisible force, their lips meet in a hesitant, exploratory kiss. It is not a fiery embrace born out of passion; rather, it is a delicate connection, an attempt to bridge the emotional distance that has grown between them. 

And then Luke surfaces, yet again.

He holds her tighter and kisses her deep, his tongue begging for entrance as he fights the ghost of Luke, staring right at him as he tries to make his wife forgive him. With every movement of their joined lips, he refutes his dead nephew’s words. He is hers, and she is his. From this day, till the end of their days. 

Not Luke’s. His.

“Mine,” he mumbles in between kisses. Over and over until the blasted bastard’s spirit hears and lets him live. But why should he, when Aemond did not offer him the same courtesy? “You’re mine. No one else’s.”

“What?” He doesn’t answer her murmured question, not quite ready to make her privy to the haunting of his mind by her twin. He does not want to let him ruin this moment for them, not any more than he already has. His hands involuntarily find her skirts, pushing them up as he lowers his lips to kiss her neck.

The skin of her thighs are as soft as he’d remembered, his hands relishing in the touch as it disappears under her dress. She clings to him, a slight whine escaping her lips as his fingertips graze her skin, holding onto her backside as he lifts her up effortlessly, feet carrying them both and pushing her into the nearest wall. The kiss is never ending, and he’d not have it any other way.He presses into her, his hands holding her by the hip so tight that he’s probably bruising her, but he is too far gone to care. He needs to prove his nephew wrong, and with each moment he believes he is closer to vanquishing the ghost of the Strong pup from his consciousness.

“Take me,” she says. He hears her, but he is not quite sure he is listening. However, he does as she says. He has wanted this for long, having missed her touch for long, having missed her wanting him for long. He has wanted this for too long to do anything otherwise, and so he does. He growls as he bites her neck, while she unlaces his breeches and lets his cock spring free. The weeping tip is erect and stands proud, and he hopes she can see what she could have had in the time that she pushed him away. No matter, she’s here now.

He is taken aback by how tight she is, how warm and inviting she is despite it all. Her wetness engulfs him as he thrusts into her, making up for wasted time. With each thrust and with each moan that she lets out, he hopes and prays that their marriage will endure - but the phantom of his nephew is never ending as he refuses to fade. Aemond claims her as is his right, but as he does, he realizes his true goal is to simply remind the ghost in his head that she is his, and no one else’s.

“Mine.”

She leans into him, meeting his forehead with hers as her hair falls around them. Her panting breaths and heaving chest has him in a tight chokehold, and it almost keeps him from being haunted by her twin. Almost.

She peaks with a shuddering moan, and as she falls into him - limp and willing - he chases his pleasure. He brings her down to stand and mindlessly thrusts into her as he chants mine, mine, mine over and over again and when he does spill in her, he wants to be able to only experience pleasure, and nothing else. 

Surely his mind is playing tricks on him, or Luke has simply taken over Aemond in a capacity far beyond his control - for he is certain he sees him in her eyes for just a moment, taunting him and reveling in his misery.  

The memory hits him like whiplash, and it is all he can think of.

Aemond’s hands encircle her delicate throat, pressing her frail form against the unforgiving stone wall, as though he intends to merge her essence with its cold surface. The echoes of her labored panting reverberate in the air, a desperate struggle for breath, while he, consumed by an unrelenting force, cannot cease his actions. 

Her blue eyes roll back in agony, and the veins on her neck stand out more prominently than usual, appearing blue in certain lights and green in others - details he might have discerned if not blinded by rage and madness.

He sees clearly, he always does. But in this moment, the intensity of his anger clouds his judgment, rendering him as blind as he is perceptive in moments of calm. Her pallor intensifies, and her hands futilely attempt to pry his fingers from her skin, seeking reprieve - he wants to let go, but he cannot. How could he?

His nephew has haunted him for years, much like the famed phantom of Harrenhal. Luke may have only been nine years of age when he took Aemond’s eye, but it has wielded a malevolent influence throughout his journey from boyhood to manhood. It has been the root cause for a lot of what he’s done - right from marrying her, to now killing her so she can join her brother wherever he is.

He needs to banish the haunting memory of his nephew from his tormented consciousness. He wants so badly for the words to stop playing in his head, weaving a harsh thread of thoughts that he cannot seem to find his way out of. Her life hangs by a thread, one that he stretches taut until she snaps.

As much as he resents acknowledging it, perhaps Lucerys was right. He isn't killing her; he is merely guiding her to where she belongs, by his side. “Aemond…” Her plea is feeble, choked, and nearly devoid of a voice. “Husband, please…” He hears his sweet wife’s last words, but he refuses to listen.

As the light in her eyes slowly dims, he watches as she struggles to keep her eyes open. Her hold on his choking hand loosens and loses its fight, and she gives in. It is almost as though they are back to how they were, in the days when they were happier, and his hands had been around her neck in much more sensual moments - always just enough, never as tight and deadly as this.

She looks almost peaceful in this state, in the last moments where she’s accepted that she has outrun her course. He cannot have her this way, does not want her this way -  where she fears him and what he has truly become; where every moment that she looks at him with mixed emotions, he is reminded of his nephew and the day he died.

Cursed bastard.

Her once kind smiles, the very essence that once distinguished her from her twin, have undergone a haunting transformation. Her face has since been etched with an unspoken terror, a fear that clings to her like a shroud of impending doom. Every glance she casts seems laden with an eerie anticipation, as if she is poised to deliver a fatal blow.

In those harrowing moments, the resemblance between them becomes a grotesque mirror, reflecting a likeness he cannot bear to acknowledge. The weight of her presence - his presence - is suffocating, an unsettling reminder of his own recklessness. He cannot afford the luxury of a wavering mind, not in the midst of a relentless war that demands his unwavering focus.

This connection has become an unbearable burden, stoking a fury within him that knows no bounds. All he craves is the dissolution of his nephew's haunting memory, an obliteration that refuses to comply with the confines of his subconscious. Instead, it lingers, an ominous specter that shadows his every waking moment, intensifying the horrors that plague him day and night.

And then, her breathing ceases.

The chilling realization of what he’s done crashes over him like a wave, dragging him into the abyss of his own making. The haunting echoes of his nephew's voice, the relentless specter that had tormented his every waking moment ever since the fateful day at Storm’s End, had finally ceased. However, the newfound silence is shattered by the ghastly thud of her lifeless form crumpling to the floor, unleashing an eerie force that wraps its tendrils around his soul.

She seems liberated from the oppressive shackles of fear and her lifeless face descends into an eerie calm that chills the marrow of his bones. In death, she appears more tranquil than any moment he witnessed in life since her twin’s passing. The grotesque disparity between her and Lucerys’ final moments sends a shiver down his spine, the air thick with the stench of regret and the palpable weight of his transgressions.

With a trembling hand, he reaches out to touch her slowly chilling forehead, pressing a sorrowful kiss upon it. The chamber becomes suffocating, the air thickening with an oppressive calm that clings to the shadows. In that macabre stillness, a chilling certainty takes hold — Lucerys will no longer haunt him, but the cost is etched in the lines of his lovely wife’s lifeless face.

As the reality of his irreversible choice seeps into his bones, a haunting question claws at the edges of his conscience: Was the liberation from the phantom of his nephew's influence worth the mad ending of his wife's life? The Seven bear witness to another one of his kinslaying crimes and the heavy silence that follows - a testament to the darkness that now envelopes his soul, as the shadows of the hearth themselves seem to recoil from the stench of blood that stains the very fabric of the air.

Now the twins are together in death, by each other’s side. 

Aemond is free.

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[targaryen-dynasty]

SERENITY.

Part 2

Dad!Aemond Targaryen x wife!niece!Reader

With Aemond’s arm around you, and his lips pressing against your temple, the fatigue you were feeling could wait for a little while, if it meant you got to indulge in those rare moments of serenity for just a little bit longer.

WARNINGS: Canon typical incest/Targcest, fluff, female Reader (no mentions of appearance besides color of her eyes), mentions of difficult pregnancy and birth, soft dad!Aemond

WORDS: 1.1 K

“Hae mērot gierūli. Se hāros bartossi.” As one we gather. And with three heads.

The voice was a distant rumble. It held a familiar edge to it, yet your tiredness made it difficult to make out where it came from. The calmness of it made you want to sink further into the silk sheets, the soft sigh leaving your lips indicating that you were close to falling asleep again – until it settled that you heard voices in your chambers. In the midst of the night.

Reaching to your side to check for the man you had married three summers ago, you couldn't feel his body right where he was supposed to sleep, the vacant spot already cold, which suggested he had been gone for quite some time by now.  

And if you had to guess, you’d say it was late into the Hour of the Owl already.

“Prūmȳsa sōvīli. Gevī dāerī.” We shall fly as we were destined. Beautifully, freely.

When your lilac eyes eventually opened, your marital chambers were only dimly illuminated, forcing them to adjust to the dark. Most candles had gone out, and not more than an ember glowed in the fireplace. The light of the moon, however, shone through the drapes hanging in front of the windows, highlighting their subtle movements in the gentle breeze, and the tall frame of your husband standing behind them. 

A deep sigh escaped your throat, one that gathered the attention of your occupied husband. You hadn’t even been aware that you had held your breath, and quickly placed a hand on your chest to stop yourself from making any more sounds, not wanting to wake your babe.

“Ēdrugon, ābrazȳrys,” he hummed, though his voice was slightly muffled. Sleep, wife. 

Leaning over the edge of the cot standing on your side of the bed, there were no distinct snoring sounds coming from the boy it belonged to, his little blanket missing as well. It merely was the reddish dragon egg sitting neatly in the corner, having yet to hatch. Your boy was nine moons old by now, and it became less and less likely it was going to hatch at all. 

You rose from the bed, quietly, and pulled a thin robe over your shoulders, tying a knot in the front. Sidling toward Aemond, you soon spotted the small head of your son resting on his shoulder with your husband’s lips pressed gently against the side of the boy’s face. A warmth spread through your body at the sight, your heart fluttering. 

“Emā naejot ēdrugon hae sȳrī,” you purred, cautious to not wake the sleeping babe in his arms. You have to sleep as well.

As you came up to him, you brushed your hand over Aemond’s back, resting at his waist, and craned your neck to meet his eye. His sapphire eye was gleaming in the soft light the moon casted upon you three, making him look as if he had been forged and created by the Seven. 

Your lips pressed to his shoulder, and only then did you notice that he was bare-chested, prompting you to raise your eyebrows. Aemond slightly turned and reciprocated the gesture, oblivious to your surprise, though his lips pressed to your temple with him taking a deep breath of your scent. 

He carefully shifted the hold on your son, supporting him with his right arm as he slid his other around your waist to pull you against him and meet your lips for a kiss that robbed you of your ability to breathe. 

“He was not able to find rest,” Aemond rasped, words fanning over your lips. “He sleeps most peacefully in our arms than in the cot, you know.”

You nodded, and allowed your fingers to ghost along the crown of his head, caressing the tuft of silver hair your son possessed. Your eyes crinkled at the corners, your heart swelling at the realization that you two had created the very being Aemond just cradled in his arms.

Turning your head toward the window overlooking King’s Landing, you were in awe that the rawness and vulnerability of the moment even made the filthiest of cities seem peaceful and quiet, yet the true sight to behold was and always would be the prince standing right next to you.

Despite the rift parting your House into two, Aemond had always been a dutiful husband, taking care of you and protecting you just like he had vowed to do on the day you wed in the traditions of the Faith. Duty. It had never been more than that to him. But with your pregnancy taking a woeful turn, and the much more miserable birth following, something in him had changed. 

His training with the sword could wait more often than not, if it meant for him to get the chance to bond with you, and, after the birth, your son. And knowing all too well that he prioritized full nights of sleep, moments like these made you even more aware of how much he had grown into his newfound responsibilities. 

For all that the people of court found the prince to be cold or even cruel at times, he was nothing if not incredibly gentle with you and your son. 

When you looked back at Aemond, you already found him staring at you with the striking lilac eye of his, an expression of deep affection written all over his features. The warm look in his eye made you feel weak in the knees, just like it always did. 

With a soft smile on his lips, his hand trailed from your waist to your stomach, gently rubbing over the small bump that slowly started to blossom. His touch was tender, loving even. 

“You deserve your rest more than ever with the child growing within you,” he noted, “return to bed and get some sleep, my love. I shall watch over him.”

You nodded as you watched Aemond’s head tilt forwards to look at the sleeping boy that was cradled in the crook of his arm. You were exhausted, but at the same time, a part of you wished to spend every moment you could with your little family.  

A cheeky smile grazed your lips. “But what if I want to stay?”

His brows raised slightly as he regarded you, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I believe that we,” he nodded towards your son, “would not mind your company, provided you are not too tired.”

“Perhaps just for a few moments longer,” you replied softly to which he nodded in return.

With Aemond’s arm around you, and his lips pressing against your temple, the fatigue you were feeling could wait for a little while, if it meant you got to indulge in those rare moments of serenity for just a bit longer. 

#house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #prince aemond #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #hotd x you #aemond stannies #aemond targaryen x female reader #hotd fic #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #aemond imagine #aemond fluff #aemond fic #hotd fanfiction #hotd fluff #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon imagine #ewan mitchell #ewan nation

[sapphire-writes]

My Dragon ~ Aemond x wife!Reader

warnings: mentions of Aemond's eye injury, some angst & fluff

word count: 1.0k

note: pure fluffy dad!Aemond goodness! was stuck on this idea for a while, hope you enjoy this little piece!

masterlist

You returned to your chambers after a long day, desperate for nothing more than a long, hot bath and the soft furs of the bed you shared with your husband. You had spent the day with your good sister Helaena. Though once only sisters through friendship, you were truly sisters now after the marriage to her younger brother. 

As you opened the doors to your chambers, it was unusually quiet. You closed the door behind you, listening to the crackling of the hearth. You spot the back of Aemond’s head, seated on the settee facing the dancing flames. His head is angled downwards; no doubt he has stayed up late with his nose in a book as you often find him. 

Though he never admits it after the fact, you’d caught him on more than one occasion fast asleep on the settee or in his chair, a book open-faced in his lap. 

You smile softly as you approach, careful not to startle him. 

“My love…” you call softly, to which Aemond turns his head. 

He purses his lips slightly, bringing a hand to his mouth shushing you. Your eyebrows concave together in confusion, which ebbs as you walk closer. Aemond has forgotten his usual book this evening; instead, your sleeping daughter rests her head on his lap, fast asleep, her small chest rising and falling with each breath. 

Her silver curls are splayed every which way, her nose whistling with every breath she exhales. 

“It is late my love,” you playfully tease, keeping your voice a low whisper so as not to wake her.

“I know,” Aemond says, his voice just as soft, “We lost track of time.”

You smile, walking behind him to place your hands on his shoulders. Though only in her fourth year of life, your little dragon has the Targaryen prince wrapped around her little finger. Aemond brings a hand to rest on top of yours, pulling it from his shoulder and pressing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand. 

“Did you have a nice time?” he murmurs against the back of your hand, his breath causing gooseflesh to appear. 

You hum in response. “I did. You know how I enjoy spending time with Helaena. Though I must admit, my legs do ache.”

You had spent most of the day walking through the gardens with the princess, helping her add to her collection of curious creatures and oddities. You loved Helaena’s hobbies and were more than happy to indulge her. But the day was long under the hot summer sun, and it left you eager for bed. 

“Shall I call for someone to draw you a bath?” Aemond asks as you lean to rest your chin on his shoulder.

“It tis alright,” you assure him, “Do not trouble yourself.”

“It is no trouble, you know this,” he insists, glancing at you sideways. You made sure to rest upon the shoulder where he can see you with his functioning eye. 

You remove your hand from him, caressing the leather eyepatch he wears. 

“You must be uncomfortable,” you tell him softly, stroking the worn leather. It begins to irritate him on days such as this one when the heat causes the leather to chafe the skin of his cheek. 

The weather is strange these days, getting so hot during the day and then dropping significantly during the night. Aemond’s violet eye flickers down at your sleeping child. How perfect she looks, the perfect combination of both of you. A miracle made of your love. You sense his hesitation.

“She shall not be afraid, my love,” you assure him.

“How can you know?” he says, looking down away from your comforting gaze. 

Aemond had always been fearful of how others reacted to his injury. You remembered in your youth before he had begun courting you, how you’d learned of why he wore the patch. It was Helaena who informed you that Aemond wished to not frighten the ladies of the court.

“Prince Aemond should not wish for a weak stomached woman anyhow,” you had snapped, as other ladies had snickered at his injury. “Women say they wish to marry a warrior, then faint at the scars from battle. How distasteful.” 

Helaena had told Aemond how you’d come to his defense. You’d been the apple of the Prince’s eye ever since. Well, until the birth of your little one. Two women now completely owned the dragon prince’s heart. 

“A mother’s intuition,” you assure him, moving to remove the patch. Aemond freezes for a moment but relaxes into your touch as you place the eyepatch on the table, revealing his magnificent sapphire. 

You stroke your finger along the scar, admiring how the sapphire reflects the light from the hearth. 

“My dragon,” you murmur, cupping his sharp chin in your hand, and pressing a gentle kiss to the scarred tissue. 

Aemond sighs, his chest rumbling. You can see a flicker of desire in his violet eye at your praise. Your daughter stirs then, perfect face scrunching as her pale lashes flutter open. She looks up at you with wide violet eyes before throwing her small arms around your neck.

“Muña!” she says sleepily, arms heavy around your neck. 

“Hello my love,” you softly croon, pulling her completely into your arms, “How was your day?”

She buries her face into the crook of your neck and you inhale the lilac scent of her hair. How you enjoy the moments with your companions, but oh how you miss your daughter by the end.

“We went exploring all day! And we went flying on Vhagar,” she chatters away, “Sunfyre even joined us! Kepus flew right next to us!”

“Did he now?” you ask with a chuckle. Aegon was a surprisingly delightful uncle. 

Aemond stands then, still facing slightly away. You reach for his hand, pulling him closer. Your daughter looks at him, the smile never leaving her face. Aemond turns his head slowly, revealing the scarred tissue and brilliant sapphire. You hold your breath, waiting for your little girl’s reaction. 

She stares, unblinking, before reaching out to touch his face. 

“Blue is my favorite color,” she informs, turning back to you, “Did you know Sunfyre likes to sing? I don’t think Vhagar enjoys singing, her songs are rather deep. It shakes the windows of the Keep! Muñāzma was quite cross with her!”

You glance at your husband, watching his cheeks turn red. You smile so brightly that your cheeks begin to ache. There was never anything for him to fear. She adores him all the same.

As do you.

#aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond fluff #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #prince aemond #house of the dragon aemond #dad!aemond #dad!aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond x fem!reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond stannies #aemond the kinslayer

[cyrranka]

THE DEATH

#my art #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond fanart #hotd fanart #hotd aemond #aemond art #aemond stannies #ewan mitchell #artists on tumblr #azperja art #digital painting #aemond x helaena #GOT #game of thrones #team aemond

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Gīsītsos (little ghost)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Fingering, dubcon, smut. Word count: ~3.7k

Summary: As part of the Red Keep's serving staff, she knows it is better to remain unseen by the family she tends to. Unfortunately for her, an incident involving the second of the Targaryen sons means his gaze is now firmly fixed upon her.

Author's note: For @targaryen-dynasty's sleepover challenge. I was given the AU "meet cute" and the prompt "we have to be quiet". I have put my own little spin on both of these to suit my preference for canon and my particular writing style. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on notifications. Community labels are for cops.

There is an unspoken rule among the serving staff of the Red Keep; remain unseen and unheard whenever possible. Move as a spectre through the castle, do not draw attention to the mess you are employed to clean up. Those they serve do not wish to be reminded of their imperfections. Blissful ignorance is placed upon the pristine condition of the chambers they return to at the end of each day. They have always been that way, how could they not be? But beneath it lies an undercurrent of I do not wish to see it, do not make me look.

She is content to remain out of sight and mind of the Targaryen family, though her work is thankless, there is serenity to be found in the duties of a maidservant. As long as she completes the tasks assigned to her, then she is otherwise unbothered, and she considers herself fortunate to have a comparatively easy workload to some of the others.

The maidservants that attend to Prince Aegon’s bedchamber are ordered to work in pairs, partly because the mess he so often leaves behind is work enough for two, but also because he is known to sleep late, and there is safety in numbers. A chill runs down her spine at the memory of the whisperings that had passed between the staff about Dyana, brought before the Queen and forced to drink moon tea, before being relieved of her employment from the Keep. From that point on, the maidservants were forbidden from entering his rooms alone, lest they find themselves victim of the Prince’s wandering hands and lustful appetite.

There is no such danger to be found within the sleeping quarters of Prince Aemond, which she is in charge of tending to each day. He makes her job almost too easy, but she does not allow her guilt to weigh heavily enough upon her that she would ask for additional duties, instead she gives thanks to the Seven for this small mercy and ensures she finishes each day having completed her tasks to an impeccable standard. 

As she tugs the crisp white sheets of the bed firmly back into place each morning, there is no lingering body heat or scent to be found, indicating he has been awake for hours. She wonders if he sleeps at all, considering the unrumpled state of his bedding. When she strips the sheets off to change them once a week, there are no personal effects that fall loose, no trace that the Prince she serves exists at all. He is as much an apparition as she is.

When she is finished making up the bed or delivering the old sheets to the laundress, she sweeps the ashes from the hearth and readies the fireplace for Aemond’s return. Aside from that, there is little else to do besides lightly dust the shelves and reorganise the books placed upon his table. She never once sees the Prince, nor does he see her.

The most strenuous of jobs is the one she currently finds herself doing; the once weekly wash of the bedchamber floor, which requires her to get down upon her hands and knees with a brush and scrub the flagstones with a mixture of hot water and lye. The floor is hard upon her knees, her back aching, and knuckles sore from the combination of the soap and how tightly she grips the brush.

Satisfied that there is not an inch left unclean, she drops the scrubbing brush into the bucket, groaning softly as her knees twinge in protest as she stands. She swipes at the perspiration upon her forehead with the back of her hand, before reaching behind her to soothe ache in her lower back.

She freezes as her elbow collides with something on the desk, her heart feeling as though it stops beating within her chest as she hears the heavy splash of it fall into the bucket behind her, splattering dirty water against her skirt.

Snapping herself out of her shock, she quickly turns, seeing she has knocked a book from the table into the water she had been using to wash the floor. Dread swirls in her belly as she stoops to lift it out, her mind running rampant with thoughts of how much trouble she’ll be in if she has ruined one of Prince Aemond’s belongings. At best, she would lose her job. At worst, she is unsure, but she does not wish to fall foul of the man that rides the world’s largest dragon.

Drying off the leatherbound cover with her apron, she is relieved to see her swift action has prevented any serious damage, though the pages within are sodden. She cannot return it to the desk in this condition, so she tucks the book under her arm and picks up the bucket, walking quickly out of the Prince’s chambers, and back towards the servants’ quarters. If she can get it dried and return it in time, then hopefully he will be none the wiser to her mishap.

The scullion keeps the fire in the shared space ablaze all day, and she settles in front of it, opening the dampened book, careful not to place it so close that the parchment might singe. Happy to see the water has not soaked through far enough to smudge the ink, she turns the pages carefully while they dry, her eyes scanning the words. It is a tome of philosophy, far beyond the realm of her comprehension. It serves as a reminder of the divide between her and the Prince, she is beneath such intellectual pursuits. She imagines he would be infuriated that a lowly maidservant would ever dare to read it, and finds herself hunching over the book as it dries, subconsciously concealing it from view, as though she is engaging in something forbidden and shameful.

After an hour, the heat of the fire has returned the book to its original state, or at least as close as it’s going to get. She makes haste to return it to where it belongs, hoping that Prince Aemond will not yet have returned to his chambers. Her skin is heated, a combination of having been so close to the open fireplace for an hour and nervousness at the idea of being caught.

She enters the bedchamber without knocking, expecting it to still be empty, and moves swiftly on light feet, returning the book back to the desk it had laid upon previously.

“An enjoyable read, was it?”

The voice is soft, yet its sinister edge sends a shiver up her spine, causing her breath to catch in her throat. She turns slowly, keeping her head bowed, not daring to meet the unblinking stare of the One Eyed Prince.

“Your Grace,” she utters meekly, “please accept my apologies. I did not mean to intrude.”

“And you did not answer my question either.”

She dares to look up then, watching in wide eyed horror as he walks slowly towards her, dressed in his sparring attire, his expression impassive.

Swallowing thickly, ignoring everything within her that desperately wants to lower her gaze, she forces herself to hold it. “I did not read it, I swear, I would never be so discourteous.”

“Hm,” he murmurs, standing tall in front of her, “a pity. ‘Tis an interesting text. So, tell me, what were you doing with it?”

He is standing so close to her, she can feel the tickle of his breath upon her flesh, see the angry, red indentation of the scar that runs the length of the left hand side of his face, disappearing beneath the leather patch that covers his eye. There is something in the way he looks at her that makes her want to shrink into herself, but she fears she has forever shrugged off the shroud of invisibility that has until now protected her. His eye is piercing, a silent threat. I see you.

She considers lying, but decides it will be worse for her than simply telling the truth, if he catches her out. “I…I accidentally got the book wet while I was cleaning. I took it away to the servants’ quarters to dry it.”

Aemond leans his body into hers, and she can feel the warmth that radiates from his chest, smell the sweat that lingers on his skin from his exertion in the training yard. She screws her eyes shut, icy fingers of fear gripping her insides as she awaits her punishment, but then the heat of him is gone.

Slowly opening her eyes, she sees that he is still standing in front of her, but his attention is now focused upon his book as he flips through the pages, studying it for signs of damage. He had simply reached behind her to retrieve it. The relief that floods her is enough to make her want to laugh, but she knows better, biting it back as she exhales heavily through her nose.

Satisfied that his book is unruined, he snaps it shut, holding it with both hands as he looks at her once more. “Are you always this clumsy?”

She gapes at this, white hot embarrassment radiating from head to toe. “N-no, never. It was an accident, Your Grace, I swear it.”

He smirks, cocking his head. “Perhaps I ought to keep a closer eye on you?”

Please, no.

She wants to leave, to be away from the intensity of how he looks upon her, to have him forget her face and allow her to go back to being invisible.

“I promise I will take greater care in future, Your Grace. I apologise. Can I go?”

He raises an eyebrow at this. “I do not know. Can you?”

This is humiliating. Is he getting some sort of satisfaction from this?

“If that will be all, Your Grace.”

She bows her head to him and hurries from the room, feeling her heartbeat in her throat with every step that she takes. She can sense his eye upon her, boring a hole into the back of her, long after she has left his chambers, and it fills her with a sense of unease for the rest of the day. Her only solace is that she can return to her duties upon the morrow without having to see him.

However, as she enters the bedchamber the following morning she is horrified to find the Seven have decided her spell of good fortune has come to its end. Prince Aemond still occupies the space, standing at the foot of the bed as he fastens his tunic. Halting her steps, she lingers uncertainly, not knowing what she ought to do.

He stares at her as he continues to dress, not making any moves to alleviate her discomfort, and she takes a tentative step back.

“Should I come back?” She asks warily, glancing over her shoulder towards the door - it has never appeared so inviting.

“No need,” he assures her, “do what you need to.”

She hesitates a moment longer, but realising she is in no position to protest, she begins the task of turning down the bed. She can feel him looking at her the entire time, making her feel self conscious. There has never been an audience to spectate over her daily tasks before, and she moves as though she is suspended in honey, afraid to make a mistake while he is watching, despite the fact that these are duties she has performed hundreds of times before.

To her frustration, he moves as slowly as she does, unhurriedly clasping on his sword belt and pulling on his boots, watching her all the while, but never speaking a word. It is not until she begins sweeping away the ashes from the fireplace that he finally takes his leave, silently striding from the room without addressing her further.

For the first time since she entered Aemond’s chambers that morning she feels as though she can breathe, although a voice in the back of her mind tells her she has not seen the last of Aemond, and he certainly has no desire to see less of her.

Over the next few days, he is there every time she arrives, either in the process of dressing, or still laying in bed, causing her to turn away, ashamed at the way excitement flutters in her lower belly at the sight of his well defined bare chest.

He is doing this on purpose, she knows he is, abusing the imbalance of power between them, because she cannot ask him to stop. He is not really even doing anything wrong; it is not uncommon for maidservants to be in the presence of those they serve as they perform their duties, yet there is something about this that feels completely improper. The way his stare lingers upon her, stalking her as though she is prey, it both frightens her and fills her with a sense of mortification, because she knows that, deep down, there is a part of her that likes the fact that his attention is on her. The veil between them has been lifted, and now that she has gotten to know what resides on the other side, at least a little, she thinks of nothing else. It is both exciting and terrifying to have someone in such a position of authority so interested in her and what she does.

It is the day she strips the bed in order to place fresh sheets upon it, and she enters the bedchamber prepared to have to wait for the Prince to vacate it first. However, she finds that he is already gone for the day. Unsure if it is relief or disappointment that she feels, she immediately begins to pull back the bedding, deciding she would prefer not to dwell on the hollow feeling that has settled within her chest.

As she tugs the bedsheet loose from beneath the corner of the mattress, a small piece of parchment flutters from it, landing softly on the flagstones beside the wooden bedframe. Nothing has ever fallen from Aemond’s bed before, he is much too tidy, and so her curiosity is immediately piqued.

Plucking it from the floor, her mouth runs dry at the words she finds penned delicately in black ink.

Though I am absent, I think of you.

Was this meant for her to find? She feels foolish for considering such a notion, and yet she cannot shift the idea that it might be. Her hands shake as she holds the note, her mind reeling with thoughts of what she ought to do with it: keep it, cast it into the fireplace, put it back and pretend she has not seen it?

The latter is impossible, he would notice the fresh sheets upon the bed and know that she has found it. Perhaps she is being presumptuous, and this has been left for him by a bedmate? She decides to simply place it upon the desk, and leave it up to the Prince to decide its fate.

Though she attempts to continue her day as normal, thoughts of Aemond and the contents of his note will not allow her any peace. She wonders if it is indeed her that he is thinking of, and if it would satisfy him to know that he haunts her mind in equal measure. If only she had never knocked that wretched book into the bucket, then she would be free of this torment.

Aemond is fully clothed as she walks into his rooms the following day, standing beside his desk. There is absolutely no reason for him to linger, but she knows precisely why he does, her suspicions confirmed when she spies the note clasped between his fingers.

“You read it?” He asks, lifting his gaze to meet hers as she enters.

“Was I not supposed to?” She asks quietly, setting down the basket which contains the brushes and rags she uses for sweeping and dusting.

“I left it where only you would find it,” he retorts, allowing the parchment to flutter back down upon the desk. “What do you think?”

“I do not know, Your Grace,” she responds simply, attempting to keep her focus on meticulously unloading her supplies.

“Leave that,” he orders coolly. “Come here.”

She trembles as she steps slowly towards him, and he rounds on her, caging her between himself and the desk, its wooden edge biting into her lower back.

“You are beautiful,” he breathes, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face. 

The trace of his fingertip leaves a trail of heat in its wake. She feels dizzy, overwhelmed, the urge to run and her body’s insistence at remaining rooted to the spot at direct odds with one another.

“Please,” she whispers, “do not. It is improper.”

His hand drops to his side and he regards her with a look of amusement. “I am not my brother. I will not take anything that is not given freely. But I suspect you want this as much as I do. Tell me I am wrong.”

“Your Grace, I–I…”

The words die in her throat, what can she say? A maidservant cannot speak of her desire for the Prince she serves. How can she give voice to the fact that since he first acknowledged her, he has plagued her every waking thought?

“Say the word, and things shall go back to as they were before, we shall be strangers once more.”

That is certainly the easier of the two options, and yet the idea of having to live without his attention now she knows the sweet torment of what it is to have it seems unfathomable to her. She is playing a dangerous game, treading a knife’s edge, placing herself directly in harm’s way, and the words she speaks next will forever change her life’s trajectory, but as she stares up into his piercing blue eye her judgement is too clouded for her to mind.

“I do not want that,” she says earnestly.

“I want you to beg for it,” he tells her, the slightest hint of malice in his tone.

She feels a stickiness between her thighs, a dull throbbing ache in her core that makes her nerves sing for release. Her voice is foreign to her, pathetic sounding as the single utterance of “please” tumbles from her lips.

“Please what?” Aemond asks, tilting his head, mocking her as he looms over her, keeping her pinned against the desk behind her.

Under ordinary circumstances, she would feel ashamed by such lewd behaviour, but these are no ordinary circumstances, and her actions are driven solely by desire, so she feels no chagrin as she allows herself to murmur “please touch me”.

The Prince’s deft fingers make quick work of moving up her skirt, ghosting along the inside of her thigh as he goes, causing her to suck in a shaky breath as she grips his shoulders for support.

She mewls helplessly as his middle and index fingers work their way beneath her smallclothes, dragging through her silken folds, wet with arousal.

Aemond hums in appreciation as his digits explore her, his entire hand moving beneath the thin cotton of her undergarments, cupping her mound. She exhales a shocked gasp as he pushes two fingers forcefully inside of her.

His free hand clasps over her mouth, muffling her sounds, as he works his fingertips inside of her at a lazy pace. “We have to be quiet,” he tells her, “or we will get caught, and we cannot have that.”

She nods in understanding, whimpering against his palm as his thumb begins to circle her pearl, the pumping of his fingers increasing in pace, the sticky sounds of her arousal accompanying her stifled whines of pleasure.

They have not even shared a kiss, there is no romance to be found here, but she does not mind. If anything, the depravity of the act serves to heighten the sensations and renders her more responsive to his touch.

His eye bores into hers, the pupil so large it almost eclipses the blue of it, his lips parted slightly as his nostrils flare. He crooks his fingers, brushing against a spot inside of her that causes her to buck against his hand. He grins wickedly, speeding up his movements both inside of her and against her bud.

The pleasurable ache she feels building winds tightly within her gut, and her thighs tremble with the effort of keeping her upright. Her fingernails dig into the fabric of Aemond’s tunic, as she feels her body tense in preparation for what’s to come.

With a final press of his fingers, she falls apart, her cry almost silenced by his hand over her mouth as she breathes erratically through her nose. She tightens around him in quick pulses as waves of warm relief pass through her body, making her pliant against him. 

She maintains her grasp on his shoulders, not trusting her shaking legs to keep her upright as he releases her mouth and withdraws his hand from beneath her skirt, his fingers glistening with her release.

He tuts, examining them carefully as he holds them up between them both. “What a mess you’ve made”, he says condescendingly, pressing them against her lips and forcing them into her mouth. The taste of herself upon her tongue is tart, the very idea of what she is doing lewd to her. “Something else for you to clean up,” he coos, watching as she sucks her essence from his fingers.

With these words she is brought crashing back down to earth as she is reminded of the power imbalance between them. She will always be the woman who tends to his messes, who serves him, except now she is also a vessel for his pleasure and, whatever the outcome of that may be, it is too late now to take it back. He has seen her, fully, and she will only ever see of him what he allows her to.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond imagine #aemond targaryen fan fiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fan fic #aemond stannies #prince aemond #aemond one eye #prince aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond hotd #pro aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd smut #house of the dragon #hotd fan fic #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #hotd fan fiction

[azperja]

Prince Regent 👑

Some fanart to commemorate the latest crumbs we’ve been given

#my art #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond fanart #hotd fanart #hotd aemond #aemond art #aemond stannies #ewan mitchell #artists on tumblr #azperja art #digital painting

[kaelatargaryen]

This gif cracks me up because it’s so obvious Ewan didn’t realize the camera was RIGHT there when he was in his saucy Aemond mindset – it’s so brief and he swivels so well you wouldn’t catch it if you weren’t obsessed with watching every moment he’s on screen 😂

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond one eye #house of the dragon aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond stannies #hotd #hotd aemond #hotd thoughts #house targaryen #baby #dragon prince #prince aemond

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

The Woes of Betrothals (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Part 2 about the wedding is out now! Read it here 

Synopsis: Recently betrothed, Prince Aemond is unsure on the virtues befitting that of a good husband. Ser Criston offers some surprisingly useful insight. 

Warnings: nothing explicit, just Aemond being emotionally constipated 

Word Count: 3k words. this was supposed to be a short one shot 😭

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: In a fluff writing mood recently, so expect to see more fluffs coming your way (not just for aemond :)) 💗

lovely dividers once again credited to @firefly-graphics​ !

Heavy grunts and the clashing sound of steel on steel resonated through the training yard of the Red Keep. Surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, Prince Aemond, his forehead beaded with sweat, moved deftly to dodge a blow struck by Ser Criston Cole’s morningstar. 

It was nearly noon, and the Prince and Kingsguard had been training since the break of dawn. Ser Criston had a look of exhaustion on his face, the midday sun clearly taking a toll on him, but Prince Aemond continued sparring with a fierce determination, parrying Criston’s offensives with utmost precision or viciously swinging his sword to land a blow on the knight. 

Whilst the prince was fond of training for long hours, Ser Criston was familiar enough with Prince Aemond’s various moods to know that today, while he was there in person, he was not in spirit. Seeing a chance, Criston quickly moved to swing a blow at Prince Aemond, and succeeded in catching him off guard, knocking the sword from the Prince’s hand for the first time this morning. 

Criston expected the prince to get angry that he had been bested, but Aemond merely raised a brow and rolled his eye, “I yield. Let us cease training for this morning.” Applause broke out through the training yard, and Criston had to hide a grin. It had been a while since he managed to beat Aemond in training. 

As the crowd dispersed, Criston noticed Aemond polishing his sword at a corner, a brooding look on his face. Feeling particularly emboldened this morning at his victory, Criston walked towards the prince, setting down his morningstar as he questioned, “What troubles you, my prince?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are insinuating, Cole,” came Aemond’s curt response, but Criston was undeterred. “You may pretend all is well, but you have been on edge for a few days now, aye?” Criston commented, observing how the prince’s jaw was clenched. Oddly enough, he noticed doubt shining in the prince’s lone violet eye., catching Criston off guard “You may have been sparring with me this morning, but your heart is elsewhere. Tell me what troubles you, my prince.” 

Criston expected the prince to scowl and tell him it was none of his business, but instead, Aemond let out a pensive sigh, before tentatively asking, “Ser Criston, how do you reckon one should please their betrothed?” 

Criston’s ears immediately stood up in attention. Gods be good, the One-Eyed Prince was asking him for advice? And about his betrothed no less. As a Kingsguard, Criston had to suppress a laugh at the irony. “Are you referring to the Lady Y/N Y/L/N, my prince?” 

“Well, it could hardly be anyone else, could it?” Aemond retorted, though his heart was not in it. Criston watched, amused, as Aemond hummed contemplatively, “As you know, she and I were betrothed less than a moon’s turn ago. I had not crossed paths with her often before that, but…” Aemond swallowed, thinking of how brilliantly she smiled at him every time he had the fortune of being graced with her presence. He had always knew that his marriage would be one of duty and political benefit to his house, but over the course of getting to know the lady over the past few weeks, he found her company pleasant, and her gentle charm and surprisingly humorous wit a welcome change in the usual dreadfully boring courtiers at the Red Keep. And with every passing moment he spent in her presence, he felt a small sliver of affection for her begin to blossom in his heart. “As I got to know her more, I soon began to wish to be the sole cause of her brilliant smiles, her beautiful laughter, and selfishly, the sole receiver of her love and affection.”

Aemond had to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands. He was sounding like a lovesick fool, in front of Cole, of all people. Gods, he was an idiot, an utter idiot. Swords he could swing and books he could read, but when it came to affection, he found himself no better than an ignorant babe. “It sounds as though you harbour a great affection for the lady Y/L/N,” Criston smiled. “Yes,” Aemond said softly, his voice tinged a little with despair. “But I am unsure on how to best express my affections. She is akin to an ethereal maiden, and I’m naught but a crippled prince, who is stumped in my duties as a husband. I cannot seem to muster up the courage to proclaim my love for her, or shower her with praises and compliments.” 

‘Gods, what if she is unhappy with my performance of my duties as her husband because I am too much of a coward to even talk to her about my feelings?’ Aemond thought in alarm, mind racing. He did not want to be the reason why those lovely smiles of hers cease to exist. He wanted to make her feel like the most blissful woman in the realm. But he was completely clueless as to how. Words seemed completely inadequate to express the depth of his affection for her, and he had never been the best with his words anyway. 

Just then, Aemond felt a hand on his shoulder, grounding him to reality once more “Breathe, my prince,” Criston’s steady voice calmed Aemond down, making his racing thoughts come to a screeching halt. “I do believe you are overthinking things, my prince. Contrary to popular belief, I think that affection need not be expressed in elaborate gestures or through fervent declarations of love all the time.” 

Aemond’s eyebrows shot up, “Then how will she know how much I appreciate her? I can barely converse with her without looking like a stuttering fool.” Criston smiled, a sort of fatherly affection filling his eyes as he glanced down at the prince. “Though I am lacking in experience in matters of the heart, I believe that affection isn’t always just about grand gestures. Words are not the only outlet to express your admiration of her, my prince. You can start with the little actions: spending time with her, bringing her flowers, talking more with her about her interests, that sort of thing.” “And you think that that would be sufficient?”Aemond was a little sceptical. 

“Of course, that would not suffice in the long run. You are to be married, my prince, you will spend countless years with each other, you will have to do more than that.” Aemond’s face turned crestfallen, causing Criston to pat his shoulder, “However, given your trouble in expressing your feelings, these small gestures are a start. Build up from there, and you’ll find it easier to demonstrate your love for her over time.” Aemond’s gaze was still pensive, but his eye was sparkling a little with hope. “But what if I’m at a loss of words every time I’m with her? Won’t she find my company dreadfully dull then?” Criston couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from him, though Aemond looked faintly offended at that. “Sometimes, your company is good enough, your Grace. Not all your time spent together need be filled with meaningful conversations. Basking in each other’s presence is bliss enough.” 

Satisfied with Criston’s response, Aemond stood up with a decisive look. “I am grateful for your advice, Cole. I shall depart to implement your advice at once.” Before leaving, however, Aemond tilted his head and smirked slightly, “You are rather good at giving romantic advice for a knight, Ser Criston. Your wisdom is wasted on being a Kingsguard.” 

Criston barked a laugh, thinking of that someone from so long ago. “Mayhaps, your grace. But I think I am rather content imparting my knowledge to you for now.” Aemond said nothing at that, only raising a hand in farewell as he strode off. Criston watched him depart, a slight grin on his face. ‘The Queen would be delighted to hear of this,’ he thought to himself with a degree of satisfaction. 

You were sitting in Princess Helaena’s apartments, forehead furrowed in concentration as you delicately weaved a needle through the handkerchief you were embroidering for your betrothed. The midday sun shone through the long windows, casting a light golden glow throughout Helaena’s chambers. 

“Here, what do you think of this?” Helaena leaned over to you, eyes shining with anticipation as you held up your work so far. “It’s beautiful,” Helaena complimented, “Is that a raven?” You nodded, tilting your head to inspect your work. “Do you think it is too unusual to embroider on a handkerchief?” Helaena laughed, “You should not be asking me. Given the fact that-” she held up her own embroidery, and you laughed when you caught sight of a large beetle on her handkerchief. 

“I have to ask, however, why a raven?” Helaena inquired. You bit your lip softly, remembering your last interaction with your betrothed, Aemond. Knowing your love for birds, Aemond had taken you to Grand Maester Orwyle’s rookery, to see the various birds he had fostered there. You had both taken a liking to the ravens, with their intelligent eyes and strangely silent demeanour, compared to the other noisier birds in the rookery. You thought to yourself that they reminded you much of Aemond, though you did not say it out loud, watching with fond eyes as Aemond fed a raven and stroked its feathers, with a gentleness you did not know he possessed. 

“Your brother seems to like them,” you answered, smiling. Helaena beamed, “I’m sure he would be pleased with your gift.” “I do hope so,” your voice trailed off hesitantly, causing Helaena to take your free hand and squeeze it lightly. You had been much enamoured with your betrothed ever since your arrival to King’s Landing several moon turns ago, and you have come to know and appreciate him for his silent, thoughtful aura. However, his comportment did spell some uncertainty in you. While you knew this was a political match, your heart couldn’t help but yearn that your future husband would love you as much as you did him. 

But it was nigh impossible to tell what the One-Eyed Prince was thinking whenever we spent time together. He seemed perfectly cordial to you…but you wished you could get a further glimpse into what he felt for you. Did he feel at least a fraction of the adoration you felt for him? Or were you doomed to spend a lifetime in a courteous, yet dispassionate and loveless marriage with a man you long admired? 

Your thoughts were cut off by a sudden knock on the door. Startled, you nearly dropped your embroidery, but Helaena caught it deftly just in time. Sheepishly murmuring your thanks, you watched as a serving girl came into the room and curtsied in front of the both of you. “Your Grace, my lady, Prince Aemond is requesting to see you.” 

Aemond? Your heart began pounding furiously, delight and anticipation filling you. Was he here to see you? You tried tamping down your excitement, thinking firmly to yourself that he could be equally as likely to be here for Helaena. “Did he say which of the two of us he wanted to see?” “He wished to see Lady Y/N, your Grace.”

Your heart was beating so fast it felt dangerously close to exploding. Your mind was spinning in a dizzying rush of emotions. Helaena dismissed the serving girl, and smiled at you, “Well, I should not keep my brother waiting any longer for his betrothed. Go.” 

“Thank you, your Grace. Will I see you at dinner with the Queen tonight?” “Of course. You must tell me everything that happens,” Helaena’s eyes twinkled merrily. “That is a given,” you stood up and curtsied, before exiting the room, clutching the handkerchief you just sewed like it was the last thing grounding you to reality. Your steps were light and airy, and your heart nearly stopped when you saw Aemond standing by a window, his back to you, looking as majestic as ever in his training gear and his long silver hair flowing down his back. Your betrothed. 

“My Prince,” a sweet voice broke through Aemond’s thoughts. He turned around, his eye widening as he beheld his fair lady. She was dressed beautifully as always, in a light pink gown with a square neckline and elbow length sleeves. Pearl earrings dangled from her earlobes, serving only to accentuate her lovely complexion. He strode to her as she curtsied, his hand reaching out to her shoulder. 

“At ease,” Aemond’s voice was like velvet. “You are my betrothed, there is no need for such formalities.” You nodded shyly, meeting Aemond’s eye, surprised that today, there was actually a flicker of emotion behind it. Noticing how he shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, your eyes widened slightly as you realised that Aemond Targaryen, the usually composed and unflinching prince, was nervous. And it was because of you. 

Aemond cleared his throat, finally revealing what he had been hiding behind his back. Just when you thought the day’s events could not get any stranger than seeing Aemond being anxious, you were caught even more off guard when you spotted an assortment of pink, blue and orange blooms in his hand. 

“These are for you, my lady,” he added, eye darting over her face to drink in all her beautiful features and most importantly, her reaction to his attempt at expressing his adoration for her. He was immensely relieved to find nothing but genuine delight on his betrothed’s face. 

“Oh, they’re wonderful,” you exclaimed happily, a flush going to your cheeks. “You are too kind, my prince. Thank you, I love them.” Aemond watched tenderly as she took the flowers and held them to her nose. She was simply angelic. 

You inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers, feeling your heart flutter at his sudden, but welcome gesture of affection. Perhaps this was a sign he returned your feelings? 

Aemond took a deep breath, trying to recall all the advice Criston had told him in the training yard just now. He had stopped by the garden to pick out the prettiest wildflowers he could find, but he found that none could compare to the sheer radiance of his betrothed when she smiled. ‘Focus’, Aemond told himself sternly, trying to collect his thoughts. ‘This was about making her see how much I care for her, not waxing on and on internally about how utterly struck I am by her beauty. I cannot mess this up.’ 

‘I must make her see how she has come to become the sun in my life.’ 

But Aemond was cut off by your sudden ‘Oh!’ Aemond nearly jumped out of his skin, afraid that there was something wrong with the flowers. But he was puzzled when you extended a handkerchief to him, smiling brightly. “I embroidered this for you. Take this as a token of gratitude for the flowers.” Aemond turned over the handkerchief delicately, tracing over the raven and various flowers sewed at the corner of the handkerchief, along with his initials, ‘A.T’ He felt his breath catch in his throat, “This…this is…” 

You watched him nervously as he stammered before falling into silence. Did he not like it? Perhaps he thought the raven was too much? You gripped the flowers in your hand a little tighter, saying a prayer to the Seven in your mind. 

Your worries were immediately allayed when Aemond pressed a shaky kiss onto your forehead. Startled, yet utterly enchanted, you stared up at him, who looked almost as shocked as you were at the kiss. “I…I take it you like your gift then?” you asked softly. 

He let out a quiet chuckle, “I think ‘like’ is an understatement, my lady. It is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given to me. I shall cherish it forever. As I will with you.” 

Aemond nearly screamed when he realised he blurted out the last part. ‘Why did I say that, why did I say that, why did I say that!’ his mind flooded with panic. However, suddenly emboldened from the adrenaline of the moment, he finally found the courage to express what he had been feeling for his fair lady. “My lady, I would like to confess something, and I think there couldn’t be a more appropriate time than this. I am hopelessly besotted with you.” He watched her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, and he hurried to add, “Tis alright if you do not return those feelings! I understand, believe me. I do not wish to force you to do anything you are uncomfortable with. But it’s just that I loved you for so long, and I had no idea how to tell you, and I fear if I let this moment slip I will never muster up the bravery to tell you again and gods I-” the energy suddenly drained out of him as he found himself once again, at a loss of words. “I just…adore you beyond belief. Beyond what I can fathom. Please ignore my ramblings if you are uncomfortable with them, just take them as the words of a lovesick fool.” He averted her eyes, embarrassment and sadness filling him. How could he hope for someone as good and wonderful as her to love such a beast as him? The Gods should strike him down for his pride. 

A warm hand reached for Aemond’s, interlacing her fingers with his. Aemond looked up in disbelief at your next words, “You have no idea how thankful I am to hear those words…because I feel the same.” You smiled shyly at him, “I was hoping you had the same sentiments as I did, and now that you professed your feelings, I could not be happier.” 

Aemond reached out to grip her hand with both of his, cradling her soft hand in his hands, staring deep into her eyes, sparkling with so much devotion and adoration. They stood in silence for a while, before Aemond pulled her hand gently to his lips and planted a reverent kiss to her knuckles. 

“Would you…perhaps care to take a stroll with me, my lady? I believe we have a lot to discuss.” 

“I would love nothing more, your Grace.” 

let me know if you wish to be added to a taglist for general aemond works! if you enjoyed this fic, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated :) thank you for reading! 

#aureliawrites #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond imagine #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond stannies #aemond targaryen fanfic #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fluff #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x fem!oc #aemond targaryen x ofc #aemond x fem!oc #aemond x oc

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Pearl of The Realm

Aemond x wife!reader | HOTD Big Bang!

Summary: Duty meant a lot of things to Aemond. But he had hoped that it would not mean marriage. And when the day comes for him to confront it, he finds with his new wife, small, naiive and innocent, that there is some pleasure to be found there also.

Word Count: 9,240 (oops) | Warnings below the cut~

A/N: My fic for the HOTD Big Bang! Thank you to the lovely @solisarium for the artwork! 🥰 Please also support all the other lovely writers/artists over @hotd-bigbang, and thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for organising this event ❤

Warnings: arranged marriage, virginity loss, p in v sex, domination, corruption kink, oral (f receiving), fingering, canon typical sexism, aemond has a breeding kink (obvi), dark!aemond (ish)

Aemond Targaryen was nothing if not dutiful.

To the realm. His title. But most of all, his family.

As a Prince of the Realm, he had many duties.

For most of his adult life he had trained relentlessly with the sword, striving to become better than his own teacher.

He had buried his nose in books, absorbing  information from them, willing them to stick to the insides of his head to obtain intelligence unmatched by any other member of his family.

And, most of all, he had upheld his faithful relationship with his mother, whom he cherished dearly, and his sister equally.

He'd always felt close to the women in his life. But his mother had a special place in his heart. She had been through such hardships, such sacrifice.

And when she'd exploded that night in Driftmark, as inexcusable as she seemed the behaviour to be, he had felt such utter devotion towards her that she would be so angry on his behalf. At a time when he had felt so vulnerable, and felt that his own voice as well as hers had been ignored by the man in their lives.

A man who had so repeatedly, let them down.

He would never admit it out loud, but a part of him sought pleasure in the fact his father was largely bed-bound these days. Even more so that his own father had lost an eye as a result of his worsening condition.

It felt like the Gods were looking down on him and validating him.

But there was one duty he had yet to perform.

Taking a wife.

Unfortunately for him, that time was upon him, and he had no interest in it whatsoever.

As much as Alicent tried, and she really did try, she could not get her second son interested in courting the ladies at the Keep.

As soon as Aemond clapped an eye on the opposite sex, he would retreat in the opposite direction. Not even bothering to engage in conversation, surmising perhaps that he had little in common with them.

He'd never met a lady before who shared the same interests, why start actively seeking them out now?

Alicent's son was in his prime, rooted in adulthood, and she knew it was time, like it or not, that he was wed.

Aemond stood stock still, hands behind his back curled into fists, biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to show his mother the annoyance on his face. Her words were those of truth. He knew that he would eventually have to marry someone, but it did little to take the sting away from it. Often, while his mother talked at him, he looked down at his boots, shifting his weight from his right, to his left, and to his right, again, batting little thoughts in his head.

What his mother didn’t know is what those ladies at court said about him while they supposed his back was turned.

That he was of a violent disposition with a quarrelsome temper, one wrong movement or something as simple as a word spoken out of turn and he would dare not speak to the person in question for however long he deemed fit. That women thought of him as incapable of feeling something as beautiful as love, or even affection, given the sullen look he always wore, with barely-contained anger lurking beneath and an unexpressed pride in his position.

Aemond would never show that such words would have any effect on him with earnest. Sometimes it is better to not say anything at all, he concluded. This method had so often proven successful, it seemed little use to him to stray from it now.

He merely hoped that this woman his mother spoke of with such respect, was not one of the ladies at court.

And mercifully, Aemond sighed with relief that she was not.

Something struck deep within his chest. His mother spoke of her so wonderfully, as if she were a star plucked from the sky, and Aemond pondered if such attributes could be proven correct by simply meeting her once, as Alicent had. What woman, and of what standing, deserved such praise, after only meeting for a short time?

What would she look like? Her mannerisms, her stature, her smile? He found himself haunted by these thoughts without even knowing the woman’s name. Much less, her appearance.

He feared that she might share the same sentiments as the other ladies at court once they were due to meet, chaperoned by her ladies and tainted by their company. Perhaps they had their own opinions that they instilled on her also. She might be afraid of him, he thought. Maybe it is not so bad if she feared him, he allowed himself to think.

Aemond could not find it in his heart to expose himself so willingly to a stranger he was due to wed, and so when word reached the Keep that she had arrived and made her pleasantries, he thought to have mercy on the poor thing, stay clear and not dim her supposed ethereal presence with the darkness that followed at his back since the day he lost his eye.

There was some power in not allowing her to see him until their wedding day.

While a small part of him felt empathetic to the poor girl, that her betrothed chose not to greet her on arrival, another part of him was somewhat self-assured that he had made the right decision. It was the little power he felt he had.

When one thinks of a wedding, they might imagine the Sept beaming with joy, crammed with people all eager to feast their eyes on the new royal couple. But as Aemond stood before the Septon, with the extended feeling of nervousness at the fact she had yet to arrive, he could hear nothing.The Sept was dead silent. The people, the lords and ladies, as well as his family, were in attendance, watching with wide, curious eyes, too terrified to make a sound.

His hands were rigid behind his back, dressed in his finery, feeling the tightness of his clothes against his chest where his heart was hammering underneath.

For duty. For family.

He did not see her at first, as she was on his blind side, but once she’d well and truly stepped beside him, he spared a glance at her and felt his mouth go utterly dry.

Her dress, which he presumed were her house colours, was a light pastel, almost dream-like when combined with the translucent silky fabric graced atop it. He watched with curiosity as she let go of her father’s hand. Her gaze and almost undetectable smile was warm and inviting, as if the space around her was simply alight with her presence. Her father peeled the cloak from her shoulders, and it reminded him that he had the cloak with the Targaryen colours fisted in his grip.

Her hair was pinned up in a series of braids, all varying in size, and he was ashamed to admit that the first thought that came to mind was not that she looked beautiful with them, but that they must be uncomfortable. He was allowed to have his hair loose around his shoulders, whereas this woman, and he supposed others like her, were prodded and poked to look their best to the detriment of their comfort.

Aemond found it impossible to stare ahead and listen to the Septon, and he could’ve let a heavy breath loose when he was asked to cloak her. He swallowed over the lump in his throat that had formed and lifted his gaze to look down at her. Her bright, warm eyes looked up at him, revealing nothing about what she was really thinking, and her lips were full and looked soft, forcing him to think what they would feel like when they would sign their marriage with a kiss later.

He took a breath and placed the cloak on her shoulders, half thinking that such a heavy, large thing would swallow her whole, for her form was smaller than his, and therefore more delicate. Placing his hands on her, but not directly, still felt somewhat intimate, especially in a room of so many people watching. But something stirred deep within when he stepped back and observed that the colours complimented her, like she was meant to be his and belong to him.

They faced each other as the Septon spoke.

Aemond watched every micro-movement. The fluttering of her eyelashes, the deep intakes of breath through her nose and her thumb brushing over her hand, in what he could only assume was nerves, though she was hiding it well on her face.

It was only here that he noticed she wore a dainty pearl necklace, not at all gaudy in size, but small and delicate, like he perceived her to be.

A feeling he didn’t know hummed in his blood. And it showed when both of them were asked to conclude the ceremony with a kiss.

“With this kiss I pledge my love.”

Aemond had to be the one to lean down to meet her in the middle, and he felt his blood thrum when their lips met, excited to find that her lips were as soft as he had imagined. He could not help the lewd thought that passed through his mind, and wondered if the rest of her was as supple and luxurious.

Curse the wedding feast, he wanted to find out right after the ceremony.

He was not overzealous with the kiss, not wanting to frighten her. But he was equally delighted when they parted to the applause of the lords and ladies, to find that her cheeks were faintly bloomed with warmth. His lips pulled into an indistinct smile at the idea that he was the first man that would have made her feel that way, and it pulled a possessive string in Aemond’s body towards her.

He took her hand in his and led her away from the Septon, through the line of people, and relished in the fact that she was now his. Aemond felt somewhat ashamed when his manhood began to harden within his breeches at the mere touch of her hand, and wondered what hers would look like wrapped around it. If her fingers could barely encircle it, and if she would be good and pliant, do as she’s told, and please him.

The wine during the feast surprisingly did nothing to quell the hardness between his legs. He yearned so desperately for her, sat right next to him, posture straight and proper like a good lady wife, with her hands clasped so delicately in her lap. She had yet to say a word to him and he thought she must have been raised very strict, not speaking to her betters without being spoken to first, and now that person was her husband.

It was difficult not to look unimpressed when the various lords and ladies all queued up to provide their congratulations to the intimate little table he and his wife were seated at during the feast.

He watched his mother beam with joy, though he and his wife had not spoken. Aegon had snickered, clearly thinking something inappropriate. And Otto had bowed, offering congratulations as if he had not been involved in the match behind the scenes along with Alicent the entire time. Did he think he was stupid?

Not even his father had managed to pull himself from his bed to offer his congratulations. But, Aemond thought then, he was glad he didn't have to see his face.

At times he could suppress his sheer boredom and impatience, he wanted them all to leave him alone so he could fuck his wife and see what pretty sounds she could make. With the absence of her voice, it only made him more impatient to find out.

Surely, the girl might not have been afraid of him? He thought.

Aemond almost regretted hoping she was afraid of him, but there was some dull excitement in thinking she was, even now, with how beautiful she looked. When he takes her maidenhead, as he was sure she was entirely pure, would her soft eyes look up at him in fear, or in pleasure, or both?

He found his gaze wandering over her for several quiet moments, watching her profile as she scanned the hall, observing everyone else enjoying themselves. Whilst he appeared somewhat indifferent to her to anyone else’s untrained eye, he was otherwise calm and collected. Her lips glistened against the warm amber glow of the candles adorning the table, and he could not hide his delight in seeing how she swallowed nervously. She must have felt his gaze on her, he thought. And as he watched her throat bob, he was drawn to her chest, where the pearls lay, and watched as her breathing pushed her breasts somewhat over the bust of her dress.

He imagined those pearls dancing while he fucked her, her breasts moving with the rhythm of driving his cock into her sweet wetness. Her lips parted with hurried breaths as she struggled to gain it while she appeased him with the sound of her soft moans.

“Are the celebrations to your liking, wife?”

He smirked, testing the title on his tongue.

The insides of him glimmered in excitement when she turned, her posture still perfect and straight. Her wide, innocent eyes met his with curiosity, and also fright that he had spoken to her in such a way. She almost seemed to flinch at the new title he’d referred to her as.

She gave an almost indistinguishable nod, her grip tightening on her hands, “Yes, husband, thank you.” She replied with a wavering voice.

She studied him for a moment, watching as he gave a lopsided smirk, adoring the way she seemed so nervous in his presence, and speaking to her husband. He drank slowly, continuing to watch her squirm under his gaze. Her breathing had hastened, evident by the way she struggled under the tight confines of her boned dress.

Her voice was smooth, like the sweetest honey, and he couldn’t wait to hear how it would translate, echoing throughout their marital chambers, with his flesh pressed against hers.

He never imagined merely envisioning power over something so delicate could be so exhilarating.

Aemond had to hide how elated he was when their leave was announced. He stood, and therefore she did as well, like a delayed little shadow.

She was an obedient little thing, he surmised, as she followed quietly, willfully ignorant to the leering glances and smirks of the lords and ladies who parted a path for them. Every single one of them was curious, as to how such a quiet, soft girl could tame someone so fearsome and chaotic as a dragon prince, who could not be caged in as mere mortal men could.

The chambers seemed too grand, too clunky, to house such a perfect thing as her, he thought. She stood stock still in the middle of his chambers, which he would now share with her, and watched amused as she looked around and took in her surroundings as if she were in some kind of danger. Her pupils flitted about the darkened room, lit only in a warm glow from various candlesticks placed most deliberately.

Her pale dress cast a glow against the grey of the room, as well as her aura, which seemed to lift all the tension from his body and direct it to the place he had needed her the most since he laid his eye on her.

The glass decanter clinked as he poured himself a cup of wine, his back to her.

Aemond turned and extended the decanter only slightly, asking wordlessly if she would like one as well.

But she simply wringed her hands and shook her head, her body wracked with nerves.

Aemond only chuckled, cup of wine in hand and looked upon her, standing so diligently, where he’d left her.

“Wine might dull your nerves, my lady wife.” He mused, watching the way she looked down in embarrassment at being able to see inside her head so clearly.

Every now and then, she would peek over at the well made bed, like it was an inevitability, and not a place where she would share her most intimate and passionate moments with her new husband.

There was a dark red blanket held taught atop the pale sheets.

A warning.

There were never such dark, stark colours atop her bed sheets at home, and she wondered silently why they would choose such a menacing colour to adorn a place where you may lay your head to rest.

A peaceful night’s sleep. A moment’s passion. The birth of a child.

She thought, beds are where we are born, where we sleep, where marriages are made, where women give birth, which is often their last. And where we die. Not necessarily in that order.

Her husband may have thought a bed a peaceful thing.

But to her, many dangerous things may take place in a bed. And she had heard the stories of a dragon’s temper. Of lords, not necessarily of royal standing, taking their wives on their wedding night, whether their wives were willing or not. And this, is what she feared.

“You need not be so afraid.”

He tore her from her thoughts. And she blushed and felt warm all over realising he had caught her staring at the bed, her body betraying how nervous she felt.

When he looked at her, he felt his manhood throb. He wondered if the blood would rush to her cunny the same way it rushed to her cheeks, and how her flesh would cover her delicious curves beneath the softness of her gown.

He felt excited when she opened her mouth, forcing the air into her lungs like it took all her effort.

“May I ask for your assistance with my gown, husband?” She asked sweetly, with her eyes downcast.

Husband.

He felt his cock become impossibly harder.

He poked his cheek with his tongue in amusement, pushing himself off what he was leaning on and made towards her, watching the way she shrunk the closer he got. She turned slowly, showing him her back, where the laces of her dress were tied so tightly, he was surprised she had not asked him sooner.

While he worked on them, loosening the fabric around her middle, his breath hitched when he saw the shift underneath. She moved her hands to her hair, pulling several pins from it where the braids had been twisted together. She visibly shivered under his touch when the laces were undone and he pushed the stiff fabric apart across her back.

Her hair fell to her shoulders, and she used the sharpened tip of the pins to undo the braids into delicate wavy strands, all while unaware how her new husband marvelled at her out of sight.

She walked away from him for a moment to the vanity, never meeting the looking glass with her eyes, but simply placing the pins in a trinket bowl. With the gown loosened around her shoulders, the fabric lifted when she reached up to unclasp the necklace.

“Leave that on.”

She met his gaze in the mirror, questioning. Her cheeks alight with what he was suggesting.

But he didn’t say anything else.

So instead, she cleared her throat quietly, and pulled the heavy dress from her shoulders, folding it lengthways and draping it over an armchair. Her fingers clasped and unclasped, anxious. Aemond merely watched, his doublet feeling tight and hot against his chest. He could make out the silhouette of her form beneath the thin cotton, the candlelight illuminating her, as if her body was the soft and gentle morning sun, peeking over the horizon to set the day alight.

He heard her shuddered breath and allowed himself to think about what it would feel like against his neck while he rutted into her. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, pulling him closer to her, to sink deeper into her hot insides.

“I do hope that…I please you…with my appearance.” She murmured, turning with her body to face him from a distance. She sounded embarrassed, and shy.

Aemond furrowed his brows.

“Why do you say such a thing?” He asked, colder than he had meant to sound. And it’s clear that the tone of it made her shudder more, which he didn’t intend.

“I only meant that…I hope I am pleasing to the eye…and that I shall be obedient and supportive, as a good wife should be.”

He fought the urge to smile, not wanting to embarrass her further. His silence towards her had clearly given her the wrong impression. That he didn’t approve of her, and perhaps she thought that she wasn’t suitable for him because of his reaction.

“Come here.”

She did as he asked, albeit slowly, until she stood right in front of him.

“Are you afraid of me?”

Does my appearance scare you, he thought with curiosity, and panic.

Does my ailment make you uneasy, as it does the other ladies?

She shook her head softly, “No.” She answered quietly, “It’s just… my Septa said…that the night of consummation would be…” she trailed off, speaking too quietly for him to hear.

“It is alright. Speak again, without fear.”

She swallowed as she looked at him, having to crane her neck.

“She said…the night of consummation would be painful…and that it must be endured. As wives are to be submissive and obedient to their husbands.”

She spoke as if she were speaking from a line in a book. And Aemond thought she must have had this idea stamped into her brain from a very young age. It both concerned and irritated him to think that a young child, forming into a young woman, would be forced into being so terrified of such intimacy by a caregiver who ultimately knew little about marriage.

“There will be some pain.” He replied simply, watching the way she flinched at his words, “But I do not wish for you to endure it simply because you have been told to.”

His fingers came to the tresses of hair that hung on her shoulders, threading his fingers through them and revelling in their softness. Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips parted, absorbing his words, and he could see behind them that he was challenging everything she had ever been told.

“If there is pain, you must tell me.”

She inhaled slowly, gathering her nerves, and nodded simply.

“Come. Lay on the bed.”

Though he spoke softer, there was still a coldness to the way he gave his demands. But nonetheless, she did as he said, and stared up to the canopy of the bed, feeling her heart going so fast she was sure it would burst from her chest.

All she heard was the rustling of leather, the unlooping of his belt, and the clinking of his silver clasps.

She felt the mattress dip at the end of the bed and saw her new husband, without his doublet, but with his breeches only untied halfway, so she could not see a thing. But even so, the sight of a man naked on his torso had her heart still in her chest, and warmth crawl up to her cheeks. Aemond chuckled slightly, not wishing to embarrass her.

“Have you seen a man bare before, little one?” He asked, laying down beside her. She tried with the utmost effort to not stare at him, fearing that in some way she would anger him. His chest was well-muscled and pale, shimmering in the low light of the chambers and littered with many tiny scars that had silvered with time. His hair ran like milk over his shoulders, so silky it seemed to stick to his smooth skin.

She shook her head, and mouthed ‘no’. His manhood throbbed in his breeches at the thought that she had not even seen a man beneath his clothes before, and that he would be the first.

“It is alright, there is no need to be embarrassed.” He gave her a soft smile, trying his best to appear comforting.

But it could not be ignored that they were strangers, and it was his fault that he had not gone to see her before marriage and get to know her better. And on top of that, she was afraid, not of him, but that he might hurt her and that it would define her expectations for the rest of the marriage.

She flinched noticeably in shock, not out of fear, but at not having been touched so intimately, when his palm ran softly up her leg, taking her shift with it.

“Relax.”

She tried to do as he said.

She was so jumpy and nervous, Aemond wondered for a brief, funny moment, if she had even spoken to a man before today.

So he asked a question which he thought was almost silly to ask.

“Have you ever touched yourself?”

His question was answered immediately when she flushed and her face went all warm, and suddenly she was unable to meet his gaze. She shook her head softly. And instead of feeling bad for her, a devilish grin split across his face, all the blood going south.

She was so pious, and so devoted to the Seven, that she had saved any part of her inner desires for her husband to be.

He would be the first to give her pleasure of any kind.

To touch her intimately.

To make her feel as beautiful as he thought she was.

“It is alright. I shall show you.” He added softly, his voice like the purr of a cat.

She dared to look back at him as his hand trailed higher, dipping beneath the hem of her shift to touch her smooth skin beneath, “How will it feel?...”

“It may feel strange at first,” He answered honestly, “But after that, it should be pleasurable.”

She seemed to accept his answer, but her legs were pressed together almost instinctively, like her body was telling her it needed to appear smaller. His sharp nose pressed into her hair, inhaling her pleasant, female scent. His breath against the shell of her ear, hot puffs of air landing against her neck, where he began to place one, and then two open-mouthed kisses.

His eye wandered over her from this angle. Looking down her body, he could see the shadow of what lay beneath her shift in between her breasts as they moved with her breathing, which was slow and calculated. He could see how her hands held the bedsheets below her in her palm, not tightly, but prepared to pull on them if she needed.

She shivered with a shuddered breath when he kissed her, trailing his lips lower to her collarbone, past her string of delicate pearls, and he could see that beneath the cotton, her nipples had reacted to the chill of the room, but he liked to imagine that it was because of the way he was touching her so lovingly.

His hand completely slipped past where her hip met her leg, not touching her womanhood just yet, but close enough to feel its warmth. He felt the gooseflesh on her tummy as he trailed upwards, the shift bunched against his arm when his palm slid over her breast. She gasped softly as he squeezed tenderly, testing the weight of it in his palm and kneading it, and when he looked up to her briefly, she had closed her eyes.

He would tell her to open them later, after he did what he planned.

Her hips moved towards the mattress when his deft fingers dipped between her legs, the tips parting her folds to her entrance first, where Aemond began to feel the slick, as little as there was, gathered around it.

She was beginning to feel aroused even if she didn't know it.

She whimpered, pressing her lips together when she felt his fingers in such a strange, forbidden place. Her eyebrows furrowed in discomfort.

"Shh…" He cooed, the air brushing against her cheek, "Relax, dear wife."

She swallowed thick, and relaxed her thighs so that they weren't pushed together as much. The title he'd given her making her head feel as if it were full of air and nothing else.

A part of her felt bad. For she was supposed to be an obedient, pliant little wife, and he was taking care of her so diligently and she was still afraid.

"I apologise-"

"Do not apologise." He replied quickly, and her eyes opened, glistening with a new expression of understanding, "Only feel."

Her breath quickened.

Feel?

"Feel how I touch you here -"

He drew his fingers from her entrance to her pearl, drawing little soft circles using her arousal for ease. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes glued to him, a near-indistinguishable gasp falling from her lips. She began to feel a sort of ache, deep in her stomach that felt strange. And her hips began to move in micro-movements.

"This is where you feel the most pleasure." He whispered, his fingers moving sometimes directly and then indirectly over her pearl. At others, the anticipation of them being close to it had her hips searching for the touch.

"How does it feel?" He asked.

She struggled to think of a word, having never felt this dull and yet pleasurable rush to her core.

"Strange…pleasantly so."

He continued to move slowly, not making a direct effort to make her peak like this, just allowing her to feel what the touch of a man, the touch of her husband, could feel like.

"I will prepare you like this, so that there will be as little pain as possible."

Maintaining eye contact while he said things like that, while he did things to her like this, felt so intimate and so painfully domestic. As if nobody had bothered to care for her so much in her life. Her eyes curiously flitted between his seeing one and his eyepatch, not in fear, but wondering what he might be hiding beneath it.

It would not be removed this night. Or perhaps many to come.

Aemond's fingers moved over her womanhood with ease, more slick began to pool there and lubricate her puffy folds, swollen with arousal. She was wet, but he thought not prepared enough for his cock just yet.

He shifted his body down, his cheek grazing over her still clothed form, as if he was teasing himself. He could easily have asked her to be naked for him. But there was still trust to be gained.

Her eyes were questioning where he might be going. And she truly had no idea.

Using his knee, he settled between her legs, seeing the gooseflesh still there. His hands rucked up her shift, just pausing at the point where it would reveal her womanhood, all slick and ready for him. Her cheeks bloomed as she looked down at him, but didn't have the courage to question.

"Keep your eyes on me." He whispered lowly, his fingers pushing the fabric up so that he could see her cunt, so close to his face. And he was hit right then with the invigorating scent of her, like the sweetest perfume. He felt ashamed that even the scent of her aroused little cunny made his cock weep with arousal.

She looked more embarrassed than anything to have her new husband's face so close to her intimate area she had been taught to keep hidden. And it was hard for her to keep her legs apart. But she couldn't close them for fear of clamping on his head, and his hands were tenderly keeping them spread, his fingers only slightly indented in her supple flesh.

He looked down upon her, his thumb grazing her pearl again and watching with delight as her hips moved again, accompanied with a breath. It was simply too tempting, the idea of tasting her and the sweet nectar that leaked from within.

Holding her thighs, he leaned forward and flattened his tongue against her womanhood, and something primal was awoken inside when he finally tasted his new, little wife. He moved around her folds, and whenever he had to take a breath he placed an open-mouth kiss to it. He spared a glance up at her, and he hadn’t even heard her hurried breathing or tiny whispers of moans, so engrossed in tasting her for the first time.

Her cheeks were alight, her eyes torn between settling on his gaze and what he was doing to her. He had already told her to keep her eyes on him, and Aemond felt pleased that despite how embarrassed she was, she was obeying him.

Aemond redoubled his efforts, using his tongue to part her folds and nuzzling deeper against her, his nose rubbing gently against her pearl and using his wet muscle to dip against her entrance. It’s here that she gave some semblance of a proper moan, slipping shakily out of her throat, her hands tightening on the bed sheets.

He all but moaned against her cunt, delving into the deepest parts of her and dragging his tongue against the top of her velvety walls, trying to find out why she was the way she was. What made her feel the best. How he could make more of those pretty sounds tumble past her lips. He thought he could have spent all his life between her thighs, lapping at her arousal, and he would die a happy man.

In his grip, her thighs began to shake, and her brows furrowed like she didn’t understand what this feeling coursing through her veins was, this fire ablaze in her blood. Pride flooded his head, and he dragged his tongue from the inside of her to her pearl, where he drew circles over it. She jolted in his hold, as if he’d scared her, but he knew that it was because of the overwhelming feeling that was beginning to crest over her, and the uncertainty of it.

With his attention and efforts on her bud alone and she was suitably wet, he looked up at her when he touched her entrance with the pad of his finger. He heard her gasp when he slowly sank one digit inside her, he himself struggling to keep his composure once he realised just how tight she was around his finger alone. And he could barely think straight thinking about how she would feel wrapped around his cock.

He could forgive for the time being that her eyes were closed and brows furrowed, for the new sensation must have been strange for her. Something akin to a strangled whine rumbled from her chest when he was sank all the way inside, curling upwards. And when he brushed against that spot at the top of her walls, gently caressing the slick ridges, her back arched slightly off the mattress, and he smiled against her womanhood.

It appears his little wife was becoming emboldened in her movements by what he was doing to her.

As he continued to please his wife in two separate ways, almost instinctively, her hand came to his bare shoulder. To pull him close? To push him away? She wasn’t entirely sure herself.

He could tell she was on the precipice of something she was unable to comprehend, and was embarrassed to show herself in such an open way.

 “What is it, sweet wife?” he asked, drawing his lips from her, now covered entirely in her arousal when he licked at it.

Through her loud pants, she regained her breath as he continued to tease that deep spot inside of her, “What is…” She breathed, her grip closing around his shoulders. Her nails dug into his flesh, not meaning to, which made him smirk.

“Shh, it’s alright.” He cooed, pulling out slightly to slide a second finger inside, using the girth of his fingers to stretch her cunt around him, “I am just making sure you are ready for me.”

He began to pump his fingers inside her like he would fuck her, curling them up to focus his attention and pressure against the sweet spot at the end of her. She was so tight around him, already trying to suck him further inside and clenching hard. He felt his skin stretch around her grip on his shoulder, like she didn’t realise how hard she was holding him.

“ - Aemond - I’m - ”

Aemond.

The way she called him by his name.

There was no shame now in how hard it made him, and he felt as if he would spill right in his breeches and not inside her if she was going to say things like that.

A breathy whine made its way from her mouth, her eyes tightly shut as her face twisted in pleasure, feeling all the pressure leak into her limbs in bliss while Aemond kept pleasuring her, loving how her body was uncontrollably trembling with the force of her peak. He could feel the rush of slick coat his fingers and hand, so he slowed down the pace of his movements, allowing his sweet wife to savour the feeling she’d experienced here for the first time.

“That was your peak, little one.”

Her eyes opened to focus on him, feeling her body erupt in shivers as he pulled his digits from her and smeared her wetness over her thighs, thinking that as erotic and lewd the action was, that is excited her at the place where her husband had just been caressing with his fingers and tongue.

Her pupils were dilated only a bit larger than before, and Aemond felt pride in being the first to make her feel such things, awakening a part of her that had remained dormant for a long time. And while she had been emboldened by what he’d done to please her, her cheeks still bloomed with a faint embarrassment that he found endearing.

His hands traced her sides, taking her shift with it, and her breath hitched at the idea she would be entirely bare before her new husband, who had just given her the first experience of female pleasure. But alongside the trepidation, there was excitement.

Once he pulled her shift over her head and raked his gaze over every inch of her body.

It was a fucking crime that she’d been hiding herself under that gown all evening, he thought.

He thought she was perfection, with her soft and supple curves, and he hadn’t even realised his calloused hands had been kneading her breast until she let out a breathy sound. But she didn’t protest. She just appeared somewhat uncomfortable, as this was the first time she had shown herself so openly to the opposite sex.

“You are beautiful.”

She seemed to calm at least when he said that, relieved her husband found her attractive.

He saw her eyes flit from his one seeing eye to the eyepatch covered one, curious. But she simply swallowed thickly and didn’t say or ask anything. And he too was relieved that she hadn’t asked him to remove it.

He was not sure if he would be ready for that, for some time.

She still wore the little pearls around her neck, and now with her entirely naked with the exception of that, it felt erotic and arousing.

They were the same.

She wore the necklace, he wore the eyepatch, keeping a tiny piece of themself while they joined in matrimonial bliss.

He unlaced the rest of his breeches, watching her breasts move up and down as she breathed in anticipation of what was going to happen and the irreversible fact that she would never be the same afterwards.

“Remember what I said?” he asked, pulling his breeches over his hips. His achingly hard cock sprang free, standing proud and aroused against his stomach.

She took a moment to reply, trying not to stare too much at his member as he stroked himself slowly, the ruddy tip, weeping with arousal, poked out of his fist with every languid movement. She’d never seen one before. But all she knew was that she wondered how on earth it would fit inside her, he looked so thick and long, slightly curved to one side. Was there empty space inside of her she didn’t know about where he would place himself?

Her eyes met his, all glazed over, and she nodded.

“If there is pain, I must tell you.” She repeated what he’d said earlier. Her skin bloomed, for that moment was here right before them.

She tried to relax her body, numb from the force of her very first peak, as the mattress dipped either side of her where he’d leaned on his forearms, his knee brushing the inside of her legs as he nudged them apart so he could place himself there.

“Yes, you must.” He added tenderly, “It is not my intention to hurt you.”

The affection in his words made her stomach roll.

“You are my wife.”

She confirmed with delight that she was. And she nodded, not knowing what to say in response to his statement, but Aemond could see the subtle glimmer in her eyes.

He saw her glance at his manhood with something akin to a mix of fear and curiosity, and she took a sharp breath in as Aemond leaned forward, not pressing his weight on her, and placed several open-mouthed kisses to her jaw, neck and collarbone, teasing her with his teeth, while his cock kissed her puffy folds.

She felt his breath at her skin, her grip loosening on the sheets as he made her feel a little more relaxed.

When he leant forward, parting her folds easily with the aid of her slick, the first thought she had was that it felt strange, but nothing else in particular. It was only when his cockhead had disappeard inside her and he speared her upon his length that she began to tense up, her stomach tightening somewhat unpleasantly. Her hand came automatically to his chest, to try and push him away and make him stop.

He raised his head from her neck, his eye hooded down in concern. He felt her soft, almost-hummingbird-like touch on his chest and felt something fluttering inside of him at the tenderness of it. She was in some pain, not dramatically so, and yet her touch was so gentle.

Nothing was said, and only the utmost patience was offered. And it was difficult to do so for Aemond, with the way her core was holding him so tightly, to stay still and not move an inch. But for the sake of making her feel safe, he did it.

After a moment, she made an effort to relax her muscles for him. Her hand trailed over his muscled chest, as if taking this small window of opportunity to do so. Her fingers ran over the scars he’d gained on his lithe form, wanting to commit every ridge, every little piece of him to her memory as if it was the last time she’d ever see him.

Her eyes shifted to him once he sheathed himself inside her all the way, bottoming out with a low groan. He felt her walls fluttering around him, stretching her to accommodate this size, having not felt anything like this before. Her lips parted to let a soft pained sound past her lips, but that was all, and she felt the worst was behind her.

It felt only slightly uncomfortable, but she was willing to do it for this marriage. To please him.

It was intimate, looking right at her while he was deep inside her, and she gave the faintest of nods, telling him without words that she was alright. She thought she'd never felt more full in her life, nor more connected to someone as she was right at this moment.

It hurt at first, yes, but he had prepared her, waited for her and cherished her like she was precious. And the pain, the sting of losing her maidenhead, was a small price to pay for how full her heart felt, by giving a piece of her to him.

Closing his eye, as if to concentrate, Aemond moved almost entirely out of her to push back in as she gasped below him, the same feeling the second time had a spark licking at her insides that didn’t stop as he began his slow and careful pace. He wanted to tear his gaze off her, desperately, but couldn’t.

It was just as he imagined. With every soft thrust inside her, the pearls at her neck danced, and her cheeks were flushed, eyes shimmering. It wasn’t as animalistically lustful as he envisioned. Before he imagined an innocent thing like her, bending to his will, corrupting her in any way he saw fit.

But now more than anything as he listened to the gentle moans come out of her, he wanted to protect her, to nurture and watch her flourish. The pearls clicked against each other at her neck, her breasts moved, nipples pebbled with arousal, and she’d raised her legs only slightly to wrap around his waist, blinking slowly up at him.

The whore Aegon had gotten him to fuck on his thirteenth nameday was overzealous, large-breasted and older, perhaps more experienced. She had bounced on top of him, her loud moans bouncing off every surface in the room, her hands planted on his chest as she moved her hips up and down on him with loud slaps. He remembered feeling horrified that this is what intimacy was. That this is what men would desire so relentlessly.

It didn’t feel good. And he remembered feeling sick.

But here, with her, looking so lovingly up at him. No hysterical moaning, no pathetic whines to boost his male ego. Just unapologetically everything she was feeling, she was giving to him.

It felt like a gift. To experience real intimacy. And with the person he was due to spend the remainder of his days with.

As if realising he was daydreaming, his hips still moving against her with wet slaps of skin, her hand cupped his face, on the unmarred side, and her thumb stroked over his cheekbone. She touched him so softly he could have wept.

She had seen some kind of thoughtfulness on his face, and in the throes of consummation, was supporting him.

“Aemond.”

When she said his name with such sincerity and care, he blinked slowly and reached his hand up to hers, encircling his fingers around her small wrist, and turned his face into her palm, to kiss the inside tenderly. One kiss to her palm, and one to her wrist. And it felt more intimate than kissing on the lips, which he only now realised with shame, that he’d not done for her yet.

“I am alright.”

He looked at her when she said that. It was as if she could see all of his inner thoughts, and had been able to all evening.

She saw that he had been holding back.

He had been afraid of frightening her, and yet she was allowing him what he wanted.

Her breath caught in her chest with a kind of excitement as his fingers wrapped around her wrist and forced it down to the bed beside her head, his other hand joining her other to keep her pinned tightly under him to the mattress. Her eyes glimmered as she looked up at him, watching his expression change to something more possessive.

“Put your legs around me.”

She did as he asked and raised her legs around his waist, causing his length to brush that same spot inside her that he’d pleasured just moments before. And with an iron grip on her wrists and easier access to her, he dipped his head into her neck, her scent swirling around him and fucked her as he had wanted to the entire evening.

Skin slapped against one another with the moisture of her slick on his pelvis, his stones hitting against her repeatedly with every rough thrust into her wet cunt.

"Does my innocent little wife like to be properly fucked, hm?" He grunts, watching how she blushes and turns her head away out of embarrassment.

"I think you will continue to surprise me, little pearl."

She felt her insides clench at the name he gave her.

Little pearl.

Aemond smirked, increasing the intensity of his driving into her, constantly spearing her open onto his cock, and watching at the way he disappeared into her.

"I can feel you tightening around my cock. Did you like that? Little pearl?"

Her breath was sucked from her with each devastating thrust, and that same pressure was beginning to build in her belly, from when he'd pleasured her before.

"Answer me.”

"Yes - yes, husband - " She replied, breathlessly and gulping for air, throwing her head back against the bed sheets.

He smirked, leaning back and watching how his cock was being covered in her slick everytime he pulled out of her.

He pulled her hips onto his lap, and the angle had his cockhead bullying her tender and sensitive place deep inside of her. Her eyebrows furrowed with pleasure, feeling utterly at his mercy.

Feeling proud of the reactions he was getting, his hand slipped from her hip to her bud. Her pearl. A grin splitting across his face at the lewd thoughts he was having. He circled her sensitive bud tenderly, applying just enough pressure that she clenched around him again.

If she wasn't careful, he would cum right there and then.

"Does that feel good, little one?" He teased her in a low tone, not ceasing his endless pace, pushing himself as far inside her as he could.

"Do you like it when I touch you here?"

She couldn't deny she liked it. The way her back arched, being pleasures in two ways. It was nearly overwhelming. And it took her voice from her.

"Perhaps we should name you Pearl of the Realm." He smirked, increasing both his pace and pressure, "Prim, proper…a good little obedient wife to her lord and husband."

He leaned over, changing the angle yet again.

"But in here, with me, it is this pearl I shall be paying special attention to, dear wife."

His words made her tighten around him, coupled with the intensity of the pleasure he was giving her. She felt her entire body get hot, the pressure in her belly set to explode at any moment.

His delicate and careful ministrations to her bundle of nerves was almost too much, and her hips began to move forward towards his in rhythm with his cock stretching her open, meeting him halfway.

She didn't imagine such lewd words would have an effect on her.

"Husband - "

"I think I will keep you like this. All night if I have to. Paying special attention to this precious pearl you have been neglecting for so long." He mused, his words were strained, as if set to explode himself.

"I will give you my seed. Over and over. Until I am done with you." He breathed through heavy pants, his eye slipping shut, "I will watch you swell with my child. Would you like that?"

She could only whimper in response, fisting the bed sheets as she had nothing else to hold onto, her mouth dropping open as her climax began to crest.

"I would like that. To see these perfect tits all round and full."

The idea of bearing his children was only a fantasy that appeared right at that moment.

"Gods - you are so tight - such a perfect little cunt - fuck - "

She fell apart around him, her entire body filled with such eternal feeling bliss that she felt as if she were floating, her husband's deft fingers still pleasuring her bud.

Her limbs felt numb, her blood like fire under her skin and her lips dropped apart so that a shattered moan could escape her, the only proof that her peak was decimating every nerve in her body with blinding, white hot pleasure.

She tightened impossibly around him, and the pistoning of his cock into her sex was only stilled when he slammed inside her one last time. His length throbbed within her, his spend warming her core at the end and filling her, completing this sacred, intimate ceremony.

They both gulped down air desperately and when Aemond had caught a moment to himself, he spared a look down at his sweet wife, her delicate skin covered in a soft sheen of sweat, eyes shut, breasts shifting erratically with her breathing.

She must have felt his gaze on her, because she turned her head to look up at him. In her once innocent and naive gaze he once saw fear and trepidation. And now her pupils were blown wide and glimmered with lust and a kind of pride that she'd pleased him, and they'd done this together.

Aemond still had a grip on her hips, noticing the red marks where his fingers had been. Her body was littered with them, where he'd been too tempted to nibble at her, to make sure she bore the marks of his passion for her.

He looked down where they were joined, pulling out of her and watching with a lustful curiosity at his spend that leaked from her entrance. It was instinctual, the way two fingers scooped up what had come out, and he gently plunged it back into her as far as he would go.

Overstimulated and tired, she winced, bucking her hips slightly.

Aemond only smiled down at her.

"I can hardly wait to make you a mother, little one."

She laughed a little, exhausted, "You speak of children. We have only lay together once."

Aemond took her reply and smirked, pulling her thighs close to him again.

"In that case - might we try again? I dare say I have already forgotten the first time."

His little pearl smiled tenderly up at him. A safe smile. One of utter adoration. It was like he was being seen, truly seen, for the first time in his life. She had been so good to him in the short time he'd known her, and cared enough to let him see her as well.

He felt fulfilled in a way he never had before. Something exciting ran through his blood, like how he felt whenever he trained. As if a new challenge were upon him.

Challenging the notion that had been placed upon him his entire life, that marriage was about ownership. As a wife should belong entirely to her husband.

And while he felt that sheer possessiveness before he really knew her. Knew her properly.

Now, he questioned if marriage was more about respect than anything else.

The fabric covering his eye now felt so heavy. And one day, he thought, he hoped to be able to show himself so openly to her, as she had done for him.

Aemond Targaryen was nothing if not dutiful.

And he would pay his little pearl all the attention she so deserved.

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[randomdragonfires]

I'm A Fire And I'll Keep Your Brittle Heart Warm [One Shot]

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | Flowers come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage.

WARNINGS | 18+; Mild Smut.

WORD COUNT | 9.6k

A/N | Yet another repost, yay! This one was written based off an ask sent to me by @wonderbias and beta read by the loml @humanpurposes

Their union began as a fragile, delicate one.

By all accounts, Aemond Targaryen was a fine man that any maiden in the Seven Kingdoms would be proud to be with, should he– a skilled dragonrider, a scholar, a respectful man of honor, a prince worthy of his name and blood– choose to take her to wife. 

If only he was not so stoic and dull, they said. The very jovial little lady of Highgarden will be bored of him in moments!

‘Twas the first of many whispers he heard of his apparent inadequacy with regards to his impending nuptials and marriage, and even though it killed him, he could not bring himself to disagree. The woman that he was to marry – the beautiful, kind, ladylike wisp of a girl that was to be entrusted to him– was a fair maiden who lit up any chamber she graced with her presence, a stark contrast to how he seemed to darken those that he stalked into.

Charming girl like that, she will hate him, they said. The poor thing is probably scared.

Every lady dreamed of chivalrous knights and charming princes, and Aemond knew very well that he was far from being either. They dreamed of charming men who would immortalize them in song, whose looks could thaw the hearts of the coldest women in an instant. Aemond knew very well that the Gods had refused him the chance to even try with her– what with their allowance of his mutilation at a tender, young age. 

Even with just one eye, he saw many possibilities but to his dismay, he did not imagine any outcome would be favorable to him. With the scar he carried on his face and the weight of the world on his shoulders, Aemond was never meant to be the man that his intended deserved. 

And so, he decided that he would keep her at arm's length and in consequence, save his pride. He'd reject her before she rejected him. He may not know it now, but matters of the heart are fickle– and to the utter disappointment of his pride, his little lady rose was very easy to love. 

He would not be caught dead pathetically pining after a woman who would soon be his. He would not.

And so, their courtship remained devoid of romance and scandal. His family was made privy to each of their highly appropriate conversations, with them taking turns in chaperoning their walks through the gardens. 

There was nothing that he wished to share, for he did not want to lose too much. He did what was expected of him, and she did the very same. Soon, there was respect, admiration, and a whole host of burgeoning feelings that Aemond tried hard to suppress - feelings that he clearly did not see in her eyes as she dared to look into his.

How could she feel anything for a stoic, dull, one-eyed man like him?

As he draped the red and black cloak over her shoulder and pledged to be her man of liege and limb, he told himself that he would not try. He would not give into fantasies, only to be met with rejection from a woman who was too good for him; one that may realize it soon enough as well.

After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride. He would feed himself to the dragons before admitting to someone else being better than him, let alone be rejected by that same person. He was certainly not going to woo her, not when he knew that he would only be met with contempt and disgust.

It did not matter how badly he wanted to. He would not allow himself to succumb to such idyllic daydreams. He would not.

When night fell and the wedding feast was in full swing, his new good-father was the only one who could give his brother a run for his money with how deep he was in his cups. It was obvious how the wine-induced stupor affected the fat lord Tyrell as he bellowed for his daughter and his new good son to take the lead and join in the dancing and merriment.

Aemond was ready to retch at the thought, but what stopped him from making his irritation  clear was the possibility that she may want to dance. His wife. He had seen her dance before– as graceful as an otherworldly swan. She had a better grasp at frivolous courtly affairs than he did. 

His wife may want to dance. His wife, his wife, his wife. A little rose, his.

He shuffled his feet under the cloth-covered long table and allowed his one eye to train over his clothed boots. In spite of all the dancing lessons he had taken with Helaena, Aemond had never indulged before– and now, he was expected to entertain his bride each time a song played. The thought made him want to press his feet into the ground further than he already has, in hopes that perhaps the ground would swallow him whole.

His view of the dancing crowd had been taken from him by half along with his eye. Without the luxury of complete vision, he could not dance without bumping into everyone that was on his blind side. Now, he would have to– if she wanted to. 

He thought he could say no, but he feared that if he were to look her in the eyes, he'd never be able to. Perhaps that was why he had refused to even look at her throughout the ceremony, despite her many admirable– yet failed– attempts to catch his line of sight and share a smile.

It was her meek, mouse-like voice that brought him out of his nervous trance. “We do not have to," she said, the words falling out of her lips like a song.

“You like to dance, my lady,” he said.

“But you do not, my prince. It takes two.” Her surprisingly understanding words were followed by a timid smile, one that threatened to rip through his defenses and get to him.

In the crowded throne room, as his new bride sets aside her happiness to accommodate his preferences, Aemond worried that his self-imposed distance from her may not last too long if she kept offering him kind glances and sweet smiles– no matter how forced and dutiful he knew them to be.

He had much to lose; his pride, his heart. He would not risk it, even if she was seemingly easy to love. He would not. He would not. He would not.

After all, Aemond Targaryen had his pride. 

Soon after, her drunk nuisance of a father had called for the bedding. Aemond did nothing as his trembling bride was ushered away by the handmaidens and ladies, each of them wriggling her jewelry off as she stumbled in her steps before they carried her off.

Should he have asked for a private bedding? In hindsight, he believed he wronged her by throwing her to the mercies of the court in her vulnerability. Equally, he did not want to attempt a show of compassion– not when she may not even welcome it from the one-eyed fiend of a husband that she was stuck with.

When he walked into the chambers in his loose linen shirt and breeches, his breath hitched in his throat. Helaena had once told him that the Septas refer to women’s maidenheads as flowers. “Beautiful, ripe and ready for the plucking,” she had said, keeping her nose pointed upward in her imitations. He'd never given the words much thought. 

Until now.

There she was. His wife, his flower, his rose, ready for plucking, in her translucent white shift and now untamed hair, like a fae in a dream. How could she possibly be his? How could she possibly be happy with a man as monstrous as him for a husband? 

Her eyes, wide and fearful, flittered about his face, in his mind an expression of her repulsion. It pained him to think she did not even give him a chance.

But she was accommodating about my not wanting to dance… 

Perhaps she did like to dance; just not with him. 

These unsaid words and subsequent misunderstandings plagued their wedding night. Both believed the other did not desire them. 

That night, she offered her flower to him– as is her duty– and he took great care in taking it from her. He made sure she was pliant, so that when he took it, she would be as glad and thrilled as he was, regardless of how well-hidden his happiness was. 

He may have grimaced in disgust at Aegon's vulgar demonstrations and lessons about the pleasures of the marital bed, but he was thankful as he heard her moan out his name in a silent scream while she convulsed around his fingers. The silent sounds of her choked out moans and the heat engulfing his fingers may have very well been enough for Aemond to find release, and he reminded himself quickly that she will not want him when they're done. How could she, deformed as he was?

And so, he stopped wanting to be good for her, and simply endeavored to get it done with.

She was only more than willing to allow him to take her flower. If he was not so preoccupied with his own insecurities, he may have seen that it had gone past duty for her. Her loud moans proved the fact, and left little room for dispute (or doubt, in the minds of the prying ears that stayed close to the doors of their chambers, and the sharp eyes of the council who were now shuffling out of their seats).

He inched into her, and her tears and turned face only seemed to make it harder for him. Was he so beyond hope that she could not even look? What was it? Had he hurt her? He did not ask, lest he risk finding out that he was a disappointment. So he lost himself, drowned in his own head as he mechanically moved in and out, in and out, in and out. 

Duty. Duty. Duty.

If he had not been so preoccupied with tearing his own being to shreds in his mind, he may have heard her moans as the bright pink tip of his cock hit a rough spot in her, allowing her pleasures and experiences she did not believe she would ever know. He may have known that she desired him, just as he did her.

His self-deprecating thoughts couldn't have been farther from the truth– he may not have realized it that night, but he would soon enough.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the first ever flower she gave him– whether she chose to see it that way or not– came to him on their wedding night, in the form of her maidenhead.

Tourneys were a time of celebration for her.

There was something to be said about the romance of watching men ask women for favors and fight with all the might and grace that they possess. She had often dreamed that a dashing knight or a courteous prince would perhaps approach her for her favor, and then perhaps crown her Queen of Love and Beauty. If she was lucky, the man would court her too.

The man she married was the antithesis of all that she hoped a tourney would bring.

Her husband was not a bad man by any means– no. He was a good and respectful husband, slightly removed and isolated for her outward nature, but she did not mind. There were worse men to be married to, and even if he never went out of his way to be there for her, he certainly treated her well when they were in each other’s presence.

She tried with him, Gods bless her. 

She would try to catch his eye at the supper table, or watch him train in hopes that he would meet her watchful gaze once or twice. She would watch in a sleepy haze as he woke early in the morn, long before she had the strength or consciousness to wish him a good day, hoping he would turn to do the same. He never did.

More often than not, a curt nod and a wavering glance was all she’d get.  Still there were brief, hopeful moments that kept her active in her pursuit to build a friendship with her husband.

She would have done something absolutely obnoxious— acts that would have him sneering if it was someone else– and she’d see it. That little hint of a smile, waiting to bubble through the surface, just by the corner of his pink lips, that she would have missed if she blinked. Each time there was a tenuous beginning of a hesitant smile, she felt a tiny sliver of hope.

He was not so intimidating to her now as he was in the initial days of their union– no. In a little corner of her mind, she acknowledged that fact– that is what helped her find his hand and hold it tight in nervousness, before she could even comprehend the intimacy of the act.

The knight who had just taken a harsh tumble from his horse was carried away by servants, with his head beaten bloody and hands hanging limp by his side. If she did not know better, she would have thought him dead.

The champion then raised his hands up in victory. Thunderous clapping sounds overshadowed all else around her, but she could not bring herself to join. She was still stunned by how the other knight had fallen, and was yet to let go of Aemond’s hand.

She felt the bile rise in her throat, so she brought her other hand to her chest and bowed her head down, a feeble attempt at keeping the vomit at bay. It was awhile until she managed to catch her breath again, and by then the celebrations had moved on from celebrating the champion to the crowning of his Queen of Love and Beauty.

The eldest Lady Baratheon smiled coyly as she received the wreath of winter roses, followed by a chaste kiss to her cheek. The crowd gasped at how brazen the act was, with neither of them being married, but the high of winning makes men do the most peculiar things, she supposed. In the back of her mind, regardless of how uneasy she felt, she wished– desperately. 

How she wished it was her. 

A childish fantasy really. What was a publicly gifted crown of flowers worth in the face of what she had? She was a Princess of the realm now, married to a skilled dragonrider from a family of illustrious history and blood. Any children they may have will be immortalized in the annals.  Nothing. A crown of flowers was worth nothing when compared to what she had– or at least, that is what she would tell herself.

And yet, she craved the romance. She had always enjoyed the idea of being loved and cherished. Her husband respected her, and if she was feeling bold, she’d say he liked her– but he certainly did not love her. That much she was certain of. When she naively wished that he’d crown her, she asked if he was going to enter the lists. He had sharply turned so quickly that she feared she had angered him.

“I don’t give a sh…” He had sighed before speaking again, as though he felt tested. “I do not care for tourneys.” The sharpness in his voice had hurt her, and she did not speak of it again.

Their marriage was a decent one– but it held none of the love she hoped to have, despite all her attempts.

Did he find her so disagreeable?

All of a sudden, his hand felt cold to the touch and she let go of him like he burned her. The heat came back to her hand just as it showed on her cheeks, and his had turned cold from having lost her touch so abruptly.

“I’d like to get some fresh air, husband,” she said, and rose before he could even ask if she needed him to accompany her.

Her quick walk took her to the tent where the court ladies had been sitting, and she had stepped in right in time to hear them gossip– about her husband.

“Well he must keep it on while they… you know! It can be jarring to look at, I’m sure it is!”

“It must be terrible to see it up close all the time. I can hardly look at him from across the chamber!”

He is certainly unnerving. It does make you wonder though, do you think they actually…” the woman lowered her voice to match the vulgarity that was to follow. “Do you think they actually fuck? She cannot possibly want to, and she is not with child either…”

“Well, does it really matter if she wants to? He’s a Prince, and her husband. He’ll take his pleasure regardless.”

Regardless of where she and her husband stood, she would not stand for their marriage to become fodder for court gossip. If she stayed quiet for any longer while these empty-headed women berated her husband, she would be insulting him herself.

“Might I ask what is so amusing?”  she said with sharp eyes and a tilted head. The sweat on their faces upon her arrival was apparent, and so was their nervousness.

“My Lady, we were just–”

“Princess,” she corrected.

“Yes of course, Princess. We were just–”

“Making presumptions about my marriage?” 

“No… we just…”

“Don’t deny it,” she seethed, anger looking completely foreign on a soft, comely face like hers. Her nostrils flared and her nose went red in her current state, but there was no way she could stop now. 

“The next time you feel the need to comment on such matters , perhaps you will all learn to remind yourself that he is a Prince of the realm and I am his wife! There will be suitable punishment, and you will all be dismissed from court at my pleasure, disgraced and husbandless. Now, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Her words were cutting and sharp, and they had the younger ladies bowing their heads in fear almost immediately.

“I’ll have you all know that unlike the other men of the court, Prince Aemond’s scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. His bravery only makes him more handsome to me.”

She then fixed her attention onto the married lady of the bunch and delivered a questionable blow that she would certainly feel bad about later. “If you’ve been led to believe that the man takes his pleasure from his wife even if she does not want to, then perhaps your marriage is a lot worse than I thought. Your husband must have no regard for your wants, unlike mine. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

She did not wait for them to respond as she gathered her skirts and walked out of the tent, feeling largely annoyed and satisfied to an extent. But as she began her walk back, the fear of news of her anger reaching her husband hit her like a harsh and heavy wave.

Would he call her insolent and disgraceful? Has she damaged her marriage more than it already has been?

She did not have to wait long for her answer, for Aemond had been just a few steps behind her, watching the entire scene unfold. The angry flush on her face left her as quickly as it had come, replaced by a skittish nervousness that led to her shuffling her feet as she stood before him, at a complete loss for words.

She swallowed the spit gathering in her mouth, throat bobbing as her head remained facing down to the floor, awaiting a scolding from him for her absolutely inexcusable behavior; her husband was a man who knew his courtesies, after all. He could not possibly be happy with how she carried herself and disappointed him.

“You do not look well. Let me walk you to our chambers,” was all he said before he led her away with a hand on the small of her back.

She remained worried that he was perhaps leading them to privacy and silence so he could punish her while being undisturbed. She could not have been farther from the truth.

She expected him to scream at her, forget all the courtesy that he had shown her and throw his words at her without care. What she was not prepared for, was for him to hold her chin between his thumb and index fingers, pulling her face up to meet his.

He curiously inspected her, almost as though her little show of anger thoroughly amused him. She would not be surprised if it did– she had never been so outward in her anger in the two months that they had been married; this was a completely new side to her that he was now privy to.

“What was that, wife?” His words were measured and cut. 

“They…” She was stunned to find that, despite her tongue becoming loose in moments of anger,  it was hard for her to speak right now. So, she chose to gulp once more and tried to look someplace else. The uncertainty in his sharp, one-eyed violet gaze was becoming too much for her to bear– but Aemond did not give up easily. He kept her head held in place as she desperately waited for the words to come to her.

“They were being crude, and insulting you.”

He looked at her for a moment, his sharp gaze refusing to waver as the sunlight pierced through the glass windows of their chamber. He then let go of her, and handed her a goblet of wine to calm her clearly unsteady senses. He watched as she took little sips from the chalice, the restless turning of the wheels in his mind apparent on his face. 

Soon after, he made up a sham of a reason about having to leave when the cheering crowds became louder and louder. She nodded and continued to sip, completely oblivious to the change of heart that her husband was having as she wondered why he brought her back to their bed.

She did not know the thoughts that now ran fast and surely in his mind. She did not know that he thought his eye had cost him a chance at a happy marriage with her. She had no idea of knowing how conflicted he felt at the new realization, for his sculpted face gave nothing away.

He turned to face her with a hand on the door.  “Thank you,” he mumbled.

She nodded and smiled meekly while he stalked back to the festivities.

He held his hands tightly behind him as he tried to make sense of how light his heart felt in comparison to the rest of him. 

Back in the chamber, she blushed. For all her worry that he may have been disappointed, she had been completely floored by how he had responded– he was thankful. She berated herself for not considering the possibility– and smiled at the realization that for all her husband’s prowess as a warrior, in times like these,  he needed a champion too. 

That night, Aemond burned the midnight oil while reading in the library, trying to still his racing heart and make sense of how it leapt at newfound thoughts of his little wife. 

Across the Holdfast, in the soft candlelight of their shared chambers, she sat on her husband’s dear chair, looking at her handiwork– an embroidered silk tourney favor, with a little rose.

Her husband may not care for tourneys, but making the favor allowed her the luxury of thinking that should the possibility of him willingly entering the lists come around, he would do so with her gift on his lance. Mayhaps he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty too– the thought makes her blush.

She would give it to him should he ever choose to partake someday. Until then, it would be safely hidden away in her shelves, amidst her gowns and other possessions.

Flowers have came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the second flower that was intended for him– despite the fact that she was yet to give it to him– came to him on the day of the the twins’ name day tourney, in the form of a rose, embroidered onto a tourney favor. 

They have come to enjoy each other's company.

Her coming to his defense while expecting nothing in return had lit a fire in Aemond that he could not seem to quell. What he believed she had rejected him over, she had actually taken to being proud of. What he had believed was his one big, obvious and visible fatal flaw, was something that she had taken to holding in high regard.

I’ll have you lot know that unlike the other men of the court, his scar came to him along with the largest dragon in the world. And his bravery only makes him more handsome to me.

Her words rang in his mind like the definite tolling of the Great Bell at the Royal Sept. With each chime, her assertiveness on the matter came back to linger in his thoughts, he had fallen for her – bit by bit. 

Feelings had always been a conundrum to Aemond, one that he did not entirely understand or even want to. But now, with a wife who warmed him and his heart slowly but surely, with her lovely smiles and nervous face, he found that he would like some certainty in the face of all that was uncertain in his heart.

He did not know if he loved her just yet. But what he did know was that, at the pace that she had set for them, it may be a very short while before he does. His wife. His wife, his wife, his wife. 

His, his, his.

Coming to terms with having a wife that actually desired his company– and him, surprisingly enough– had spurned his attempts to bring some sort of intimacy to their marriage. Gods knew that she had tried, only to be rebuffed rudely by him in the initial days of their marriage. It was a time that he now felt deep regret and shame for, one that he would not rest until he had made right. 

He needed her to see that he wanted to try.

He did not know how to be the charming prince from a bard’s songs. He did not know how to make women laugh like Aegon; be as sweet and kind as Helaena; or as chivalrous and perfect as Daeron. 

But what he did know was respect. Aemond understood respect as something that was earned by everyone around him, but to his wife, it should have been unconditional. It should have come to her the day he had cloaked her and made her his– but it did not. Now, he intended to make it right.

He needed her to see that he wanted to try– which is how he found himself with her on his arm, as they walked hand in hand through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast towards their chambers. Ah yes, hand in hand. Another one of the little joys that he savored like it was his last day alive. 

Their initially cold marriage had also been fueled by his blatant refusal to simply be near her, much less touch her. Why would she have wanted to be touched by a one-eyed monster, such as the likes of him? 

But the moment he realized that she did not consider him so– not in the least– led to a warmth seeping through his blood, making him crave her so much that his heart hurt. If she did not mind it, why must he not exercise his liberties? And if there was some joy to be derived from it, why would they not want to indulge?

And so he had begun. A stolen touch here, a featherlight graze there. 

His huge, calloused hand, seemed to be always holding her dainty one as he accompanied her throughout their time in the castle; on the small of her back as they maneuvered through feasts and dances; around her waist as they closed the distance between each other in their sleep, with her back to his chest; clutching onto her thigh to keep her in place for when she turned around and draped her tiny leg upon his waist.

His hands, all over her.

It was not just these fleeting, quick touches that Aemond had grown to enjoy. With their bond growing stronger with each passing moment, he had realized that their marital duties were simply not duties anymore. They had gone from believing that the other had tolerated their presence, to trying their level best so that the other would know how much they desired them. The growth of their marriage was evident in how their carnal indulgences had evolved.

Where he had held himself to hover over her so as to not facilitate any unnecessary touches, he had now taken to covering her entire being with his own. His hands around her hip as he pounded into her; her hands on his chest as the tip of her fingers grazed and pinched at his nipples. His hands in her hair as he mouthed at her heaving breast; her hands around him as she held onto him as tightly as she could, never wanting to let him go. His hands on her cunt as he drew peak after peak from her before thrusting himself into her; her hands around his cock as she pumped him before impaling herself by straddling him, just the way he liked. 

Their sounds of pleasure had been held back and muffled in the beginning, but now they were uninhibited sounds taken by the wind, made with the intent of being heard and making desires known.  

Oh yes, their marriage had grown. 

This is what Aemond had been pondering as he led her through, with servants making their way for the young prince and princess as she held onto her husband with one hand, and a piece of rolled parchment and some charcoal on the other. He enjoyed their touches now, and it made his heart soar that he did not have to doubt her want for him either. 

Yes, they could make something out of this.

“How was your time in the gardens, wife?” It made him happy that with the growth of their marriage, she had taken to exercising her liberties. So, when she had come to him requesting charcoal and bound parchment so she could begin drawing again, he was only happy to oblige. 

“Good. I managed to sit and watch the flowers flit about in the wind for a time, and I drew a bit as well. Then the court ladies came to join me as they…”

Aemond listened to his wife as he sat himself on his chair by the hearth, most intently, and with the utmost concentration that he could muster. He could not bring himself to make selfless romantic declarations of love, or speak to her more than he was able. But he could listen, and that is what he would do. 

Not a word unheard, not a moment missed. He needed her to see that he wanted to try.

She prattled on and on about her day, and how the court ladies had gossiped about each other when they thought the other wasn’t listening. He listened to the way her voice heightened when her recollections were happy, and he noted the way she frowned when she was in disapproval. He observed how her eyes widened at shocking narrations, and how her hands seemed to move like they had a life of their own. 

He kept observing, losing himself in his newfound knowledge of her, her, her… and it was not until she stood close to him, her body slotted between his legs as she held her hands behind her back that he realized she had stopped speaking.

“Go on.”

He did not expect to be given something, not when his name day had just passed. But that is exactly what happened. 

“For you,” she said. With her raised eyebrows and coy smile, she managed to place  a parchment roll into his hand. Aemond made note of how her head faced down and her feet shuffled as she stood in wait for his approval.

He unrolled the parchment, careful to not cause even a stray tear at the edges. His eyes raked over the drawing, one of clear skill and years of training of the highest level– one befitting a lady.

“I shall treasure it, thank you.” 

She smiled at his acceptance, and he nodded. He was not a smiling man, but he hoped that she knew how much he appreciated these gestures. He hoped that their marriage had grown enough for her to notice his quirks, just as he had made note of hers.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the third flower that she had given him was a charcoal sketch of a rose, into which she had poured her heart and soul.

As the days passed, their mornings became brighter.

While she had hoped that the initial days of their marriage would have some semblance of love, and if not, at least affection to some extent, her hopes had been quickly dashed with the closed off and curt behavior that her husband seemed to have made his own. Neither did he ever wish her a good morrow upon sunrise, nor did he kiss her goodnight like in the songs.

But now, there was more.

Where there was coldness, there was now warmth. It was not heat, not like wildfire, no– it was warmth, like from the calm blaze of their hearth. She might not have awoken to a smile, no– her husband was not a smiling man– but she always woke to an arm snaked over her breasts, pressing into her. Where there was distance, oceans between them, there was now a shared intimacy, one that they had both been quietly happy about. She was not put to sleep with a kiss, but whenever she slept on the chaise waiting for him to arrive, he now ensured that she was put into comfortable clothes and carried to their bed with care. 

He may not have cared for her in the beginning, but she knew he did now. Her husband was not a romantic man, but his small gestures were enough to make her feel happy and content.

The shift in their dynamic was not just visible in their daytime activities, but in the passions of their marriage bed as well. On the first night that they had coupled, he had been careful, experimental, doubtful. But as the days went by, he had become surer, rougher… insatiable.

She enjoyed this new side to him. She enjoyed being the woman that belonged to a fierce prince, the one that he so clearly desired. She enjoyed being held by him as he moved her up and down his cock, his head buried in her breasts as he breathed in the heady smell of sweat and sex. She enjoyed being impaled by him, her small body being split into two, all while having him whisper words of appreciation in her ears. 

My little wife, my little flower. Made for me… only for me, he would say. Tell me who this cunt belongs to, he would growl, hands slapping her little nub over and over until she caught her breath, found her voice again and appeased him.

You! Gods… to you, my prince, she would whine, holding his hand in place, hoping he would fuck her with his fingers once more, just the way she liked.

It came as no surprise to her that ever since they had become welcome to each other’s affections, they had been a lot more active in their marriage bed– so much so that the lewd moans and loud curses had become court gossip.

When she had addressed the matter with him once soon after they had fucked, Aemond had smiled, albeit darkly– the only kind of smile that suited him. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, he had said. His insinuation that she was now a dragon too, all while his warm breath fanned her neck and his large hands squeezed her backside, was all she needed to quell her worries.

And of course, as was the natural order of these things, she was now with child.

She had been overjoyed when she had found out, and a tad relieved too. The court ladies whispering about her womb was not something she appreciated– their assumptions about her being barren, even less. So when she found out, she insisted that she be the one to break the news to her husband– her time as an expectant mother would never completely be her own, given the station she had now married into. 

But this, this moment could be hers and his. It would be theirs alone.

And so, she sat in wait at the training grounds, watching him as he expertly maneuvered his sword and slashed at his mentor, Ser Cole. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge, slash. Dodge, lunge–

Ser Cole had bested him, having noticed the predictability in his movements. Aemond of course, being the headstrong man that he was, refused to give up. The anger in his face at being won over in a fight did not escape her, and she would be lying if she said it did not awaken desire in her once more. Before she could think further however, one of the lords in the audience had piped up. 

“Perhaps the Prince would benefit from a token of luck from his dear lady wife!” He said, and the watching crowd around them seemed to agree as they cheered and whistled. Aemond was flummoxed, not knowing how to cope with being faced with the topic of his wife while in the middle of a fight. It was only then that he noticed her, red-faced and smiling as she was– before he could say anything, she had taken the lead.

“I’m afraid I’ve come empty handed, my lord. I’ve nothing to offer him right now!” She quipped with a smile. It had warmed him to know that she was jovial enough for the two of them, allowing him the luxury of staying quiet as she became his champion during situations like these.

“Ah well, he knows you’re here now, Princess! If that does not add to his fire, I do not know what will!”

Perhaps it was her presence, or it was his own prowess as a swordsman. But Aemond was quick to come through this time around. The crowds cheered for their Prince, and so did the man who had taught him to be all that he was.

“Well met, my prince,” Ser Cole said. He patted her dragon prince on his shoulder and walked over to where the swords were arranged. Aemond quickly followed in reverence to his teacher, one that he did not freely give to most. Soon after, the crowds had dispersed, and she watched as his slender, tall form stalk towards her.

“Since when do you frequent the training grounds, wife?”

“Can a wife not seek her husband out when she wants to?” 

She could not have imagined rhetorics like these tumbling out of her mouth in the initial days of their union. But they were now closer than they had ever been, and she had discovered that it would not hurt to take initiative, especially given how quiet of a man her husband could be.

He was not the charming prince from the books or the songs, but she certainly loved who he was– inquisitive, considerate and respectful.

“Hm. Perhaps.”

Their walk back to their apartments was a slow and quiet one, with her knowing that he preferred his moments of quiet soon after his training. They soon settled into the solar, with the food spread out for them to break their fast.

As was his habit, Aemond stripped himself of his clothes as she checked the water in the tub with the tips of her fingers, water rippling as her hands moved. He was quick to step in and let his hands rest on either side of the tub, his legs ramrod straight but slowly loosening up as she ran a washcloth over him with a gentle softness that is most unlike him.

Her hands glided over his chest, arms and he caught hold of her when her hands moved to clean his neck, beckoning her to come closer. “My dutiful little flower, hm? Come to assist her husband and answer his every beck and call.”

“I am nothing, if not dutiful.” She said, playful smile teasing him as her breasts threatened to spill out of the neckline of her dress– causing his cock to half-harden at the sight. She kissed his cheek and set the washcloth down, hands traveling to his alabaster hair as she ran her fingers through it, allowing her wet hands to trudge through. When she was done, he was quick to pull at her hand from his side, causing her to bend to meet him, eyes to eye.

“You have a council meeting to get to, husband. Now is not the time.” 

She knew very well what he wanted. It was what she wanted too– which is precisely why her own protests meant absolutely nothing to her as she gave in, dress riding up to her thighs and billowing wet in the water as she straddled him. Her cunt was already soaked for him, and he was hot and ready from all the energies that training seemed to have put into him. She rocked her hips forward and backward, adjusting to his girth, while sighing and breathing at the feeling of having him in her. It did not matter how many times he’d taken her, she would never get used to feeling so full. 

Soon enough, he had her held harshly by her waist in a bruising grip, his teeth nibbling at her sensitive nipples as he moved her up and down, up and down, up and down. The water crashed out of the tub like waves crashing onto shore and she was quick to fall apart in a mix of pain and pleasure, moaning his name in her broken voice, followed by a silent scream. His release followed soon after, cock twitching in her as he drew her closer, closer and closer still. When she felt his cock soften after a time, she got up and he let her, following close behind. 

“You fought well today, husband.” She said, in a feeble attempt to coerce a conversation from him as they sat at the table. He was a man of silence, and she was not. He did not prefer it, but she would try anyway - because there were times when he indulged her.

“Hm. Thank you.”

The smell of cut fruit was intoxicating to her, more so than usual. She had heard of women craving peculiar kinds of food during their time as expectant mothers, so she supposed that this may have to do with the little dragon that she now grew in her belly. The rest of their time eating moved in a swift silence– a comfortable one. The only sounds they heard were of the servants in the corridors and the birds chirping from out the window.

When they finished, the trays were taken away and he got up, ready to leave to sit in on the council meeting that his grandfather had called him for. He was halfway out the door after nodding to her when she took his hand, and he stopped.

Her hands held onto his as tightly as they could, and she was skittish as she continued to look down at the floor. By now, he knew her quirks well enough to know that she did that only when she wanted to say something.

“Go on.” He urged her as his other hand reached for her too.

She drew in a sharp breath as she bit her lip. “I… I am with child, husband.”

She did not know what to expect from him of her news– but his silent sigh and slight smile as his hands reached down to cover her belly in his hold is enough of a reaction. “Thank you,” he said, his gratitude and happiness made obvious– to her, even if not to anyone else. She did nothing but smile as his forehead met hers in a soft touch– their touches were always passionate and rough while in the privacy of their chambers, so it was peculiar for her to be treated this way. She found that she enjoyed it, just as much as she enjoyed being roughly handled by him.

She then stretched the fingers of one hand, revealing a little silk patch, a little tourney favor with a rose stitched on it. A flower, from his little flower.

“I know you do not prefer tourneys, but… it is my hope that you would at least keep it with you while you train.”

His hands ran over the soft silk, fingers tracing the intricate patterns that she had clearly taken her time with. He was quick to smoothen it out and pocket it, following it with a kiss to her lips. 

“Thank you, for everything.” 

The favor was only meant for the training grounds. But a week later, when she found it peeking out of his pocket while they walked around the gardens, she smiled. Soon, she found out that he kept it with him all day.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fourth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of a favor with an embroidered rose, one that he kept on his person at all times.

There was something to be said about the comforts of silence.

Her husband was not a smiling man, nor was he an ardent conversationalist. Being a woman who leaned towards being both, she had begun their marriage with the intent of treading lightly, lest she annoy him or risk having him dismiss her halfway through. And she did try; Gods knew that she did. 

Royal marriages were a sacred duty– those held in its sanctity would have to hold themselves to a higher standard, no matter how much it hurt them. With that being said, she was eternally thankful for Aemond understanding her preferences and trying to meet her halfway. She had been prepared for a man who would coldly dismiss her and her wants, but she had not been prepared for one that would actually want her.

One of the greatest pains of being born a noblewoman, she supposed, was that happiness in itself, was a privilege– one that she wished was not as such. She wished for it to be an easy thing to have, and as such, understood that she had been blessed with a quiet and peaceful marriage - one that did not take from her more than she was willing to give. It did not matter how many times she thought it over– she never failed to be as grateful as she was at the first realization, many moons ago. 

These were her thoughts as she accompanied her husband in the library. Aemond sat opposite her, on the other side of the table with his finger running over the texts of the Summer and Winter Annals, deeply engaged in the knowledge that the book had to offer on the now lost Kingdom of Sarnor, once a famed trade partner of Valyria. 

The fresh assortment of flowers lay haphazardly on her side of the bench, while she worked towards entwining them all onto the coir to make a crown. She often stole a glance at her husband as she repeatedly adjusted herself on her seat, one that was bigger than her usual one - to accommodate her, and the babe that she now carries. 

An heir, a royal heir. There is dragon blood in you now, he had said. 

She felt it, what with her babe’s constant reminders - boy or girl, the kicks were hard and swift, and it never failed to take her by surprise.

Aemond was a very fast reader, she gathered. His pages turned a lot faster than hers did, and his eyes never stuck to one part of the parchment for long - they flitted about and were restless, aiding him in his desire to learn as much as he can in the least amount of time. They have been married for half a year by now, and yet she manages to learn something new about him every day.

Her deft fingers worked through the stems of the flowers, piercing the sharp ends of the coir through them. In and out, in and out, in and out, she went - establishing a pattern that she ended up memorizing, whether she was cognizant of it or not.

Aemond stood up as he noticed a guard waiting near the doors, summoning him on behalf of the King. Her crown was now completely done, and she admired her handiwork as she twirled it in her finger and smiled. Aemond was now speaking to the guard as she ran the tip of her fingers over the petals. She brought it closer to her nose to smell them - the flowers were not as fragrant as they were once before, but there was a faint scent that she adored. 

He nodded, and she could not help but smile again as he approached her. It struck her harder with each moment, how the Gods had blessed her with him - him with his infinite knowledge, calm disposition and otherworldly beauty. She wondered if the babe she carried would look like him - she hopes, hopes and hopes that they would.

He took the crown of flowers in his hands and handled it with the same care that she put into making it. It looked thoroughly out of place, yet so at home in his hands - much like herself.

A mildly happy lift at the edge of his lips caused a sharp dimple - one that made him look harsh, content and menacing at the same time. She may have wished for a Prince from the songs all the moons ago - but right now, she could not help but think that she had been blessed with someone greater, even if she knew that he did not believe it himself. 

He placed the crown atop her head, crowning her. She remembered wishing he would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty at the twins’ name day tourney - but at this moment, as his fingers glided over her smooth hair to set the crown of white roses into place, she was happier than she could have ever been at any tourney.

“Escort the Princess safely to our chambers,” he ordered, after rubbing her growing stomach and giving her a kiss on her temple before going to meet the King. She stood slowly, and noticed that one unused and withering flower had been left behind. The air from outside the castle gushed through the windows, and it was purely by instinct that she grabbed it by the stem and placed it inside the pages of Aemond’s book before the pages flew - so it would be marked and he could begin where he left off if he so wished.

Long after her exit, Aemond came back to his bench after finishing his meeting with the King. He noticed the protruding stem, and he could not help but feel the warmth coarse through his chest as he opened the tome and found the withering flower pressed inside.

Flowers came to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the fifth flower that she gave to him came to him in the form of a dried rose, one that he kept tucked safely inside his favorite book.

It was moments like these that made Aemond believe in anyone but himself.

Being able to love someone blindly was not a gift that Aemond ever found himself capable of giving. Ever since the loss of his eye, he had grown to be full of spite and resentment, believing that having his dragon was enough to make the loss of company around him worthwhile. Nobody knew how to speak to him anymore– how does one comfort a boy who could only see half the world around him?

And then, she came to him. His wife.

With her free smiles and open heart, she had made her way through into the center of his. He found that he preferred her there, where she belonged. She had made her home in his heart, and he marveled at how despite not matching up to her in any way that mattered, she had found it in herself to allow him to take shelter in hers.

It brought him shame to think of how they could have fallen in love much sooner if he had been open to her affections and not been so wrapped up in his own presumed fallacies. But with time, he learned that in a world where marriages remained cold until the bitter end, a late bloom of happiness was a gift that he should learn to treasure.

It is a girl. Do not ask me why I believe so, husband. I simply do, she had said.

The tomes say a bigger belly is indicative of a boy. I read it, he had countered then.

He stood corrected. Aemond would tell the entire realm that his worldly knowledge did not stand a chance against his wife’s intuition– the little girl he held in his arms was enough support for his claim. 

She slept soundly in his arms as he sat in his chair by the hearth. His wife, tired from her taxing labors, had taken to sleeping through most of the last three days, and he had not left his daughter’s side, not once.

He held her head as his mother carried her for the very first time, eyes shining in joy as she thanked them both for making her a grandmother once more. There were very few things that gave Alicent Hightower joy, and watching her children have babes of their own was one of them.

He rested the tip of his fingers over her smooth and frail silver hair as his grandfather took a good look at her, allowing himself a moment with his guard down. Aemond had not seen his grandfather look at anyone with such  reverence, not unless it was Helaena, Jaehaera or his own mother. And now, Aemond suspected that his grandfather, for all his cold demeanor, did have a soft corner in his heart for the women of his life.

He had towered over the crib as the twins took turns gawking at her, after spending hours begging to see their new cousin. Aemond brought them after they promised to not make too much noise– both mother and daughter were fast asleep. Jaehaera had asked him if she could braid her hair when she grew some, and Jaehaerys poked at the new babe's nose (her mother's nose) with his thumb in curiosity. Aemond laughed, for he was intrigued by her too– only, it was better contained.

He held her tightly to his chest with his hand over her head as Aegon came to meet his newborn niece– completely sober and bathed, upon Aemond’s threats of murder if he came anywhere near his babe with his foulness. He smiled as he dropped the little dragon toy in her crib, looking over at the exhausted mother who could barely keep her eyes open. Aemond’s one eye followed his brother’s then, and visibly softened at the sight of his wife. Aegon laughed and quipped, “I never thought I’d say this brother, but I suppose you do wear the lovestruck look well.”

He had rocked her in silence as Helaena cooed at her, elated at the thought of becoming an aunt to a niece. This family is in dire need of more women, she had mumbled absentmindedly once. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered and Aemond enthusiastically agreed. 

She is beautiful, and she is his. His own daughter, given to him by his own wife.

In the nights, when he was left alone with the women around whom his entire world now revolved, Aemond let tranquility take him. And it was in moments like these, that he learned to love them both with all that he had– blindly, and unconditionally. 

It was in moments like these, that he learned to believe.

Flowers have come to Aemond in multiple shapes and forms throughout his marriage, and the sixth flower that she gave to him, came to him in the form of his little daughter. A little flower, from his flower.

The flowers kept coming to him throughout the many years that followed, and he valued every one of them– for they had all come from her, and they were all a part of her.

His flower. His wife. His very own.

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[targaryen-dynasty]

CAN YOU STAY UP ALL NIGHT?

Part 1

Dad!Aemond x niece!Reader

Even after the babe had settled, you didn’t find any sleep. And while your breasts hadn’t felt too uncomfortable back then, they did now. They were heavy, hard to the touch and full of milk, desiring relief from their overstuffed state. 

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, lactation kink, hand job, lactating, pregnancy, female reader (mention of her eye color)

WORDS: 2.5 K

NOTES: This kinda is the part 2 to Serenity. Can be read as standalone, though! Thanks to @black-dread for allowing me to use your gif! 🤍

There were not many things you envied Aemond for, but his ability to find sleep just mere minutes after cradling your crying son until he had settled certainly was one of them.

Since you had refused to take advantage of a wet nurse, despite everyone around you, including your husband, urging you to reconsider your decision, your days had turned rather strenuous and tiring, and being five moons pregnant wasn't making it easier. 

But you and him had made an agreement once he noticed the toll it all took on you. Whenever his days were filled with princely duties, leaving the care of your son to you and your maids only, he stepped in to handle him when he arose during the night. The feeding was left to you, of course, but the more demanding part was in his hands. 

Besides your son's inability to fall asleep other than in your or your husband’s arms, he was not too fussy. This night was different, however. After what you assumed to be his last feeding for the night, he didn’t settle, and didn’t fall asleep. It took Aemond at least an hour of rocking, humming and singing to calm the crying babe, until he eventually was allowed to lay him down to sleep in the cot in his adjoining chambers. 

You had nursed your son for a little longer than usual, your breasts being full enough to feed at least two babes at once, and even though it had brought you a great sense of relief, his wailing had seemed to trigger the release of more milk – regardless of your son being full and not needing more. 

Even after the babe had settled, you didn’t find any sleep. And while your breasts hadn’t felt too uncomfortable back then, they did now. They were heavy, hard to the touch and full of milk, desiring relief from their overstuffed state. 

You had tried to stay quiet, not wanting to rouse your sleeping husband, but you couldn’t stay quiet for any longer. 

Shifting your body to get more comfortable in bed, gently massaging your breasts through the now dampened silk of your nightgown, it were your quiet moans and whimpers that caught Aemond’s attention in the dead of the night, rousing him from his slumber. He rolled over, his eyes opening languidly as he looked up at you.

“What is wrong?” he asked, his smooth voice rugged with sleep. 

While the relationship between you two hadn't been shaped by mutual love and respect in the very beginning, arranged as a way to make amends after he had lost his eye at the hands of your younger brother, you had figured very quickly that Aemond was mesmerized by your body, more specifically your breasts. He might have despised you for the actions of your kin, but the effect your body had had on his hadn’t gone unnoticed by you. 

Whenever he had been in your presence, his good eye had flickered down to the swell of your breasts, followed by a blush that not only covered his cheeks, but also ran down his neck and seemed to settle between his legs, prompting him to shift his weight from one leg to the other. Every time. 

And even when he had bedded you before you were with child, he had always paid just a little too much attention to your breasts. The second your small clothes had hit the floor, his fingers were on your little buds, rubbing and pinching them to full hardness that allowed his lips to wrap around them.  

Your breasts had grown generously throughout your first pregnancy, forcing you to scold him each time he teased them, because with the fullness also came the sensitivity. And for the remainder of your pregnancy, Aemond wasn’t allowed to touch your breasts as roughly as he would have liked to, resulting in him being quite moody and grumpy. 

But ever since your son was born, those raging emotions had turned into an obsessive infatuation, fed by your breasts swelling to ridiculous proportions once you started to nurse the babe, producing enough milk as if your body meant to provide for five children. 

No matter how bewitched he was with your breasts, the care and concern he had started to show towards you after the difficulties of your pregnancy were something you couldn’t hold against him. 

So, it was no surprise he was wide awake at the display of your discomfort, the tiredness long gone. 

Aemond leaned over you to peck your lips, his right hand pulling down the sheets and resting on the swell of your stomach, gently bringing you closer to him. His eye briefly flickered down to your bump, feeling your unborn child kick against his palm. 

“Is it the babe?” he asked, gently rubbing your bump while his other hand slightly tugged your nightgown down your shoulder to press a kiss to your exposed skin. “It appears to be just as fussy as their older brother.”

You sighed with a shake of your head, flashing him a forced smile. “It is the soreness that robs me of my sleep, not the babe.”

His gaze trailed from your face down to your full breasts, the dampened spots in the front of your nightgown just as visible in the dim light of your marital chambers as his lust blown eye. The beautiful lilac hue you both shared was fully eclipsed by black, and even the sapphire he wore appeared to be a shade darker, whereas that was merely the doing of the shadows. 

“I could be of assistance, you know,” he offered quietly, his voice thick with arousal. A faint blush spread across your cheeks, feeling the heat rise inside of you. 

The question brought you back to the first time he had helped you with the tension, the sight of him looking up at you with the remnants of your milk trickling down the corners of his lips and chin etched into your memory, and sending heat straight to the apex of your legs. 

There was no need for you to say anything, just watching you shift in your place with your hands already undoing the tie in the front of your nightgown was all the confirmation Aemond needed. 

His hands stopped yours, peeling them off your body to place them on your sides. His large hands found your breasts, cupping them through the fabric, and starting to knead them gently. A contented sigh left your lips, sinking further into the pillows, and Aemond’s warm embrace. 

He leaned closer towards you, his mouth on a level with your ear, and allowing you to hear and feel his heavy breathing. “Every night I have to watch you feed him, but I am feeling rather hungry myself,” he rasped, causing goosebumps to prickle on your skin. “One might even say I am starving, my dear.”

Your back arched into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensations washing over you at once. “Oh, yes?” you sighed, licking your lips and gazing at him with half-lidded eyes. “Then I suggest you take what you desire, husband, I would not want you to starve.”

Even through the fabric of your nightgown could you feel the warmth emanating from his palms, dancing along the sensitive skin of your hardened buds. Aemond undid the tie fully, unfolding your shift, and exposing your full breasts to the chill air. 

Drawing in a deep breath at the sudden coldness surrounding your breasts, you gazed up at Aemond, who was towering over you now, his mischievous gaze solely focused on your full breasts. Looking down at them, you noticed what had caught his attention. A few beads of your milk had oozed out your darkened buds at the stimulation, trickling down the curve of them, and proving to be a sight to behold for your husband.

“Skoros issi ao umbagon syt?” you teased, the High Valyrian slipping smoothly past your lips. What are you waiting for?

Cupping your breast again, he dragged the pad of his thumb over your bud in a way that had you inhaling sharply, gathering some of your milk to bring it to his lips and clean it off of your essence, tasting you.

Aemond hummed, licking his lips as if he had tasted the finest Arbor. He tipped his head forwards and engulfed one of your buds with his lips, his tongue swirling around it, while one hand fondled the other breast. 

The moment he started to suck had you whimpering, slightly hurting at first. But the pleasure and relief it already brought was far too good for you to resist. It was not more painful than the countless times your son had decided to clamp down on your flesh while nursing, and you could tell that, even though he was hungry for you, Aemond tried to be gentle and careful. 

Each suck of him had your stomach tingle with desire, and, while one of your hands cupped your bump, the other entangled into his silver tresses, smoothing it, and causing him to relax even further. 

Your breathing was shaky, interrupted by heavy pants and quiet moans leaving your lips. Milk dribbled out of your other bud as he pinched it between his fingers, rolling and squeezing it, and prompting a haze to cloud your mind. 

But it were not just your sounds that spurred you on. His soft purrs vibrated against your flesh, adding to the burning sensations coursing through your veins. 

When he released your bud with a lewd pop, the sight he blessed you with almost had you moaning – if it wasn't for your bottom lip to be caught between your teeth. His lips were slightly swollen from the sucking, and beads of your milk were seeping from them, trickling idly down his chin. 

“My hunger for you is as insatiable as it is undeniable,” he rasped, dark blown eye fixed with yours. His words almost made you feel shy, wanting to hide away from him. But with his warm hands on you, and the feeling of his lips still lingering on your body, the comfort it granted was just too much to pull away.  

You whimpered quietly, not one coherent thought prominent in your mind. Aemond chuckled, and positioned himself, so his mouth could pay attention to your other breast as well, careful not to put any of his weight on your swollen belly. Crawling between your parted legs, he lay down on his other side, one hand on your bump. 

He bowed his head forward and pressed soft kisses to your hot skin. A gentle bite to your hard bud had your back arching again, all but shoving it into his mouth as your grip on his hair changed to tug him down, causing him to grunt in surprise. Doing just what he had done to the other before, Aemond started to suckle on your breast, granting you even more relief. 

With the proximity, you felt a hardness press to the outside of your thigh, growing more apparent when he began to rut his hips against you. 

You snaked a hand between your bodies, starting slowly by rubbing his thigh in circular motions, before pushing your fingers underneath the waistband of his underclothes, grasping his stiff member. Your fingers must have been cold or just surprised him, because his hips stuttered slightly at the touch, almost as if he hesitated to continue. 

He nipped your bud, the rest of his body going rigid with the sudden pleasure you brought him. Stroking your hand up and down his cock, he was quick to melt into your touch again. It appeared that your hand tugging on him had him growing ferocious, almost as if it encouraged him to suck every last drop of milk out of you. 

Every time your hand slid up and down his length, getting soaked by his own juices leaking uncontrollably from his slit, Aemond pulled you unintentionally closer towards his body with his arm around your waist. 

He could not stop moaning and grunting against your flesh, rocking his hips into your hand whenever you tugged on him a tad too slowly to his liking. 

Pulling back, he watched you with parted lips as you brought your hand up to your mouth to spit into it, using your saliva to move your hand along his cock with more ease. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, almost mesmerized by the bold action. 

He dipped his head forwards again, trying to pick up where he had left. It caused you to pump his cock with desperate vigor, using the movements to keep yourself grounded. 

With how violently his cock throbbed in your grasp, his grunts and groans growing in volume, you figured he was close to reaching his peak, igniting a fire in you. You tugged on his hair rather roughly, causing him to graze his teeth along your bud to elicit breathy moans and whimpers to slip past your lips. 

“Peak for me,” you pleaded through your own pleasure, the fullness of your breasts long gone and replaced by sheer relief. But it wasn’t only about your own pleasure anymore. 

With the pressure inside of him rising, Aemond had stopped suckling on your breast. Instead, he just mouthed along your flushed flesh, nibbling on your skin and leaving little marks in his wake, staking his claim on you, as if the child growing within you was not enough already. 

Tugging on his hair once again, you pulled his face up to yours to devour him, the kiss being all teeth and tongue with a passion unmatched. You could taste your milk on his tongue, causing you to moan. 

“Gods, I– fuck,” he groaned against your lips, heralding his peak. 

You felt his warm spent on your hand even before his hips started to eagerly chase the pleasure, and his cock started to twitch, your hand pumping him through the high. Aemond grunted and groaned against your lips, the sounds eagerly swallowed down by you until he eventually came down to rest in your arms. 

He tipped his forehead against yours, humming when he was finally able to make use of his senses again. “How do you feel?” he whispered, kissing you chastely. “Or shall I continue to ensure your complete relief?”

You didn’t even have time to answer before he trailed his hand from your breasts over your bump down between your legs, cupping your mound over the skirts of your nightgown. Your breath hitched in your throat, yet you parted your legs to grant him even better access to your clothed cunt. 

You released a quiet moan, the tiredness completely forgotten. “I do not believe I could stop you if you decided to relieve me once more,” you teased, brushing his hair out of his face while your other hand rested on his cheek. You dragged your thumb over his lips, half-lidded eyes looking up at him with a spark of admiration flickering in them. 

“You are insufferable,” you mused, a soft smile on your lips, “but you know I would never turn you down… just to ensure my problem is completely relieved.”

Taglist: @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay @thatmysteriousblog @ashovertheriver @black-dread @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @lovelykhaleesiii @hypocritic-trash-baby @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowystark @connorsui

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon aemond #hotd smut #aemond smut #aemond #aemond stannies #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x you #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon fanfiction #ewan nation #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon imagine #aemond x you

[two-white-butterflies]

my way, back home | aem. targaryen

Description: Aemond wants to build a big family with you. One that rivals his great-grandfather's. (the dance never happens)

Rating: Teen [fluff]

It was uncommon to see a wedding happen because of love. It was rare to see a wedding happen because of love and political advancement. You were lucky to have the latter.

It was a hot day in Kingslanding - like the many days before. Of course, your sons took it as a reason to go to Dragonstone - where the shores and the heat were more forgiving.

"At this rate we'll need to create a beach just for our children," Aemond mused, allowing the waves to kiss his ankles. "If there is enough coin in our coffers, maybe." you replied as he leaned down to peck your lips. "I always find a way," he hummed, sitting on the sand.

His hands trail down to your swollen belly. A babe of five moons, another price or princess for the realm to adore. "What do you think it'll be?" you inquired - staring deep into his eye. "A loved child," he replied - not caring for the gender. He was a relief to have in this world - a world where girls were viewed as liability.

You turned to the side - eyes narrowing to see the figure of your sons and their handmaidens properly. "Not too far, my darlings." you gently warn, seeing that the water was beginning to reach Rhaenar's shoulders. "Yes, mother." your youngest, Aenar, responded.

Aemond kept his hand on your stomach, rubbing slow circles while he watched his sons play in the waters. A small thought runs through his head - a plan and a vision of his life.

"You have been far too silent, my husband." you pointed out, using the cloth to dry your hair properly. "I have been thinking," he professed - taking a lazy sip of his dornish wine.

"Thinking about what?" you raised an eyebrow.

The sides of his lips turned upwards - slowly leaning towards a smile. He takes another sip of his wine, allowing the silence to permeate throughout the atmosphere. "I want more children with you," he stated and a playful laugh escapes your mouth.

"This one is yet to escape my womb, and you already plan to have a fifth?" your eyebrows bumped into each other. The pain of childbirth was great - but the joy of having a babe in your arms, it was greater. "And a sixth, a seventh and an eighth." he professed - already having a few names in mind for his heirs.

"Is this the wine speaking, or does the plan of replacing King Jaehaerys' records lay rampant in your head?" you accused, taking a step forward and sitting on his lap. His hands inch towards your belly again - seeing that it was it's perfect place. "I always intended it to be that way," he whispered - burying his face on your neck.

"But we won't be like them, you know that - right?" you frown, remembering his children's cruel fates. "We'll be better." you add with certainty. Your daughters will not be subjected to cruel matches - and your sons will be raised with vigor and love. Your daughters will know that their beauty increases their worth - and that it doesn't diminish their intellect. Your sons will know that they are not only meant to be princes and heirs - they can venture far.

"Yes," he answered, removing his hand from your belly - reaching for your jaw and merging your lips together.

@bellstwd @nyctophilic0vitnir @fan-goddess @mizfortuna @watercolorskyy

#aemond targaryen #aemond #aemond one eye #the one eyed prince #prince aemond targaryen #aemond stannies #pro aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen x reader #modern aemond #aemond targaryen fan fiction #aemond targayren fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fan fic #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd smut #hotd angst #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fic #hotd fanfiction #hotd fan fiction

[cambion-companion]

How woud Aemond react to his wife cheating... in chess?

Every time he looks away, she steals a piece off of the board and just smiles when he looks back at her. Like she isn't even trying to win she's just doing this to mess with him a little

Oh wow, I found another drunk drabble prompt! Thank you Anon, this is a hilarious follow up to the message I answered "How would Aemond react to his wife cheating" haha

Aemond x wife!reader | tipsy reader | cheating at chess | Aemond indulging his lady, teasing ensues

"It's your turn, Y/N."

You continued sipping on your wine, your mind already fuzzy from the drink, swirling the bitter liquid around in your mouth as you studied the chessboard in consternation.

Aemond sat back in his chair, his lips pressed together as he watched you with a mixture of impatience and amusement.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but you held up a hand to shush him. "I'm thinking."

"A demanding endeavor, it seems."

"I'm not losing to you again, Aemond."

"Perhaps more wine would help." He smirked, catching your eye as you shot him a withering look, taking another deliberate swig from your goblet.

"Fine." You moved your rook forward several spaces.

You winced as Aemond immediately took your piece with his knight. "Fuck."

"Check."

You groaned, holding the rim of your cool glass against your aching temple.

A servant bearing more drink arrived, drawing away your husband's attention for a few crucial moments. You reached forward, surreptitiously removing Aemond's own rook from the board and stowing it in the cushions beside you. "Ah, thank you." You beamed at the servant as he refilled your cup.

Aemond was studying his board with a raised brow, his violet eye flicked up to your studiously neutral expression. "Your move, Y/N."

"Oh yes, of course."

This went on several more minutes; you losing your pieces to Aemond's keen strategizing and him losing his own pieces whenever he was sufficiently distracted enough for you to steal them.

As Aemond turned his head to observe a group of guards moving across the hall, you tried to take away his queen without him taking notice. Long fingers caught your wrist as Aemond turned swiftly back to you, aware the whole time of your ruse. He pulled you toward him, unseating you and causing you to tumble onto his lap, scattering the remaining pieces across the board.

"You tried to take my queen?" He rolled his eye, snorting a short laugh. "You do know cheating at chess is nigh impossible."

"I'm the only queen you need, my king." You giggled, feeling his dexterous fingers begin probing at the ticklish part of your sides.

Your face was flushed from the wine and the sudden proximity of the Targaryen prince you called husband.

Aemond sighed, hoisting you so you were more securely seated against him. "I've always thought it interesting the queen is the one with the most power over the board." You watched him with soft adoration as he continued his musing. "She is the one with the most power to protect the king."

"I'd protect you with my life too." You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, feeling the low vibration of his chuckling, his grip on you tightening slightly.

"My ember." Aemond said affectionately into your hair before placing a gentle kiss to your crown.

The warmth of his arms encircling you combined with the heady heat of the wine caused your eyes to droop with sleepy contentment. "Take me to bed, Aemond." You murmured, your lips brushing the soft skin of his neck.

"As my lady commands." He rose with you in his arms, your arms coming to grip around his shoulders as he strode toward your chambers. "Remind me to not play chess with you while you're drinking."

"You're just a sore loser." You smiled, kissing his temple. "My strategizing prowess is clearly too much for you to handle."

"Hmm." Was your terse answer, Aemond shaking his head in fond bemusement as he carried you to bed.

#aemond fluff #aemond drunk drabble #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond fanfic #aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond imagine #aemond drabble #aemond one eye #prince aemond x reader #hotd aemond x reader #hotd x reader #hotd drabble #house of the dragon aemond #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond stannies #pro aemond targaryen

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Ūbnon (anticipation)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader Warnings: Incest, dirty talk, heavy petting, female masturbation. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Soon to be married to her twin brother, Aemond, she grows nervous at the prospect of what is to come on their wedding night, and decides to educate herself. To her embarrassment, and eventual delight, her brother catches her in the act.

Author's note: For @asa-do-your-thing. Based on this request. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Born just minutes apart, she has been bound to Aemond since birth. He is her twin, her other half, their kinship as natural to her as the simple act of drawing breath. Their betrothal is a matter that was decided upon long before either of them had the faculties to truly comprehend the implications, but it is one she readily accepts. It is a means to strengthen their family, to prolong the Targaryen lineage, to provide heirs when the legitimacy of her half sister Rhaenyra’s offspring is called into question.

The full weight of what that means for both of them is not one she ever ponders, it is simply a duty she must perform. But as she grows older, blossoming into a woman, and watches Aemond develop into a man, her mind drifts to the implications of marriage and the duties she will be expected to perform as not just a sister, but as a wife.

She is no stranger to pleasure, her hand has often drifted between her thighs on nights that sleep evades her, drawing out a pulsating ache from which warmth writhes in her lower belly and spreads through her limbs until she is left feeling weightless and spent.

However, she is unsure of how she could ever replicate such a feeling with a man, her twin brother no less, rutting atop her. She has learned the physicality of it from her septa, and what is described to her both piques her curiosity and frightens her. To have Aemond brutalise her body in such a manner makes her fear for the pain it may cause her, but her thoughts also race with the possibility that it might feel good.

She has tried to broach the subject with Helaena before, hoping to find common ground, considering she is married to their eldest brother, Aegon, and they have three children together. However, upon the mere mention of the subject, Helaena had blinked rapidly, her brow furrowing, and clamped her hands over her ears as she turned away from her. It was a clear indication that she did not want to talk of it, so she did not broach the topic again. It made dread gnaw at her insides. Could it really be that bad?

She supposes Helaena is not as fortunate as she is; Aegon is drunk where Aemond is stoic, he is brutish and unkind, where Aemond is soft and understanding, at least to his mother and sisters. She is not oblivious to the darker side of her twin, she knows him inside and out; he has a sharp tongue and a proclivity for explosive anger, though neither are ever directed towards her. She wonders if that will change once she is his wife and more is expected of her. What if she is a disappointment to him on their wedding night and his attitude towards her changes? The very idea fills her with worry.

There is time yet, she supposes, and so she pushes the thought from her mind, deciding she will deal with it when a moment presents itself.

But a moment never does present itself, and now the wedding is only a month away.

She hisses, snatching her hand back from her needlepoint, placing the tip of her finger into her mouth to soothe the sudden sting of pain. It is the second time in the span of a quarter of an hour that she has accidentally pricked herself with the needle she holds in the opposite hand, and she is not sure the fruits of her labour are worth the effort of her suffering; the embroidery that sits upon her lap is a mess of loose stitches and frayed threads. Her mind is elsewhere, as much as she wills it to focus on the roses she is attempting to bring to life upon the scrap of cotton.

“You seem distracted today,” her lady in waiting tells her, “is there something the matter?”

She drops her hand into her lap, sighing. There are several women who attend to her at court, but she seldom spends time with any of them, finding them all far too vapid and focused on idle gossip for her taste. Elyse is the only exception. She is discreet, and content to idle the hours away in comfortable silence with her, either reading or sewing. She supposes that if she can confide in anyone regarding her fears for her wedding night and subsequent marital duties, then Elyse is the person she can trust most. She certainly cannot speak to her mother or sister, and definitely not Aemond.

“I am distracted,” she confesses. “The wedding draws closer by the day and I feel anxious for what is to come.”

“Do you not wish to marry Aemond?” Elyse asks, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“It is not that,” she says, shaking her head. “I cannot wait to be his wife, but it is what comes after that that concerns me. I am worried it will hurt. I want to find pleasure in the act, to not simply lay there passively and be a witness but not a participant to the loss of my virtue. Does that sound terrible?”

“Not at all,” Elyse reassures her, “you can and you should find pleasure in being intimate with your husband.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she scoffs. “I do not know how.”

“You could try speaking to Aemond about it? It may ease your mind a little.”

She balks at the idea, feeling her cheeks heat up. “That is not an option. I think he would sooner put out his other eye than debase himself to such a conversation.”

“Hmm. Perhaps a visit to the library is in order then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lady Coryanne Wylde wrote a book, A Caution for Young Girls. It is an autobiographical account of her life as handmaid to a queen, the paramour of a young knight, a camp follower in the Disputed Lands, a serving wench in Myr, a mummer in Tyrosh, the plaything of a corsair queen in the Basilisk Isles, a slave in Volantis, the handmaid of a Qartheen warlock, the mistress of a pleasure house in Lys and ultimately a septa in the Starry Sept of Oldtown, where she sets down the story of her life as a warning to young maids.”

“If it is meant as a warning then how will I seek any comfort within its pages?”

Elyse laughs softly. “Believe me, I think what you will find within its pages is most…illuminating.”

She waits until nightfall, when she is sure everyone in the Keep will be asleep, before making her way to the library. Having thought of nothing else but the book that Elyse had mentioned earlier that day, she is eager to read it, but does not wish to be caught doing so.

Pulling her robe tighter around herself, to keep the chill of the air from permeating the thin cotton of her nightgown, her slippered feet pad softly through the winding corridors of the castle as she makes her way from her quarters to the library, a candle lighting her way. She is relieved to find the library dark and empty as she enters, the comforting scent of aged books calming her unsettled nerves as her heart hammers rapidly in her chest.

Using her candle to light the lamps on each of the tables, the subtle illumination helps to guide her as she walks the length of the room, eyes scanning the bookcases for the title she searches for. The spines of the various historical accounts and philosophical texts are all weathered with use, doubtless Aemond’s doing, and for a moment she wonders if such a scandalous book would even be kept within the library of the Red Keep. She cannot imagine such salacious text being housed alongside educational resources.

Making her way through the shelves containing volumes on botany, medicine and anatomy, she finally finds what she is looking for, tucked away on the end of a tightly packed shelf in the furthest corner of the library.

Reaching up with shaky hands, she frees the book from its cramped confines, surprised by the size and weight of it, and quickly makes her way over to the nearest table, nervously scanning the room to ensure no one has crept in after her to catch her in the act, before sitting down to read.

Her lips part, eyes widening as she reads, fingers delicately turning each page as she finishes it. She feels her skin grow hot as her pulse races and her breath quickens, shame washing over her at the relentless throbbing in her core as she loses herself in seedy tales of Lady Wylde being brought to peak at the lips and tongue of a man, and how she had chased her pleasure once more by wrapping her legs tighter around his waist as he had thrust into her.

She clamps her legs tighter together at the stickiness that gathers between her thighs, wondering how it would feel to have Aemond’s lips upon her breasts, to watch his tongue delve between her folds, to feel his fingers imprint upon her flesh as he buries himself to the hilt inside of her. Does he crave such things too? It makes her giddy with excitement for their wedding night, so that she may find out.

“You should be sleeping, dōnus hāedus.” [Sweet sister.]

Aemond’s voice causes her to freeze. So absorbed in her reading, she had not heard him enter. Her heart lurches and she swallows thickly, before looking up to meet his steely gaze as he stares down at her. His hair is loose, spilling iridescently over his shoulders, and his sapphire eye glimmers subtly in the low lighting. In a loose undershirt and breeches, he is clearly ready for bed himself.

“I–I could not find rest, so I came to the library to read,” she says quietly.

“And what are you reading?” He asks, cocking his head slightly.

She inhales shakily, placing her forearms over the pages of the book as it rests on the table, a feeble attempt to hide its contents from her twin. “It would bore you, it does not matter.”

“I do not think that is true, it must be an interesting book to have you in such a flustered state. I suspect you are lying to me. Skoros otāpā, idañītsos?” [What do you think, little twin?]

Lowering her gaze, she says nothing. Embarrassment and shame make her feel as though her skin is ablaze, as he reaches forward, placing his fingers against the edge of the book and sliding it out from underneath her arms, towards himself.

She holds her breath as he reads silently, not daring to look at Aemond as she keeps her eyes fixed on her hands clasped against the tabletop in front of her.

“Hmmm, so you have a taste for depravity,” he finally says.

“No!” Her head snaps up, wide eyed with shock as she protests. “I do not, Aemond, I swear! I–I have been…worried about our wedding night. I wanted to know more about how men and women please each other, so that I would not be a disappointment to you. I did not think anyone would catch me or ever know I had been reading this.”

He rounds the table, standing over her where she sits, and tenderly takes her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Jorrāelītsos, you could never disappoint me.” [Little love.]

She preens at his praise, her gaze softening as she stares up at him.

“But I do think you tell lies,” he continues. “You are my twin, you know me better than anyone, and you know how often sleep evades me, and where I come to when it does; here. I think you wanted me to catch you, to pry out of you the things you are too afraid to say of your own volition.”

“Lēkys…” [Brother.]

“Sit on the table.”

“W–why?!”

“Do as you are told, dōnus mēres. I shall not ask again.” [Sweet one.]

She shivers, scrambling up from her chair to sit on the table’s edge, watching as he pulls out the chair she had previously occupied and seats himself in it.

“Sit further back,” he instructs, “so that your feet can rest upon the table too, then I want you to lift your nightgown and spread your legs for.”

Blinking rapidly, her brows raised in horror, she is afraid she has misheard him. Surely he would never ask something so vulgar of her? And yet when she studies his expression, she finds no trace to suggest he is jesting at her expense. Instead, he inclines his head towards her, a silent gesture of impatience that lets her know it is best not to argue back. So, she complies with his command.

She longs to look away as the cool air of the library touches upon her most intimate of parts, she feels too exposed and painfully embarrassed. Yet when she takes in the subtle dilation of Aemond’s pupil, the way he moistens his lips as he leans ever so slightly forward to get a better look at her, she cannot find it in herself to cast her gaze anywhere but him. She has never seen such hunger or longing in his expression before.

“You are wet,” he states quietly, “did you enjoy what you read?”

Taking her lower lip between her teeth, she gives a small nod, too ashamed to say it aloud, and attempts to close her legs.

“I did not say you could do that, not yet. Keep them open.”

She does as instructed, but when she opens her mouth to speak, Aemond holds up a hand to silence her.

“It is not just you who has been researching, hāedus. I, too, have been reading, and I can see the state of arousal you are in. It is just a pity that it is a book that has made you this way and not I.”

“I was thinking about you as I read…” she whispers.

The faintest of smirks tugs at his lips, his eye lifting from between her thighs to her face. “Were you really? Tell me what you were thinking about me doing.”

She shakes her head furiously, too embarrassed to say, her knees falling together instinctively until she sees Aemond raise an eyebrow, and quickly parts them once more.

He sighs, leaning back, fingertips drumming against the armrests of the chair. “Very well. Then I shall divulge some of my own thoughts, for you have expressed your concerns regarding our bedding, and it would be careless of me as both your twin brother and betrothed if I did not attempt to put your mind at ease.”

This piques her curiosity, and she leans up slightly, resting against her palms, eager to hear what he has to say.

“I have no intention of hurting you on our wedding night,” he tells her, “quite the opposite, actually. I wish to take my time with you, prepare you thoroughly.”

Her breath hitches as she feels a familiar warmth fluttering in her belly. “How?” She whispers.

“I want to taste you. I will lap up the wetness that gathers between your thighs, have you fall apart upon my tongue until you tremble and scream my name.”

She feels herself clench around nothing at his filthy words, her chest rising and falling with a slight shudder at the rapidity of her breaths.

“Only when you are soaked for me will I dare to breach your maidenhead,” he continues. “You have no idea how many times I have spent into my own hand at the thought of how impossibly tight and warm you will feel around me. I long to spill deep inside of you, then watch the way it trickles down your thighs before I do it all over again.”

So desperate with need, she feels lightheaded, she aches for him, and she believes he is about to give her exactly what she needs when he rises from the chair, looming over her as she rests upon the table.

His thumbs run along the inside of her thighs, moving upwards, but missing entirely where she needs him most, instead ascending into the crease where her hip meets her leg.

“Please…please, lēkys, touch me,” she whimpers.

“I am afraid I cannot do that, as much as I yearn to, because once I do I will not be able to control myself, and you will no longer be a maid upon our wedding night.”

She feels so frustrated she could cry, as his hands delicately take the hem of her nightdress and smooth it back down over her legs, before helping her into a seated position. His sense of duty is both Aemond’s best and worst quality.

“I hope I have done what I can to alleviate your fears though, idañītsos.”

She nods, smiling gratefully up at him, despite the dull throbbing that causes her to squirm uncomfortably. “Could I ask one more thing of you, please? Willl…will you kiss me?”

Aemond’s eye softens, cupping her cheek as he leans in to press his lips to her. They are wonderfully soft and warm against her own, and she kisses back eagerly. However, all too soon he is pulling away, chuckling softly as she chases forward with her face, whining at the loss of him.

“Good things come to those who are patient, dōnus mēres,” he utters, resting his forehead against hers, as his fingers stroke the soft skin of her cheek. “Go back to your quarters, and think of me when you touch yourself. You have only a moon’s turn to wait until it is my hand you are falling apart at instead.”

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[sapphire-writes]

A Second Chance

pairing: Aemond x Reader request: Hello! Sorry to bother you but i have a little idea that came from all the reblogs you recently made! basically Aemond is away so Alicent requests that reader! Comes back after a long time to the red keep because she wants to see her boy happy 🥺 of course its just a simple start but would love to see nice Alicent helping his baby ~ anonymous

warnings: none! this has the tiniest amount of angst but mostly fluff word count: 1.4k note: loved this, loved writing emotional Aemond & your messages are NEVER ever a bother! 💚 masterlist

“I was ever so sorry to hear of the death of your lord husband, Lady (Y/N),” Alicent said, giving you a look full of a mother’s compassion, “and so unfortunate he should leave you so quickly after you wed.”

You take a sip from your cup. The Queen had invited you to the capital and you had been delighted to return. Ever since you arrived your eyes had been searching for Aemond.

You had both left on such harsh terms those several years ago when your betrothal had been announced. You had been missing him for years, feeling as though a very piece of your own heart had been missing. 

“Thank you, your grace,” you tell her, speaking softly.

Your lord husband had been a kind man. Married to you as an alliance for your families and that was all. He was nearly twice your age, but he had been sweet to you. 

“My son has missed your presence,” Alicent tells you. 

“I was hoping to see the prince,” you said, heart rate increasing. 

Alicent nods, looking off to the side. Your smile falters as the realization washes over you at her hesitant glance.

“Aemond does not know I am here,” you tell her. It is a statement, not a question. 

Alicent struggles to keep the smile on her face. She brought her hand to yours, squeezing it gently. 

“I thought perhaps we shall surprise him,” she says softly.

“I do not think he wishes to see me,” you tell her, and feel a slash of pain in your heart. The wound is still fresh, though the years had passed. 

“Tell them not to let me go,” you had begged him, chasing him down an empty corridor. 

The one-eyed prince had stopped his long strides turning to face you. 

“Tell them you wish to marry me,” you had begged.

Aemond had been silent for many moments. 

“I cannot tell them what is not true.”

You remembered it as though it had happened yesterday. The cold look in his eye, so unlike that of which he usually awarded you. None of the kindness you had grown to love. 

“He does,” Alicent insists, “he has been terribly lonely these past years. Growing more resentful each day. I worry about him.”

In truth, you had never stopped thinking of Aemond. He plagued your thoughts at every moment. 

You blink away the tears that gather in your eyes.

“He shall be returning soon,” Alicent tells you, “join us for supper tonight, please.”

Her thumb continues to stroke the back of your hand, a hopeful look is in her eyes. You nod in agreement. 

Aemond remembered watching you go, the way your eyes had filled with tears. The look of betrayal on your face. That most of all. That has haunted most of his days since your departure. 

In truth, he had wished to marry you. But duty is often in conflict with matters of the heart. And duty demanded he remained unwed. 

And though it pained him to do so, he had to let you go. 

Aemond walks quickly to his chambers, eager to bathe and dress before joining his mother for dinner. The days have been long, and there is no feeling like that of being home. 

He hisses as he lowers himself into the tub, the hot water nipping at his pale skin. Aemond wishes to be done quickly, he doesn’t like being alone with his thoughts. He finds himself constantly training, reading, researching, and doing anything to distract himself from the constant thoughts that plague him.

You. 

It has been years since he last saw you since you last spoke. He supposed you must have several children by now. This did not make him sad, he hoped you had children to brighten your life. 

Aemond readied himself before making his way to his mother’s chambers. It was to be a small affair for supper that evening, as Aegon was entertaining some guests from the west. 

“Aemond,” Alicent said, as he arrived. She embraced her son whom she had not seen in several months. 

“It is good to see you, mother,” he said.

“I have missed you,” she told him, “I have invited a guest for dinner..”

“A guest?” Aemond questions, as the door opens. 

He turns and his breath catches in his throat as he sees you in the doorway. Your eyes are wide as you take him in. Aemond looks good, taller perhaps if that is possible. Leaner, the entirety of him is ropey muscles. He is handsome as ever, eyepatch securely covering his ruined eye. Aemond’s lips part.

“Hello Aemond,” you say softly smiling. 

“Lady (Y/N) has agreed to join us for supper, isn’t that lovely?” Alicent says, placing a hand on her son’s arm. 

Aemond jerks his head in a nod causing Alicent to smile. 

“I shall be but a moment,” she says, starting toward the door. She stops to caress your cheek, before leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind her. 

You inhale a shaky breath. 

“Are you well?” you ask as Aemond continues to stare, a rather innocent expression on his normally harsh face. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice hoarse. You wet your lips wringing your hands together. 

“Your mother invited me to the capital,” you tell him, “I did not know you had no part in the invitation.”

“My mother?” Aemond said, shaking his head. Of course, his mother. The hopeless romantic who always wanted more for her children than the hand she had been dealt. You nod. 

“She wished to offer her condolences,” you continue, walking towards the fireplace. You reach for a grape that lays on a golden tray. Aemond’s brow furrows.

“Condolences?” he asks, watching you pop the grape into your mouth. You chuckle.

“Shall you speak in questions all evening, my prince?” you tease before answering his question.

“My late husband has passed,” you inform him. A moment of pause lingers between you. 

“I am sorry to hear that,” Aemond says, “I do hope your children are weathering alright?”

You meet his eye, a blush beginning to creep onto your cheeks. Aemond wishes he could place his hands upon your cheeks, to feel the burning that resides underneath your smooth flesh. 

“We were not blessed with children,” you tell him, “my lord husband was not well, for the majority of our marriage.”

“Did he treat you well?” Aemond asks, voice turning to a tone of concern.

“Oh yes,” you assure him, “yes, he was very kind to me. But-”

You find yourself struggling to speak, struggling to find the right words.

“He did not love me,” you decide, “he did not desire me. It was a quiet marriage.”

Aemond is watching you carefully. How foolish he had been to let you slip from his fingers. The gods are good, they must be repaying him for his suffering in some way by returning you to him. By offering him a second chance. 

“I would,” Aemond says softly.

He walks over to you until he stands directly before you. 

“I would love you, I would desire you,” he tells you, “I do, I always have.”

Your eyes fill with tears and you shake your head. 

“You don’t have to say that-”

“I do, and I was a fool,” he continues, taking your hands in his, “I was a fool to let you leave when I loved you. I have loved you and continue to love you.”

The tears are freely flowing down your cheeks, dripping past your chin and onto the stone floor.

“There has not been a day that goes by where I do not think of you,” he continues, “there is not a corner of this world I could fly to where I did not see your face. In every passerby, in the light of the moon. You are everywhere. You are all-consuming.”

“Aemond,” you beg, not sure exactly if you wish him to stop or keep speaking. 

“I love you,” he insists, fingers digging into your waist. 

You bring your hands to his chest, pulling him towards you and connecting your mouths. The kiss is desperate and passionate, making up for the lost time. Aemond can feel the coolness from your tears caressing his face, and you start to laugh against his mouth. 

He kisses you again and again, swallowing the happy laughter that pours from your sweet lips. 

Queen Alicent stands outside the room, back pressed against the wood of the door, listening to your whispers, and laughter. She places a hand against her heart and closes her eyes, happy that her son has found the love he so longed for. 

note: hope you enjoyed I love me a good love confession, especially from our fave one-eyed prince 🥹

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