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ireneispunk · 1 day

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Teach Me

Aemond Targaryen x female reader smut (Rhaenyra & Harwin Laenor Velaryon's daughter)

After your family gathers in King's Landing for Maelor's name day celebrations, tensions build between in more ways than expected. A lesson in High Valryian from your uncle Aemond causes a mutual infatuation to bubble over.

w.c: 9,398 (i know)

c.w: SMUT 18+ , targcest (uncle & niece), NO use of Y/N, oral (m & f receiving), afab reader, foreplay, unprotected p in v sex, the slowest of slowburns to ever exist, mild aemond angst, but also kinda soft aemond(?), fluff to finish ofc, small implied age gap, reader is briefly mentioned to have Srong features, pet names (in high valyrian), use of High Valyrian all translations in text as it is spoken (E.G "Rytsa Skorkydoso glaesā?" (Hi how are you?)) (i didn't translate these everytime bc i used them a lot so: mandianna = niece (child of your older sister), iāpa = uncle), pls let me know if i've missed any

a.n: so this came from a post i did the other day, and @sinistersnakey9419 gave me the idea for this fic and it had me giggling and kicking my feet fr. also, this took me like a week to write because i kept adding more plot teehee.

dividers: @saradika ♡

It was a week into your families stay at King’s Landing. The Red Keep was a familiar place, but it was no Dragonstone. Your Grandsire, King Viserys, had made it his wish of his for his family to be together to celebrate Maelor’s name day which was to be a multiple day affair. And he meant all of his family, regardless of the fabricated tensions that divided you. As Rhaenyra’s second eldest and only surviving daughter, you felt an unspoken pressure to help maintain the peace between the brothers of the family. One side couldn’t help but torment whilst the other was quick to defend his family by any means. You missed being back on Dragonstone, but this was an exciting place to be. Days were filled with activities befitting of a young lady, and you enjoyed spending time with your Aunt Helaena – both of you appreciated a sisterly figure from within each other. There was one presence you couldn’t quite understand. Aemond. Your uncle had watched you closely since you first arrived, it had been a time since you had both seen each other. He had grown into a very tall and incredibly handsome man; he was more pleasing to the eye than he should be. His large frame and equanimous demeanour loomed over you, even from the other side of a room. His gaze stuck upon you like a hound tracking game. You couldn’t help but assume, like most other members of his side of the family, he held nothing but judgemental distain for you and your brown-haired brothers.

The mornings were always the same, Viserys had wished for you all to break your fast together daily. That had started to dwindle until the King had heard of it and demanded you eat together regardless of his presence. It was going about as well as it had the past week, Aegon’s head in a cup, Alicent on edge at every second.

“The maesters have been helping us with our Valyrian.” Spouted Lucerys, he was sweet, too sweet and sensed a smog of tension over the room. Rhaenyra smiled, appreciating your brother’s attempt.

“Let us hear it then.” Daemon announced leaning back in his seat.

“Rēbagon se gerpa kostilus.” (Pass the fruit please). Lucerys seemed impressed with his statement, Daemon seems confused for a moment before leaning forward and sliding the dish of grapes over towards Luke. A short scoff was heard from across the table, Aemond sat casually, smirk laden on his lips.

“Something the matter, Uncle?” Jacaerys spoke through slight gritted teeth. Aemond raised a hand in a defensive motion, smile still playing at his lips.

“What my brother wants to say,” Aegon peeled his face up from the tablecloth and took a swig of whatever was in his cup at this hour, “Is that your ‘High Valyrian’ sounded more like Old Ghiscari.” Lucerys smile faded as he looked to your mother for reassurance. You sighed, looking down at you half-finished plate as yet another verbal disagreement erupted between the men in your life. You rose to your feet with more haste than you anticipated causing your chair to wobble and crash onto the stone floor behind you. The room fell silent, and you felt everyone’s eyes burning into your skin.

Your gaze remained vacant, lingering on the table, “May I please be excused.” You were embarrassed: of your outburst, your family’s inability to get along, your uncles’ comments. Mostly due to the fact they were right, Lucerys’ nor Jacaerys High Valyrian was perfect, and it just added to the rumours that spread about your family. Your mother had barely spoke an ‘of course’ before you took your leave, nails digging crescents into your palms.

Leaves rustled beneath your feet as you paced the grass of the Godswood, it was always a small sanctuary of peace for it’s quiet and empty nature. You closed your eyes and let the sun beam down on your face, if you imagined hard enough you could feel the cold breeze from your balcony at Dragonstone. A harsh snapping of a twig pulled you from your thoughts, your head shooting up towards the direction of the disturbance. Aemond stood a few paces away from you, palm raised in a surrendering motion. You released a breath you had been holding onto, bringing your hands together to fiddle with the clasp of your bracelet. “I did not mean to startle you, Mandianna,” He took a stride closer towards you, hands clasped behind his back. “You caused quite a scene. For a princess.” Your eyes stayed fixated on the ground beneath the two of you. This was the first time you had ever been alone with Aemond, and he was being agreeable? It was hard to deny how beautiful he was, even just from the stolen glances towards him. You knew about sex, parts of what it entailed. From a few detailed paintings to the small snippets you overheard from the younger handmaidens. You hadn’t spent an awful lot of time thinking about it apart from when conversations of finding you a match came around. That was until this week, something about being around Aemond meant fighting away thoughts of him a regular occurrence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you picked up your chin to meet Aemond’s stare. It was softer, and more inquisitive than his usual piercing gaze. Your stomach dropped as thoughts of him bending you over and fucking you right here in the Godswood clouded your mind, how his hands would feel over your body, his tongue across your neck and between your thighs, how it would feel him sliding – “Keli jiōraton aōha ēngos byka genes?” (Cat got your tongue little mouse?). You felt heat rising towards cheeks and across your chest as you tried to mask your raised heart rate. You were pretty sure Aemond couldn’t read your thoughts, but the small smile that played at his lips made you feel otherwise. Something about your close proximity, the way you could make out each detail of his face, and his intoxicating smell had muzzled you. Lips parted to respond but nothing came out. You felt helpless in the best way possible. “A Velaryon princess who can’t hold a High Valyrian conversation, you disappoint me Mandianna.” Aemond turned on his heel, briskly walking towards the wood’s exit.

Maybe it was the need to please, the burning between your thighs, or the fact he was no longer facing you, but the words escaped your lips before you could even process what you had said, “Teach me.” The small wave of confidence dwindled when he turned his head back to face you.

“Teach you?”

“Teach me what you think I should know, Iāpa.” You didn’t know how he would respond, nor did you know how you wished for him to respond. Aemond raised a brow and smiled to himself, your small use of High Valyrian and how your statement could be interpreted in many different made him intrigued to see where this would lead.

“Tomorrow evening, after supper. Meet me in the library’s reading room.” Without needing a response, he once again made his way out of the wood, leaving you flustered and equally excited, yet dread filled.

As supper slowly began to drew to a close, your excitement manifested in a small bobbing of your leg. Actual conversation rang out between small groups on the table, Lucerys and Helaena had included you in there’s but all you could focus on was keeping your thoughts clear. Everything about Aemond drew you further in his lips softly against his cup, the way his index and middle finger tapped along to the quiet music that had been played, but most of all the way he would catch you watching with a satisfied smile. You partially walked back to your chambers, before feigning forgetting a ring behind at the table, and insisting to your mother and Daemon that it couldn’t wait until morning. Part of you wondered if you shouldn’t have lied, there was a simple explanation: getting lessons in High Valyrian from your uncle Aemond. Except this would not go over well with your immediate family. For you could hold a conversation in High Valyrian, it was Aemond you couldn’t speak to specifically. You were actually quite proficient in High Valyrian, not as much as you’d hoped to be but a whole lot better than your brothers. Whether it was common tongue or Valyrian Aemond rendered you speechless, and now you were willingly walking into a situation where he had complete control. You knew for certain how much you longed for him, but other than glances you couldn’t figure out what he truly felt. Part of you wanted to be under him at every moment possible but if he didn’t feel the same, if his glances were all a trick, you’d be ruined.

After stepping through the library, you took one final breath before opening the heavy oak door to the reading room. It pushed open with a small creak to reveal Aemond sat at the desk, tattered book in hand. “I thought you might’ve gotten cold feet,” he closed the book and softly placed it on the table, “Come take a seat.” He arose, pulling the wooden chair beside him out from the table, allowing you to sit down. You nodded your head slightly before taking a seat, smoothing out any creases in your dress. Taking a moment to examine the reading room in the dark, you noticed the two brass cups and a wine jug, along with numerous High Valyrian scriptures and books with plain parchment and a fresh quill. Aemond himself was wearing his usual attire, except his black coat had been unbuckled a few straps, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. You swallowed, eyeing the wine. Everything seemed real of a sudden. You weren’t used to drinking wine, especially alone at night. Sensing your nervousness, Aemond picked up a cup and placed it in front of you, “Just because it is my drink of choice for the evening,” he poured a small amount into his own cup, “Doesn’t mean I expect you to partake, Mandianna.” You paused for a moment before shaking your head ‘no’ and sliding your cup away. “Very well, read this out for me, I want to hear what you can do already.” He relished in how you squirmed when he was close to you. You looked down at the papers in front of you, ‘Aegon the Conqueror, The High Valyrian Scriptures’. You knew all about Aegon the Dragon, but the words escaped you as Aemond stood behind you, left hand atop your chair, right hand holding up his weight on the table. You felt a few strands of his long hair tickle your shoulder, the closeness of him made you feel as if you could burst. “Go on then, read it.” He said, almost a whisper. His lips were so close yet still too far, you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke but not the softness of his lips on your skin. This is the type of torture that scribes should mention.

“Aegon I Targaryen iksin se ēlī āeksio hen sīkuda Dārȳti se-“ (Aegon I Targaryen was the first Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and-). You paused as Aemond moved from behind you to stand beside the table.

“I didn’t say stop.” His firm tone excited you more than you wanted it to.

“se dārys va se Dēmalion Āegenko.” (and king on the Iron Throne). You continued, looking up to Aemond for approval. He nodded before gathering up the papers from in front of you and holding them in his hands. Puzzled, you turned to face him “But-“

“Too easy, you know how the story goes, tell it to me in High Valyrian.” Aemond looked pleased with himself as he sat back into his own chair that now faced yours.

You looked down at the floor for a moment, before continuing “Ziry kithsair bȳre hen sīkuda Dārȳti se-ziry se-“ (He conquered six of the seven kingdoms and-he a-nd-). Yet again, your words escaped your lips as Aemond’s gaze wandered over your body, free to visually devour your form now you were not in the company of others.

He inhaled sharply and rose to his feet, “Valyrio Eglie iksis iā kostōba udrir, se ēdruta sagon spoken hae mēre. Aōha udra issi nākostōbā, ao ȳdragon tolī rāpa. Eman daor drīve geptot naejot dohaeragon ao byka genes.” (High Valyrian is a powerful language and must be spoken as one. Your words are weak, you speak too softly. I cannot help you little mouse.) His words came at you fast and rather harshly, you hated the effect he had on you, and you hated how he judged you for it. You searched his face for something more, surely all of this was not over, the yearning looks, the candlelight, the wine, did it not mean something more? As your mind raced you looked towards the floor and wished it would envelop you. Aemond sighed, and placed the scriptures that you had read from under your chin and used them to lift you face up towards his. Your brows furrowed slightly as you looked up at him standing over you. “You don’t understand do you Mandianna,” He chuckled softly, tilting you head to his will. “Nyke would qogralbar ao ēva ao could gaomagon daorun yn ilagon isse ñuha baer mirre tubis byka genes.” (I would fuck you until you could do nothing but lay in my bed all day little mouse.) He dropped the scriptures onto the table, taking his leave with such haste that you felt he air pass by through your hair. Once his footsteps dissipated you felt as your jaw went slack. The wetness grew between your legs as you squeezed your thighs together, attempting to relieve some of the mounding pressure.

Your heart thudded in your chest like a drum, you swiftly shut the door to your chambers and tried to steady your shaky breathing. After shedding yourself of your dress you made your way to the vanity and undid your hairstyle of the day. As your fingers worked between your hair you imagined Aemond’s large hands making their way through it, your fingers delicately glided across the crook of your neck before resting upon the warmth of your chest. If Aemond wanted to play games then you would gladly oblige, except this time you knew he wanted to play.

Your reading was interrupted by the ever-persistent King’s Landing ladies in waiting, you’d usually grumble except it was the first day of Maelor’s name day celebrations and you were taught the importance of good first impressions. Today would be important as Lords and Ladies of every great house would be there and you were yet to find a betrothed who was approved by the heir to the iron throne, your brothers, and Daemon, who once sent a young lord away teary eyed with embarrassment. You smiled to yourself as the ladies working on you bickered between what way to style your hair for the occasion. “What about something mostly up, with a few small braids, and the red gem hairpins? I think that’ll match the dress I picked out for tonight.” They glanced between each other, smiled, and got to work on your dark hair. Part of you was filled with excitement, it had been a while since you had an excuse to dress up, and it was even more thrilling at the thought of catching Aemond’s attention over all the other Ladies present. As the late afternoon rolled around you were finally considered presentable to the guests in the great hall. You eyed your reflection, your hair lifted to expose your neck and clavicle, dark fabric fitted to your shape with delicate blood red beading sewn into the neckline and down the sleeves finished with your gold jewellery pieces. Just as the ladies were about to leave you had an idea, “Wait! Do you have any of the rose perfume oil?” You spoke with a smile. A few knowing glances were shared between the two eldest ladies as a younger one brought over the small crystal bottle before dabbing a small amount on each wrist and on either side of your neck.

The rest of your family waited beside the towering doors of the great hall, “Finally, I thought we’d all starve.” Joffrey spouted with a huff earning a short laugh from Lucerys, a half shove from Jacaerys and a raised brow from Daemon. Your mother waved them off and placed her hands either side of your upper arms, “What a beautiful young woman you have become, my sweet child.” Rhaenyra looked upon you with great admiration as always. You smiled and squeezed her hand as you all stood together as the doors were slowly pulled open. You could feel your heart beating in your ears as the chittering in the room slowly dissipated and all heads turned to face you all. You bore a brave face following after your parent’s movements down the steps and towards the King’s table. After greeting the king, you were all seated, the family had grown rather exponentially since Rhaenyra’s wedding to your father Laenor which you had heard many stories about. You sat towards the outer curve to one side of the table, and out of the corner of your eye you saw Aemond, already watching you. So not to give him the pleasure of your gaze, you made conversations with your family next to you.

A short clearing of a throat pulled you from your conversation with Jacaerys, “I am Jorick Lannister, your graces,” He bowed his head towards you, “I was wondering if I may have the honour to ask the Princess to a dance?” He flashed his best smile at you.

You looked expectantly to your mother and Daemon, “If you wish to, then go dance.” Rhaenyra grinned, she gently touched her own elbow against Daemon’s, and he muttered something about there ‘being worse choices in the room’. You stood up from your seat, perhaps a bit too eagerly and walked around to the side of the table where the Lannister stood. He extended his hand, palm up towards you and lead you down the few steps to the crowd of dancers. You stood a pace apart and looked at the man in front of you, he was certainly handsome, dark blonde hair that waved towards the nape of his neck, gentle grey eyes. As you looked into them something caught your eye behind them. Aemond was alert, not sat in his usual laid-back posture with his cup resting in his hand on the arm of his chair. He was sat forward, stiff as a statue and boring daggers into the back of your dance partner. You swallowed as you saw the grip he had around his cup; it was solid metal but from the look on his face alone it could crumble. The music swelled as Jorick took your hand in his and placed his other upon your waist.

As you both moved across the floor, he leaned in to speak to you “How are you enjoying the capital princess.” Jorick spoke above the music.

“There’s a certain beauty to it, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss Dragonstone.” You spoke with truth.

Jorick chuckled, “Ah yes, it is the perfect home for a dragon. I do believe you would grow to like Catserly Rock your grace. It’s no island but the coastline is just as harsh, I miss the sound of it when I try to sleep somewhere new.”

You heartily laughed at his statement as he twirled you in a circle. “I have said that ever since we got here! But no one else seems to understand it.” While he laughed and agreed in return.

Meanwhile at the King’s table, Aemond’s jealousy bubbled harshly. Already did he have a hard time resisting taking you into his arms and treating you as you deserved, but watching another man, a Lannister at that, hold you the way he wanted to, enraged him. He counted the guards in the room to simmer his anger, but then imagined fighting them off as he cut down every person between you and him and taking you into an embrace. He was completely and utterly enamoured with you, ever since he watched you climb off of your dragon from a tower of the Red Keep. Gone had the child he knew as a babe himself and was now replaced with a woman who plagued his thoughts. Your darker hair that framed your face, eyes that crinkled when you laughed and held so much emotion, the way you smile brought him an unmanageable amount of joy. He couldn’t hate you, no matter if he tried. At this moment, he wished for it to be simple. That he wasn’t your mother’s brother, that he was just a Lord of some other house, dancing with you and holding you close. A world in which he could have you, touch you, without bearing the reprehensible disappointment of his mother or the feeling of his heart being crushed right in front of him. He had once and for all had enough after the 6th eager meek had hovered around you after each song had finished to ask for your hand. Aemond rose to his feet and made his way to you on the floor with large strides dipping in between the guests. Queen Alicent watched him with worry, he wasn’t known to dance or partake in many festivities like these.

You parted ways with your last dance partner and smiled as you were approached by yet another Lord, “My princess, I am Erich Baratheon and I would love the honour of-“ He started before being cut off by the sudden appearance of Aemond: he’d brushed past the suitor on his was to you, not harsh in any sense but it definitely took you both off guard.

The broad Baratheon was dwarfed by not only the Targaryen’s height, but his mere presence also. “Perhaps is it my turn for a dance, Mandianna.” The request seemed so lewd and intimate coming from him, despite it being what would otherwise be an innocent dance between family.

“I was just asking the Princess for a dance. Perhaps you may dance with her after?” The Baratheon mustered his bravest voice, a touch deeper than it had been a moment ago. Aemond’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer before he turned his head round and down with a rather dramatic tilt to amplify the inches between the pair. From this angle you could fully admire his jawline and neck. You imagined kissing across his sharp jawline, travelling down to his throat. At this moment you were so overcome with lust you imagine grazing your teeth against it and biting gently just to release some tension. After a very short stare off on the Baratheon’s end, “Perhaps not, uh- goodnight, Princess.” He had turned to walk away before even finishing his sentence, leaving you and Aemond face to face on the floor.

“That wasn’t very proper of you, uncle.” You spoke above a whisper, struggling to hold back a small laugh.

“Luckily it’s not so expected of me.” His face bore a small smile. An actual smile instead of a sly all-knowing smirk.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer either.”

“Well, someone had to put a stop to the herd of sheep begging to stomp on your feet all evening.” You couldn’t help but chuckle in agreement. Some of the Lords had been nice, decent dancers, with something to say. Others spent their time ogling your exposed skin or asking about your inheritance. You could not deny as conversations lulled between some of them, you imagined you were in the arms of Aemond instead. As the music began to swell, he offered you his hand which you gladly accepted whilst his other hand tentatively made its way to your upper waist. As he led the dance, he never looked away from you, it felt as if you were slowly melting into him. Able to ignore the few judgemental looks and quiet whispers from the people around you and just focussing on the man in front of you.

Back at the King’s table, your interaction had not gone unnoticed. Alicent’s worry had faded, she knew you had always been a sweet girl. She looked over to Rhaenyra who had already been watching her to gage a reaction and the two exchanged a small smile each. “Mother, are sister and Uncle Aemond going to get married?” Joffrey asked in matter-of-fact way, causing Rhaenyra to cough on the wine that she had sipped whilst Daemon chuckled and ruffled his dark curls.

You’d made a mental note to thank the gods for the current song choice, a slower one. Your hands flush together as the two of you rotated and eyes never leaving each other’s. As the end of the song drew close Aemond’s body moved behind you, left hand upon your waist and right taking your hand in his and intertwining your fingers. The latter part was not a usual for this particular dance. Your breath hitched in your throat as you could feel the strength of his torso behind you. “You know uncle, I have been wanting more lessons in High Valyrian, I think a few more and we could really make some progress.” It wasn’t 100% a lie, Aemond definitely could teach you some High Valyrian, but it was mostly an excuse to be in private with him again.

“Really? Because you did so well last time?” You could practically feel the smirk on his face from behind you. “I know you can ask a lot nicer than that Mandianna.” You shuddered softly at the sensation of his voice so quiet, whispering into your ear. The music pace picked up as you glided across the floor, heart beating within your ears. As the instruments came to a halt, you felt a sense of weightlessness as Aemond dipped you and held you there, so low to the ground you felt the ends of your hair touch against it. You eyed him, brows raised and chest rising and falling, feeling fully in his hands.

“Kostilus, Aemond.” (Please, Aemond) The words left your lips in a soft way that travelled straight down his spine. You could not identify the emotion that swept his face as he swiftly brought you to your feet and ripped his hands from yours. His eyes shut briefly, his hands flexing into tight fist, you were not sure what had happened. As you reached out for his hand he stepped back and kept his eyes to the ground before making his way to the exit of the great hall. You called out to him softly, but he soon disappeared in between the crowds.

Confused and a little hurt, you made your way back to your seat and looked at the remainder of your meal that had surely gone cold. You felt your mother’s hand rest upon yours, and you looked to her and smiled weakly. “Where did your uncle go sweet girl?” She spoke softly and quietly, as to avoid bringing your brothers into it.

“He mentioned that he had to go for something.” Your lie wouldn’t have fooled a stranger, let alone your own mother, but she did not pry. She gave your hand a small squeeze and gave you the mother’s look of ‘I’m here if you need me’.

Aemond briskly made his way down the corridors of the Red Keep. His hands met the roughened wooden doors to a balcony as he pushed them open and felt the chill of the night air cover him. It was not enough as he felt is blood burn hot, coursing through his veins and the sight of you in his arms. Your hair cascading down past you, exposing your neck, the way your breasts filled out your corset and raised with your breathing. That damned perfume you wore and how it mixed with your scent had been a drug to him this night. Your eyes that stared up at him like a doe and looked at him like he was a god. He couldn’t help but remember your soft plump lips, the way they parted slightly when he looked your way, how you bit your lip whilst saddling your dragon and worst of all: how deliciously his name sounded coming out of them. He had not yet heard you say his name, but it being paired with such a submissive plead made it all the more torturous. He slowly breathed through his nose; head tilted back resting on the bricks. Aemond was too infatuated with you to ever hate your effect on him. His frustrations only grew greater the more he knew you. He was at a grand dinner, filled with every food and treat he could ever imagine, yet all he wished to taste was between your legs. He decided then and there on that balcony that his affections for you must go. ‘It should not be so painful’ He thought to himself, after all, you only had a few short days left in the capital.

The following day started even earlier, with the second day of the celebrations taking place in the gardens. You yawned into the palm of your hand and watched as the front side pieces of your hair were brought back and weaved into a delicate braid. “You mustn’t stay up so late princess!” The handmaiden fretted as she pulled out the dress you had chosen yesterday. You eyed it, before glancing towards the window to see the sun breaking out through the clouds, giving you an idea.

“It looks like it could really warm up in the garden under the sun, I was thinking of wearing this dress instead.” You lifted the dark berry coloured dress up in front of your handmaidens.

“I think you may get cold your grace.” One of the younger handmaidens spoke eyeing the dress, after a harsh glare from the eldest maiden she continued, “But you will look perfect no matter what!” She clarified with a nervous chuckle. You smiled at her in reassurance and allowed the cluster of ladies to dress you. Once they had finished arguing over minor details you stood back to look at your reflection. This was a dress you had never worn before, meant for particularly warm weather. It was an off the shoulder cut, that capped your upper arms with a tie. The dark coloured material was thinner than your regular dresses and the skirt flowed with any movement you made. After trying to sound as nonchalant as possible you once again asked for the rose perfume oil. After a few dots were dabbed on your wrists and neck, you thanked your ladies and placed the delicate bottle on the vanity. Once they had filed out you reapplied a few extra drops to your skin before dropping a small amount onto your fingertips and ran it through the ends of your hair. You looked beautiful, and hoped this would gain Aemond’s affections once more.

The garden party was a success from the get-go. Conversations bubbled, drinks were poured, and the food spread was something to marvel at. You were walking through the flowerbeds, arms linked with Baela, both of your laughs travelling from reminiscing on moments from your shared childhoods. “I heard you and Aemond caused quite the stir last night.” Baela giggled, nudging her elbow into yours.

“Word does travel fast in the capital,” You laughed. “And it was not a shared commotion, he was the one who left in a rush after we danced!” You reasoned with her; slight frustration apparent in your tone.

“And what a dance it appears to have been, they’d be able to smell you from Pentos.” You frowned slightly, wondering if you had overdone it today. She turned to face you, placing her hand over yours. “I jest of course, anyone would be lucky to catch your eye.” Baela’s smile was genuine and reassured your worries. You looked around the crowds of people once more, eyes fleeting from face to face. “He’s still not arrived yet.” Your eyes met hers once again as you both burst into loud laughter.

After much convincing from Alicent and a more silent encouragement from approach from Helaena, Aemond was finally making an appearance at the garden party. He thought to himself ‘What could a child so young possibly want with such celebrations?’ He justified his annoyance for his affections for you by dismissing the whole day, but being Maelor’s uncle he was expected to be there at some point. He was mere seconds into his arrival at the party before he overheard a distinct sound that made his heart sting. The familiar song of your laughter rang out from across the gardens. Every fibre of his being urged him to look for you, just to turn his head and see your face once more. Against all odds he kept his eyes trained on the floor and made his way to a quieter corner of the event in an attempt to go against his instincts and hide from you. He stood with his cup, fingers tracing across the details, a few feet away from the largely untouched array of desserts.

You grew frustrated as you looked around once more for your uncle’s presence. “Drink this, it’ll relax your nerves.” Baela handed you a cup with a dark red liquid in the bottom of it. “I know, wine isn’t for you, but this one is sweet! I think you’ll like it.” You nodded and took a sip, there was a slight burn as you swallowed it, but the fruity taste overtook it, and you nodded in agreement with her. As Baela and Jacaerys began talking intently you decided to have a look the foods on offer. You took another sip of your wine, the sweetness made you crave the sugared fruits the cooks always put out after dinner. After glancing over each table filled with every animal you could think of, cooked in every way. Your eyes made contact with a cake that was almost the size of you. Peering round the corner of the tent your eyes spotted something even more tempting. Aemond stood to himself, brows furrowed and finger lightly tapping against his cup in slight sync with the distant music that played.

“Uncle! I thought you were not going to make an appearance.” You tried to hide your excitement as you stepped into the tent and faced him. He seemed taken aback by the sudden presence of someone. His gaze shot up from the floor and lingered on your body, fleeting from your face to the way your dress fitted your figure. Just as he thought he’d mustered the strength to speak a light breeze rustled through the gardens and cascaded through your hair. ‘That damned floral perfume’ he thought to himself as he tried to hold his composure. After taking in her appearance once more, he noticed something unusual.

“I didn’t think you to be a wine drinker.” He spoke to you, his jaw clenched stiff.

You giggled slightly, “Me neither! But this one is Dornish, it’s a lot sweeter.” You took a step closer to him and held up your cup to him. “Would you like to taste?” You looked up at him through your lashes.

‘Yes’, He thought. “No.” He answered bluntly, “Thank you, no thank you.” His Adams apple bobbed in his throat as he answered, and you tilted your head slightly.

“Well, there’s plenty if you change your mind.” You smiled at him and turned towards the desserts table, various cakes, fruit pies, candied treats, decorated the large table.

You placed your cup and traced your finger across the end of the table eyeing the selection, you spotted your favourite sugared fruits. “I love these!” You exclaimed as you made your way over to the selection: cherries, berries of all kinds, plums, and peaches. You selected one of the peach slices and looked towards Aemond to find him watching intently. You popped the slice in your mouth and closed your eyes and exhaled a small ‘mmm’. You eyed the remaining sugar on your thumb and index finger. You looked into Aemond’s eye and popped the tip of your finger into your mouth and sucked the crystals off and releasing your finger with a pop. He muttered a short ‘gods’ to himself as he watched you round the table, another piece of fruit in hand. You faced him and held out the small piece of fruit. “You should taste it for yourself Aemond.” Something changed on his face, he looked down at you and slapped the fruit out of your hand and grabbed you by your wrist and led you out of the tent into the empty corridor nearby. “Uncle, Uncle!” You protested quietly once you were led far enough away to not be heard by guests.

“Let go,” you demanded, pushing his hand away. You eyed him as he turned away from you, breathing steadily, hands balled into fits. “Why have you dragged me out here?” You exclaimed in a hushed tone.

“Why have I?” He turned to face you, “Why have I?” He roared, stepping a pace towards you. Stepping backwards you felt the stone walls hit your shoulders. “It is you, you who has poisoned my thoughts ever since you got here, you who has made even existing in the same room as you arduous yet being away from you nearly impossible. You danced with every fool this side of The Narrow Sea and even then, you could not keep your eyes on them and not me. Calling me by my name. Now today-“, He furrowed his brows, remembering the sight of you in that tent. “Gods.” He whispered, running a hand over his face. “Do you really wish to torture me so?” He looked up at you, fragments of defeat washing over his face.

You pushed yourself away from the wall, taking a step towards him leaving an impossibly small gap between the two of you. “Nyke pendagon bisa iksin skoros ao jeldan hen nyke, Iāpa.” (I thought this was what you wanted from me, uncle.) His jaw remained tense, as slight confusion washed over him. You rose to the tips of your toes to whisper to him, “Hen aōha byka genes.” (From your little mouse.)

Without hesitation you felt his large hand cup the side of your face, his other snaking around your waist, the force of it pinning you towards the wall. His fingers brushed down your face, resting beneath your chin. His thumb tentatively ran across your bottom lip. Aemond leaned down to the side of your face, “Tell me to stop, tell me to stop and I will walk away.” His breath fanned over you; lips grazing against your neck. It took all of your efforts to not crumble beneath him.

“Ȳdra daor keligon.” (Don’t stop.) Your breath was shaky as Aemond brought his face to yours. You placed a hand against his chest and leaned up to kiss him before a rumble of distant laughter reminded you both of your current location.

He grabbed your hand from upon his chest and led you down the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your slippers tapping twice as fast on the floor to keep up with his long strides. As you both climbed the spiral staircase towards the chambers, voices rang out on the floor in front of you. Aemond brought you both to a halt, keeping his back against the wall and pulled your back towards him to avoid detection. “Why did we st-“ You started before feeling his large hand covering your mouth. He whispered a small shush into your ear. A heat spread across you face feeling a large bulge in his trousers, just above your ass. Once the footsteps had completely disappeared, he climbed the rest of the stairs, hand still firmly gripping yours. His spare hand pushed open the heavy door with such urgency, crashed against the wall beside it. He pulled you into his chambers, almost pulling you off your feet before only breaking eye contact to close and lock the door behind him.

He stepped towards you, unbuckling his jacket from the top. “Tell me to stop.” He once again commanded.

“No.” You spoke so quietly you weren’t even sure it had left your lips, but Aemond had definitely heard it. He pulled you close, keeping your bodies flush and brought a hand to your hair, pulling you closer. Your eyes fluttered closed as you felt his lips graze yours slightly before delving into a deep kiss. You struggled to keep up with his desperate pace at first, feeling overwhelmed a gasp left your lips in an attempt to catch your breath. Aemond pulled away ever so slightly before planting a small kiss to the side of your mouth and kissing across your jaw.

“Turn around,” He whispered. You did as he instructed and turned your back to him. His hands gathered your hair and looped it over your shoulder. His hands traced down your back to the satin ties of your dress, before undoing the bow. You felt as his pulled your dress down your arms, down your torso and heard it drop to the floor in a light whoosh. You felt exposed, this was your first time in just your undergarments around anyone other than your handmaidens, and a man at that. His hands moved to the lacings of your corset, undoing each loop as his eyes consumed every inch of new flesh he saw. He tossed your corset to the side and pulled the rest of your undergarments off, and your arms instinctively crossed your chest. Grabbing a hold of your hand, he pulled you around to face him once more. A low groan escaped his lips at the sight of you before bringing your face to his in a deep kiss. His body led you to the foot of his bed, your back hitting one of the towering bedposts.

You let out a small gasp as his lips left yours and latched onto your neck. His hand came to your jaw and tilted your head back to look up at him. “Ivestragon nyke skoros jaelā.” (Tell me what you want.) His voice sent a heat that spread across your body.

“I want you to-“ You started before he cut you off, fingers gripping your hair slightly.

“Daor.” (No.) He eyed you, thumb tracing your jawline.

You realised what he was requesting. Your brain sped through thousands of scenarios you could’ve imagined before settling on one. “Obūljagon.” (Kneel.) You spoke with all the confidence you could gather. His typical smirk returned to his lips as he scanned your face. He was not sure what he had expected you to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. A welcomed surprise, he sank to his knees in front of you. You watched as his lips peppered small kisses across your hips, running his hands up your thighs. He parted your legs and lifted your leg up and over his shoulder by the back of your knee. You gripped the footboard of the bed to steady yourself. An almost growl left his lips at the sight of your pussy mere inches away from his face. A sharp gasp left your lips at the feeling of his large fingers spreading your wetness from your core to your clit.

He brought one of his fingers to his lips and sucked the tip of it, watching your face intently. “Mmm, all this for me?” He grumbled rubbing the inside of your thigh at a painfully slow pace.

“Yes- Kessa, syt ao.” (Yes, for you.) You felt your pussy clenching, aching to be touched. His fingers moved to your pussy, teasing your folds before starting to slowly rub circles across your clit. You let out a moan, desperate for more. A smirk painted his lips, watching you in this state. Surrounded by the plush of your thighs, your small moans filling his ears, watching your nails dig into the footboard just to cope with the sensation. His middle and third finger slid down from your clit to the entrance of your pussy.

Your eyes opened and mouth parted to question the lack of contact before you felt his two fingers slide inside of you. You let out a loud moan at the foreign sensation. He worked his fingers in and out of you at slow pace, admiring as he watched them disappear into you, stretching you out and covering them in your slick. He left small kisses on your inner thigh, keeping his eye on your face. “More,” You pleaded in between moans. Aemond considered teasing you further, before giving into your request. His sped up his fingers pumping inside of you, increasing the tightening in your lower stomach. He admired your face screwed up in pleasure for one more moment before latching his lips upon your clit. A loud ‘fuck’ left your lips, and even you were partially surprised by the vulgarity of your language before all you could think about was Aemond’s tongue. He alternated between furiously licking and sucking your clit as his fingers pumped at a rapid pace inside of you. Your other hand moved up the bed post, gripping it for dear life as the man beneath you pleasured you. Your hips involuntarily bucked into his tongue as your moans grew louder and more frequent. A moan that left Aemond’s lips vibrated across your clit pushed you over the edge. You cried out his name and felt your pussy clench around his quick fingers. He continued to thrust them inside of you and delivered a few final licks to your clit, only stopping when your legs began to quiver. He slowly removed his fingers from your pussy and planted a final kiss on your clit, earning a shiver from you. He wiped the wetness from his chin with his cotton shirt before moving your leg off from his shoulder and rose to his feet and held his hand upon your waist sensing your wobbliness. He raised his fingers towards you admiring the wetness that coated them. He brought them up to your lips and you opened your mouth, feeling them run over your tongue towards the back of your throat. You sucked them clean, watching his expression from beneath your eyelashes.

Despite how hungrily he had attended to you, he looked at you like he was starved. “Better than any of the sugared fruits down there.” He gestured towards the window, and you blushed at his remark. Never had you been filled with such desire; you had just reached your peak on Aemond’s tongue, yet you needed more. His hand collected yours, as he led you over to his bed. His lips once again found yours as he pushed you towards the edge of the bed. The backs of your knees hit the bed and you plopped down. His lips left yours and you looked up at him expectantly. His fingers gripped the ends of his shirt before lifting it off of his head and tossing it with the rest of the discarded clothes. You eyed the definition of his chest, down his stomach and his arms that landed either side of your head, pushing you down onto the bed until your head hit the pillows. His lips latched onto your neck and eagerly kissed down your chest between the valley of your breasts.

“You do not know how much I have dreamt of this,” His large hand travelled up your side to cup your breast, his hand playing with the plumpness of it before his thumb ran over your nipple. “Moaning my name, naked in my bed, all needy for me.” His tongue traced the perimeter of your nipple before taking it into his mouth, massaging it with his tongue and earning another moan from you. Those moans that could sustain him for the rest of his life he was pretty sure.

“I also dreamt of you.” You spoke meekly, almost hoping he wouldn’t hear. He raised his head from your breast, brow raised.

“And what did you think about little mouse.” His smirk radiated off of him. You dreamt of him. The tightness in his trousers had become almost unbearable, but he needed to hear your sweet voice talking about him.

“I was touching you, a-and you were enjoying it.” You spoke, interrupted by a moan or two from his touch stimulating your nipples. He hummed a small ‘mmm’ in response before he moving off you and laying beside you, back propped up against the headboard. You turned to your side and looked and him inquisitively, his hand rubbed slowly over the bulge in his trousers and your mouth fell into an ‘o’ shape. He patted the bed next to his hips and you knelt facing him, unsure of what to expect. His hands reached for the tie of his trousers before you reached out and placed a hand over his. “Wait!” He looked at you with a hint of concern before you continued, “Can I try? And you tell me what you like along the way?” His jaw stiffened for a moment before he moved his hand to tangle in your hair and bring your lips to his.

You pulled your lips away from kiss and moved to kiss his neck. You started tenderly, mirroring how he had kissed yours as your hand slid down his chest towards his trousers. His breathing became more uneven as your hands touched him. Your hand fumbled with the tie of his trousers, struggling to undo it before you removed your lips from his collarbone to concentrate on the tie. He watched as your brows furrowed together, he felt as if he could finish at the sight of you. Beautiful and naked, trying so desperately to get into his pants. You finally undid the tie and looked up to Aemond with a sheepish smile, “I am not used to trousers it seems.” You giggled, and it seemed by reflex he planted a kiss on your lips.

“Dōna.” (Sweet) Your cheeks burned with his affection.

Your fingers looped over the hem of his trousers, and you pulled them down along with his undergarments as he lifted his hips slightly. Your stomach dropped at the sight of him, his cock was large and red at the tip. You froze for a second – the paintings and stories had not prepared you as well as you’d thought. You watched as his hand came to his cock and pumped it slowly a few times. His free hand reached for yours and replaced it with his own, “Just like this.” You followed the movements he had previously made, concentrating on trying to make him feel good. A small hiss brought your gaze back to his face to see his eye squeezed shut and hands gripping the sheets beneath him. You slowly increased your movements, enjoying the feeling of his cock in your hands, as you noticed a bead of precum spill his tip. Working on instinct you leant your head down and licked your tongue in a broad stroke across the tip of his cock, tasting him in your mouth. His eye immediately snapped open, “Don’t-“ He groaned.

“Sorry I-, I thought it would feel good like it did for me when you…” You trailed off searching his face. He panted, bringing your face to his. He placed his hand over yours and continued pumping his cock indicating for you to continue. He rested your forehead against his and inhaled deeply.

“It does feel good, great even, much too good.” You watched him confused, if it felt so good, why couldn’t you do it? “The difference between you and I, men and women, you may finish as many times as you please.” His voice travelled over you like honey, his free hand sliding down your stomach and rubbed his two middle fingers over your clit. “I may only once, for now, and I intend to do it in your sweet pussy.” His fingers ran small circles over your clit causing a flurry of moans to leave your lips. Your hand continued to run up and down the length of his cock, but it was hard to think straight when Aemond touched you.

“Can I feel your cock inside of me too?” Your question was genuine, if not laden with lust. It was all Aemond needed to hear before his hand reached your hip pushing you onto your back. He kissed you, hungrier than ever, barely giving you chance to keep up.

“Mirros syt ao.” (Anything for you.) He said in between kisses. He spread your legs apart, eyeing your soaking cunt, and stroked himself a couple of times before leaning over you, elbow resting beside your head. You felt as he ran his cock up and down from your clit to your core, a low groan leaving his lips. “Remember to breathe deeply, Dōna.” (Sweet). You nodded, unsure of what to expect. Aemond’s weight shifted, and you gasped as his cock slowly slid into you. Your brows furrowed as the slight discomfort slid away and was replaced with a new pleasure. His cock bottomed out, and you reached your hand to his cheek, pulling him in for a desperate kiss. He slowly started thrusting, the pace was painfully slow, but he was determined to make you feel good. As his pace picked up, his cock continuously hit a spot in your pussy that his fingers did not, causing a rather loud moan to escape your lips. “Mazemā ziry sīr sȳrī.” (You take it so well.) His praise caused a familiar tightening to start to form in your stomach.

“I love the way you feel.” Your moans filled his ears, fuelling him to go faster. His hand free hand snaked between your bodies and found your clit once more. His thrusts pounded into you, as his fingers diligently worked at your sensitive clit. The headboard begun to crack against the wall with each movement, not that either of you noticed. The quiet but delicious moans that left Aemond’s mouth were enough to ride towards your peak, the coil in your stomach tightening as you gripped your nails into his back. “Fuck! Aemond!” You exclaimed. His large cock filling you up and his fingers playing with your clit caused your orgasm to wash over you, feeling yourself tighten around his cock. His thrusts became quick and erratic as you rode out your high and his groans growing louder and more animalistic as he finished inside of you.

He panted, dropping to his elbow, and planting a small kiss upon your cheek, before pulling out of you slowly. You groaned at the loss of the fullness, missing the feeling of him already. Aemond lay beside you, pulling you by your hips to have your back against his chest. As both of your breathing slowly returned to normal you felt a small shiver run across your body, now aware of the breeze through the window. Aemond’s hand came up and ran up and down the length of your arm and pulled you close. “Is it possible to remain here all day.” You sighed, cuddling the blankets in front of you.

Aemond chuckled, “It is not our name day.” He planted a small kiss upon your shoulder. “But I do think people may notice both of our absences.” He spoke softly, with a small amount of his serious tone peeking through. You groaned, liking the feeling of being in Aemond’s arm, in his bed.

“Aemond?” You questioned, turning slightly to face him. He hummed a ‘hmm?’ in response, opening his eye. “Kessa gaomā bona run lēda aōha ēngos arlī gō īlon return naejot se rūklun?” (Will you do that thing with your tongue again before we return to the party?). A playful smirk returned to his face as he shifted above you on the bed.

“Va moriot” (Always).

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flowerandblood · 24 hours

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (27)

[ dark • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: fingering, masturbation, sexual tension, smut, angst, dirty talk, kissing without consent, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

When her uncle decided that they would spend the night in Dragonstone for a moment she thought she had overheard herself − she was unable to contain her delight and outburst of joy at his words, feeling that he had somehow rewarded her for her efforts.

Or at least she thought he had.

His sudden change of plans was unlike him, and she was aware of that, knowing his nature.

He detested deviating from the plans he had previously made for himself.

However, she recognised that perhaps he wanted to show her and her family his sincere intentions, to prove that she was not just a prisoner in his eyes and that he, as her husband, could also sleep under their roof without being one.

She wasn't sure if she had ever been as happy in her life as she had been the moment she flew through the sky next to Vhagar, Caraxes and Syrax; her heart was filled with heat and hope, her uncle's words echoing in her mind like a sweet whisper.

I am proud of you.

Those words meant more to her than any of his other confessions.

Of course, his confession of love was a wonderful thing, but she had always been waiting for him to appreciate her as a person, not just a woman he saw by his side.

With this, she finally felt equal to him.

Her optimism extinguished as quickly as it had appeared as soon as she crossed the walls of the family fortress. Although her heart screamed with joy at the sight of familiar rooms, smells and sights, the faces of her brothers left her with no illusions.

She swallowed loudly as she saw the hateful look on Jace's face; she knew him and she knew that he was hurt.

He was disappointed and heartbroken, he felt humiliated and, deep down, betrayed by her, even though she never meant it.

Luke clearly didn't know what he felt himself, because he just lowered his head, unable to look into her eyes.

She felt a squeeze in her throat at the sight, a discomfort in her stomach that told her that perhaps this wasn't her home at all anymore.

She was no longer welcome here.

She was snapped out of her reverie by Rhaena − her step-sister was the first to approach her, warmth and longing in her gaze, some kind of understanding from which she felt tears under her eyelids. They hugged each other tightly, though they had never done so before − her words made her feel a tightening in her stomach.

"I'm so happy you're alive." She muttered in a breaking voice, and she smiled involuntarily at her words.

"Me too."

As Baela approached them, also enclosing her in the tight embrace of her arms, she thought with a shrug that even though she hadn't let them into the depths of her heart for so many years, they truly cared and worried about her.

At the very end Joffrey ran up to her, sobbing loudly.

"− why have you been so long in King's Landing? − why did you leave us? − Jace wouldn't read me my favourite book −" He mumbled cuddled into her belly, her hands combing through his dark curls with the calm motion of her fingers.

"− forgive me − I'm here −" She said softly, looking at her older brother and swallowed hard, seeing the murderous glances they exchanged over the table with her husband.

She looked at her mother, who nodded, understanding what she wanted to convey to her.

"You are certainly exhausted. Take up your old quarters, daughter, I will immediately command them to be brought to order and prepared for you." Rheanyra said calmly, and she bowed before her.

"Thank you, my Queen." She said softly, looking into her eyes. Her mother swallowed hard and nodded, allowing them to leave.

As they stepped inside her chamber, she felt a squeeze in her heart and some kind of elation; all her belongings were in their places exactly as she had left them, as if no one had been allowed in here since she had been forcibly held in the Red Keep.

She shuddered, snapped out of her reverie when her uncle moved ahead of her, strolling around the room with his hands folded behind his back, intrigued.

It seemed to her that some part of him wanted to understand what her life had been like and who she had been for the eight years during which they had been separated.

She saw him walk over to her old oak desk and run his fingers over its top, thoughtful.

"− is this here? −" He asked casually.

She felt heat in her lower abdomen at the thought that he meant the place where she had written letters to him.

"− yes −"

She swallowed quietly as he hummed at her words, watching as he sat in the chair where she sat many times leaning over the parchment, scribbling words on it meant only for his eyes. He tapped his finger on the armrest, turning to face her in profile as he gazed out of the window, apparently absorbed in memories.

She thought that although her return home had proved more uncomfortable than she had thought, she was grateful to him.

Whatever decision he had made that morning had led them here and was proof of his intentions.

"− we should rest, husband − if that's what you wish, we'll have supper alone −" She said quietly, smiling at him, wanting him to know she wouldn't force him to sit at the same table with her family.

She thought she would spend the evening with him, give him the feeling that she was not speaking with anyone behind his back, and perhaps in the morning, before they flew away, she would ask him so that she could speak to her mother at last in peace and solitude.

Comforted by this thought and the fact that it looked like all was not lost, she began to tell him about her life in Dragonstone, to show him the books she had written to him about in her letters, the places she had flown to on Larax.

It seemed to her that her husband was only partially listening to her; his gaze was thoughtful, his face expressed weariness and discouragement. She knew that something was making him uncomfortable and she suspected that it was about the place they were in; however, she did not know how to help him, to give him the feeling that neither he nor she was in danger here.

"− uncle − will you tell me what troubles you? −" She finally made an attempt to find out what had been on his mind since the morning. He shuddered at her words and looked at her with a horror as if he was about to faint.

"I'm tired." He replied quickly, without thinking, as if he wanted to answer her anything just to end the subject. She sighed quietly, recognising that she couldn't push him too hard.

Not after what they had managed to accomplish.

"Let's go to bed."

She felt a squeeze in her throat as, already lying on the bedding, she watched as he took out his dagger and tucked it under his pillow; she looked at him and met his calm, impassive gaze.

She decided not to say anything, understanding where his caution came from, not wanting to discourage or frustrate him.

She smiled involuntarily, content as his body clung to hers as soon as he lay at her side. She heard him murmur as she snuggled his face between her breasts, felt his arms embrace her waist and tighten around the material of her nightgown on her back.

She loved it when her mother sang lullabies to her when she was a child; it always calmed and soothed her. She had never dared to sing to him when they were children, fearing that her voice was too squeaky and unpleasant, but now she decided that maybe that was just what he needed.

So she sang, humming softly, once in a while placing a warm, lingering kiss on the top of his head − she felt his embrace slowly growing weaker, his muscles relaxing, his breathing quiet and even.

She sighed quietly feeling him fall asleep.

Someone's jerking and growling roused her from a deep sleep; when she opened her eyes for a moment she didn't know where she was or what was happening.

She recognised her chamber but did not know what her uncle was doing in it, convinced that he still had not answered her letters, as he had not done so for eight years.

After a moment, however, her mind seemed to regain focus and she remembered that she was his wife after all, and that his silhouette lying beside her was not a figment of her imagination.

She raised herself up on her elbow seeing that his body convulsed once in a while, as if he was trying to break free of something, whimpers and grunts came out of his throat, however, his mouth did not open, tears began to fall from the corners of his eyes one by one.

"Uncle! Uncle, please, wake up!" She called out, grabbing his arm, feeling her heart pounding like crazy.

She was frightened and jumped back as his eye opened suddenly, his figure rose to sit up, and he began to pant like a wild animal, quivering all over. She looked at him in disbelief, horrified to hear that he was struggling to catch his breath.

Was he having nightmares again?

Was he dreaming again of the night he lost his eye?

"− easy, my love − breathe −" She whispered tenderly, gently touching his back; he flinched all over and looked at her as if he didn't recognise her − his eye was wide open, his nostrils twitched in accelerated, heavy breaths.

"− Rhaenys − Rhaenys −" He mumbled like a small, terrified child and fell into her arms, bursting into a sob so loud that the voice stuck in her throat.

She embraced him immediately, letting him find protection and comfort in her arms, stroking affectionately his hair and back, placing warm, soft kisses on the top of his head in an attempt to reassure him.

"− I'm here, my love − I'm here −" She mumbled, feeling that the fabric of her nightgown was all wet with his tears, his hot, broken breath enveloping her skin.

She felt like he wanted to melt into one with her, to hide deep inside her from whatever it was that scared him.

He was silent for a long moment, trying to calm himself; she hushed him tenderly, whispering that he was safe, that she was by his side, that all was well. She finally heard him swallow hard, his voice trembling and uncertain.

"− there's something − there's something I want to tell you −" He muttered. She blinked, twisting comfortably in her seat, feeling her heart begin to beat faster.

"− I'm listening to you, my love −" She whispered, stroking his hair. She released him from her arms when she felt him wanting to rise.

He sat on the bedding with his side facing her, running his shaking hand over his face, his healthy eye closed as if afraid of what was about to leave his mouth.

"− I − fuck −" He began, swallowing hard − her hand rose to his back, stroking it reassuringly.

"− easy − take your time − start from the beginning −" She encouraged him softly, not wanting him to fall silent again, seeing that he wanted to throw off whatever had been weighing on his shoulders since they had left Harrenhal.

"− you may remember − Lord Strong wanted to speak with me soon after we arrived in Harrenhal −" He said uncertainly, and she nodded, reminding herself that this was indeed what had happened.

"− yes −"

Her uncle swallowed hard, drawing in air loudly.

"− he told me at the time − that my grandfather had no intention of letting your mother and Daemon leave the Eyrie alive if it turned out they wouldn't accept our terms − but now I think they wouldn't have left alive anyway − Larys had his spies there −" He muttered and fell silent, freezing completely as she did, her heart beginning to pound like mad.

My grandfather had no intention of letting them leave the Eyrie alive.

"Will you be by my side even when all is lost? Even if there is nothing left but darkness? Is that what you had in mind then?" She mumbled out in pain, feeling that there was a complete void in her mind. "Will I be there for you even if your grandfather kills my mother?"

"− n-no −" He began quickly. "− will you be there for me even if I fail to prevent it knowing that I didn't tell you −"

She felt a constriction in her throat and lower abdomen, felt tears of disappointment and sadness flowing into her eyelids − now it was her body that trembled in convulsions, his gaze full of shame and horror directed at her.

She sucked his cock, she let him take her, and he knew that the next day her father and her mother could be murdered.

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head and laughed low.

"− you will betray me − you will run away − those are your words, aren't they? − you were always the first to accuse me − was it because you were trying to cover up your own conscience? − you wanted me to let you down so that you wouldn't feel guilty about doing it over and over again? −" She asked with a cold mockery, from which he bowed his head in embarrassment, in a subconscious reflex he had inherited from his mother plucking the cuticles around his fingernails.

He did not answer.

"− what should I do now? − divorce you? − say I won't come back to King's Landing with you? − not speak to you for eight years? − tell me, uncle, what do you think you deserve? −" She asked dispassionately, feeling the tears of rage and grief one by one run down her cheeks.

She saw him tremble at her words and curl into himself, as if he were again the same little boy who had cried in her arms when his mother had reprimanded him for inappropriate behaviour.

She pressed her lips into a thin line as he hid his face in his hands and wept helplessly, as if his whole person, everything he had built around himself was just falling apart in front of her eyes, showing him his insides, what was left of him.

He was vulnerable.

"− fuck − I − I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you'd change your mind − that if you warned them they'd see it as a betrayal and wouldn't want to pact − that's why I didn't let any of us stay in the Eyrie − I −"

"− because my mother agreed − but what would you have done if things had turned out differently? −" She asked coldly, and he swallowed hard, covering his eyes with his hand, as if he could not bear what he felt or this conversation.

"− I don't know − I don't know how I could have protected both you and my family then − what decision of mine would have saved you from death −" He muttered and she pulled herself up from the bed, recognising that she didn't feel like listening to this, that she had had enough of him and his guilt when it was always him, him, him disappointing her.

From the first night she had returned to him, when he had closed her cheeks in the brutal grip of his fingers she had seen in his eye what had now become clear to her.

He was weak, and when he was afraid, he resorted to violence.

She heard him stand up behind her, panting heavily, wiping his tear-wet face with his hand.

"− no − don't leave − I told you because −"

"− because your conscience didn't give you peace − because you didn't want to carry your guilt alone −" She hissed, turning towards him with furrowed brows.

She felt that fury, not blood, was flowing through her veins now.

He swallowed loudly at her words, looking at her wide-eyed.

"− if you've never hidden anything from me − you've never concealed anything from me for fear that I might react impulsively, leave − but if you did, come back to bed − I won't touch you −"

She pressed her lips together in fury, recognising that he must have been mocking her, but then she felt an unpleasant sting in her heart that proved she had doubts.

She heard again the words of one of her servants in King's Landing whispering in her ear that when the time came, Prince Daemon would help her escape; she heard again the words of Alys speaking of the prophecy she had not shared with him for fear of his reaction.

Had she really never hidden anything from him?

Her whole body screamed for her to leave; she wanted to do it, but felt that if she did, she would be lying to herself and to him, creating an image in which she was without flaw.

She could say that she had the right to do it, that she had good intentions, but didn't her uncle think the same about his decisions?

She glared at him and let out a loud breath, returning to the bed without a word, sinking into the soft sheets, turning her face away from him. She heard him breathe heavily, and after a moment, the bed creaked under the weight of his body settling against her back.

"− tell me −" He whispered.

She sighed heavily and grunted, recognising that her faults were less than his anyway.

So why did she still feel shame and a squeeze in her gut?

"− after I tried to take my life I was told that my father could help me escape − don't ask how − I also didn't tell you about the prophecy I heard from Alys −"

"− that fucking witch is a liar −" He growled, and she let out a loud breath, impatient.

"− it is possible − but I also heard this prophecy from your sister's mouth − both of them spoke of two rivers of blood merging into one, taking the shape of a dragon's crowned head −" She choked out finally, her husband stirring beside her in his place, surprised.

"− what could this mean? −"

"− I don't know − I was afraid that when you heard it, you would want to give up on the negotiations and return to King's Landing − Alys warned me, so she probably knew what your grandfather was planning to do −" She said regretfully, thinking that strange woman was more concerned for her safety and her family than her husband.

She heard him swallow hard, letting the air out loudly.

"− forgive me −"

She lay in silence for some time, feeling anger that he expected her to simply forget everything, understand his reasons and forgive him as always.

No.

"− I will forgive you, but I have my conditions − we will stay here longer − for a week or two, I will decide in the morning −" She said coldly.

"− but − my mother will be convinced that they are holding us by force −" He began, but she would not let him finish.

"− you will write a letter to your brother informing him that my mother has accepted his terms, but is also setting her own − that we will stay here to discuss all the details, show our goodwill − if your mother wishes, she can travel here in her own person − you can leave Dragonstone when you wish, but I will stay here as long as I desire, and you will show no opposition −" She said impatiently, feeling her heart pounding like mad, her hands clenched into fists.

Her husband swallowed loudly at her words, tense.

"− I − very well −" He muttered finally, knowing that any other words would forever cross him out in her eyes.

She hummed under her breath, covering herself tightly with the bedding and closed her eyes, figuring she wouldn't turn towards him for the rest of the night.

"− don't try to take me or embrace me −" She commanded and he sighed quietly.

She swallowed hard when she felt him place his large hand on her head and begin to stroke her hair exactly as he had when they were children.

She felt furious that it was so pleasant, so soothing, that he knew she loved it.

"− my Rheanys −" He whispered tenderly. She pressed her lips together at his words, feeling a single, lonely tear run down her cheek.

The next morning she was awakened by a rustling noise and the sound of a quill scratching on parchment; she lifted her sleepy eyelids and saw his silhouette sitting behind her desk, bent over a letter he had apparently just written.

She felt strange at the thought that he was sitting in the exact place where she had spent years writing him messages that had never received a response.

She knew, however, that she now had the upper hand over him and that her word was an order to him.

She was not going to imitate his cold nature and not speak to him − they had to maintain a semblance of at least a warm relationship so that the image of their marriage, on which the whole agreement between the two parties was supposed to be based, did not begin to crack.

He lifted his gaze to her when she stood up, but they did not exchange a word between each other.

He did not know what to say.

Her maidservant walked in at her summons and bowed before her, bending her head humbly.

"− my Lady, will you have your morning meal before your travel? − your mother would like to speak with you before you leave for King's Landing −"

"− we will have a meal, but convey to my mother that there is no rush − my husband and I have decided to stay here for a few weeks as an expression of our sincere intentions − my husband is in the process of conveying this message to his brother − my uncle is in need of new garments, provide them for him without delay and bring them to my chamber −" She said calmly; her servant blinked, shocked and nodded, immediately disappearing behind the door.

Despite what she had learned and the rage she felt, she was pleased − the roles had been reversed and although her husband was not her prisoner, he was attached to her and was forced to stay in a place that disgusted him.

Good, she thought.

She wanted him to feel what she had felt during the month she had spent in King's Landing, imprisoned by his mother and grandfather.

"− I wish to spend this afternoon with my mother − if you so desire, I can show you in which chamber the library is located −" She said lightly, without looking at him however, taking a bite of bread spread with confiture. Her husband rolled his eyes, displeased.

"I have no intention of leaving your quarters." He replied indifferently.

She raised her eyebrows in amusement at his words.

"You are not my prisoner, uncle. You can walk and fly wherever you please. Holding someone by force is not in my nature." She murmured softly − her husband gave her one tired look.

She smiled at him in a way from which he swallowed hard and looked away, sighing heavily.

He knew she was enraged and he wasn't going to get in her way.

One of the aspects she enjoyed upon returning home was that she had finally retrieved all her robes; her uncle looked at her from the side, watching as her servants helped her put on a golden gown with long black sleeves that reached the ground.

"− make braids around my head − my husband adores it when I wear this hairstyle, is he not? −" She sneered, glancing at him over her shoulder. She only saw him roll his eyes, running his hand over his face, not saying a word.

He knew he had to endure everything she was throwing at him with humility if he didn't want to make his already bad situation worse.

She had no idea what he could do to regain her favour, her trust, the respect she had for him.

"− have a pleasant day, husband −" She threw over her shoulder, leaving him alone in the chamber, recognising that she did not care what he did.

As she stepped into her mother's quarters, Rhaenyra rose from her seat, putting down the quill she held in her hand, approaching her with surprise and uncertainty written on her face.

"− is it true? − are you planning to stay in Dragonstone? −" She asked in a trembling voice − she smiled and nodded. Her mother sighed in relief and walked over to her, embracing her tightly with her arms, snuggling her head into her neck.

They pulled away from each other after a moment, her hands gripping her cheeks, her thumbs stroking her skin as if she remembered a time when she was still a small child.

"− let's sit down −"

Being in her chamber again was like a dream to her − she couldn't believe she was sitting at the same table again, surrounded by the same furniture and bed with a red curtain, with the windows open to a view of the great sea.

"− does he treat you well? −" She asked suddenly, taking her hand in her own.

Her mother's question surprised her, but it also filled her heart with warmth and emotion.

"− I − yes − despite his harsh, difficult nature −"

"− so how did he let this happen? −" She asked, exposing a part of her wrist with her thumb, where her pale scar was clearly visible. She swallowed loudly, not knowing what to answer her.

She wanted to tell her about the moon tea, but hesitated.

She didn't want her to think that her husband knew about it, that he was a worse person than she assumed.

It devastated her to think that she still had to tell half-truths.

"− I did it as an act of desperation − when he found out he wouldn't leave my side for weeks − he wouldn't let anyone but himself, Helaena and the maester cross the threshold of my quarters − he let me see Luke −" She muttered, looking at her at last. Her mother lowered her gaze, sighing quietly, tired and pale.

"− when Daemon passed on your words to me, I was furious − I didn't understand how you could do this to me −" She began and fell silent, closing her eyelids for a moment.

She felt an all-consuming shame at the thought that she had failed and disappointed her as a daughter.

"− forgive me − I would never question your rights if it were only about you − but you know very well that it is not −" She said cautiously − her mother lifted her gaze to her and nodded.

"− I know −"

They fell silent for a moment.

"− can I trust him? − your husband − and my brother −" Her mother asked coldly; she raised her gaze to her, surprised to feel that her lips involuntarily parted.

I don't know.

"− yes −" She muttered. "− he refused Maris Baratheon to take her as his wife − he himself proposed a form of compromise, and his elder brother supported him − Aegon is not a good man, but he cares about his children − he knows he will not leave them a secure, safe throne − just as you would not leave it to your sons −"

They said no more.

She spent some more time with her, just holding her hand, wordlessly trying to comfort her, thinking with weariness that she had to give up everything that was rightfully hers.

She finally decided to take pity on her husband and return to her chamber, not wanting to leave him alone for so long in a state of anxiety and uncertainty.

She felt her heart stop as she stepped into her quarters and saw no one inside − a cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought of him leaving her.

He had returned to King's Landing without her.

She pressed her lips together, involuntarily feeling her heart begin to pound like mad with pain and sadness, her eyes glazed over with tears that she was ashamed of, thinking it shouldn't hurt so much, and yet it did.

She looked around the room quickly, looking for a letter or anything else that might say he had left her some word, but found nothing of the sort; she shuddered when she heard someone's dim voices in the distance and walked over to the window.

Her father and her uncle stood facing each other on the beach with their hands folded behind their backs, discussing something animatedly, a clear tension between them.

She felt regret towards herself, her body filled with an overwhelming relief that he had not left her, that he had not betrayed her again.

She thought the gods had been cruel, allowing her to love this man so deeply.

She blinked, startled, when she heard the door from her chamber open; she turned and saw the figure of her eldest brother, who only spoke up when they heard a loud clatter of wood behind them.

"− how could you do this? − choose him over us? −" He growled with regret, resentment and disappointment, his big brown eyes filled with anger and pain from which she felt a tightening in her throat. She furrowed her brow and shook her head.

"− we both know what the truth is − you can't rule with lies −" She replied, shrugging her shoulders; Jace moved towards her and she flinched all over, surprised at how pale he was, his lips tightened into a thin line − she had the impression he was trembling all over.

"− this was my inheritance − my throne − my crown − and you chose him, a man who did not write back to your letters for eight years, who humiliated you by calling you a bastard, and you shared a bed with him the first night you saw him, like some... −" He didn't finish and fell silent, the word he wanted to say stuck deep in his throat. She felt her lower lip tremble at his accusation, her eyebrows arching in pain and anger, her eyes red from tears of shame and humiliation.

"− say it − you've already spoken the word in your mind −" She sneered, lifting her chin higher, challenging him.

"− I won't call you an unworthy name −" He muttered lowly, and she laughed involuntarily at his words, shaking her head.

"− you think that makes you a better man? − look at this −" She hissed, lifting her hand up, exposing her wrist tugging impatiently at the material of her black sleeve. "− here is what I have done for you and for your crown − should I do it again? −"

She swallowed loudly, surprised when she noticed that something in her brother's expression had changed − Jace had grabbed her wrist and locked it between his fingers, but there was no aggression in the gesture, his thumb stroking her smooth, bare skin.

They stared at each other for a moment, breathing loudly; she felt that there was a kind of tension between them from which her heart was pounding like mad, but she wasn't sure what it was caused by; something in his gaze, in his brown, misty eyes and parted lips, made her feel hot.

"− do you love him more than our mother? − than Luke, than Joffrey? − than me? −" He asked in a trembling voice and she shook her head, not understanding what he meant.

"− Jace − it's a different kind of love − I −"

"− what kind? −" He hissed. "− the kind where you're constantly betrayed? − in which someone mocks your parentage? − locks you up like some prisoner? −"

Gods.

"− Jace −" She gasped, feeling that something in his questions, in his gaze, in what he wanted to hear from her had broken her down, her whole body began to quiver.

She shuddered as he approached her suddenly, as his free hand cupped her warm cheeks, as his forehead pressed against hers, his voice trembling as the words left his throat like a river.

"− I am your oldest brother − you were born to be mine − I would be good to you − you know I would −"

"− brother, what are you saying? − you had no objections when my mother decided to marry me to Ronnel −" She said disapprovingly, furrowing her brow in anger.

"− it was our mother's decision �� how could I oppose her? −" He asked with a frown, as if he really believed what he was saying, a cold shiver ran through her body as his thumb ran over the soft skin of her cheek, hot with emotion.

"− you have never loved me − not in this way, we both know it well − you have always preferred to lie to yourself rather than face the truth − you do not look at me as the woman you desire, but as an inheritance that was taken from you −" She said with pain, feeling that what he was saying was not due to any deep feeling he had for her, but to his anger that she was not waiting for him docilely like his throne and his crown.

Her brother swallowed hard at her words, his hot, ragged breath enveloping the skin of her face.

"− when you were born, our mother told me that you might be my future wife − and I always, always saw you this way −"

"− you mocked me with Aegon −"

"− I craved his attention − he was older and impressed me − didn't you do anything you regretted as a child? −" He muttered wearily; she felt her heart stop at his words, a drop of cold sweat run down the back of her neck.

What was she supposed to answer him?

"− brother − I am married to another man − of my own free will −"

"− you are a traitor −"

"− how dare you −"

"− you are a traitor, but I still am unable to hate you −"

A squeal of terror stuck in her throat, her body froze completely as his lips pressed against hers in a greedy, hot, sticky kiss, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her cheeks, refusing to let her move away.

She cried out and pushed him away − before he could make any move her hand slapped him in the face so hard that he took a few steps back, clutching his red cheek, panting heavily.

"− get out −" She muttered, placing her hand over her heart, feeling as if it was about to burst out of her chest. "− get out of my chamber, brother − I'll forget this...conversation ever took place −"

Jace swallowed hard, horrified and ashamed, as if it had only now occurred to him what he had actually done.

What would Baela say if she saw this?

It seemed to him that they both couldn't believe he had done it − Jace had turned and walked out, leaving behind an open door and a complete blank in her mind.

She thought he wanted to take it out on their uncle, to take away something that belonged to him.

That she was just an object for him on which he had decided to vent.

She thought with pain that he, unlike her husband, had never tried to truly understand her.

When her uncle returned to her chamber they did not exchange a word − he seemed distracted and frustrated to her. He took one of the books from the bookshelf and sat by the fireplace, pretending to read. She lowered her gaze, playing with her fingers, thinking only of the fact that if she hid it from him, she would be just like him.

She didn't know for a long time how she should put it into words, but she figured he'd be furious either way.

"− Jace kissed me − on the lips −" She muttered, glancing at him fearfully − his eye opened wide, looking at her in disbelief, his jaw clenched in such a way that a shudder went through her.

He was silent for a moment, as if he had run out of words, which frightened her even more.

"− he did WHAT? −" He growled, closing the book with a loud slam, pulling himself up from his seat like an enraged bear.

"− he kissed me − grief and humiliation took his mind away − I − wait − gods −" She muttered, standing up as soon as he headed towards the door, which he opened with a loud clatter, running out into the corridor after him.

"− Aemond − no, no, no − stop! −" She hissed, grabbing his arm, but he pulled away from her, opening door after door until he found himself in the right room − Jace and Beala were sitting together at a table, apparently discussing something.

Her older brother rose from his seat and turned pale at the sight of them, horrified.

Her husband walked into his quarters with a wide, menacing smile, exactly the same one he bestowed on him and Luke when they saw him duelling with Criston Cole in King's Landing. He put his hands behind his back, shifting his body weight to one leg, cocking his head.

"− haven't you learned yet not to take what's not yours? − hm? −"

"− Aemond −" She said warningly, but her uncle didn't listen to her, his healthy eye wide open, as if he was just waiting for this.

An opportunity for confrontation.

"− your sister when we were children told me that she never desired you as a man − she knew even then that you were a cunt −" He sneered amused, revealing his teeth in a wide grin full of feigned recognition.

"− Aemond, that's enough −"

"− how dare you? − you are a guest under our roof − get out −" Baela thundered.

She felt a squeeze in her heart at the thought that she knew nothing.

She moved ahead and stood in front of her husband, looking at him with furrowed brows.

"− we are leaving −"

"− no − I'm speaking with my nephew −"

"− we are leaving, uncle, or I swear I will never return with you to King's Landing −"

"− so I'll stay here with you − Jace as ruler of Dragonstone will surely be delighted to host us, won't he? − he seems to have a weakness for you, sweet wife −" He murmured in a voice filled with poison, from which a strong shiver ran along her back.

"− Jace, say something at last! −" Baela hissed, furious that her betrothed simply looked at their uncle and remained silent, unable to get a word out.

"− I made a mistake − I shouldn't have done it, forgive me − I −" He directed his words to her, to his sister, sadness and regret in his gaze, from which she involuntarily felt sympathy.

"− you made a mistake? − I seem to be able to understand the feeling − I have made a similar one many times, as well as others, even worse ones −" Her husband hissed, gripping her cheeks in his hand − her voice stuck in her throat as his fleshy lips clung to hers in an aggressive, loud kiss, his tongue forced its way deep into her throat.

She sighed as he turned her back to him, pressing her brutally against his chest and grabbed her neck − she grasped his wrist as his free hand slid down her lower abdomen, his fingers dug into the material of her gown beneath which her womanhood lay, she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.

"− so beautiful, isn't she, nephew? − I couldn't help myself either − I can't count how many times I took her − how many times I have filled her with my seed − right here −" He breathed out into her ear and she closed her eyes, feeling with horror and disbelief that her nipples had hardened, that her walls had clenched around nothing at his embarrassing words, feeling his finger tease what lay between her thighs despite her resistance.

"− u-uncle − stop −" She muttered, a moan stuck in her throat as she felt his erection behind her throb hard at her words, pushing against her buttocks, his fingertips dug deep into her folds hidden beneath the fabric.

Gods, he wanted her brother to watch this.

Baela looked at Jace as if she suddenly understood everything, her eyebrows arched in pain and disbelief.

"− what did you do? −" She asked quietly, her older brother shook his head, all red, turning his face away, unable to look at it.

"− I −" He didn't finish; her uncle let her go immediately, panting loudly as she did when Daemon walked into the chamber, looking at them, then at Jace and his daughter.

He grinned.

"− what is the meaning of this...commotion? − hm? −" He asked, raising his eyebrows in amusement and mockery; she looked away and glanced at her uncle, shaking her head with furrowed brows, letting him know that he was to remain silent.

Her husband pressed his lips into a thin line, but did not utter a word.

They stood in awkward silence, with only the quiet fizzle of the blazing fire in the fireplace around them.

"Mmm." Her husband hummed and turned away, heading for the door. Not knowing what to do, she simply moved after him, casting only one apologetic glance at Baela.

When they finally returned to her chamber she let out a loud breath.

"− what was that supposed to mean? −" She asked in frustration, wondering what had possessed him.

She tried not to think about how embarrassingly wet she was now.

"− I don't know what you're referring to, wife − I've merely shown my nephew the depth of my understanding as to his desire −" He grinned, grabbing a jug full of wine, pouring himself a full cup of it.

She licked her lower lip in impatience, standing still and watching him − their gazes met as he raised the goblet to his lips and took a deep sip from it.

"− what − are you wet now? −" He sneered and she felt a hot wave of shame surge through her body − she felt like her cheeks had turned scarlet.

"− don't mock me − this was humiliating −" She growled, furrowing her brow, a smirk on his face that she didn't like.

"− if you say so, wife −" He muttered, approaching her lazily, playing with his cup in his hand, raising it to his lips again "− I, however, think you'd rather I did something else −"

He said and took another sip of wine, swallowing it loudly, towering over her with a look from which a pleasant shiver ran through her core.

"− I think you'd rather I fucked you good in front of him − for me to slip my fingers under your skirt and sink them into your leaking cunt −" He murmured, leaning over her so that the tips of their noses were almost touching, her walls swelling all over at his words − she felt a drop of her own wetness run down her thigh.

"− am I wrong? −" He asked, cocking his head curiously, taking another sip of wine from his goblet without taking his eyes off her.

She drew in a loud breath as he set his cup down on the table standing beside them with a loud clang of steel, taking a step towards her, his lips parted in desire.

Gods, no.

"− don't touch me −"

She saw him squint his eyes as he hesitated, his nostrils flaring in accelerated breath.

She knew he was hard.

She knew he wanted to soften her up.

"Mmm."

She immediately summoned her servant wishing that she would help her pull off her gown and let her hair down. After this, she lay down in bed, covering herself with thick furs, not looking at him or speaking a word to him. She swallowed hard when she heard him lie down right next to her and closed her eyelids when she felt his hot breath on her neck.

She thought he would try to touch her, embrace her and give her a reason to push him away, but he just lay behind her back, driving her crazy.

She waited for some time, listening to his quiet breathing, and decided that he was surely asleep by now; her hand slipped silently into the material of her nightgown, lifting it up. She swallowed quietly, tightening her lips as her fingers sank into her leaking, soft, hot womanhood begging to be fulfilled, teasing and squeezing the bud between its fleshy folds.

She felt herself grow hot, her heart began to pound like mad at the indecent idea that these was his hand touching her in front of Jace, making him watch, wanting him to see what her fulfilment looked like.

She felt her walls clench greedily around nothing at the thought, her fingers teasing the spot between her puffy folds with circular, intense strokes.

Involuntarily, her hips began to rock softly to the rhythm of the flicks of her own fingers, she felt that she was wonderfully close to fulfilment.

"− what are you doing? −" She heard his low, cool voice and froze completely. She swallowed hard, sliding her hand, sticky with her own moisture from between her thighs, and remained silent, unwilling to give him the satisfaction.

"− go on −" He said in a hoarse, deep voice from which a shiver went down her spine. She heard a rustling behind her and then the sticky sound of skin slapping against skin − his hot breathing quickened, heavy and ragged. "− come on −"

She couldn't help herself; his fingers dug into her swollen folds again causing a wave of heat to pass through her body − she felt pleasant tickling sensations in her lips, fingertips and nipples. She moaned quietly when she felt his nose pressed against her hair, her hips involuntarily began to rock when she heard him begin to pant, the splats behind her getting louder, louder and louder.

"− fuck − you know I'd lick you good there − hm? −" He sighed and she felt her whole body quiver, her fingers teasing her puffy pearl all sticky from her own wetness.

"− mhgm −" She whined, tilting her head back, feeling his hot, uneven breath on her ear, his swollen, wet lips run down her neck.

"− are you leaking? − are you leaking at the thought of how good I would make you feel? − at the thought of your brother watching me fuck his little sister? −" He breathed out, and she moaned loudly as she felt a wonderful, relieved sensation at his words, her fulfilment shaking her like a hot, tickling wave.

Her slit pulsed all under her fingers as her own moisture leaked out of her, she shuddered when she felt his warm, rough tongue run across the bare skin of her neck, leaving a slick, wet mark on it.

"− fuck, Rheanys −" He muttered and after a moment he gasped − she felt something sticky and warm spurt out onto the back of her nightgown.

His seed.

Gods.

She closed her eyelids, trying to calm her breathing, furious at herself and her weakness.

"− let me embrace you −"

"− no −"

She heard him huff, sighing heavily, his face still sunk into her neck.

"− move away, uncle −"

"− I inhale the wonderful scent of vanilla after having experienced fulfilment with my wife −"

"− your wife does not wish for this −"

"− sleep −"

She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard, thinking with frustration that she hated him with all her heart.

169 notes · View notes

nothingbutsweetwords · 2 days

Text

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ʟᴀᴛᴇʟʏ, ʏᴇᴀʜ, ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ..."

Word count: 3,800.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

MEETING - 1. Her.

Her legs, without any command and with an unstoppable determination, set off through the labyrinthine corridors of the red keep towards her mother's chambers long before the phrase fully reached her ears, the one she had so longed for: "The baby has been born, my princess."

Her family was her most loved treasure and when her mother announced the big news, time seemed to slow down. She couldn't wait to have that baby in her arms and cherish every second the gods, those she fervently prayed to, would allow her to spend with him.

Every night, in silent prayers, she repeated to any who would listen: "Please, let him be born healthy. Please, take care of my mother."

Rhaenyra painfully held in her heart the memory of her mother Aemma's early departure from the world. She wanted to shield her little ones from all fear and anguish, so she didn't dwell on details about that traumatic episode, one that, despite the years, remained as a deep and open wound. Unfortunately, she couldn't stop the whispers, those that seeped into her daughter's ears, creating such intense fear that she barely had room to breathe during those long nine months.

She felt a smile so wide it would ache her cheeks later and feet that weren't fast enough. Upon reaching the large wooden door, she took a few seconds to take a deep breath, calm her racing nerves, and finally push it open with determination.

Her entrance went unnoticed, as all eyes in the room were on the small human being now peacefully resting in her father's arms.

Except hers, no, those were on the woman sitting on the couch. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, her hair tousled and a tired expression adorned her face; yet never, in her short years on this earth, had she seen her so beautiful.

"Mother" she murmured almost voicelessly, taking her hands in hers and seeking her gaze. She felt her eyes sting, tears threatening to spill, and a lump forming in her throat. She wanted to speak again, but her voice got lost along the way. Fortunately, it wasn't necessary; Rhaenyra knew her as well as herself and could read her like an open book.

"My love, please, have no fear, we are okay" with those simple words, her lungs filled with air, swelling her chest. She let out a sigh, laden with relief, laden with love. She could only nod in response.

"Sister, look!" Jacaerys exclaimed, drawing her attention. He lifted the lid of the large steel chest, releasing steam and revealing a dragon egg.

"We choose an egg for the baby" Lucerys added.

"That looks like the perfect one, brothers" she said with a smile, though a bittersweet taste filled her mouth. Unlike her brothers, her own egg had never hatched, a disappointment she carried permanently with her, though she tried not to show it in these moments of happiness.

"I let Luke choose" he said, she messed up the younger one's hair and planted a kiss on his head.

"Thank you, Jace."

"Not every day an egg leaves the dragonpit, my princess, I thought it best to escort the lads" intervened Harwin Strong, adorned in his imposing armor and golden cloak. It didn't surprise her seeing him there; in fact, despite having a different last name, she considered him part of her family.

He was her protector, who always escorted her to her room, pampered her with luxurious books, and listened attentively to every word she said. She had more memories of him than of her own father, but she didn't complain; she knew he was a busy man. Harwin had tried to teach her the art of the sword, insisting on the importance of knowing how to defend herself, but she always found herself more interested in books. Besides, she had the feeling that he would never neglect watching her back.

"Laenor and I thank you, Commander" she heard her mother say.

"Father, may I see it?" she asked. Laenor knelt down, allowing the three of them to meet the new member of the family. It only took one look for him to completely captivate her. She mentally swore that nothing would ever harm him as long as she breathed. "What a fine knight you are going to make, eh?"

"Another boy, I heard" Harwin cleared his throat. "Might I?" he asked, seeking her mother's approval. She thought she saw a glimpse of the same relief that filled her eyes.

"Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey" she said, smiling. Upon hearing that name, her lips formed another smile. Of course, she would have been equally happy if it were a girl, but she was glad to still be the only one. It had its advantages.

"Of course" Laenor agreed. Rising, he gently placed Joffrey in Harwin's arms.

"Joffrey, is it?" her father nodded in agreement to the question.

"Mother, please may I hold Joffrey?" she asked excitedly, reaching out her arms towards him. A futile attempt, of course, the man in front of her easily doubled her height.

"No, mother, let me go first! I'm the strongest, I won't let him fall!" her twin brother vociferated.

"I won't let him fall either!" she countered.

Her younger brother joined in the pleas, arguing that he had the right because he was the youngest. Soon, the words melded into an indistinguishable uproar, as all three clamored in unison.

"No, no, no" her father hastened as Harwin turned his back to them, trying to prevent the disturbances from reaching the ears of the newborn.

"I think you left your septa waiting, my little lady, and back to the dragon pit for you two, before they send out a search party" he ushered the three younger ones out of the room, and gently pushed their shoulders, guiding them down the hallway. First, towards the room she had left only minutes ago, where her septa awaited along with Helaena, her mother's younger sister.

Her father left her at the door, and the expression on her face, the one she believed she was successfully hiding, betrayed her. Laenor crouched down to her height, gently taking her cheeks in his hands, making her look at him.

"You know, Leana had an egg that didn't hatch... and she didn't ride a dragon until she was five and ten. Now she rides Vhagar," he tried to cheer her up, "your time will come, dear daughter, I promise."

She was filled with hope at her father's promises. He always had the right words. She thanked the man she loved so much with a kiss on the cheek, and now with renewed energy, she entered the room.

Despite the repeated complaints from the septa, they remained on the floor; she leaned her back against the wall, while Helaena rested her head on her legs. She explored the pages of the book while playing with her hair, and when a passage caught her attention, she read it aloud to her aunt, who entertained herself by watching a long insect walk on her hands. They didn't share the same interests, not even could it be said that they understood each other, but they enjoyed each other's company and were grateful of having another princess of almost the same age as a confidante.

"This one has 60 rings and two pairs of legs on each. That's 240" remarked Helaena.

"Yes, you're right, I think... Did you know that Vhagar is 170 years old?" she responded, her eyes widening at the new information. "That's exceptional."

"The last ring doesn't have legs," Helaena pointed out, overlooking her niece, more interested in the insect "it has eyes, though I don't believe it can see."

She furrowed her brow. "Why is that so?"

"It's beyond our understanding."

She didn't know how much time they had spent in that position, but when she shifted her attention from the book due to noises approaching from the corridors, she noticed that the septa had already left and in her place was Alicent. The new companion was sitting a few meters away from them, holding a cup of tea and with her gaze lost in the window.

Suddenly, two king’s guards burst into the room, each holding one of Aemond's arms, alarming her.

"Your grace" they left without waiting for any response, closing the doors behind them.

"Aemond, what have you done?" Alicent approached him quickly, scrutinizing him, and exclaimed exasperatedly while gripping his shoulders firmly, "after how many times you’ve been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?"

"They made me do it!" the young prince shouted in his defense.

"As if you needed encouragement. Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding" she furrowed her brow again upon noticing the same phrase that had come out of Helaena's mouth minutes ago.

Returning her attention to the argument in front of her, she noted that the prince's platinum hair and his green garments were stained black. Realization fell into her, she widened her eyes, astonished. Had he really ventured into the dragon pit? Alone?

"They gave me a pig!"

"A what?" the queen asked.

"They said they found a dragon for me, but it was a pig" detailed, his voice breaking slightly.

She knew Aegon and she knew her brothers, and even though she was certain the last two had only been pawns used in the prank, a mixture of anger and disappointment washed over her. How could they tease and deceive the good prince in such a way? Worse still, with something that was also the cause of her tears.

"If he wants one, he'll have to close one eye" the princess beside her said, her gaze still fixed on the tiny entity. She spoke loud enough for only her to hear.

Her words were puzzling, and she didn't know how to interpret them. They could either indicate that she was still in her little world or suggest something deeper; it wouldn't be the first time for either option. She had heard her say... things before; at first, they seemed like mere nonsensical words, and suddenly something happened, something that reminded her of her words, something that led her to believe that her aunt had some kind of magic. No one had paid much attention to her when she shared her theory, dismissing it with disdain, saying they were just coincidences. But to her, it seemed like more than mere chance connections.

"Everyone laughed" Aemond murmured, trying to hide his sadness. Her anger now replaced by deep empathy. Alicent wrapped her arms around him, stroking his back.

The prince looked just as distressed as he left the hug and walked away as he did when he entered. It reminded her of her own feelings of desolation and loneliness, and she thought that there was no one in the kingdom who could understand her like he did. Not really.

She always had a special connection with Jace, a twin connection, as they enjoyed calling it. They understood each other with just looks, laughed at the same jokes, and shared the same tastes, except for the obvious; he loved his sword, she preferred her books. On the other hand, Luke had always been her little and spoiled one, her sweet and innocent child. That's why the situation had affected her so much. She didn't believe her brothers had meant to hurt Aemond, but they did anyway. They were insensitive, and she didn't want to see them grow up like Aegon, who with his character showed that he didn't know the true meaning of consequences.

It had been a few days since the incident in the pit and the birth of her brother, who was under the care of Diana, her mother's lady-in-waiting.

She tried not to lift her gaze from her plate and ate in silence, ignoring her brothers, offering them only monosyllabic responses. She was furious and intended to make it obvious. She huffed in frustration, trying to get her mother's attention so she could bring up the issue to the table.

"My dear, what troubles your mind?" she heard her mother ask as she gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"Mother, have you heard about the incident in the dragon pit?" noticing her mother's concerned and confused look, she hurried to reassure her, "no one is hurt... not physically, at least."

"What happened?" her mother looked inquisitively at her sons, their heads looking down, ashamed.

"Jace, Luke, and Aegon played a prank on Prince Aemond. They told him they had a dragon for him and gave him a pig with wings, they even named it! Pink Dread." The children couldn't contain their laughter at the memory, which only made her angrier.

"Is that true?" her mother asked, wiping the smile from both their faces. It wasn't common to hear her upset or see her with a serious expression.

"It was just a joke!" Jace tried to justify.

"Aegon planned it!" Luke interjected.

"I don't want to hear justifications" she silenced them. "What if that joke had been towards your sister? Would you still be laughing?"

"It's different" Jace muttered, while Luke's lip trembled in a pout.

"No, it's not. Tomorrow during training, you will offer the appropriate apologies. From the heart. Aemond is family, and we must look out for each other. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, mother" they chorused, serious and repentant.

"Now you may retire to your chambers and think about what you've done," their mother pronounced, and before they could respond, she added, "no complaints." They nodded and left in silence.

"I think Aemond could use some kind words, don't you agree?" Rhaenyra suggested minutes later, breaking the silence. She responded with a smile, thanking her for understanding the importance of this to her. "Who better than you to do it?" She rose from her seat and embraced her gently, for she could see her still in pain. She planted a kiss on her forehead, the kind she cherished so much.

"Rest, mother. I'll ask the maester to make you some tea."

She smiled after hearing her daughter, thinking that any pain felt and to be felt would be an insignificant price to pay considering all she had gained. Jace, the next heir to the throne, who would reign with peace and intelligence; Luke and Joffrey, who would be the greatest and most honorable knights; and her daughter, her eternal and sweet companion.

There was no need to ask questions; she knew where to find him. A few floors up was the library, her second room, her refuge, where the world became a little quieter and she could transport herself to other times, places and lives.

She ascended the long stairs quickly, and within minutes, she stood at the door. This hallway had always been one of the least traveled, practically deserted, except for them and the king’s guards. It seemed there weren't many avid readers in the keep.

They used to be at opposite ends of the table, immersed in each of their books. She had always wanted to talk to him, ask him what he was reading and maybe ask him to teach her High Valyrian. However, she never did; she had been too shy in his presence, and Aemond's distant form didn't help. Perhaps he was shy like her.

Or perhaps he simply didn't want to talk to her.

She tried to push those thoughts to the back of her mind as she entered the library. She smiled to herself when she saw she hadn't been wrong.

"Good morrow, uncle" she announced her arrival as she headed to the usual shelf and picked up the book she had left halfway through a few days ago.

"Good morrow, niece" he responded with his usual seriousness.

She walked to the table and hesitated. Should she sit closer to him this time? She didn't want to invade his space, but she also didn't believe that a conversation should start at a distance.

She arrived at the table before deciding and stood there for a few seconds. She ended up placing her book at the usual spot and sat down, feeling uncomfortable.

Why was she feeling this way? She wasn't the one who played a distasteful joke, besides, he was family; they had grown up together in the castle, it shouldn't be so difficult.

Suddenly, she felt warmth engulf her when she noticed Aemond looking at her, puzzled. With the book still closed, her cheeks turned red as she realized she had been staring at him all this time, lost in her thoughts. She mentally cursed herself and searched for the page she was on. He looked away, not saying a word.

Her mother had asked her to talk to him and she had really wanted to, so she didn't understand why she found it so hard to approach him.

She audibly sighed and abruptly closed her book. He did the same seconds later. As always.

It was curious; every time they were here, they seemed… united, connected in their readings; when she finished, he did too, shortly after. They put away their books, and he walked to the exit, hurriedly, and then held the door, patiently waiting for her to exit. They parted ways upon reaching the floor of their chambers, all without exchanging a word other than greetings or thanks.

The king and the queen did a good job with him and Helaena. She couldn't say the same about Aegon, unfortunately.

She knew it was only a matter of seconds before he got up from his chair, so she cleared her throat and, with her book in hand, marched towards him.

Aemond furrowed his brow; he didn't seem upset, rather bewildered by the new proximity when she took the seat to his right and opened her book again, an action he imitated seconds later.

She found it impossible to read; she observed the page, but the words blurred together as her mind was occupied with something else. How should she start? It was clear they had something in common. Two things, in fact. Long conversations weren't necessary to know it, so she ventured there.

She cleared her throat, trying to get his attention, without success. Then, timidly, she placed her hand on his, causing an immediate reaction.

He remained still, stunned by her movements. He just looked at her, with eyes wider than usual. It was then that she realized how different they were from the rest of their family. Her grandsire, her mother, Aegon, Helaena, they all had eyes as clear as the sky on a sunny day. But not him, his were darker, bluer, with a trace of purple in them. As deep as the sea, and as beautiful as a sapphire. His hair was straighter, platinum, and even softer, she would dare to say.

How she wished to have the Targaryen attributes, just as distinctive as they were beautiful. Another one of her biggest insecurities and sorrows. It wasn't uncommon for people to be surprised when they saw her and her siblings next to their parents, as they hadn't inherited such beauty. They were equally pale, but with a tumultuous mane, full of curls, of the darkest black and eyes sometimes green, sometimes brown.

Once again, she felt the red fill her cheeks, her gaze lost in him as her thoughts swirled.

"Do you know that my father's sister also had an unhatched egg? Just like us," she said, softly, looking him in the eyes and trying to comfort him, "now she's the rider of Vhagar, the oldest, largest, and most feared dragon in the entire kingdom."

She waited for a response that didn't come. "I like to believe that our wait will be rewarded, don't you?" then added. He only nodded, almost imperceptibly, without taking his eyes off hers, "I wanted to apologize."

Now with a confused look, Aemond finally decided to respond, "why?"

"They shouldn't have done it... It was cruel." Understanding dawned on him.

"No need to apologize for something that you did not do, niece." She couldn't help but smile at his words. Was he always so serious and formal? She thought he was like an adult trapped in the body of a little boy. An old soul.

"Can I ask you something?" she inquired.

"Yes, of course."

"Did you really enter the dragon pit? Alone?" she asked, curious. She noticed his face changing, a smirk of pride forming, his lips curling up into a small smile as he straightened up in his chair, now more upright.

"Yes, I did."

"Did you see any?"

"Yes, but it was too dark to know which one..." he began, with a spark in his eyes, and noticing her attentive gaze, he decided to continue "it throwed fire in my direction" he added, her eyes wider than before, conveying her astonishment.

"Gods! You must have been so terrified."

"Not really" he simply responded.

"That was... you're incredibly brave, my prince. I wouldn't have had the courage" she said and received a wide smile in return. She had never called him "my prince" before and she had never seen him smile.

She continued to listen attentively. No history book had ever excited her as much as the prince's adventures, and seeing him so enthusiastic about telling them filled her chest with something she didn't know how to name. Something warm. She liked it.

Despite it being their first real conversation, and the first time they looked each other in the eyes, there was a mutual understanding, a connection, different, special. One that went beyond being dragonless riders or relatives raised under the same roof.

It seemed to her that only a few minutes had passed when she felt a knock on the doors and a voice announcing that it was supper time and Alicent awaited for her son's presence. Both of them showed disappointment at the interruption; he seemed to have so much more to say and she hadn't had enough of his words. She thought she could listen to him for the rest of her days.

"Forgive me, niece, I must have tired your ears," he said before standing up, "and I didn't ask about your stories; you must think me rude." His words elicited a laugh from her lips, as it couldn't be further from the truth.

"Not at all, I would have liked to keep listening to you. Besides, I don't have stories as brave as yours, and I wouldn't want to bore you to exhaustion" she replied.

Once they had put the books back in their place, they walked to the door.

"I do not think that's possible" Aemond communicated with his hand on the doorknob. There was silence as they descended the stairs with the guards behind them.

"Goodnight, my princess" he said once they reached the floor, calling her that way for the first time.

"Goodnight, my prince."

"Perhaps tomorrow we could... continue?" It came out almost as a whisper from Aemond's lips. A smile on hers.

"Nothing would make me happier."

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #house targaryen #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen fluff

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jmliebert · 2 days

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♡ when Aemond has a crush on you ♡ (modern) headcanons

he hides it well; Aemond is not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. At first, it's hard to tell he has a crush on you because he is cold and seems indifferent. he observes, weights his options

he keeps his distance at first; both emotionally and physically. his behaviour might even make you think he hates you, though it's quite the opposite of course, he just have problems with showing his feelings :((

but (!) his piercing gaze always finds you. his eye follows you discreetly, hungry and restless

when he's near you, his body language is a mix of nervousness and inner pride. he wants to please you which is a weird feeling for Aemond, so his fingers may fidget a little, but still; he stands tall

he quickly learns your daily routine and starts showing up in places you frequent. these "coincidental" meetings are his way of staying close without being too obvious (in his head at lest)

you quickly learn he uses a lot of sarcasm, but you learn to enjoy this side of his, actually he's quite funny

if you ask him for a favour, he might act like it's a bother, but he always does it, despite his outward coldness

sooo.... as you can see he's a little lost, unsure, but(!) this one time when his brother Aegon makes crude, inappropriate joke about you, Aemond's anger flares and that's when he truly realises his feelings for you may run deeper than he'd like to admit

Aemond tries to be more straight-forward at this point. he assist you whenever he can, subtly offering help here and there, giving you this little smirks of his

he often asks you random questions about your life (often very specific), wanting to know everything about you and it's quite endearing that he's so focused on you

stil he respects your space! or at least tries to. he doesn't want to intimidate you or make you uncomfortable with his presence (most of the time), even though being near you all the time is what he would prefer

he spent many sleepless nights analysing your conversations and overall every aspect of you

long walks; during those you talk about trivial things and deeper subjects like psychology, philosophy, or your favourite books and movies. Aemond is silently enjoying when you put your hand on his arm during those walks. these moments are when he feels most connected to you, when he melts more and more...

because finding someone attractive is one thing, but finding someone attractive and genuinely interesting is a whole new level and at this point Aemond is charmed, really charmed

encouraged by this connection growing between you, Aemond asks you out. and let me tell you- he's SERVING! like he arrives at your home to pick you up, greets you with a gentle kiss on the hand and a soft smile, the kind that sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach

and he smells so gooooood!!!!! I just know it

at dinner he pulls out your chair, ensuring you're comfortable before taking his own seat. throughout the meal, he’s attentive and considerate, paying for dinner without hesitation (duhh)

his eye contact is intense, making it clear he finds you captivating

about the first kisss.... at first it's gentle and tentative, almost like he's testing the waters. he would begin by leaning in slowly, his lips brushing against yours lightly, his hand cupping your jaw. he would look deep into your eyes, waiting for silent approval and when he gets it, he smiles and you smile too

as the kiss deepens, you’d feel the intensity building. the touch of his lips would become firmer, his body pressing you closer as he wraps his arms around you. his grip might grow more insistent, almost aggressive, as he pulls you in tight, the kiss becoming more passionate and intense. there's a raw edge to it, as if he's letting go of the restraint he's been holding onto, revealing the fire and desire that’s been simmering just beneath the surface

when you gasp softly against his lips, Aemond is losing control. his hand moves down to grab your ass, pulling you even closer, your lips crash and then he suddenly halts. moving back just enough to regain some composure. he's breathing heavily, trying to steady himself, his eye fixed on you with a mix of desire and restraint

"We should probably slow down, but I really don't want to."

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

you can find more of my works about aemond ♡here♡

#prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond headcanons #hotd headcanons #modern aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond has a crush on you #aemond imagine #hotd imagine #aemond fluff

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hotdaesthetic · 17 hours

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You can't be like that 🥵

#hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aegon ii targaryen #tom glynn carney #hotd aemond #hotd aegon #ewan icon #ewan nation

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fragileheartbeats · 21 hours

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scaly-freaks · 3 days

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Excuse me as I re-upload art but two lovely people commissioned me last year and I still think about that so I'm putting my portfolio back up. Artworks below are -

Aemond and Aemond Jr (they've got grandma's hair, and mother's eyes)

Helaena hugging the spirit of Jaehaerys at his funeral :(

Aegon III and Queen Jaehaera

#aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #helaena targaryen #helaena fanart #prince jaehaerys #queen jaehaera #jaehaera targaryen #aegon iii #aegon iii x jaehaera #scalyfreaksart

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aemonds-fire · 9 hours

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Lady, Wife, Whore, Woman Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen x Female Oneshot

Summary: The story of a young married lady's dilemma when the Prince Regent makes it clear he wants her for himself.

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Power Imbalance, Infidelity, Orgasm Denial, medieval-canon sexism, and profanity.

Word Count: 7104

Writer's Notes: The name Lady Stokeworth was used to weave some canon elements into the fic. She is female, but no physical description is given. This got a little long and her story sort of took over, but there's Aemond and smut. Enjoy!!

Personal Favorite 💖

Masterlist

The realm is at war because a family wars with itself, making the days darker for all who reside in Westeros, especially in the Red Keep, where each day is fraught with suspicion and danger.

When King Viserys dies, your husband becomes one of many lords imprisoned for loyalty to Princess Rhaenyra, the king's named heir, while you are locked in your chambers. One by one, the captives are brought before the king’s justice and given a last chance to swear fealty to Aegon. Some, including your husband, bend the knee to the green king. Those who do not, including Lords Hayford, Merryweather, and Harte, as well as Lady Fell, lose their heads that day.

Despite his oath of allegiance to King Aegon, you know your husband’s loyalty, and therefore your own, is still questioned. Simply asking to send a message by raven to your family can be viewed as treachery, for you are inexperienced in the conspiracy and duplicity that have spread throughout the court, and that is distressing enough.

But you, the new Lady Stokeworth, have another unwanted worry from which you cannot escape. You have no idea what you did to attract his interest, but from the moment of your first introduction months ago, the gaze of his eye has followed you.

“We should not be late. Are you ready?” Your husband’s question brings your thoughts back to the here and now.

Looking up at him, you force a smile. Though you have no wish to leave your chambers, you know attendance at this dinner is required. Smoothing your skirts as you get up, you only reply, “Yes, I’m ready.”

Placing your hand on your husband’s arm and trying to maintain a neutral expression on your face, you walk through the keep, keeping your eyes downcast in an attempt to stay oblivious to your surroundings. But you can still feel the eyes of the court following you, and you think the sounds of their whispers are louder today, making the halls of the Red Keep feel as if they are closing in on you.

The dinner is a somewhat subdued affair, not unexpected given the state of war and the horrors that even the royal family has not been spared. Musicians play, trying to keep spirits light and impress an illusion of normalcy upon the Targaryen court. The only members of the royal family present are the Prince Regent and his mother, the Dowager Queen, which is not surprising given the gravely injured King Aegon's bedridden state and the rumored madness of Queen Helaena following her son's murder.

You have little appetite; you only pick at your food. You can feel his eye on you; you don’t need to look to know he openly stares at you. Any attempts at discretion have long since ceased. Thinking back, you came to the Red Keep as the new bride of Lord Stokeworth, having only been wed a few weeks, but determined to adapt to married life as the wife of a lord from a house larger than your family’s modest one.

Upon meeting the prince, you immediately feel shy in his presence. While his appearance is striking in a handsome and dashing way, it is his unusual combination of aloofness and intensity that unsettles you. You believed there would be little contact with him, as you were only the wife of a lord. Initially, you dismiss the subtle glances or the accidental closeness he always managed to achieve, but with time, you begin to suspect that he is paying more attention to you than he should.

You and your husband are due to leave the Red Keep and return home to Castle Stokeworth, but the King’s death changes everything and forces your stay in the Red Keep. The coming days became a whirlwind of uncertainty and fear. After the coronation of Aegon II and the escape of Princess Rhaenys, hope fades that the Targaryens can peacefully resolve their differences.

The news of Prince Aemond striking the first blow by killing his nephew Lucerys, thereby ensuring open warfare between the factions of House Targaryen, shocks everyone, but it seems to bring about a change in the Prince himself. If he feels any remorse for killing his nephew, he hides it well, but he does not hide his more imposing and aggressive nature. He now basks in the admiration of many green supporters and savors the fear of others as the rider of the deadly Vhagar.

Before long, Prince Aemond takes over as ruler, becoming Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm. With the weight of the war on his shoulders and the power of a king in his hands, he feels no need to be discreet.

For you, that means his hints of interest in you, which were once subtle enough to be dismissed, are now too bold to be mistaken. Quick glances have now become long gazes at your full lips or the swell of your breasts. When he kisses your hand, his curved lips linger on your skin, and his long fingers hold onto you for too long.

Lords and ladies who have linked their fates and the fate of their houses to the Greens worry with every piece of bad news and every sign of the mercurial Prince Regent’s displeasure. With his desire for you, like now an open book for anyone to read, some even suggest that if having the little wife of Lord Stokeworth in his bed will help him rule, then let him have her. Whispers become hints, and soon you begin to feel pressure from the court to give in to him. Though many are surprised that he hasn’t taken what he clearly wants already, some think that he enjoys toying with the pretty lady and humiliating her husband, while others worry that the young ruler has no time for games while at war.

The thought of dishonoring you and your new husband by being the subject of such a scandal horrifies you. You were raised to be a loyal and dutiful wife; it is not in your nature to seek out this kind of attention. You can only hope that if you remain steadfast and true to your marriage, the prince will soon tire of your resistance.

“The more you resist him, the more determined he is to have you." A feminine voice beside you utters conspiratorially.

Startled, you turn to see that Lady Rosby has taken the seat next to you. Having finished their meal, most are milling about in small groups of conversation, with a few pairings taking to the dance floor in an attempt to maintain an air of unconcerned nobility. You stay seated, hoping to remain unnoticed.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Rosby,” you stammer, the discomfort of having to discuss your situation only making you feel worse.

“You have made it clear that you did not seek out the prince’s attention, but you have his attention nonetheless,” the older lady continues, pausing to take a sip of her wine. “A wise woman would consider giving him what he wants, willingly, rather than continuing to vex the dragon.”

Aghast, you can only stare open-mouthed at Lady Rosby, who is the first to blatantly suggest to your face that you dishonor yourself, your husband, and your family by willingly submitting to his lustful desires.

Lady Rosby’s face does not soften at the sight of tears forming in your eyes. “I’m telling you this for your own good. I can see that you are naive, but the harsh truth is that noble ladies have had to spread their legs for worse men than him to serve the realm.” Seeing you begin to shake your head in despair, she grabs hold of your hand. “Give him what he wants before he loses patience and decides to take it by force. Learn how to make him happy.”

Fighting to hold back your tears, you tear your hand out of her grasp, standing abruptly, needing to get away from this woman and leave this crowded hall. A now-too-familiar voice from behind you halts your progress as you quickly make your way around the end of the long table, looking for your husband.

“Hmm, leaving so soon, Lady Stokeworth, and without even gracing me with your beautiful smile or a kind word?”

You take a moment to try and compose yourself before turning to face the Prince Regent. Standing several feet from you, dressed all in black, his long leather doublet is adorned with a gold chain draped across the front, a belt around his trim waist, and the Conqueror's crown atop his silvery head. While the eye patch covers his missing eye, the other's lustful stare is enough to convey his intentions. With an ever-present smirk on his lips, he beckons you towards him with an extended hand.

Taking a deep breath as you approach, you place your smaller hand in his, feeling the roughened skin of his fingers grasp your soft skin. Somehow, despite your shaking legs, you manage to gracefully give him a deep curtsey. Finally meeting his eye, you find your voice to say, “Your Grace.”

Never taking his lilac gaze from you, he leans down, placing a kiss on your hand, letting his lips linger far longer than is proper. He straightens to his full height and tilts his head, never releasing your hand. “You seem upset, my lady,” he comments, his voice low.

His larger hand completely envelops yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your smooth skin as he draws you even closer to him. “Tis nothing, your grace. I was just going to look for my husband.”

“Then I will keep the most beautiful lady in the realm company until your dear husband is found,” he insists, while resting his other hand at your waist.

If you close your eyes, the velvety smooth tone of his voice would be soothing, but the way he looks at you—the sharp gleam in his eye and the covetous smile on his pointed lips—is anything but calming. He reminds you of a cunning predator stalking prey, and you are his prey. Knowing you must tread carefully with him, you offer no resistance; even when he leans so close, you can smell the wine on his breath.

“My sweet lady, you’re trembling, and you look like a frightened doe ready to run to safety,” his voice murmured in your ear. “I can assure you, there is no safer place for you than with me.”

Trying to steady your breathing, you can only plead, “Please your grace; this is most improper, and people will get the wrong impression.”

A sharp intake of breath from him hints at his annoyance. “People already know, and I don’t give a shit what they think.” His fingers dig into the flesh of your hip as he hisses, "You distract me to no end; at a time, I cannot afford to be distracted."

Although you are in a room filled with people, you have never felt more alone. You know no one will come to your aid, no matter how obvious your distress is, with the Prince Regent at your side. “If I am such a distraction, perhaps it would be best if I were to be allowed to return to Castle Stokeworth…”

“I forbid it!” his voice angrily raises, loud enough to draw looks from those nearby. Aemond now looms over you, making no effort to hide his ire. “I have been more than patient with you. You will come to me,” he insists, before turning on his heel and stalking off, motioning for the Hand of the King to follow him.

He leaves you standing alone, shaking. Glancing around, you can see everyone staring at you. Lady Rosby looks at you with disappointment on her face. You see your husband off to the side of the room, his brow furrowed and his lips drawn in a thin line, but his expression is unreadable to you. Gathering your skirts, you hastily flee the room, heedless of the people you brush past, needing to be away from the Targaryen court's stares.

By the time you reach your chambers, you are out of breath with tears streaming down your cheeks. Allowing yourself to fall onto your bed, you lay there weeping inconsolably, only rising after a short time when your maid requests entry. Though she is soft-spoken and kind, you don’t feel comfortable showing the depths of your despair around the servants.

After wiping your eyes and trying to put on a brave face, you let her help you out of your dress and into a thin nightdress to help keep you cool on these warm nights. She removes your jewelry and wipes your skin with a damp cloth. The nightly ritual helps to calm you somewhat.

Since you left the dinner early, it is not late at all. You dismiss your maid, letting her have the rest of the evening to herself since you plan to remain in your chambers, perhaps writing a letter to your older sister. She is married herself and now a mother. The two of you have always been close, and maybe confiding in her will help you. You miss your sister and your family dearly. Your family may be a small, minor house, but the faith of the Seven and a steadfastness to always act honorably have been ingrained in you since you were a little girl. Your upbringing was strict and proper for a lady, but other than clinging to your values, you have no idea how to deal with the situation you now find yourself in.

Your marriage was arranged and could hardly be called a love match, but you have no reason to complain. You are not mistreated, and Lord Stokeworth already has children from his first lady wife, who sadly died of an illness. Indeed, little is demanded of you by your husband. You do not share much closeness, and there still remains a formality to your marriage. You make every effort to engage your husband in conversation, asking about his interests, but he is a quiet man who seems content with you being more of an occasional companion than a friend or partner.

You are still deciding if you want to write a letter or try to read when the chamber door opens and your husband enters the room. The stern expression on his face worries you. He, like you, had hoped that the Prince Regent would turn his attention elsewhere.

“I’m sorry. I wanted him to see reason…” You begin before he waves you off with his hand.

Nervously twisting your fingers while you watch your husband pour himself a generous cup of wine, waiting for him to speak. The two of you have surprisingly talked little about the Prince Regent, mostly your repeated promises that you have no intention to dishonor your marriage by giving in to his desires.

“I just spoke with the Prince Regent and his Hand,” he begins after taking a deep drink before forcefully setting the cup down. He remains standing by the table, resting his hands on the surface.

Despite months of marriage, you still find it difficult to read your husband. You can tell he is clearly distressed, but with Prince Regent Aemond or with you, you cannot tell.

“In four days, I am to personally lead my men to join the garrison at Rook’s Rest. The Hand believes that Lord Mooton of Maidenpool will lead a force to try and retake it,” he informs you, his voice hard and bitter. “It will be my responsibility to hold the settlement for the greens.”

Your mind races trying to understand the implications of this. Your husband is not a warrior; his strength lies in administering his lands and supplying food to King’s Landing. It does not take long for the true meaning of this to dawn on you.

“He will send you into battle. Because of me.“ Your heart sinks as you utter those words.

Your husband taps his fingers on the tabletop. “He also said that you could persuade him to change his mind.”

Your mouth gapes open in shock, and a knot of dread forms in the pit of your stomach. "He resorts to this to force me into his bed," you mutter quietly, as a flicker of anger lights within you. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you begin to pace. “There must be a way we can leave King’s Landing.”

Your husband’s head snaps up. “Don’t be ridiculous. There is nowhere we could go where he could not find us, and he would seize my holdings, Castle Stokeworth, and leave me with nothing!” Glaring at you, he continues, “My head would end up on a pike.”

Once again, tears begin to fill your eyes. The thought of your husband being forced to fight and possibly being killed in battle because you choose to honor your marriage vows and remain true to your husband fills you with despair.

“There is only one way to deal with this, and you must do it.”

Now it is your head that snaps up to stare at your husband. “What are you saying?”

Draining his cup of wine before refilling it, he looks at you pointedly and says, “You will go to the Prince Regent, and you will yield to his wishes.”

His words are like a slap to your face, so stunned you are. Feeling tremors throughout your body, you struggle to speak. “You would send me to another man’s bed?” you ask incredulously. “I am your wife, and you tell me to become his whore?”

Sighing, as if exasperated by the subject, he responds sullenly, “I do not care for it either, but I cannot risk my holdings, and I have no wish to die on a battlefield.” Your husband begins unfastening his doublet, walking away from you and towards the door of your chambers. Pausing to turn to you, your husband says, “There is a kingsguard waiting outside the door. It would be best not to keep the Prince Regent waiting; he is expecting you.” The tone of his voice makes it clear that he wishes for no further discussion on the subject.

Your tears are burning your eyes; you can only stammer, “Now? Like this?"

“Serving the realm sometimes means making sacrifices we do not wish to make. I see no other choice in the matter,’ he says resolutely as he opens the door and motions for the kingsguard to enter, instructing, “Please escort Lady Stokeworth to the Prince Regent.”

Shame and panic at being escorted through the Red Keep in your nightdress to be delivered to the Prince Regent threaten to overwhelm you. Anger and dismay that your own husband refuses to stand up for your honor in any way after you have spent weeks and months agonizing over Prince Aemond's advances leave you shaking. Only the lifelong teaching of obedience and your pride prevent you from falling apart completely.

Glancing at the guard, who is managing to keep his expression impassive, you allow yourself a moment to rally your composure. “One moment, please, Ser.” You walk over to a wardrobe that holds many of your clothes, searching until you find a light cloak. After you place it around your shoulders and fasten the clasp at your throat, you turn to follow the guard without another look towards your husband. Your anger is prompting your actions as you refuse to be paraded through the Keep to the Prince Regent in your nightdress for all to see.

The guard leads you part way down the corridor as you once again try to ignore your surroundings by keeping your head down. You are surprised when the guard stops and opens a door that you had never noticed before, so well concealed as part of the wall.

When he senses your hesitation, the guard quietly says, “A private passageway. We will encounter no others along the way, my lady.”

Giving him a nod, you follow him, grateful that at least half of the Keep will not see your shame at being led to the Prince Regent’s chambers. Your stomach is in knots, but strangely, you are not afraid. Your anger at your husband’s surrendering your honor and placing everything else he has above you is steeling you in an odd way. Before long, you exit the passageway, only to find yourself in an empty hallway. The kingsguard knocks on the nearest door, waiting for permission to enter. When you hear the Prince Regent’s voice bidding entry, you take a deep breath and follow him into the chambers.

“Lady Stokeworth, your grace,” announces the guard, turning to leave the room when Prince Aemond nods his head.

Still dressed from dinner, the Prince Regent sits in a chair with his long legs crossed. Though he looks relaxed, he never takes his eye off you and does not speak.

Walking a few paces closer, you give him a small nod, only greeting him with a soft “Your grace,” trying to keep your voice steady and your eyes downcast to avoid his stare.

“You’ve been crying,” he observes, noticing your red-rimmed eyes.

Standing before him, still wearing your cloak to cover your nightdress, you press your lips together before replying, “Yes, it has been a very upsetting evening.”

“It seems as though you have not changed your mind about me, yet here you are.”

Fighting the urge to tear at your fingernails, you ball your hands into fists. “It was decided that there was no choice but to come to you.”

“Decided by you or your husband?” he asks as he uncrosses his legs.

You bite your lip, unable to speak the words; your expression and silence are your answers.

Finally rising from his seat, Prince Aemond slowly comes to stand before you, reaching out to gently brush the back of his slim finger against your cheek as you try not to flinch away from his touch. “Your husband is weak. "If you were mine, I would fight to the death before I let another man have you," he promises, his voice sounding oddly soft and gentle to you. “I would kill any man who even dared to think of touching you. I would protect you.”

You cannot hold back a slight huff. “Protect me? You have done nothing but torment me.” You try to keep still while Aemond slowly circles around you, staying far too close and resting his large hand on your shoulder. “Why me? I’ve never done anything to give you the impression that I want this.”

Aemond leans in to inhale the scents of the oils you use in your hair and bath, trying to identify the fragrances he finds alluring. “You have tormented my thoughts and dreams since I first saw you, a dazzling jewel that outshines all of the dull rabble that makes up this court.” He continues as he slides his hand over your cloak's clasp at the base of your throat. “Over are the days where I silently watch lesser men being given the things I deserve, things that I desire.”

With those words, he unfastens the clasp of your cloak, letting it fall from your shoulders to puddle around your slippered feet. You feel his body press against your back; his long, slim fingers gently wrap around your throat, forcing your head back to rest against his shoulder. When his arm snakes around your waist, you suck in your breath, and you feel his mouth brush against your ear, finding the spot where he can feel the beating of your heart beneath his lips.

Until you hear his whisper, “Breathe, my sweet,” you don’t realize you have been holding your breath.

“I have imagined this moment so many times and in so many different ways,” he murmurs against your skin. “When I was angry at your resistance, I wanted you on your knees, begging me to fuck you.” He pauses to suck and nips your neck hard enough to be sure it will mark you as his, before soothing the tender spot with flicks of his tongue. “When my impatience threatened to get the better of me, I thought of tearing the clothes from your body, holding you down, and fucking you hard until you screamed.”

You gasp at hearing his vulgar descriptions of what he could do to you and what he has thought about doing to you. His grip on your throat tightens slightly, and you feel his large palm roaming over the curves of your body, with only the thin silken fabric of your nightdress as a barrier to his touch.

But his touch is having an effect on you, despite your wish to remain unmoved by him.

Your head instinctively turns toward Aemond’s face, and he seizes the opportunity to kiss your lips. His kiss is not soft; it is hungry and demanding, with his tongue pushing past your teeth and exploring your mouth. You do not resist, letting him have his way as your hand moves to grip his leather-sleeved arm to steady yourself.

Barely pausing for breath, he maneuvers you so that you are now facing him, wrapping his sinewy arms around you, holding you tightly as he grinds himself against you, while his lips never cease kissing you, only pausing to quickly murmur, “My cock aches for you.”

You can only manage a whispered "Your grace..." before he smothers your words with his lips against yours, then softly growls, "No, use my name."

Your arms have wrapped around his shoulders, your fingers tangling in his long silken hair. Shock that he is stirring feelings inside you that you have never felt before pierces through the haze of your mind. A flash of shame that your body is coming alive with pleasure that you have never felt from your husband’s touch is quickly brushed aside. When you utter his name and begin to return his kisses with equal fervor, he takes it as your accedence to his desires.

Part of your loose gown slips down your arm, exposing more skin for his lips to taste as he trails hot, wet kisses along the contours of your shoulder while allowing him to slip his hand inside, marveling at how your breast fills his large hand.

A soft moan escapes your mouth as he rubs his thumb over your nipple, causing it to stiffen into a firm peak. Your small hand grasps the back of his neck, squeezing the way his hand held your throat. You barely notice when he pushes your gown further down until it slides off your body to join your discarded cloak because he has lowered his lips to your bosom, sucking and teasing your nipple with his mouth while his hand kneads your other breast, rolling your hard, sensitive peak between his long fingers.

"Perfect tits, so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin before flicking his tongue over your nipple. Wonderful sensations spread throughout your body, and warmth pools between your legs as you watch him toy with your breasts.

As thin fingers prod your folds and uncover the moisture that seeps from your cunt, you softly whimper. Your head leans against his chest when he slides two long fingers knuckle deep inside you and teases little circles around your pearl with the calloused pad of his thumb.

"Gods, you're fucking soaked," he grunts in your ear, over the sloppy wet sounds coming from between your legs. “Tell me you want my cock. Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

You bite your lip to keep yourself from answering, not willing to shame yourself by uttering the words he wants to hear, but you cannot bring yourself to tell him to stop either. Only your arm around his shoulders and your weight against him hold you up.

With a curse, he abruptly stops, withdraws his hand, and scoops you up in his arms, carrying you over to his bed and dropping you down on top of the covers.

The realization that you are completely naked to his gaze pushes through the fog of your mind, but the sight of him ripping the buckles of his doublet open and tossing it to the floor before he continues to strip himself as naked as you, save his eye patch, keeps you in place. You can’t help but stare at his lithe, muscled body, decorated with patches of fine, pale hair in the center of his chest and between his lean legs, where his hard cock juts out.

"I want to taste your cunt," he said, his voice sounding like a low, strained growl as strong hands yank you closer to him.

Your eyes go wide when he pushes your legs wide apart so he can kneel between them. When you feel his tongue start licking your most private parts, you can’t hold back the soft shriek you make. You're not sure whether it's the sensation or the shock of what he is doing.

Aemond looks up at your face curiously for a second before asking, “Your husband has never done this to you, has he?”

The slight shake of your head with your lips parted in surprise puts a smirk on his face, knowing that he will be the first to taste your dripping cunt. He keeps his eye on you as he places a kiss on your sensitive bud before he starts swirling his tongue around your cunt, loving the expressions on your face.

You try to maintain eye contact, but soon the intensifying sensations have you throwing your head back and biting your lip to keep from moaning out loud. Before long, his alternating licking and sucking have your thighs quivering as a winding tightness deep inside you threatens to snap.

Just as your body is about to experience your release, he takes his mouth from your folds, resting his chin on your thigh. He watches you whimper as tears of frustration threaten to spill from your eyes.

“My dear Lady Stokeworth,” he purrs against your skin. “I wonder, how does your husband fuck you? "Does he just have you lie there with your nightdress pulled up while he ruts into you?"

You feel the burn of his words' accuracy on your skin, but you will not acknowledge them. Forcing yourself up to rest on your elbows to look at him as tears roll from your eyes, you know he sees the truth all over your face.

Between wet kisses on the flesh of your thigh, he murmurs, “Tell me you want me, and I will give you your release and so much more.”

Choking back a sob and looking away from him, you barely whisper a yes, accepting that you want to feel more of the pleasure he can give you—pleasure that your husband does not.

“Look at me,” he demands. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you."

As you struggle with yourself, you feel a long finger slide inside you as a teasing reminder of the pleasure you seek, your need compelling you to give in to his wishes. “Don’t stop…please.”

He inflames your arousal further by flicking your stimulated pearl with his tongue. “You will have to do better than that, my lady. You know what I want to hear; now say it." His voice was a low growl.

As you moan your capitulation, the last shreds of your resistance shatters, leaving you with one last spark of rebellion. "Yes, Aemond. I will be your whore. Please don’t torment me any longer, just fuck me,” your voice trailing into a needy whine as tears flow freely now.

Knowing that he finally has your complete submission, Aemond can't resist one last dig: "Tonight, you finally learn how a real man fucks."

With an arm wrapped around your hip to hold you in place, his mouth descends upon your cunt while pumping two long fingers in and out of your tight walls. Fastening his lips to your bud, he relentlessly licks and sucks like a starving man finally allowed to feast.

Your back arches from the bolts of pleasure taking over your body as you fist the blanket you lay on. It does not take long for him to bring you back to the edge of delirium, and this time you do not resist, allowing yourself to be swept away when the warm tightness deep inside you snaps. Your peak leaves you whimpering and shuddering, moreso because he does not cease swirling his tongue through your folds, lapping up the sweet juices that flow from you throughout your release.

Panting, you begin to beg, ”Please, too much.” Your hand goes to the top of his silvery head, weakly trying to push him back.

Surprisingly, he does pull back and rise to his feet before joining you on the bed. “I could spend hours tasting you, but I have waited long enough. My cock aches to be inside you.”

When he moves your body as if you were a doll, you compliantly let him. When you manage to open your eyes, he is kneeling between your legs, stroking his long, hard cock as he takes in the vision of you sprawled wantonly on his bed.

Your breath catches at the sight of him now that your tears have stopped. His sharp features, sculpted limbs, and pale skin capture your attention before he presses the reddish weeping tip of his length against your soaking cunt, coating himself in your wetness.

He does not hesitate when he lines his cock with your entrance, thrusting deeply and sheathing himself fully within you with a soft grunt. Pausing for a few seconds to revel in the warm tightness surrounding his cock, his eye stares down, enjoying the sight of your now joined bodies. He slowly withdraws before plunging back in to the hilt, just to savor the image his eye sees.

His size makes you gasp—not from pain, but from a wondrous, stretching fullness that you've never felt before. Instinctively, you spread your legs wider, bend your knees for his slim hips, and arch up to fully receive him.

“Gods, woman, you’re so fucking tight,” he murmurs as he gazes at your body, now completely open to him. With a muffled growl, he takes hold of your arms, allowing one of his strong hands to pin your slender wrists above your head.

As his hard thrusts find a steady rhythm, you feel the palm of his hand moving down your body, pausing to fondle a breast as they bounce from the force of his hips rocking into yours, his heavy stones slapping against your flesh every time he buries himself in you. His cock moves over the bundle of nerves in your walls, pulling soft whimpers from your lips.

He is not fucking you gently; he has waited too long to be gentle. The bed creaks from his forceful thrusts, which fill you again and again. You can see him looming over you, with long strands of hair flowing over his shoulders and sweat glistening on his skin. As he relentlessly fucks you, his curved lips pull back, baring his teeth as his eye roams over your face and body as if trying to commit the sight to memory.

"Ahh, you're taking my cock so well," he murmurs, breathing hard with his own exertion and building pleasure. ‘Fuck, you feel too good.”

You find his praise strangely thrilling, and you strain against his hand gripping your wrists, wanting to cling to him as the nerves inside your walls blaze with each powerful stroke of his cock, but you are only able to writhe helplessly, pinned as you are beneath him as your body rocks with each hard thrust.

The tightening coil of pressure is building deep within you, and when you bite your lip to keep from moaning loudly, he admonishes gruffly, “No, I want to hear you. I want everyone to know that you are mine.”

Finally letting go of your wrists so he can move his hand between your bodies, he finds your swollen bud and starts rubbing with the roughened pads of his fingers, making it impossible to stay quiet.

A strangled cry escapes you as a burst of euphoria races through your body, every nerve coming alive at once, causing you to dig your nails into his fair skin as you cling to him as waves of bliss carry you.

As your own peak washes over you, your walls clench around his cock. His thrusts become more erratic as his own release follows quickly. Giving one final deep stroke, his body shudders as his cock twitches and spurts his seed deep inside you.

Both of you lay together, with more of his weight pressing down on you, hearts pounding and bodies trembling and entwined. His breath is hot against your skin as he nuzzles his nose along your neck while your bodies try to calm.

After a few moments, he rolls to lay beside you, his arm bringing you with him to almost reverse positions, with you now resting on his chest as he holds you tightly. Being so close to him, you begin to notice little details. There is something exotic about the way he smells: masculine scents of smoke and leather, faint hints of sweat mixed with sandalwood and musk. You think it strange that your mind chooses to mull over what he smells like at a time like this, after what you have just done.

“You are not leaving; you will stay with me tonight,” he tells you, his voice soft but making it clear that he will have no argument from you.

He gets his way after both of you rise briefly to clean yourselves. You return to find him standing by his bed, the blankets now turned down, waiting to ensure your return. You discover that he has no qualms about walking about his chambers naked, and he discourages you from retrieving your nightdress from the floor.

Neither of you speak much; both of you seem lost in your thoughts. You have no idea what to say; your mind is filled with conflicting feelings. Your night is spent in his large bed with his warm body stretched out behind you, his arm over your waist, holding you close. Soon, the room is silent, with only the sounds of Aemond’s steady breathing coming from behind you. Because your mind cannot rest, sleep does not come as quickly for you.

You are not upset with the prospect of spending the night in the prince’s bed, for you have no wish to be with your husband right now. Your anger and disappointment are too fresh, but you realize you should not be surprised. You’ve experienced more in a few short hours than in the past months of your marriage. Aemond made you feel wanted and gave you pleasure that you did not know existed—his ardor and prowess are something you do not think your husband is even capable of.

Even this, simply laying together and being held, is new to you. Normally, once your marital relations are finished, you return to your separate beds. Here you feel a warm body against yours, the hairs on his legs against your smooth skin as your limbs entwine.

As his warmth lulls you to sleep, you think that though you may be called the Prince Regent’s whore by the court, you could grow to like being in these chambers.

“Are you ready? We should not keep your husband waiting.” Aemond comes to stand next to you, taking your hand in his. The conqueror’s crown already sits atop his head, and his kingsguard stands by the door.

Returning his smile with one of your own as he places your hand on his arm, you begin your walk to see the men off to battle, including your husband, Lord Stokeworth, leading his compliment of men. You have not seen your husband since you were escorted to the prince’s chambers. The next morning, Aemond ordered your belongings moved to his royal chambers and asked you to remain there.

Since then, the two of you have spent every possible moment together. Aemond has not neglected his duties, but he has returned to you as quickly as he can. You’ve had supper together in his chambers every evening and spent the nights exploring each other’s bodies in his bed and a few other places as well. Since Aemond insisted on showering you with gifts, you've spent your days with dressmakers and jewelers.

You can see the stares and hear the gasps as people part to make way for the Prince Regent, as he escorts you on his arm through the Keep as if you were his queen. No longer will you try to ignore the stares by keeping your eyes downcast, for the man who wears the conqueror’s crown and rides the largest dragon has promised you will be treated with the utmost respect as his lady. Along the way, Lady Rosby catches your eye with a sly smile and nods her head.

This is the first time you have been seen publicly with Aemond since being sent to his bed by your own dear husband. For months, the prince’s attention filled you with shame, and you thought submitting to his desires would devastate you; instead, the opposite happened. Your night with Aemond showed you how a man could make you feel, as well as how cold and empty your marriage was.

Your husband may have sent you to Aemond's bed, but you will gladly stay there by choice and enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

Stepping out of the Keep and into the hazy sunlight, you see a small crowd has gathered, not to wish farewell to men possibly heading off to their deaths in battle but to see the Prince Regent send the husband of his long-sought-after bedmate off to his possible death.

After a short speech from the Hand of the King with words of duty, honor, and glory in battle, the men begin to ride past to start their journey. To your Lord Stokeworth’s credit, he does not even glance at you as he rides past.

You know he believed that by sending you to Aemond, the order sending him to battle would be rescinded, allowing him to continue to serve here in the safety of the Red Keep. He trusted that you would beg Aemond to spare him; you could have, but you didn't.

#aemond smut #aemond targaryen #aemond #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond hotd #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond the kinslayer #house of the dragon aemond #aemond x female

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aemondbarbiegirl · 7 hours

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╶╶╶╶╶ ICON EWAN MITCHELL

#ewan mitchell #aemond kinslayer #aemond one eye #house of the dragon aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond #hotd aemond #aemond icon #ewan mitchell icon

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theboleyngirlx · 17 hours

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EWANNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!! HE’S SO RADIANT!!!😭❤️

#house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond one eye #prince aemond #hotd aemond #osferth #the last kingdom #michael gavey #saltburn #tom bennett #world on fire

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kckt88 · 17 hours

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Oh my darling!!

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #ewan mitchell

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dreamfyre-beautiful · 9 hours

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Problems I have with HOTD so far:

• not letting Alicent be actually evil. Y’all already hate her for being a GOOD person, I can’t imagine how y’all would handle an actually evil queen. I wish she killed Viserys and made Aegon heir Herself!

• no perspective of small folk, closest we have is Criston who is still more well off then 90% of king’s landing. In GOT we got small folks perspectives on their rulers a lot and I hope we get that soon.

• taking away Helaena’s autonomy. Making her the cute autistic girl who does no wrong is such a bastardization of her that it’s laughable.

• casting with specifically Laena. Do not get me wrong, the actresses are gorgeous and Amazingly talented, but because they aged her up during Rhae’s wedding it makes her look even older than Rhae even tho they have at least a 3 year age gap.

• “and now they see you as you are” WHAT? They see a woman drop all decorum for her child? She their queen willing to personally handle situations? Like I genuinely do not know what this is suppose to mean.

• bulldozing the Velaryon family. Rhaenys does nothing when both her children die to the hands of the targs, no one does anything when Vaemon dies, even when Rhae tries to make Luke the lord of the tides no one brings up that his fiancee should be the true lord not him.

• the new promo saying “[team black] acts more like a family” maybe my family is weird but we don’t fuck each other or marry each other at all

• only truely giving team black’s dragon’s personality. We know Vhagar’s SLIGHTLY but Dreamfyre and Sunfyre are nothing right now

• no Alicent birth scene. We get multiple traumatizing birth scenes but the woman who was a mother of 3 before 20 doesn’t get one? Ok

Will add more as I think of them

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isntitdelicatevivi · 2 days

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⠀⠀⠀﹙𝓙 ﹚𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 ! 𝐀emond × 𝐕elaryon reader.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀───────── 🥀

♡ ◟𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 : 18+, oral sex (m receiving), sex, sexual themes, incest (cousins), mention of violence.

♡ ◟𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 : After a dinner at the Red Keep, Aemond sees something he dislikes and goes to confront the woman he is mildly obsessed with.

English is not my first language, sorry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀───────────────── 🥀

Aemond entered the room that night, huffing, as Daenys had expected. The lady was sprawled on the bed, her dress folded up to her knees, revealing her smooth, shiny black skin legs. Daenys had never been afraid to show herself off; she knew that the boys in King's Landing said terrible things about her divine appearance, and although she was disgusted by those who looked at her with perversion and desire, Daenys knew herself well enough to understand that deep down, she liked the power she had over people, how powerful it was to get everything she wanted because of her appearance. Aemond threw a dagger onto the bed; it fell at Daenys's feet who didn’t move a single finger, but the cynical smile was still stamped on her face, the expression that Aemond liked so much.

─ Do you need something, my prince? ─ She said, her words flying like feathers in the wind straight to Aemond's heart. He was reserved, but when he spoke, it cut like a sword, and that's why everyone feared his speeches, but not Daenys, she loved to hear him speak.

─ You know why I am here, my lady. Don’t play dumb, we both know how smart you are. ─ He didn’t sound rude to her, on the contrary, he dared to let a small smile appear at the corner of his thin lips, placed his hands behind his back, and waited alertly for Daenys's reaction, never focusing on anything but her eyes. Daenys stood up patiently, playing with her sensuality as she swayed on the column that held the mosquito net to the bed, pulled the dagger from the mattress before approaching the prince.

─ I know... But I want you to tell me. ─ Her voice came out softly, melodious, Daenys looked up to compensate for their height difference, gently pulled one of Aemond’s hands, placing the dagger there, but never took her eyes off him.

─ You gave the dagger to Jacaerys. ─ His tone of voice was not the friendliest, though he was not shouting, or even speaking loudly, the firm timbre of Aemond's voice, and the way it seemed raspier and thicker, made Daenys's knees tremble, and in between her legs, a slight tingling arose.

─ You gave the dagger to me. ─ She responded, the reply seemed sharp, Aemond's lips twisted, and his violet eye shifted away for a second from Daenys's face before returning to glare at her, furious.

─ I gave it to you! And you gave it to him, that unworthy bastard. ─ His voice rose, but Daenys was not irritated by it, in reality, it excited her. The wetness in her pussy became more apparent to her. She clicked her tongue, a bold smile appearing on her full lips.

─ Once it was mine, I was free to give it to whoever I wanted. And watch your tongue, prince, or the eye won't be the only thing you lose. ─ Daenys was about to turn away, the mockery in her speech would have lingered had she seen the expression on Aemond's face when he heard her say that. However, quicker than she expected, he grabbed her arm tightly, bringing her back to her place.

─ Don’t provoke me. ─ Aemond’s long fingers tightened firmly on Daenys’s left arm, almost unaware of the force he was using to keep her in place, which seemed extremely suggestive to her. Daenys felt her clit pulse at the thought of Aemond squeezing her neck with the same force he was squeezing her arm.

─ Are you jealous? ─ A forced yet sincere laugh escaped from Daenys’s lips, she averted her gaze for a moment, and Aemond was silent, the weight of Daenys’s words invaded the prince's heart as if he were losing a battle to a commoner, barely able to look Daenys in the eyes after what he heard, perhaps because he couldn’t admit to himself that she was right.

─ It’s none of your business. ─ He finally answered, after a whole minute of silence, where a slight blush emerged on his pale cheeks. Daenys was the only one who could leave him disconcerted like this.

─ So you are jealous. ─ She concluded. She gently pulled her own arm from the prince’s firm hands and positioned herself in front of him, looking at him sincerely. ─ There’s no need, you know very well that my body is yours, my prince, as am I.

She dared to raise her soft hands towards Aemond’s face, who caught the lady’s wrists before they could get close, she expected such a reaction, therefore, the calm smile on her lips did not fade, and the look that said, “allow yourself,” remained the same. Until Aemond, without even realizing it, yielded. The lady touched the prince’s cheeks, cold as himself, caressed them with her fingers while he contemplated his own shyness. It was different, appearing before an entire kingdom, being a Targaryen and taming a dragon, all that seemed too easy for him, but when with Daenys, the real challenge was not to lose his posture in front of her. Finally, Daenys’s lips touched his, it seemed a simple gesture of kindness, as quick as a flame extinguishes, but enough to awaken in Aemond a desire dormant since the moment he saw her. When Daenys looked at him, Aemond did not give her time to admire his desire, he pulled her by the waist as if holding the reins of Vhagar, and before their bodies could crash into each other with a certain provocative brutality, their lips were joined again. Like in the dance of dragons, their connection was so strong that every touch was a blaze in a fire.

Aemond held her so tightly, as if under threat and unable to let her escape, while Daenys reveled in her moment of victory, with her fingers entangled in the prince's white locks, between fierce caresses and delicate kisses, they had never been so close. The prince would never admit to Daenys, his newly discovered muse, to whom he would devote himself in moments, but she was his faithful first time. Aemond remembered the promiscuities of the brothels, due to the only time he allowed himself to visit a pleasure house with Aegon to lose his virginity, yet the memory only brought him disgust for himself, and touching a woman that way again was still frightening to him.

Amid the affectionate touches and the thirsty bites of Daenys on the corner of Aemond's lips, the prince pulled away in a single abrupt movement, walking towards the door, looking the other way, too embarrassed to admit it. The prince’s breath was still heavy, his lips still felt the texture of Daenys’s lips, and his tongue still tasted the wine and honey that came from her, his chest was taken by an unavoidable heat, his fingers tingled, trembled in anticipation of having touched her, the curves of her, covered by a thin dress, still seemed alive in his hands. Aemond felt his stomach tingle, his cock throbbed inside his pants, it was hard now, and how much he desired Daenys, made his erection painful.

The confusion rested upon Daenys's mind, although she would never confess to herself, but she had longed for this, and the idea of it being so quick, annoyed her who, despite everything, loved challenges. The critical silence squeezed the hearts of both, Aemond's was beating fast, it was like being in a battle, blind and unsure of the next move of his enemy, Daenys's, beat in excitement, the desire for more, to discover more. She walked slowly towards him, took her own hands to the thin lace that held her dress to her body, and untying it let it fall to the ground, now wearing only a single piece of clothing covering from her hips down, her ample breasts and marked waist screamed for care, for the touches of Aemond.

─ Look at me. ─ She said, waiting for the prince's reaction, which was slow to come. Daenys found herself compelled to circle around Aemond's body, positioning herself in front of him, watching with pride the prince's reaction to seeing her in that way. Daenys placed her hand on his chin, her expression unchanging; for Aemond, it was the look of a beast trying to snag its prey, his cock twisted in its fabric prison, begging to be freed, begging to enter Daenys, and feel her warm walls squeeze against it. Her nipples were hard, her breasts so round, Aemond thought they barely fit in the palm of his hand, and he wanted to test that.

─ You know this is what you want, Aemond... You can’t lie to me, your body tells me everything. ─ She let her fingers slip down the prince's chest, landing on the fastenings of his clothes, hastening to open them before the other could respond. She counted in her head, "one, two, three..." wondering how far she would have to go to make him kiss her again with all the desire she knew he had. On the fifth, Aemond pulled her by the arm, pressing their lips together again, more fiercely this time, feeling his own body grow warm, and unable to say no, despite not being able to deny he was apprehensive.

He removed the sheath from his body, throwing it on the floor along with his boots, their bodies danced as they kissed, walking unconsciously to the bed, where Daenys sat in front of the still-dressed prince. Her bold hands traveled to the fly of Aemond’s pants, sliding them inside the thin fabric shirt he wore. When her warm fingers touched Aemond's cold skin, his eyes closed and an excited sigh wandered through the room. She unbuttoned until she could see the prince's white skin beneath the clothes, then fingered downward to touch Aemond's cock beneath his pants. The prince sighed, closing his eyes, his entire body was covered in goosebumps, and the only thing on his mind was the desire to have her, all to himself, as Daenys fumbled with herself, pulling his pants down and massaging his hard cock, Aemond’s mind became increasingly blurred, and the only thing he saw was the intoxicating image of Daenys completely aroused.

With just two minutes of masturbation, the lady fit her lips onto the head of the prince's cock, letting saliva accumulate in the area before eagerly sucking. One of the prince's hands squeezed the bedpost because the shiver that ran through his body was enough to knock him down; he had never felt anything like it, it was the first time his body reacted pleasurably to sexual stimuli. Aemond had not yet known this form of pleasure, but he already adored it. The other free hand, moved instinctively to Daenys's platinum strands, running his fingers through her nape until he had a large amount of the voluminous hair in his hands, then he held it tightly, pushing Daenys's head, making her swallow his entire erection. A loud moan, camouflaged in his hoarse voice took over the lady's ears, she could feel herself getting increasingly wet, making her clit pulse with excitement, as she endeavored to suck the prince. Her tongue wandered over the substantial length of Aemond’s cock, sucking everything her mouth touched, even daring to take it all in just to hear the prince moaning when her throat touched his swollen glans. Her eyes watered, but all she felt was pleasure. Aemond couldn’t react, fight against his own body, while he found himself in a vulnerable position in the room, part of him was savoring every second, wanting more of Daenys, his body spasmed, making him squeeze the bedpost and the lady's hair tightly, thrusting his hips forward and back, enjoying the unparalleled sensation of being sucked, nor was he afraid to moan, because the sound he made increased her performance and he felt in himself that she liked it, liked to hear him say without words that it was one of the best sensations he had ever enjoyed.

When Daenys brought her own fingers to her clit, Aemond pushed her onto the bed, putting her on all fours on the mattress, her ass raised for him, while her breasts were pressed against the mattress. He did not delay, did not wait, could not say he was acting on his own, he wanted her, to fill her until she overflowed, to feel what it was like to leave her weak and thirsty for more, he wanted to understand the pleasure his brother talked so much about, and he knew she was the right woman for this. He positioned himself behind Daenys, his cock sliding over her smooth skin, until fully entering her pussy, Daenys' slender fingers clutched the sheets as she felt Aemond penetrating her, she bit her lips to avoid the loud moan she would have let out, although she knew it was useless, because the prince, mercilessly, began to thrust into her.

His firm hands gripped Daenys' hips, pulling her forcefully to fuck her, the flesh of Daenys' butt collided against the prince's body, stealing the silence of the room, along with the screams of pleasure from Daenys. Aemond's hoarse moans mingled with hers, with the screams that begged for more, for brutality, and the words in High Valyrian asking for Aemond to go deeper, harder. The prince tore the thin skirt, the only piece remaining on Daenys' body, and turned her over on the bed, facing him. He fitted the lady's legs around his waist before penetrating her again, this time, with their bodies glued face to face, his arms circled the shoulders of Daenys, tightening the sheet, while moving his hips in back-and-forth movements, Daenys wandered her hands over the prince's back, under the warm fabric, scratching his pale skin. Aemond passed his lips over the neck of Daenys, leaving light bites and marks of hickeys, the same on the lady's breasts, sucking her nipples forcefully as if dependent on it, Daenys screamed loud, moaning, with each thrust, Aemond was strong, he knew what he was doing despite everything, he was not playing, he was serious, and Daenys' reactions motivated Aemond to continue, the magnetism of their bodies made him act alone, he did not need commands, he did everything willingly. To the point of feeling the bed beneath him tremble, and the wood bang against the wall as hard as he did with Daenys, the lady's eyes rolled back in pleasure and her back arched making her dig her nails into the prince's skin, he had no limits, once he had entered Daenys, he did not want to leave.

The screams, moans, and sighs invaded the corridors of the Red Keep for some time, before a joint orgasm forced them to pause their activity to lay their bodies next to each other on the bed responsible for their actions, both still had their lips suspended on each other when they let escape the last sigh of pleasure, enjoying the waves of adrenaline that still caused them deep chills and delicious spasms. Daenys turned her face to the right side, where Aemond sighed with closed eyes, the smile that took over his lips was different from any other that Daenys had ever seen, Aemond never smiled that way. Daenys kept silent, unlike commenting on the prince's posture or on how good and fierce he was in bed, like a dragon. She knew that if she commented on anything, she would lose the chance to have him again, but Daenys knew, as any wise woman did, Aemond was in love with her, as much as she was with him.

#aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #house of the dragon #hot as fuck #fanfic

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zeciex · 22 hours

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A Vow of Blood - 77

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 77: Haunted by the Daylight

AO3 - Masterlist

Aemond quietly made his way into the council chambers, his footsteps barely echoing in the vast, solemn room. There, he found his grandfather, the Hand of the King, situated in his usual seat at the King’s right hand. His posture conveyed deep thought, his elbow resting on the armrest, fingers tapping a rhythmic beat against his temple as he seemed to be contemplating weighty matters.

The King’s chair, along with the others, stood vacant, save for the wine cups scattered about–an indication of an adjourned session. Only Aegon’s cup showed signs of use, its contents gone save for a few drops at the bottom.

Near one of the stone columns, his mother stood noticeably isolated from the center of the room. Her posture rigid, the tension in her frame palpable. She fidgeted with the ring on her finger, her actions betraying her inner turmoil. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pressed tightly together in a clear sign of discontent. As her eyes lifted to meet Aemond’s, they revealed a mixture of dejection and concern, reflecting the gravity of the situation that weighed heavily upon them both.

Aemond positioned himself in front of the council table, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture radiating a sense of annoyance. He felt sidelined, his exclusion from the council meeting stinging particularly after he had spent hours patrolling the skies on Vhagar. The scent of smoke and dragonfire lingered on his clothing, and his hair bore the wild, windswept look of a dragonrider freshly descended from flight.

Otto Hightower looked up from the letter he had been scrutinizing, his expression marked by discontent. “Your mother’s attempts at diplomacy appear to have yielded no results.”

At these words, Alicent’s expression tightened further, her jaw shifting as if she were biting the inside of her cheek in frustration. Her fingers, previously twirling her ring anxiously, now shifted to absentmindedly pick at her cuticle.

The sight of his mother’s distress stirred a protective urge in Aemond; he wanted to reach out, to take her hand and gently stop her from picking at her skin. However, he remained motionless, his single eye fixed intently on his grandfather, maintaining his composed demeanor despite the turmoil swirling within him. His jaw clenched tightly, his frustration mounting.

Otto delved deeper into the troubling news, his voice steady but grave. “We’ve received a report from Gwayne that Rhaenyra has been crowned and has gathered her nearest allies at Dragonstone. We presented our terms to her…”

Otto held up a small, rolled piece of parchment, flicking it onto the table, letting it roll over its surface. “She has refused our offer of peace, and instead presented her own terms for our surrender.”

Otto's demeanor grew more serious as he reached for a small, rolled piece of parchment. With deliberate motion, he flicked it onto the table, letting it roll across the smooth surface as it slid towards Aemond. He reached for it.

“She has rejected our offer of peace,” Otto announced, his voice resonant with a note of expectancy. “Instead, she has had the audacity to present her own terms, dictating the conditions of our surrender.”

Aemond unrolled the parchment, his eye scanning its contents carefully. The implications of this defiance were clear, setting the stage for a conflict that seemed increasingly inevitable. With a flick of his wrist, he let the parchment fall back onto the table, its message clear and its consequences unavoidable. He then folded his hands behind his back, adopting a posture of readiness and contemplation.

“And what are we do do about it?” Aemond questioned, taking a deep, steadying breath, his jaw setting in a firm line–a telltale sign of his mounting resolve. His shoulders squared, reflecting a sense of determination and readiness to confront the looming challenges.

He was keenly aware that each passing moment brought them closer to the brink of war–a prospect he not only welcomed but felt thoroughly prepared for. This was a battle he saw not just as a duty but as an opportunity to demonstrate his valor and leadership. The weight of this realization settled on his shoulders, yet he carried it as a warrior would his armor, with a resolve as firm as the iron gates of a fortress.

Prepared for war, Aemond embraced the prospect of battle and the pursuit of glory that accompanied it. Like numerous men and second sons before him, he would carve his name into history through the crucible of war. He saw the impending conflict not merely as a challenge, but as an opportunity. It was his chance to prove his mettle, to earn honor and respect, and secure himself a place in the annals of history–to be remembered. He was ready to make his own indelible mark and ensure that his name, too, would be remembered alongside great king’s and warriors.

Otto sat up straighter in his chair, his posture aligning with the gravity of his next words, eyes as hard as the stone that made the foundation of the Red Keep.

“As Rhaenyra consolidates her power and allies, we must do the same,” he stated with a clear decisiveness. “Hence, I am sending you to Storm’s End.” Otto’s directive was sharp and unyielding, outlining a strategic move designed to strengthen their position and extend their influence. “There, you will secure a marriage alliance for Daeron with one of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters.”

Alicent’s response was a quiet murmur of disapproval, her head shaking subtly as she glanced down at her hands, visibly troubled by her father’s directives yet restrained in her dissent.

Despite this silent protest, Otto remained resolute. “It’s imperative that the Baratheons do not align themselves with Rhaenyra and her cause. We cannot afford to lose the Stormlands, do you understand?”

“I do,” Aemond responded, his nod firm and his expression serious, fully aware of the critical nature of his mission.

“There can be no mistakes in this,” Otto emphasized, standing up with an air that suggested the discussion was concluded. “You leave at dawn.”

He began to collect the letters and various parchments, his movements quick and precise as he readied to leave the council chambers, no doubt heading to his office to continue his preparations.

As Aemond turned to follow suit, Alicent called out, “Aemond.”

Her voice echoed softly across the room, her gown whispering against the stone floor as she approached with a measured grace befitting her status. Her footsteps clicked in a steady rhythm, yet her shoulders bore a trace of weariness, tension evident in her frame–and more so on her face.

Otto, who had been halfway out of the room, paused at the sound of her voice. He turned to cast a narrow, penetrating glance back at them, his eyes sharp with a cold discernment–a silent warning. Lingering for a moment in the charged atmosphere, he finally exhaled and continued on his way, the door closing soundly behind him.

Alicent stood before Aemond with a dignified grace and authority expected of a queen, her hand poised gently on her bodice, signaling both composure and concern. He watched her carefully as subtle expressions played across his mother’s face–her eyebrows slightly furrowed and raised at the inner corners, her mouth downturned at the edges–each minute change painting a clear picture of her inner turmoil.

“As the Hand has emphasized, there’s no margin for error,” Alicent asserted, her voice conveying a calm yet urgent resolve. She reached out, her fingers delicately smoothing the fabric of Aemond’s doublet in a comforting, maternal gesture. “It would be naive to think Rhaenyra won’t also be sending her envoys. You must reach Storm’s End before they do.”

Her eyes, large and earnest, met his with an intensity that underscored the seriousness of her words. “She will surely try to persuade Borros Baratheon to honor his father’s old commitments, but remember, we have more substantial offers for him. Ensure you present our terms convincingly and secure his alliance.”

“You needn’t worry, Mother, I will secure a Baratheon alliance,” Aemond assured her firmly.

“Lord Borros might not be…” Alicent began, her voice wavering as the lines of worry deepened around her mouth. “He may not readily accept your betrothal and subsequent marriage to his brother’s widow. It is crucial that he remains unaware of any past… dalliance between the two of you, and he must never suspect your involvement in his brother’s death.”

Her hand came to rest gently over his heart, her touch laden with concern. In response, Aemond covered her hand with his own, his gesture offering reassurance and a silent promise to heed her caution. “I will be careful. I promise.”

“Despite Rhaenyra’s rejection of our terms, I am adamant that we should not be the aggressors in this conflict,” Alicent declared resolutely, her words imbued with a sense of urgency to make her son understand. “We should not be the ones to draw first blood, nor will we be the ones to start this war. Let them reveal their true nature to the realm.”

Aemond gave his mother a nod of acknowledgement.

Laying in her bed, Daenera shifted, her eyes drawn to the flickering flames in the hearth. The room was dimly lit, the fire casting dancing shadows across the walls, which were adorned with faded tapestries depicting dragon’s in flight. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint traces of yellow chrysanthemum-scented candles, creating a soothing ambiance to the night. Yet, despite the calm setting, a restlessness pulsed within her, her skin tingling with alertness as she exhaled a weary, frustrated sigh.

Nearby, Lady Mertha, her nominal lady-in-waiting, slept soundly in a chair. Her chestnut hair, streaked with silver, was neatly tied in a bun that served as a makeshift pillow against the wooden back of the chair. An unfinished embroidery project lay in her lap, the needle halted mid-stitch in the fabric of a delicate blue iris. The soft, rhythmic snores emanating from her seemed to chafe at Daenera’s frayed nerves.

As she lay there in bed, listening to the endless snoring, her thoughts drifted to a darker place. She imagined rising, seizing her pillow, and pressing it over the face of the old hag until she ceased to struggle, and then holding it just a moment longer to ensure the silence was permanent. Yet, she resisted, even as the thought tantalized at her fingertips, urging her to rid herself of the woman who veiled cruel remarks and poised insults under the pretense of servitude. Indeed, Mertha was a faithful servant–to the Queen Mother and the Faith, not to Daenera.

However, she knew that murdering her keeper would bring nothing but fleeting self-satisfaction. It would label her a murderer, likely leading to even stricter confinement, stripped of the few luxuries and freedoms she still enjoyed. Moreover, Mertha would surely be replaced by someone even more intolerable. With Mertha, at least, Daenera knew her adversary’s ways and how to navigate them.

Despite these rationalizations, the relentless itch of frustration remained, gnawing at her as she lay awake in the quiet of the night.

Restlessly, Daenera turned onto her other side, squeezing her eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the tumultuous thoughts swirling within her mind–thoughts that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface of her consciousness. Her jaw clenched as she willed herself towards the elusive relief of sleep, but it eluded her, slipping through her grasp like wisps of smoke. Instead, her mind was besieged by the relentless storm of memories and anxieties, holding her captive in her own turbulent thoughts.

Her thoughts spiraled in a tempest, replaying the recent calamitous events that continued to haunt her. Each replay brought fresh pangs of what might have been, had her plans not crumbled into despair. The bitter taste of betrayal lingered acutely on her tongue, a poignant reminder of her misplaced trust in Larys. She chastised herself for the naive assumption that their unacknowledged familial ties could serve as a dependable foundation for trust.

As the night stretched on, Daenera lay awake, tormented by her choices and their fallout, each scenario playing out in her head like an relentless echo of what could have been–a cacophony of could-haves and should-haves that offered no solace, only the sharp sting of regret.

The betrayal by Aemond cut the deepest, its sting harsh and relentless as he forced her into a corner–into a marriage she had no choice but to accept, effectively chaining her to the Greens, to him. While Daenera could understand the political motives behind his actions, understanding them did little to mitigate the sharp, persistent ache that throbbed within her heart every time she saw him.

And despite her best efforts to banish him from her thoughts, he weaved his way into her mind–how he had wrapped his arms around her to restrain her from running to Rhaenys, and, in some convoluted way, to protect her. She recalled the way he had positioned himself between his mother and herself. She remembered the tenderness with which he held her, the way his head tilted towards hers, resting against her, allowing his warmth to envelop her–his hand on her stomach, protecting and claiming.

Yet, amidst the turmoil, a distressing truth gnawed at her–a truth she hesitated to acknowledge even to herself. Under different stars, freed from the shackles of duty and deceit, Daenera knew she might have chosen Aemond willingly. This, perhaps, was the most excruciating betrayal of all–the betrayal of her own heart against her better judgment.

Yet, it was not just betrayal that haunted Daenera’s sleepless nights.

The shadows of the departed loomed large in her thoughts, each name a heavy echo in her heart. Viserys, Joyce, Darvin, Edam, Kevan, Sithric–each memory a sharp stab of grief.

The circumstances of their deaths haunted Daenera, each loss made a specter in the back of her mind. The image of Joyce’s lifeless body, harsh ropes suspending it in a cruel mockery of peace, was permanently etched into her memory, alongside the horrific scene of decay that had befallen the bodies suspended in the inner courtyard. It seemed as though the ghosts of the dead lingered in the shadows of her room, their cold, dead eyes watching her relentlessly.

The dim light from the dying hearth cast eerie shadows on the walls, enhancing the surreal and ghostly quality of her restless contemplations. Most haunting, however, were the ghosts of those not yet dead. Her thoughts strayed to her family, wondering if Rhaenys had managed to reach them with the news of the usurpation and whether they were not rallying their forces, preparing to retaliate against the injustice that threatened to engulf her.

Dread and longing intertwined within Daenera whenever she thought of her family. Her mind churned with questions about how they were handling the usurpation–whether they had received the coerced letter she had been forced to pen. Above all, she harbored a fervent hope, almost a prayer, that they would recognize the letter for what it truly was: a fabrication, filled with nothing more than hollow words dictated by her captors.

Her brothers would have undoubtedly been the first to rally for her rescue. She hoped that Daemon would temper their fiery spirits, preventing them from taking rash actions that might endanger their lives. She imagined her mother, consumed with worry, possibly even considering conceding to the usurpers’ demands just to ensure her safety. However, Daenera clung to the hope that Daemon, or Jace, or Baela, or Rhaena–someone, anyone–would persuade her mother against it.

She had to remind herself that her mother was strong. Despite the gnawing fear and the strategic considerations that might tempt a less resolute soul, her mother would not yield; she would not bend the knee to the usurpers. Daenera clung to this belief, drawing a measure of strength from the imagined resilience of her family, despite the distance that separated them.

The ache of missing them was a constant companion.

The horrifying thought that they might meet the same grim fate as Joyce and the others–that their lives might end at the end of a rope–stirred a deep well of fear within her.

Tears prickled behind her closed eyelids as she wrestled with these fears, her body lying motionless on the bed yet her mind trapped in a tortuous cycle of apprehension and despair. The night offered no reprieve, with each haunting thought acting like a specter at the periphery of her awareness, ensuring she continued to remain awake.

There was no solace to be found in sleep, it seemed.

Her eyes snapped open once more as an especially loud snore shattered the fragile silence that enveloped her. Frustrated, Daenera sat up abruptly, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders in disheveled waves as she scowled at her sleeping warden. With a huff, she pushed the covers away, resigning herself to the sleeplessness of the night, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cool touch of the stone floors greeted her bare feet as she stood, moving with a silent grace that conflicted with the clamor of her heart.

Daenera walked purposefully to where her slippers lay discarded, slipping her feet into them before wrapping herself in a yellow silk robe–one of the few pieces of her own clothing she had been allowed to keep. She then draped a blue shawl, adorned with intricate patterns, over her shoulders, the fabric providing a slight warmth against the chill of the night air.

Daenera approached the chamber doors, their imposing frames seeming to beckon her forward. With a delicate yet determined touch, she pushed them open, a faint creak escaping despite her efforts to be silent. As she peered into the corridor beyond, her gaze locked with that of the guard stationed outside her door–a man whose name she neither knew nor wished to learn. His face shifted from a look of wariness to one of surprise upon seeing her.

“I can’t sleep,” Daenera declared, her voice imbued with the weight of a demand rather than a mere request. Her eyes met his, asserting her intention. “I wish to take a walk.”

The guard hesitated, his lips parting as if he were about to refuse, but Daenera cut him off before he could formulate his objection.

“You’ll be with me the entire time,” she continued firmly, her voice dictating terms, not seeking permission. “I’m merely in my robe and nightgown; I’m not planning an escape. Besides, a walk has to be better than standing there all night, staring at the walls, wouldn’t you agree?”

His brows lifted slightly as he processed her words, and after a brief pause, he begrudgingly nodded in acceptance.

With a slight, mischievous smile, Daenera stepped through the threshold into the hallway, leaving her behind her slumbering warden, who would undoubtedly be in for a shock of surprise upon discovering her bed empty–if she woke at all. The smile on her lips grew at the thought.

The hallways of Maegor’s Holdfast were eerily quiet at night, deserted except for a lone servant who glided silently through the corridors, making scarcely more noise than a ghost. The shadows in the hallway seemed to challenge the flickering torches that staved off the darkness, creating a play of light and shadow that danced across the tapestries that littered the stone walls. Despite the deep shadows that clawed against the dim light, Daenera was not afraid; rather, she found a certain solace in the cloak of night and the solitude it offered–similar to the many nights she had spent with Aemond, seeking the solitude of a world of darkness to shield them from the days judgments. The night seemed to grant a type of freedom, a respite from the watchful eyes of the day, and she embraced this fleeting liberty with open arms, even as the guard’s footsteps echoed behind her, a constant reminder of her constraints.

They descended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast and made their way through the courtyard. Daenera paused in the middle of the open space, her gaze fixating on the banisters that were now clear of any ropes. The only remnants of their grime presence were the faint traces of rot that seemed to linger in the air.

Since Aegon’s crowning and the hanging of her men, Daenera had spent her days standing resolutely in the middle of the courtyard. This act of defiance–or perhaps self-punishment–served as a reminder of the injustice of the situation and a means to honor the lives that had been so brutally taken. She had stood vigil, watching their faces until they became indistinct, the flesh turning a disturbing, discolored hue. She watched as their bodies began to bloat, their features becoming near unrecognizable, their fingers turning an unnatural black as flies swarmed their orifices. The process of decay was relentless, and soon the stench permeated the entire courtyard.

The heat of recent days had only exacerbated the situation, intensifying the smell rather than diminishing it. The air, thick with the stench of death, made the courtyard almost unbearable as the process of rot quickened unnaturally under the oppressive heat. Flies had then taken to swarming the bodies, obscuring the men’s faces.

Mertha had tried to coax her away from the gruesome sight, but Daenera had refused to move. To endure the overwhelming odor, the old hag had resorted to carrying a small pouch of herbs to hold under her nose, trying to mask the scent.

Daenera couldn’t deny the impact the sight and smell of decay had on her. Even now, when she thought of their rotting corpses, the scent of putrid flesh seemed to haunt her nostrils.

In an effort to mitigate the grisly aftermath, the Hightowers had finally removed the bodies the day before. They had placed several braziers and bowls of incense throughout the courtyard, attempting to cleanse the air of the pervasive stench of death.

Drawing in a deep breath of the now fresher air that swept through the open courtyard, Daenera turned her face upward, gazing at the vast expanse of stars. It was a clear, beautiful night. With a momentary pause to appreciate the serene sky, she then made her way towards the doors of Maegor’s Holdfast, the night air providing a small reprieve from the heaviness that lingered around her.

They made their way to the Red Keep, their footsteps silent, ghost-light as they glided through the veil of night. They ascended the stairs and moved through the intricate, labyrinthine corridors of the Keep. The silence was punctuated occasionally by the servants, recently released from the dungeons following the coronation, who bustled about their duties. The soft echo of their hurried footsteps and their hushed exchanges briefly infused a sense of life into the otherwise sober environment.

Rather than returning to the relative comfort of her chambers, Daenera pushed open the towering doors to the throne room. She and her guard stepped into the vast expanse, enveloped immediately by the encompassing darkness. The room seemed to swallow them whole, its shadows stretching out like living entities, reveling in their dominion over the space. The throne room, usually a place of power and ceremony, now felt like an immense void that echoed with the quietude of the night.

As Daenera and her guard moved deeper into the throne room, a chilling sensation enveloped her. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. Moonlight seeped through the tall, narrow windows, casting weak rays of pale light through the overwhelming darkness.

The Formidable stone columns rose around them like silent sentinels, their towering forms casting judgment on all who tread within. If the Hightowers allowed it, Viserys might one day find his place among the kings of old, becoming another sentinel within this grand space. Tradition dictated that kings were etched in stone, immortalized in the heart of the Red Keep to serve as eternal reminders of the past. Yet, the Hightowers, seemingly intent on reshaping the legacy of House Targaryen, might allow this tradition to slip into the shadows, consigned to be a footnote in the forgotten annals of history, much like their attempts to obscure the rightful line of succession with their lies.

In the absence of any living presence, Daenera felt neither solitude nor solace. Instead, she felt profoundly lost–adrift in a vast ocean of emptiness, floating beneath a starless sky. She was surrounded by an endless expanse of darkness, while foreboding, unseen waves churned ominously below.

Pausing before the imposing Iron Throne, Daenera wrapped her arms tightly around herself, seeking warmth and some semblance of comfort as she faced the highest seat of power. The pervasive chill of the room seeped deep into her bones.

She sensed his approach not by sight but through the soft resonance of his footsteps echoing ominously in the vast space. She hard the subtle command he issued the guard, a quiet authority that prompted the guard to discreetly retreat to the entrance of the throne room.

Aemond’s footsteps echoed as he neared, each step resonating through the cold stone floor, sending shivers down Daenera’s spine and raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. As he reached her side, his presence seemed to envelop her, a tangible force prickled uncomfortably beneath her skin–prickled with a familiar, comforting sense that she forced out of her mind.

“Can’t sleep?” Aemond’s quiet inquiry sliced through the stillness of the night. Daenera felt the question encroach upon her, the words prickling against her skin like the cold that clawed at her bare legs.

Within the hushed, expansive confines of the throne room, Daenera’s response was a mere whisper, each syllable heavy with the burden of their fraught circumstances.

“How could I when I am being held hostage?” Her tone was sharp, yet the night’s quiet seemed to soften the edges of her anger, smoothing the usual bite of her words. “Rest doesn’t come easy when an injustice has been committed–less so when my warden snores.” A trace of cold humor laced her voice, a fleeting attempt to lighten the gravity of her situation. “I see them when I close my eyes…”

“Is it so strange that you see them, after you’ve spent days staring upon them?”

Daenera’s gaze snapped towards Aemond, her eyes narrowing sharply. “They were good men. Honorable, and they deserved someone to stand vigil for them.”

Aemond’s voice carried a challenging tone as he responded, “They were good men, perhaps, but your vigil wasn’t solely about honor. It was as much an act of defiance.”

She met his gaze with an icy stare. “It worked, didn’t it?”

There was a brief emergence of a cruel smirk on her lips–a fleeting expression that quickly faded as her ire fell to the wayside. Her vigil had been a calculated display of defiance as much as it was a way of honoring them. The spectacle she created by standing vigil was minimal enough to avoid direct punishment, yet potent enough to unsettle those in power. The bodies, which would likely have remained hanging in the courtyard for a day or two more, had been taken down sooner because of the discomfort her actions had caused. She had effectively forced the Hightowers’s hand.

In the stillness of the night, there was a peculiar vulnerability, as if the moon’s light allowed them to cast aside some of the hostility and animosity that cloaked them during the day. It was just her and Aemond, alone in the shadows of the night, which provided a strange sort of solace, a temporary escape from the day’s harsh realities.

Within this nocturnal reprieve, Daenera found herself easing into the moment, her demeanor softening into a semblance of playfulness.

“It brings me a strange sort of solace, imagining the discomfort that Aegon must endure while seated upon the throne,” Daenera mused, her gaze remaining upon the imposing seat. “I can’t fathom how anyone might find it comfortable, with the sharp edges of those blades and the sheer coldness of hard iron…”

Her words floated in the air like delicate wisps as her eyes traced the sharp points of the throne. The swords protruded from the high back of the imposing seat, resembling a deadly crown forged from steel and iron and blood, melded together through dragonfire and sheer will.

“It doesn’t need to be comfortable,” Aemond responded, his voice echoing a sentiment he had expressed what seemed like ages ago. “It’s a symbol of power–a testament to the might of House Targaryen and a stark reminder to any who would dare oppose us. It represents a promise, not a mere threat.”

Indeed, the menacing spectacle of swords, twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes, emerging from the base and ascending into the air, was undeniably imposing. It served both as a warning and a vow that the same fire which had warped the metal could inflict even greater devastation of flesh and bone. It was a grim, brutal thing.

“I suppose I can only hope for Aegon to miss his step and impale himself upon one of those blades,” she said lightly, allowing herself an amused smirk at the dark thought. “It’s rather surprising that it hasn’t occurred more often.”

Aemond’s reaction was close to a laugh, a rare, and she caught the slight upturn of his lips out of the corner of her eye. “As far as historical records go, only Maegor has met that fate.”

The faint smile on her lips remained. “Well, history isn’t beyond adding a few more names to that list, is it?”

Daenera couldn’t help but envision it–Aegon impaled upon the throne he had usurped and claimed. How profoundly symbolic. Alternatively, perhaps Otto Hightower should meet a similar fate, impaled by the very symbols of the power he coveted. The thought filled her with a grim satisfaction, yet the existence around her remained unaltered, with both men still very much alive and their steps sure and unfaltering.

“And yet, despite the inevitable discomfort that the Iron Throne may bring to one’s rear, it remains the most coveted seat of them all,” Daenera mused, ascending a step. She turned slightly and found their eyes nearly at level, though he still held a slight height advantage. “The seat on Dragonstone is carved from the very rock like the castle itself. You might think it’s a cold, unforgiving seat, but the stone retrains a subtle warmth. It’s not particularly comfortable, but a strategically placed pillow can alleviate that, and, most importantly, it doesn’t pose the risk of impalement due to pointy swords jutting up from the ground surrounding it.”

A sharp retort seemed to form on the tip of Aemond’s tongue, a wave of biting cruelty that Daenera could sense preparing to crash down upon her. But instead of unleashing the words and letting them rake against her skin, he swallowed them down.

She could still feel the lingering sting of his unspoken thoughts, resonating like an echo in her mind: That if that throne is indeed more bearable to sit, then maybe her mother should do well to embrace it and remain on Dragonstone, instead of seeking this seat. His words might have been sharper, more volatile, and destructive if he had allowed them to break free, but she felt the sting nonetheless.

Breaking the silence, Daenera spoke again, her voice carrying across the echoing expanse of the throne room. “And the Driftwood Throne is just made of that, driftwood.”

Aemond’s reply was slow and deliberate, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement as he engaged in the verbal dance. “I imagine driftwood offers a more forgiving seat than that of cold, hard stone.”

Under the pale moon’s glow, Daenera regarded him with a blend of caution and intrigue. The moonlight illuminated his features sharply, casting one side of his face in light while the other melded into the shadows of the night, giving him an almost dual nature–sharpness like the edge of a blade, yet possessing a certain softness that hinted at tenderness as much as danger. The moonlight draped over him, accentuating the severe lines of his face, each angle casting a shadow that seemed to hint at both promise and peril. His expression was impassive, resembling the hard lines of a statue, yet the slight twinkle in his eye suggested a depth that Daenera found both perplexing and compelling.

A trace of wry amusement lingered on his lips, and he tilted his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if inviting her to continue this dance of words, “And what of the seat of House Baratheon?”

After a brief, contemplative pause, Daenera turned to face him completely, her response imbued with a subtle curiosity. “It’s made of stone.”

She maintained her position on the stone step, her eyes locked on his as he approached–prowling towards her like a predator stalking its prey. Each step he took resonated more profoundly within her, stirring a blend of apprehension and anticipation in her stomach. As the distance between them lessened, she felt a palpable tension building. Instinctively, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, not just against the night’s chill but also as a shield against the way he looked at her.

“It’s cold, hard stone, with no comfort of a pillow,” Daenera answered, her mind drifting back to her time at Storm’s End. “It’s simple.”

Aemond halted his advance a few steps from her. His gaze seemed to cast a delicate web of sensations across her skin, as if he were trying to decipher her thoughts simply with his stare. “So, it’s plain.”

Daenera nodded, her eyes catching the interplay of shadows across his features, the darkness melding seamlessly with the eye patch that obscured part of his face–and in turn seemed to etch the scar even more into his skin. With a soft breath, she answered, “Yes.”

As he drew near, Daenera felt the rhythm of her heart quickening, and she silently cursed herself for it. Despite everything, he still had the power to stir such emotions within her, a fact she found both infuriating and unsettling. With a calculated move, she took a step back, ascending another step on the dias.

With that single step, Daenera rose slightly above him, gaining a modest height advantage. Yet, this small elevation appeared to change little in their dynamic. Aemond tilted his head slightly, his gaze intense and unwavering as he continued to watch her closely.

“Have you ever seen the seat of House Hightower?” Daenera found herself asking, her voice a soft murmur, as though fearing that speaking too loudly would draw him closer.

Aemond’s gaze briefly scanned her face, his eye sharp and discerning. Each glance seemed to dissect her expressions, parsing the subtle shifts for underlying messages or potential challenges–a mirror to the way she had scrutinized his words earlier. The intensity of his scrutiny was unnerving, as it always was, as if his gaze could penetrate beyond the facade and unearth her innermost thoughts.

“I have, once,” he responded, his voice low and contemplative, with a hint of something deeper lurking beneath the surface. “The seat is rather unpretentious, crafted from plain wood.”

“Perhaps the grandeur of the Tower negates the need for an ostentatious throne,” Daenera mused aloud, her tone thoughtful, tinged with a touch of irony. She held back a more pointed remark that hovered on the edge of her tongue–about his and his family's ambitions for a grander throne. Opting for a subtler jab, she continued, “Besides, with the Tyrells as their liege lords, I’d imagine wood is preferable to the bed of thorns and roses they must sit upon.”

A flicker of amusement briefly animated Aemond’s features, subtly lifting the corners of his lips further that the smirk he always wore. This small but perceptible change in his expression sent an unexpected flutter through Daenera’s chest, intertwining with the sensations of apprehension and intrigue that stirred deep within her.

Continuing her ascent, Daenera climbed another two steps, her movement embodying grace and poise. Each step she took was measured and deliberate, echoing softly in the vast, hollow expanse of the throne room. Aemond, perceptive of the distance she was creating, followed her, yet consciously remained two steps below her. Over her shoulder, Daenera cast a sly, inviting smile back at him.

“The realm’s second most pointy seat, I presume,” Aemond commented with a languid drawl. His words, light and teasing, floated through the cool air between them, sparking a bright, bell-like laugh from Daenera. The sound of her laughter filled the expanse around them, a rare echo of warmth that momentarily cut through the usual solemnity of the space.

Daenera turned to face Aemond fully, shifting the conversation towards another prominent noble house with a playful tilt of her head. “And the Lannisters?”

Their eyes locked, and a spark of shared amusement passed between them. Almost instinctively, they both said in unison, “Gold.”

Her laughter continued, richer now with an undercurrent of deeper amusement. “Indeed, crafted of gold, no doubt extravagantly adorned with their iconic lions and encrusted with jewels.”

Aemond’s response was smooth and tinged with humor, “Subtlety was never a trait the Lannisters embraced.”

With a hint of playful irony in her voice, Daenera responded to Aemond, “I remember Jason Lannister claiming that with wealth like theirs, subtlety is hardly a necessity.”

As she nonchalantly brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the motion seemed to catch Aemond’s attention. His gaze lingered on her, soft and all too gentle. His stance relaxed, the previous stiffness in his spine giving way to a more natural posture. His hands, previously clasped behind his back, now hung loosely by his sides, his fingers subtly twitching, betraying a hint of restlessness.

Aware of the dangers of Aemond’s restlessness, Daenera deftly steered the conversation towards another noble house, her pulse quickening as she felt his eye on her. She sought to maintain a veneer of casual interest as she said, “And what of the Tullys’ seat?”

Aemond’s eye twinkled with amusement, a hint of mischief playing at the edges of his demeanor, even as he spoke with an air of casual disinterest about the subject. His amusement appeared to be fueled internally by Daenera’s reaction to him, prompting a playful smirk to curl at the corners of his lips. He leaned slightly forward, his posture relaxed yet commanding, as he drawled, “It’s wood, replete with ornate carvings that resemble fish scales, similar to the Lannisters and their lions. Perhaps it even boasts a grand trout emblem overseeing it all.”

Daenera’s response came with a tone rich in appreciation, slightly correcting him, “I imagine the Tullys would prefer a more refined elegance–ancient wood, exquisitely carved, no gaudy fish scales involved.” She took another step up, and he followed that one step. “And the Arryns, with their thrones of venerable weirwood. What of House Greyjoy?”

Aemond matched her step, maintaining a distance that always left him two steps below her, subtly conceding the height to her. His voice rose with a clear note of certainty, echoing slightly in the grand space around them. “The Greyjoys preside over the Seastone Chair. According to Maester Theron, it is hewn from the same mysterious, black and oily stone found at the base of the Black Stone Fortress of the Hightower, artfully shaped into the form of a kraken.”

“And House Stark?” Daenera probed further, her curiosity undiminished, her words tinged with a genuine interest in his thoughts.

Aemond’s reply carried a hint of disdain, almost a scoff, as if the simplicity of the answer amused him. “Unremarkable wood, draped with furs.”

Daenera’s lips curled into a knowing smile, her eyes momentarily shifting away from Aemond as she stepped onto the final landing before the throne, her tone laced with both reverence and irony. “And yet, among them all, this throne remains the most sought after.”

Their interaction flowed with a natural ease, as if the cloak of night granted them a brief escape from the relentless scrutiny of daylight and its politics. In the realm of night, they could temporarily cast aside the heavy mantle of court intrigues and machinations. Despite the tranquility of the night, Daenera was keenly aware of the impending dawn, which would soon expose the harsh truths and intense demands of the day.

She sensed Aemond’s presence drawing nearer as he ascended the last of the steps behind her. Turning to face him, Daenera caught a fleeting expression in his gaze–something deep and enigmatic–before she deliberately shifted her attention away from his intense gaze.

Her eyes were then drawn to the menacing iron swords that jutted out from the stone floor around the throne. The blades, like savage fangs, seemed poised to tear into flesh at the slightest misstep. Moonlight casting its pale glow through the tall windows bathed the swords in a ghostly light, while casting deep shadows that stretched between the blades, giving them a sinister appearance akin to pools of blood.

Power had always been an ugly affair, Daenera mused, yet it seemed everyone desired it. The thought of ascending to the Iron Throne had once been a childhood fantasy of being queen–as all children had, oblivious to the consequences. It had been a daydream she entertained with the innocence of youth. However, she soon came to understand the grave implications: to claim the throne meant stepping over the bodies of her family–her mother, Daemon, Jace, Baela, and any of their descendants. Claiming power by force would brand her a kinslayer, a title she never wished to bear.

Her ambitions had thus been reshaped early on; she envisioned herself as a dutiful daughter in support of her family, perhaps earning a place on their council, offering counsel and securing their reign.

Yet, as she gazed upon the throne now, a sinister stir twisted within her. It was as if something dark and menacing from the recesses of her soul watched her, whispering seductions of power and dominance from the shadows of her conscience.

“It could have been you,” she mused softly, the hint of a challenge in her tone as she turned her eyes upon him–as she watched the familiar tightness snap at his lips. Her words seemed to find their mark, visibly rattling Aemond as she intended. He was inching too close for comfort, and despite the part of her that yearned for the solace he seemed to offer, she couldn’t afford to lower her guard further–it had already been a mistake to lower it this much. Her anger towards him remained–fueled by the ire of her captivity, the usurpation of her mother’s throne, and the tangled web of emotions his proximity evoked. She continued, “All you’ve ever wanted, within arm’s reach, yet you did not seize it. It could have been you–”

“No, it never could have been,” Aemond countered, his voice a dark murmur as he advanced a step closer–a note of bitterness sharpening his words.

She instinctively edged backward, her retreat bringing her alarmingly close to a sword protruding menacingly from the stone floor surrounding the throne, its edge seeming to thirst for contact. The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a mix of unresolved conflicts and the harsh realities of their present circumstances.

As Aemond’s head tilted slightly, his eye caught a sliver of moonlight that filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the throne room. The pale light transformed his blue eye, making it shimmer almost as silvery as his hair–echoing the metallic gleam of steel. “It had to be Aegon.”

Daenera was acutely aware of the political machinations at play; she knew it had always been about Aegon. The Hightowers had long schemed to secure the crown for Viserys’s firstborn son–it had to be the firstborn son, not the second born. Even if Aemond had allowed his brother to escape, Aegon’s mere existence was a looming threat–an obstacle should Aemond claim the throne. Even with Aegon gone, his firstborn son had the claim before Aemond–though he was still but a child. For the Hightowers, Aegon was essential, the foundation on which their usurpation was built on.

Daenera used Aemond’s ambition and desires as a shield against him–a necessary defense, and one she needed. It served as a barrier of cruelty to remind her heart not to flutter in his presence, to stay guarded despite its desire to be free.

“I have gained something from this,” Aemond whispered, now standing so close his breath could be felt on her skin. Daenera tensed, her heart beating rapidly within her chest, and her nails digging into her palm to ground herself.

His voice dropped to a low, drawling murmur, thick with insinuation, as he reached out towards her. Instinctively, Daenera raised her hand, deflecting his touch before it could graze her jaw and ignite a dangerous warmth.

Her gaze turned steely, “What was that old saying about touching before marriage?”

“I believe we’re past that,” Aemond remarked, a wry smile playing on his lips.

Daenera’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose we are… and it will remain that way… in the past.”

Daenera deliberately turned her attention away from him, her movement a silent act of defiance. Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, dark and contemplative, as if he were weighing whether she would act upon her declared intentions. Ignoring his scrutiny, she forced instead on the swords jutting up from the floor around the throne.

Tentatively, she extended a hand, allowing her fingertip to skim along the edge of one of the blades, cautious not to press too firmly against its still-vicious edge. The swords retained their lethal sharpness, as if the very act of forging the throne had permanently imbued them with a relentless edge.

The silence that had enveloped the throne room, thick with the weight of unspoken thoughts, was abruptly shattered by Aemond’s voice. His words cut through the still air like a Valyrian steel blade, clear and decisive.

“I’m leaving for Storm’s End in the morning,” he announced, his statement slicing through the delicate veil of their nighttime truce. This declaration signaled a stark shift back to the pressing realities that awaited in the daylight.

Daenera’s head whipped around sharply, her eyes widening in shock and a profound sense of betrayal settling heavily in her heart at Aemond’s sudden announcement. Her startled movement caused her to press her finger too firmly against the blade, and the sharp edge bit into her skin mercilessly. The pain was nothing more than a small jolt, insignificant compared to the emotional turmoil that was stirred by his words.

A hiss left her, and her eyes fell on the bead of blood welling on her skin. This seemed to catch Aemond’s attention, and as if on instinct, he stepped forward and grasped her hand. His touch was gentle, yet insistent as he drew her closer for a better look. His eye lingered on the small crimson welling, and for a fleeting moment, she anticipated that he might bring her finger to his lips–the thought was too much, too intimate, and before he could succumb to any such impulse, she swiftly withdrew her hand, her eyes flashing with indignant fire as she met his gaze.

“My mother refused to bend the knee,” Daenera stated, not a question but an acknowledgement. A wave of relief briefly swept over her, only to be swiftly replaced by a surge of apprehension as thoughts raced through her mind–who would support her mother’s claim? Were Daemon planning to advance on King’s Landing? What did it mean for her as the Hightowers’ hostage? Slowly, it seemed, they were teetering ever closer to the brink of outright war.

With a scornful scoff, she added, “Why ask me to describe the seat of Storm’s End when you’re going to witness it yourself?”

The decision to send him to Storm’s End to negotiate with the Baratheons for their support ignited a fiery rage within her. She could feel it burning in her chest, seeping into her lungs and heart, spreading throughout her boy like wildfire. Any semblance of peace between them was scorched by the sting of betrayal. The burdens and circumstances of the day seemed to crash in around them, harsh and unyielding, even as the soft moonlight continued to bathe the room in its ghostly glow.

“Daenera…”

Daenera swept past him, descending the steps with swift, deliberate strides. She felt the brush of his fingers against her wrist, a desperate attempt to restrain her, but she twisted away sharply, breaking free from his grip. As she turned she fixed him with a withering look. “I suppose you plan on sealing the alliance with a betrothal. Finally, your mother gets her wish–marrying you off to a Baratheon girl.”

Her heart was a battleground of conflicting emotions–relief clashed with profound disappointment. She struggled against the unsettling churn in her stomach as it twisted, and the oppressive weight that seemed to crush her chest. Bitterness surged through her, and despite her resolve, tears threatened to break free, her lower lip quivering with barely restrained emotion.

Aemond’s reply came through clenched teeth, frustration palpable in his strained voice. “I’m not going to Storm’s End to negotiate my own betrothal, but Daeron’s.”

A surge of relief pierced through her heart, and she immediately scolded herself for feeling it. Aemond descended the steps, moving towards her with a face that was impossible to read. He reached out, his hand almost tender as it moved to brush under her hair and cradle her head, but Daenera swiftly knocked his hand away, refusing the attempt. Part of her knew that if he managed to touch her, to hold her, her resolve might falter.

Daenera’s voice sharpened with accusation. “You’re stealing my alliance–”

“Daenera,” Aemond cut in, his voice mingling exasperation with a plea for understanding, as though trying to mend the rift that widened with every word they exchanged.

“No, you’re stealing it!” She shot back, the bitterness etching deeper into her expression as she battled the urge to cry. Her voice trembled as she continued, “I endured a marriage to Boris Baratheon for the sake of that alliance. I endured his cruelty and humiliation. And now, you claim it as if it were nothing, as if my suffering meant nothing!”

Aemond’s reply was sharp, his words slicing through the air with precision–cutting through to her very core. “I’m not to blame for your unfortunate misalliance. The alliance you suffered so much for was always weak, fated to end as it did. You cannot lay claim to an alliance that was never going to endure–Daemon should have seen that. He should have never sold you off to a man who humiliated you.” Aemond stepped closer. “Your alliance with the Baratheon’s ended the day your husband died.”

Aemond closed the distance between them with deliberate steps, towering over her as he continued. “Your alliance with the Baratheons ended the day your husband died.”

Despite Daenera’s desire to trust in Borros Baratheon’s vow to her mother, she was acutely aware of the harsher truth of their situation. Borros, known for his pride, might have stayed true to his word if his brother were still alive and she remained his wife. But with his brother’s death, the fragile threads of their alliance hung in peril, vulnerable to being cast aside for a move advantageous alliance. Her heart beat with the cadence of dread, each beat a heavy thud resonating within her chest, echoing her deep-seated fears.

Her gaze sharpened as stared up at him, biting the inside of her cheek.

“You understood the consequences,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper–the unexpected gentleness in his tone worse than had he sneered at her. “You knew that Boris’s death would unravel the alliance, and yet you proceeded.”

Daenera’s eyes remained on his, the sudden softness in his approach unsettling her as much as it drew her attention. Her voice, sharpened by bitterness and deliberately hushed to contain its echoes, shot back in a sneer of thinly veiled accusation, “Let’s not forget whose hands sealed his fate.”

Aemond’s response was measured, his tone now as incisive as hers, “At your behest, if I recall. You were as complicit in his end as I.”

“And what of Lord Borros reaction when he learns you intend to marry his brother’s widow?” Daenera snapped, her heart beating wildly against her ribs.

“I imagine he’ll be indifferent, so long as he get his marriage alliance,” Aemond answered dryly. Borros Baratheon, grappling with the burden of having no sons and having recently lost his only brother, would likely insist on nothing less than a marriage alliance to secure himself. It would only be a welcome addition that the marriage alliance would offer House Baratheon more royal blood and a dragonrider at that–more than she could ever give them.

Daenera pressed on, “What if he rejects the alliance? Will you exploit my involvement in his brother’s death to secure the alliance at any cost?”

Aemond’s jaw visibly tightened, the muscles beneath his skin rippling with restrained emotion. His lips formed a narrow, exasperated line as his gaze flicked away from Daenera’s penetrating stare. He seemed to search for words amidst the roiling shadows among the stone columns, or perhaps he sought refuge from the weight of her accusation.

Unyielding, Daenera’s voice sharpened, even as her eyes stung with the threat of tears. “And what if he demands my head? Would you acquiesce to such a demand?”

Aemond’s reaction was visceral, his eye snapping back to meet hers with a steely resolve. The dark pupil of his eye seemed to swallow the blue iris surrounding it, burning with something fierce and dangerous. His lips pursed almost imperceptibly as though tasting the words that lingered on the tip of his tongue.

A shiver traced Daenera’s spine as Aemond brushed her hair gently aside, cradling her face and tilting it upwards with a familiar, scorching touch that unleashed a storm of emotions within her.

“If he asks for your head,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy drawl, “I will present him with his own instead.”

“You wouldn’t,” Daenera countered softly, her words laced with a sad resignation that hung heavily in the air. Her fingers instinctively curled around his wrist, a silent plea for understanding. Deep down, she knew the bitter truth; despite his assurances, Aemond would likely resort to whatever means necessary to secure the alliance. He might not want to sacrifice her, but she harbored no illusions that he wouldn’t exploit her involvement in her husband’s death to his advantage, tarnishing relations with Borros to serve his own ends–and should he do that, it would cost her her life.

Daenera gently removed Aemond’s hand from her, warmth lingering on her skin where his touch had been. Stepping back, she reclaimed her space, wrapping her arms around herself for a sense of solace and protection.

With a deliberate effort to maintain her composure, though her throat tightened with emotion, Daenera spoke. “Borros Baratheon is a man driven by pride and ambition, and he is desperate for a male heir. He will accept the marriage alliance you offer, but make no mistake–he’ll be a fickle ally, who will wait and see whichever way the wind blows.”

She turned from him and began her walk down towards the doors, her steps resounding with the solemnity of thunder through the silence of the throne room. She had only covered ten paces when Aemond’s cut through the stillness, its timber on the verge of desperation–a plea.

“Wait…”

At his call, her stride faltered, her feet unexpectedly rooted to the cold stone floor. Despite her strong impulse to continue, she found herself inexplicably unable to move, held by some invisible tether. The echo of Aemond’s approach filled the vast space around her, each step amplifying the rapid beat of her heart as he drew closer, and a prickling sensation crawled up her spine, the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end.

In that charged moment, darkness seemed to deepen within the room as a cloud veiled the moon. The shadows around them thickened, swallowing the edges of the room and casting everything into a more profound stillness, almost as if time itself had paused.

Then, Daenera sensed his presence just behind her. Aemond’s head came to press gently against hers, his body molding to her back, as his hand tenderly wrapped around her waist, stretching across her lower abdomen with a gentle but firm pressure. The warmth of his touch enveloped her, offering a relief from the chilly air of the night.

Her eyes fluttered shut as a surge of tears threatened to break free. Despite the inner chaos and the resentment she harbored towards him, Daenera found herself leaning back into his embrace, drawing a momentary solace from his closeness–she would curse herself for it later, but in the moment, it offered her a refuge.

In the near-total darkness of the throne room, they stood frozen for several heartbeats, the silence around them thickening, almost tangible in the vastness of the space–a sea of darkness, a world of its own. His grip on her waist steadied, his head now resting gently against the side of hers, his breath warming the curve of her neck as his fingers softly caressed her skin.

As Daenera’s eyes fluttered open, she steeled her resolve against the seductive comfort of his touch, her heart constricting with a mix of longing and resistance.

With her voice steady and edged with a blunt sarcasm, Daenera spoke, “If you’re looking for a woman to warm your bed, I’d suggest you cast your eye towards a more agreeable bride – maybe one of the Baratheon girls, or even a whore would suffice.”

She resumed her walk towards the door, Aemond’s chuckle echoing behind her, a resonant sound that filled the silence and slowly dissipated into the quietude of the room.

Daenera pushed out of the doors and met her guard outside. As she stepped into the grand hall, the guard's voice rumbled deeply, reminiscent of stones grinding against each other. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

His question caught her off guard and she was momentarily startled by it. Her gaze met his, eyes narrowing as she was unsure of what he was implying.

“Did the walk tire you, I mean,” he clarified.

“Yes, I’ve become quite… weary,” Daenera responded, her voice catching slightly as she acknowledged the deep-seated fatigue that seemed to finally pass over her. She could feel it in the stiffness of her muscles and the heaviness that seemed to weigh down her entire body. “And cold.”

In shared silence, they continued back to her chambers.

Upon entering, Daenera was greeted by the moderate warmth of her room–a sharp relief from the chill that pervaded the hallways. Her feet, icy against the stone floor, carried her silently across the room. She shed her shawl and robe, both faintly stained with the blood from the cut on her finger, and draped them over a chair before advancing further into her bedchamber.

Her fatigue was more than physical; it was her heart that bore the heaviest burden of exhaustion. As the residual heat of anger dissipated, weariness was all that remained to her–weariness and dread. She felt the stiffness in her muscles and instinctively rolled her neck in an attempt to loosen the persistent tension anchored between her shoulder blades.

Closing her eyes briefly, Daenera could not escape the ghost of his touch that lingered on her skin. Without thinking, her hand drifted to her stomach, tracing the path where his had once lain. With a deep, weary sigh, she moved towards the bed.

The room was filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of Mertha’s snores–despite the woman’s claim that she did not snore. Daenera cast a glance at the old woman, who was dozing in the chair, her lips parted in what seemed like peaceful slumber.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Daenera slipped off her shoes, her movements slow and deliberate as she prepared to crawl beneath the covers. Just as she was about to recline, a particularly loud snore erupted from Mertha, shattering the room’s quiet. This was swiftly followed by Mertha’s sharp, groggy voice slicing through the stillness.

“Where have you been?” She demanded, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Feeling a wave of exasperation wash over her, Daenera rolled her eyes and climbed into bed. She drew the covers over her cold feet, casting a withering glance at Mertha, who had straightened up in her chair, as though she had never fallen asleep to begin with. The flickering firelight played across Mertha’s features, deeping the lines on her face and intensifying the scornful expression directed at Daenera.

With a tone matching the sharpness in Mertha’s gaze, Daenera retorted, “Should I disturb your diligent watch whenever I need to visit the chamberpot?”

Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Perhaps you’d like to inspect the contents of my bladder as well?”

Mertha responded with a profound huff, her lips forming a tight line as she reclined back in her chair. She picked up her needlework again, focusing her attention on the delicate stitches, glaring up at Daenera every time the needle punctured the fabric.

Meanwhile, Daenera snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling them right up to her chin. She closed her eyes, fervently wishing for the sweet escape of sleep to envelop her, to carry her away from the weight of her thoughts and the complexities of her reality.

*yellow chrysanthemum: Loyal Love *blue iris: Faith

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