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barbieaemond · 26 days

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And I dream of a grave

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: angst (!), smut, too many references to graves/burying, mentions of Blood & Cheese, miscommunication, Aemond's coping mechanism is violence and sex, in this order (good for him)

Word count: 3.8k

Author's note: the gif is self explanatory. This is a prequel to A Curse for a Curse, but can be read as a standalone. Big thank you to @irenadel for giving me the idea and being one of the most supportive souls <3

Taglist: @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @multyfangirl

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language

This is more than tempting the Gods. This is forsaking and impudently turning their backs on them.

As she sits down at the banquet, her mother’s words echo through her mind like the vexing sound of the wind on a storm’s night. It sets an unpleasant weight on her lungs, the close and yet shapeless feel of something dreadful. She’s almost grateful, looking around, to ascertain she’s not the only fool dreading this whole act.

The Dowager Queen sits at the table, barely able to contain a grimace. Queen Helaena, she is certain, has never looked so pale, her eyes so vacuous and yet so full of something unknown, elusive, smoke clouding and clearing her unnatural stare. The Hand has conveniently made himself absent. She can’t blame him. Actually, she envies him. If only she too could have been spared such a farce. But as the wife of the King’s brother, the very one they’re all supposed to celebrate tonight, she cannot do that, can she?

To cheers and the blaring of trumpets, the King enters shoulder to shoulder with his brother, tall and proud in his stride, wearing dark green velvet for such a special occasion, and such a special title.

“Do you know how they’re going to call you from now on?” the Queen Mother had asked when he came back from Storm’s end, dripping rain and mud and war.

“I do, Mother.” Aegon had answered, twisting a knife from his seat at the head of the table; she had never caught that glint of satisfaction in his eyes, not like that; it wasn’t dimmed by wine or flesh, but sharp as the blade in his hand. “A title he should be proud of.”

Pride was ever the easiest thing to wear for Aemond, the softest glove gliding on his skin, born out of a pit so deep and full of insecurities and negligence that that same endless depth had grown out of proportion in order to fill itself. To even try scratching his pride was like trying to climb the highest mountain with bare hands. She had cut her palms open to do so.

“What happened, Aemond?” she had asked once alone in their chambers.

“You know what happened.”

“What really happened?”

His good eye had pierced her as if she were made of crystal, but his jaw was too set, on the verge of breaking his own teeth if he carried on keeping the guilt, and truth, trapped inside.

“I didn’t want to.” He whispered, coming down from the peak, “I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted—”

“Revenge? Well, you had it. Did it make you feel good? Did you bring that boy peace at last?”

It took him a lifetime to say no; a whispered sound, choked even, as if he had bitten off his tongue to get it out of that pit where he had never looked again.

He was biting his tongue in the council, the faintest clench in his jaw but here, here in the council, here in the world, he had to keep that pit buried and stand straight on the highest peak, looking up and up, never down, never back. How could he, how could he admit he had lost control. It was easier, safer, to let them think of him a monster, rather than just human.

“I salute you, brother.” The King had said, raising his cup “True blood of the dragon! We shall have a feast in your honor!" Otto had merely lowered his head in defiance, going unnoticed in the eyes of his King and grandson, drunk with power and finally free of his mother's leash, unaware that a golden noose now held him in check.

He had summoned jesters, musicians, even some dancers to coddle his brother, and raise him higher and higher. She imagined she just had to wait for the fall. Or perhaps pray to the Seven to overlook the insult, to keep a mortal up there with them for a little more. But then again, they shouldn’t ask the Gods for mercy. Someone more unforgiving, more bloodthirsty. Someone who, just as her husband and his brother and each one of their cursed dynasty, did not listen to either Gods or men.

“A toast!” the King says at one point, turning to his left. “To my brother Aemond and a long overdue justice, is it not?”

Out of courtesy and duty, she grabs her cup and raises it, but as everyone at the table sips their wine, all she tastes is contempt, and the cup hits the surface untouched. But not unseen.

“Brother, wine may cloud my judgment, but it seems to me that your beloved wife does not share the sentiment of this fine evening. I wonder why.”

She holds the King’s demanding stare with a firm one, aware of Aemond looking at her even if his eye is fixed on the table. He has ignored her for the whole night, not sparing her a single glance. Because she owns the truth, doesn’t she, and it’s a knife pointed at his back.

“May I speak my mind, your Grace?”

There’s the slightest shift in Alicent’s posture, as if she were desperately waiting for her, or anyone, to cease all of this, to say this isn’t right.

Aegon pulls a thin, lazy smile and tilts his silver head, swirling his cup. “Why, of course, Princess. My brother tells me you have a habit of doing so.”

“Did he, now?” she resists the urge to scoff; such a despicable habit for a woman in this world.

“Fret not, good sister, I’m certain he holds no grudges against you for your silver tongue.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain too, your Grace. I know for a fact that he likes it.”

A few lords can do very little to hold their snickering, Aegon himself does not hide his malicious smirk, petty at the edges. It must run in the blood.

“Careful though, you don’t want to spend too much time talking, lest you leave my poor brother without any heir! It’s been a while since you two lovebirds tied the knot, isn’t that right?”

She glances beside her, surely Aemond won’t let that slight insult pass, but he stays still and silent like a statue. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. This is the same man who would call the crowned head at the table wastrel, depraved, disgrace.

So much for a disgrace, now that he fosters your pride and lies.

“I can assure you, good brother, that the talking is well outweighed by other activities that involve very few words.”

Aegon plasters a big grin on his face, yet she’s not finished. “But perhaps the Gods are sparing me the burden of bringing a child in such troubled times. A realm at war is not the best place to live in, is it not?”

“It depends on which side you’re on, Princess.”

There’s suspicion in his tone, but she just blinks at him. “My apologies, I was not aware that my loyalty to your House, and my husband’s, was to be questioned.”

“Come now. We are bound by what if not words?”

“I was under the impression that the Crown should fear his own kin more than a simple foreign girl from the West.”

At that, Helaena lets out a strange noise, something close to a wince, and silence falls all over. It is only now that Aemond undoes the stone he walled himself in and acts as he always does when he feels belittled, or worse, threatened. He shuts her out.

“I’m afraid my wife is growing tired, brother. ’Tis best for her to retire.”

She bites her tongue and turns her head. There’s no mistake in his tone, that is an order. She stares at him and he stares back, blankly, and then, just as it is expected of her, she obeys.

She goes without saying a word, aware of Aemond’s eye on her, of Aegon’s little victorious giggle. He snaps his fingers and two dancing girls flock to his brother. She knows this because she can’t resist but turning before disappearing. The girls are said to come from Lys, no less. But he’s not sparing them a single glance. His eye follows her out of the hall, and even after.

Candles almost extinguished, casting a soft glow in the bedchamber, dim but enough to make the shape of her body visible under the covers.

“I know you’re pretending to be asleep.” He says, placing his dagger and eyepatch on the nightstand.

She doesn’t bother to wait a single moment to fly her eyes open. “Was I not supposed to pretend I was tired?”

When she gets no answer, she turns to face him, finding him on his feet near the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet. His eye is on her, though, wide, as someone ready to hunt but seeing traps everywhere.

“Did you enjoy your feast?” she asks with piqued interest. “Such a shame that I missed most of it. I was eager to watch the girls from Lys dance. How were they?”

“Enough. You should thank me for dismissing you. You were bordering on high treason.”

“Since when telling the truth is considered high treason?”

“Is that what you were going to say? The truth? To make me look like a fool in front of the whole court?”

“I was only going to say that the feast was an insult and a challenge to the Gods or any common sense. And I know that beneath all the pats on the shoulder and the endorsement on your brother’s part, you are of the same mind.” she hopes to see the barest glimpse of validation on his face, at least here, where he can leave behind his pride and admit he made a mistake. Is that what you call starting a war?

But his expression is as closed as ever, wary.

She wishes it would hurt less than it does. “Of all the people ready to betray you, how quick you are to assume I’d be the first.”

“We’re bound by words, are we not?”

“Take your brother off your mouth.” She says absentmindedly; she tries to not let it sting, but it does anyway. It is a low blow, and she knows he does not believe it. He has raised the walls, coiling like a snake, and there’s no point trying to climb and risk cracking her skull open on the ground. She will have to wait for him to come down. “Then perhaps I should consider my father’s proposal.”

She leaves the bed and grabs a letter lying open on the desk. “He wrote me this letter. That is why my mother came all the way here, apparently to see how her daughter was faring.”

Aemond eyes it with the barest twitch in his lips, then looks up into her eyes and, with a sigh, she clears her throat.

“My dearest daughter,

It is with great concern and sadness that I write you this letter.

Words have reached me about the recent events involving Storm’s End and young Prince Lucerys’ demise. My spirits are low when thinking of the fate you’re enduring. But I want you to think carefully of this: annulments are rare but possible. Even more so since you bore no heirs yet. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins. I only need a word from you, daughter, and I shall hastily consult with a High Septon.”

She can barely register his arm moving, only sees his hand snatching the letter out of her grip, crumpling the paper between his fingers. Nostrils flaring, eye widening, she reads insult all over his face. About time.

“Is that it, Aemond? Is that the reason you’d think I would betray you? Because I didn’t bleed on a birthing bed yet? Is that how you measure my loyalty? What of all the times I drew your bath, washed your hair, pulled the boots off your feet? What about that curtain—“ she adds, pointing to the windows “and the fact that I told the maid to keep that side always closed so the sun will not bother your eye? Do you think I did all of this because of some empty words?”

He looks as if she has just slapped him. Mistrust and bewilderment run together all over his sharp features, trying to win one another, and she waits and waits, and she begs as all the purest things must be pleaded, wordlessly.

Come down. Come down. Lay down with me. In our bed, a grave, it matters not. I'll take the shovel and do the burying.

But he stands still on his high and cursed perch, the grip on the letter loosens, his shoulders slump a little, because this, this comes so easily. Violence. It’s the other glove he wears like second skin.

“You will write to your father and tell him if I hear another word about annulments, I will have his head for treason. And as for you… you tell a living soul what you know, and you shall join the Silent Sisters. You won’t even have to vow your silence, for I shall take your sharp tongue first.”

She watches him go, standing in the middle of the room like a fool; her hands bleeding still and a plea, unheard, choking to death in her chest.

Her hands heal, stay whole for so long. She feels she cannot reach him this time, no matter how hard she tries to climb. She finds no footholds, no inlets, until she stops looking for any.

She finds she has no strength to do it anymore. They’re all dead anyway, each of them in their own way, their own burial.

The king drinks and rages and drinks and rages. Helaena rocks on herself all day long, chasing the highs and lows of her laments. Jaehaera stares at her mother with her small lips sewn, her eyes wide and the Queen Mother weeps and weeps, wondering if the little girl is watching her mother go mad with grief or yet again her twin brother’s head rolling on the ground like one of her toys.

And Aemond…she does not know where Aemond chose to bury himself. He spends the day out, trying to escape the smothering grip of the Stranger’s claws, his curse…or is it only retribution?

Sometimes he’s in the training yard, sometimes that same yard becomes theater for revenge. He kills whoever helped Blood and Cheese enter the Keep, man or woman, he doesn’t care. He tortures them, and she wants to beg him to stop, to tell him that torturing one, two, or one hundred men won’t stop guilt from torturing him.

So, he wanders restlessly, basks in small and big cruelties, until the sun sets and she’s aware, as the bed dips under his weight, that she is his own burial. He takes her at any time, in any place, be it the bed, the desk, or bent over the vanity, she cannot do anything to stop him. She doesn’t want to and yet she aches to do it. Because it’s always sudden, and harsh and hurtful when he pulls her hair, when he spares no time to stoke her desire, when he keeps her bent with her back turned and a firm hand on her neck like some kind of punishment.

It never used to be like this. It had been playful, teasing, painfully slow as if he were separating salt from water, and then fast, urgent, unraveling for two inexperienced newlyweds.

But it had never been like that. There was no joy in it. Only a duty to be fulfilled. Some twisted way to gain control, while anyone else kept slipping from his hands. Just as Vhagar slipped out of his control on that fateful night of storm.

He remembered that dark thrill pounding in his veins, the laughter gushing out of his throat like poison. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know whether Vhagar was fueling his fire or the other way around, perhaps both. Just a little more, he’d thought, as Arrax batted his wings frantically, desperate, mirroring his young rider, to escape the gaping jaws of the Queen of All Dragons.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted to relish in his nephew’s dread, he wanted to drink it. He wanted him alone, desperate, hopeless, just as he had been.

And then he felt it, the shift in the ancient fire pit he was riding, like a boat tipping over and there was no helm to grab onto and bring it back to land. He had sunk his own family into the bleak abyss of Daemon Targaryen’s soul.

He had come to collect, thoroughly. A son for a son, yes, but he had taken much more than Jaehaerys. He’d taken Helaena as well. Even Jaehaera.

Will she ever be able to speak again?

Will my Mother ever forgive me?

Words never spoken, stuck on his tongue and then gagged and swallowed. He cannot look down, cannot look back. He must look up and forward, like soldiers do. To the next battle, to war.

But there’s this woman. And the sight of her in his bed that makes his breath hitch and for two reasons entirely opposite to one another. The first is the most ancient one. But she’s also a thorn in his side, for she knows. She knows everything. She knows all his peaks and depths, every brick in his walls and how to dismantle them; she knows he’s strong and weak, that he’s scared and guilty and worthy of his mother’s contempt, but he cannot bear any of this in front of her.

He flees her presence during the day, only to impose himself on her for the whole night. She cannot refuse him. And he cannot have her prying and dismantling his well-crafted walls and lies, so he takes her and takes her and takes her until he works themselves up to exhaustion and she’s a rag doll in his hands. It serves the purpose, though. As long as she has his cock in her mouth, as long as he harshly pounds into her, cutting her breath from the inside, she cannot ask questions. As long as he keeps chasing his pleasure, and his rugged breaths muffle his own ears, he cannot think straight.

He's close now and it’s the second time already. The sheets are damp beneath their bodies, his back glints with sweat, damps his forehead as he thrusts inside her one more time. They’re lying on their side, but he keeps her caged against him, his arm has slipped on the mattress and under her neck to keep her still, with her back to him. With his cheek glued to hers, he croons praises in her ear, falling mindlessly from his lips but like drops in the ocean. Once, she would redden, smile blissfully, or challenge him, to go deeper, or harder, or both, but she’s a limp thing now. A mere body panting upon being fucked by another, that’s all.

This is possession. Or a desperate attempt to. Each night, he holds her as if it’s the last time and she could slip away from him at any moment, turning her back on him. She can feel it now, in the way he’s gripping her shoulder, the way his nails dig in her skin, carving into her bones: stay with me. Please. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.

But it’s him keeping her away, turning her own back on him.

Don’t you know, she wishes to tell him, that I won’t, ever. I won’t. No matter how cursed you are. I won’t. I won’t.

He grabs her thigh, resting it on his hip, spreading his long fingers on her skin, spreading her legs so he can find the perfect angle and picks up the pace. She shudders with every thrust, gasping with her throat dry, feeling the long bridge of his nose sinking in her cheek, his grunts growing rougher and deeper; some strange choked sound at the back of his throat.

He comes quietly, panting shallowly against the damp fabric of her nightgown. And he stays there, claw gripping her shoulder, head sunk between her neck and collarbone, and deep to the hilt buried in her.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know where it comes from, who she is mourning, she can’t tell these days. Perhaps she’s mourning him, who he was, who he is now and who he is forcing himself to be. She doesn’t know where the deception lies anymore. She wishes she could push it back in, prays that it goes unnoticed, swallowed along with all the others, but she should know by now, the Gods are not in her favor anymore, if they ever had been.

“Why are you crying?”

She turns her head, and her breath hitches. The gemstone glints, yes, but she’s too struck by his eye to even notice the sapphire. There’s something raw there, bare, more than his very skin now. It’s the first time she sees that look on him, torn, heavy lidded and not by pleasure.

This is the burden of grief.

She wonders if that’s the reason he’s so keen on fucking her with her back turned, so she can’t see him. Perhaps she didn’t look hard enough. She thought he had risen too high, out of her reach, of anyone’s. She thought he would never fall, not in every sense of the word.

Hence, she’s at a loss for words, slightly pulling herself up, when he slowly comes down; he curls into himself, into her lap, resting his head there like a child. No Kinslayer, no Dragon Prince, no son, no brother. No husband. Just a human, bare in the skin and soul.

Aemond wraps his hand around her knee, gently, and then tighter and tighter, shutting his eye. He’s on land now, but the room is spinning, the whole world is spinning and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels he started it all, he threw a spinning top and got sucked into it. And she’s the only firm thing he can hold onto.

“Do you think I’m cursed?” he whispers, the barest flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheekbone.

But she has no answer. All she has are her hands, sliding on his naked skin, through his loose hair, gently, as if touching the thinnest glass, sealing the cracks. Her palms slice open again.

“Aren’t we all?”

And I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."

- The Castle, Franz Kafka.

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dedicatednotobsessed · 27 days

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Issa byka rūklon [Daemon Targaryen x Wife!reader]

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Other HOTD stories

Summary: Daemon is feared among men for his battle prowess, finding solace and love in his pure sunshine of a wife. One serene evening, amidst impending war, they steal a moment alone. His wife with gentle hands and a heart full of affection, braids Daemon’s hair, weaving delicate flowers into the strands…

*This was a one shot request from a very special person of mine, my bestie @mrsdaemontargaryen I had asked her to send me a prompt because I have been on such a long hiatus from writing. Writer’s block has not been fun {among personal things but let’s not get into that}. Please enjoy this Daemon one shot and soon enough, I will be taking requests again in time for season two. 🖤*

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You placed a hand on the ghost of your swelling stomach, your violet eyes shining from the fireplace’s flames. The incident was still fresh in your mind, your sister’s screams of calling you a traitor ringing in your ears. It wasn’t a surprise to see the twins together in Storm’s End, having been inseparable since birth, but you never thought Adryana* would try to murder you.

You turned your head slightly, hearing the footsteps, letting out a soft sigh, and feeling your husband wrap an arm around your waist and pull you back into his chest. “Is it done?”

Daemon nodded, nuzzling his nose into your silver hair. “Soon enough, she will feel the pain you felt.”

You took a deep breath, looking ahead. When Daemon was writing to his friends in the capital, you had mentioned to him how you wanted Adryana to feel the same pain you felt when she took her unborn babe from you. He added, “Along with the usurper’s son, take the life of his brother’s son.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” Daemon whispered in your ear as though he could read your mind. “Those green cunts didn’t feel anything killing Luke and our child. You shouldn’t either.”

You nodded in agreement, furrowing your brows. “Can we go on a walk?” You knew this would be the last calm moment before Westeros is thrown into chaos.

You turned in Daemon’s arms, smiling a small smile when he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Of course, my love.”

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You wrapped your hands around Daemon’s arm as he led you down the familiar path toward Aegon’s Garden. During the day, it was a favorite spot for your young son, Alyster, to play in; he especially enjoyed the cranberries that grew there. The eye of the dragon statue glistened in the moonlight the closer you got, lifting your dress slightly so it did not drag too much through the grass.

You thanked Daemon quietly when he helped you into the plush grass, a hum passing your lips as you began to pick at the small white wildflowers surrounding you mindlessly. Since you’ve woken up from the incident, the two of you have rarely spent time alone, with Alyster not leaving your side and Daemon being preoccupied with the small council. For the first time in a long time, you felt peace.

Once he sat down, you moved to sit behind your husband, your fingers gingerly taking a section of his hair and beginning to work it in a braid. His hair was not as long as it once was but manageable. You smiled, hearing the light chuckle coming from him.

“What?” You asked as you grabbed one of the wildflowers you picked, placing it carefully within the braid.

Daemon kept his eyes ahead, a small smile forming on his features. “I’m only thinking back to our wedding day.”

“Our wedding day?” You repeated while beginning to braid another section of his hair, adding the little flowers as you went.

Daemon hummed in response. “You wanted to braid my hair that day, too.”

You smiled at the memory. You had a traditional Valyrian wedding against your mother’s wishes. You were never one to listen to your mother, to begin with, having gone against her wishes to become Rhaenyra’s ward at fifteen, shortly after Laena’s funeral, and two years later becoming Daemon’s third wife. Now, at the age of three-and-two, the two of you had a six-year-old son, a son your mother and father only met once.

“I’m hoping this war will be over quickly,” Daemon spoke quietly, breaking the silence.

You hummed, leaning back to examine your creation. “I do not want to talk about war this evening, my love,” You said softly, placing a few more flowers in the braids with a soft smile.

You enjoyed the calm moments while you could, not knowing if this would be your last one together. The war began when Aemond and Adryana struck in Storm’s End, and you knew Daemon would be restless until every one of their heads was on spikes. You were to cherish these moments while they lasted.

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You hummed as the sun filtered through the windows, stirring slightly only to feel the side beside you cold. You furrowed your brows while rubbing your eyes as you sat up, your stomach still sore from your injuries.

“You do not want to go to the small council like that?” You asked teasingly, seeing Daemon picking out the white flowers, having slept in them.

He chuckled, looking down at the small pile forming beside him at the vanity. “I’m not sure it would be proper attire for a small council meeting.”

You scrunched up your nose while slowly getting out of bed. Wrapping your silken robe around you, you walked up behind your husband, meeting his violet eyes in the mirror.

“Issa byka rūklon*,” Daemon said softly, placing his hand on your arm when you wrapped them around his neck.

You hummed lightly. “I prefer when you call me aōha vēzos*.”

Daemon laughed. “No one else can hear that.”

You smirked, moving back so Daemon could get up. You straightened his doublet for him, scrunching up your nose when he placed two fingers under your chin, making you look up.

“I love you, Y/N,” Daemon whispered, moving his hand to your cheek.

“I love you too,” You replied, meeting his lips in a short, sweet kiss.

You watched him pull away after a moment, a small smirk forming on your features. You noticed the stray flower tucked in the waves of his hair.

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“You’re late, Daemon,” Corlys spoke up, seeing the Prince enter the council chambers.

“You should already know that I enjoy making late, dramatic entrances,” Daemon replied simply, sliding into the empty seat on Rhaenyra’s right.

Rhaenyra eyed her uncle curiously, tilting her head. “Daemon,” She called to him, clearing her throat while motioning to her hair.

Daemon furrowed his brows, reaching up to feel the soft petals of the single wildflower he had forgotten about. He untangled it from his hair, looking down at it with a soft sigh.

“Is the Rogue Prince going soft?” Lord Celtigar questioned with a laugh.

“I believe he is,” Corlys agreed.

Daemon only scoffed as the Black Council erupted in laughter, Rhaenyra even adding a giggle of her own. He sighed as the jesting continued around him, his eyes staying on the wildflower in his hand. He twirled it on its tiny stem, his mind wandering back to his wife, their son, and the babe they had lost.

There was no guarantee of surviving this kin war, but Daemon was determined to win it so that he and his family could finally live the peaceful life they had long desired.

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*Adryana: Adryana Targaryen is my original character for House of the Dragon. She is the youngest daughter and fifth child of King Viserys and Queen Alicent (The reader is the eldest daughter and child). She is wed to her twin brother, Aemond, and they have a set of twins together; a son named Vanar and a daughter named Vhaenys. She is known to have a short temper and often accused her eldest sister of abandoning her to live with Rhaenyra on Dragonstone. She also felt hurt when she sided with Rhaenyra's children during the Driftmark incident. Her temper overflowed when her eldest sister made a comment about how their father would be disappointed in the twins and their actions after reuniting in Storm's End, ultimately resulting in Adryana attempting to kill her and the unborn babe. The eldest sister lived, but the unborn babe did not, leading to her and Daemon planning revenge on Lucerys and their child.

*Issa byka rūklon: High Valyrian for my little flower.

*aōha vēzos: High Valyrian for your sun.

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floatyflowers · 30 days

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The Fawn|| Dark! House Targaryen men (Maegor, Aenys, and Aegon II) various x Baratheon Reader

Meagor/Aenys

You are the daughter of Orys Baratheon, Rhaenys decided to take you in hopes of marrying you off to Aenys.

But she passed away before the arranged marriage could be annouced.

Aegon decided to keep you as a ward, and have Aenys engaged to Alyssa Velaryon instead

When Maegor was born, when you were six, you enjoyed playing with him, he reminded you of your dolls, that you treat like your babies.

As you grow up with Aenys and Maegor, you fall deeply in love with Aenys and viewed Maegor as your little brother, nothing more.

Aenys was also deeply in love with you.

But you got heartbroken when Aenys married Alyssa, and even though the first thing Aenys did was head to your chambers to claim that he still loves you.

You refused to continue your relationship with him, because you don't wish to ruin his marriage.

Even when Maegor grew up, becoming strong and skillful despite not owning a dragon.

Every tourney, he would win, you would become the queen of love and beauty.

Of course this is a scandal due to Maegor being already married to Ceryse Hightower which enraged many including Aenys.

After Aegon I passed away and Aenys became king, you were assigned with being a cupbearer.

Maegor didn't like that at all, and proposed to take you as a second wife, but you refused.

So he kidnapped you and forced you to marry him in a traditional valerian way, and when Aenys heard about that, he banished his brother.

Aenys dies, and Maegor returns from the banishment with you and his mother to take the throne, even if you hated the idea.

Yet you are too afraid to show refusal now that you are pregnant.

"I did this to save the realm from being ruled under a weak king just like what happened with Aenys, you must understand that I did it for us "

Aegon II Targaryen

You don't like Aegon for many reasons.

His sexual flirting, or his anger issues that comes out whenever you are with another boy.

Aegon pleaded with his grandfather to marry you to him.

And it worked, and you ended up marrying Aegon, despite both of you being young.

Aegon didn't give up his drinking habits but he gave up messing around with women for you.

And as time goes on you find yourself falling in love with him, especially after giving birth to the twins.

You realize that Aegon didn't have the best childhood, his father ignoring his existence while his mother and grandfather were harsh on him.

So, you tried to give him that love, and it worked as he found comfort in your embrace only.

He even began to reflect that love on Jaehaera and Jaehaerys and later on Maelor when he is born.

But when usurped the throne from his sister, though you pleaded with him not to do it, and he wasn't going to do.

But his mother placed fear in his head, the fear of you getting murdered along with the children after his older sister becomes the queen.

But with that choice, you decided to leave to Storm's End with your children in secret.

However the plan failed, as Aegon had spies around, whom inform him of everything inculding your handmaidens.

He locked you up and took the children away from you.

And when you try to apologize to get to see them, Aegon refused.

He even refused when you admitted that you are pregnant.

"After everything I did for us, for our family, you chose to betray me! You are not leaving those chambers until I die"

#tw: toxic relationships #reader insert #yandere house of the dragon #possessive #wife reader #house baratheon #Baratheon reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #yandere aegon ii targaryen #Yandere Maegor #maegor x reader

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achaoticeternal · 1 year

Text

bewitched.

AEMOND TARGARYEN X FEM!READER

summary: more word has arrived to you regarding your husbands infidelity. as he returns to you, you present him with a choice. word count: 2k warnings: drinking. strong language. angst. adultery. pain. a/n: see end of the piece for author’s note

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

choose your own ending...

— ending 1.

— ending 2.

— ending 3.

— ending 4.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“My lady,” Your chambermaid spoke from the doorway, returning with a fresh pitcher of wine as you had requested, “Should I see the children to bed?”

“Please do,” Your voice was soft, the words fragile in your solemn state.

“It might be best for you to rest, rather than await the return of Prince Aemond.”

Her words were gentle, simply advising you to take care of yourself. But the fires of hurt and betrayal were already lit.

“What makes you believe that I am awaiting my husband?” With words more venomous than you intended, you bid her leave.

At the sound of the door shutting, you stood and moved toward the pitcher and chalice left idly by the fireplace. You poured the deep red liquid and lifted the cup to your lips, taking a generous gulp. The dull burn allowed some relief to your heightened senses. But you also knew that the alcohol only added fuel to your fire.

Rain began to pour over King’s Landing, softly thudding against the windows and stone of the castle walls. Usually, the rain would lull you to sleep, but it seemed the thunder of the skies only spurred you to continue drowning away the ache in your heart. Your eyes flickered over the second chalice that had been placed on the silver tray with your pitcher. It seemed that the servants expected Aemond to return to the Keep tonight. You were not sure if you wish for him to return or for him to drown in the heavy rains that poured from the sky.

As if the fool perfectly timed you, you glanced out the window to see the silhouette of Vhagar descending toward the Dragon Pits. In a drunken frenzy, you pulled the curtain to cover it, instead, the velvet fabric came down at your harsh tug.

The frustration would nearly boil over, but you did not allow the simple issues to push you over the threshold. As the Queen had often advised you, it was important that a lady bite her tongue and keep her composure even when she is by her lonesome. If someone saw the illusion of a proper lady shatter, it would be nearly impossible to recover from. She even revealed to you how she had come by this knowledge, sharing with you the events that occurred the night Aemond became the one-eyed prince.

Swiftly, you moved back toward the fireplace, picking up the parcel that a raven had delivered directly to you just this morning. It appeared blank to the simple eye, but when you hovered the note over the fire, the message revealed itself. The contents of it were simple, but completely shattered something inside of you:

She is with child.

Though the news had shocked you, the existence of the other woman did not. When Aemond and Daeron laid siege to Harrenhal and the Riverlands, word had traveled through the courts regarding the princes bedding other women. At the time, you had bit your tongue, excusing your husband’s infidelity as you convinced yourself it was just something he used to relieve his stress from battlefields.

But even after the marches through the Riverlands were claimed to be successful and at an end, Aemond would sometimes fly off to Harrenhal. He would say that he was just ensuring the hold that the Greens had on the region, yet you never believed his lies.

It was said that Harrenhal was cursed, blood mixed into the stone that built it. You believed the stories true after the great fire took the lives of Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin when you were a child yourself. But now a curse had attached itself to your husband and kept him crawling back to the towers of Harrenhal.

The door cracked open, the hinges creaking as he entered, exhaustion painted over his face. Aemond was completely drenched, his hair now scrunched into waves rather than falling perfectly straight. Most of his leather overlayer had been discarded for the servants to see to, leaving him in a black tunic and pants with his riding boots.

It took him a few moments, but Aemond quickly came to realize that you were resting by the fire rather than fast asleep in your shared bed.

“Should you not be sleeping, dear wife?” Aemond called out to you while readying himself to turn into bed.

“Sleep has… escaped me recently,” You replied, eyes remaining on the fire. Only at his words did the nerves begin to spur inside you. How would he react when you told him? What would tomorrow bring? None of it really mattered, you supposed, as long as you didn’t allow your nerves to get the best of you.

Now in his proper bedclothes, Aemond began to approach the fireplace. He noticed the half-empty pitcher of wine, slightly shocked that you were partaking this late at night. Usually, you would reserve yourself to only enjoying wine at dinners or feasts, not in your marriage chambers. His eye flickered to the second chalice that sat empty on the silver platter. His slender fingers reached to grasp it, “Would this cup be for me?”

You turned your head, looking between the pitcher and chalice but never into his eye, “The maid brought it with her, probably as a formality. No one expected you back tonight.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed at the tone you spoke with, and it caught the prince off guard when you returned your gaze to the fire rather than continuing to speak with him. He poured his own chalice with wine and allowed himself to enjoy it. He stayed in place, unwavering from his position as he looked down on you.

The air went still… the taste of the wine began to sour in his mouth. He sensed something to be out of place, yet he could not pinpoint it. Usually, you would be elated to see him, but recently you were far more reserved from your husband. Aemond was not sure if he should be upset or concerned, but did not ponder on the thought too much as he allowed himself to attend to his duties rather than his wife.

With a sigh and a light cough to clear his throat, the prince finally spoke once more, “Come to bed…”

The pause settled again before your soft chuckle hung in the air. Quickly, you stood from your seated position and drowned the remainder of your chalice in one swig. You moved to the table and refilled your cup till the pitcher ran dry. Instead of crossing to your bed, you remained standing, only turned away from the man. This behavior caused Aemond to clench his jaw, subduing his urge to correct such disobedience.

“Will you not come to bed with me?” Aemond summoned you again.

Once more you chuckled at him, not sparing him any sort of look from you. Just the cruel chuckle of your acknowledgment.

“Your husband demands—”

“My husband demands me of nothing,” You interrupted him, “And he would do well to find another bed to sleep in or find himself in tonight.”

At your words, Aemond crossed toward you, attempting to snatch the half-drunk chalice of wine from your hands, “It seems you have overindulged yourself. It would do you well to sleep before—”

“Before what? Before I continue to act out of turn?” With a fierce determination, your fingers clutched down onto the chalice so that Aemond could not separate it from you. Your words dripped with poison, “Or before you return to Harrenhal and bed the whore witch?”

At the mention of Alys, both you and Aemond let go of the goblet at the same time and simply watched it fall to the ground, red liquid covering the tile floors.

“It would do you well not to speak of things you do not know or understand.”

“I understand it quite plainly that my husband is now an adulterer, just like his eldest brother and his damned uncle. It seems that disloyalty to marriage is quite a common trait among Targaryen men.”

Quickly, Aemond’s hand came to your throat, gripping the flesh to show how serious he was being, yet not hard enough to asphyxiate you, “Did you not understand my words before, my stupid little wife? It would do you well not to speak of things you do not know…”

“Oh? But I do know…” Your hands grabbed at his forearms, nails sinking into the flesh so that he would release you, “And it would do you well to learn just how smart your wife is…”

“I have known… I have known about Alys since your first rampage through the Riverlands. For moons, I remained confined to the Red Keep from your orders, and when they came to deliver news of you and your victories, I cheered. I still cheered when the maids told me the rumors between you and Alys, because I was grateful to the Seven that you were alive. Because I was still foolish enough to love you far more than you deserve.”

Tears threatened to spill over, but you swallowed them back. You would not allow Aemond the pleasure of your tears, only the fire of your anger.

“She promised me security for my life and the lives of my men,” Aemond attempted to justify himself, “I could not risk it—”

“You could have offered her gold, offered her a title, or anything else besides your body! Instead, you break your vows. And you did not stop there, because you continue to fly back to Harrenhal whenever you desire the witch’s cunt to the point where your son and daughter could not even recognize you if they ever saw you!” You huffed out, scanning his face for any sign of emotion, anything at all.

“You have allowed your lust to overcome you, disappointing your wife, your mother, and the Seven. Worst of all, you shall now have your own bastard. At least this bastard will not be raised of the Street of Silk as your brother’s bastards have.”

“How did you know?” Aemond’s voice cracked while he asked the question, “How do you know she is pregnant?”

A smirk played on your lips at the question, “It seems that the Master of Whispers is a very devoted friend of the Queen, and with the Queen being your mother, she deemed it important enough to share the news with me, your faithful wife.”

His face went pale at the realization of how many people were aware of his infidelity. While Aemond remained silent, you twisted the knife deeper into his chest. You had been tortured with this knowledge for so long that you now enjoyed the pained expression on his face.

“I have always been good to you, devoted to you. Where others cowered from you, I loved you. Despite the warnings of your blood lust and deformity, I loved you and gave you two perfect children who study just as diligently as you once did. So while you found yourself in the arms of another woman, I tried not to curse your name and assure our children that all was well, even if their father would not be present for them. But now, I look at you like a curse upon my life. You have allowed yourself to be corrupted outside our marriage, and I can no longer offer you salvation for your selfishness…”

“What would you have me do?”

You laughed mockingly at his question. Instead of providing a proper answer, you only glared further into his good eye.

“Please,” Aemond gritted his teeth, hating that he allowed himself to beg an answer from you, “Just tell me what I should do!”

“I can not simply tell you what to do. That would be to easy - what lesson would you have learned?” You shook your head and a shuddering breath escaped you.

“You have to make a choice, Aemond,” Your hand gripped his wrist, forcing him to remain attentive to your words, “Either you atone for the sin your committed and the hurt you’ve caused or you reside in Harrenhal for the rest of your days…”

“This is a choice only you can make — a wife or a witch?”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n: I am considering making a follow-up to this one-shot, a blurb about the outcome of the options that Aemond has... maybe...

#mattie writes #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #hotd x reader #prince aemond targaryen #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd angst #alys rivers #aemond targaryen x wife!reader #aemond targaryen x alys #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon aemond #Aegon II Targaryen #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen one shot

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cupcakeinat0r · 2 months

Text

#he’s so hot I wanna b his house wife dawg #will make him smile #and cu #respectfully #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara x reader #across the spiderverse #atsv #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara meme #miguel x you #miguel o’hara atsv #miguel atsv #spider man atsv #miguel spiderman

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just-some-random-blogger · 1 year

Note

Hey can I ask for a smutish fluffish matt smith fic where where they are filming their sex scene but she accidentally says Matt instead of Daemon and the directors like “not again 😒 start from the top”

I'm Into It

Matt Smith x Actress!Reader (lowkey Daemon x Reader lol)

Summary: You were finally getting to live out your fantasies of having Matt around you in that pretty blonde wig, but at what cost?

Word Count: >600

Warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, they be filming a sex scene for hotd, crackfic, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: Lol this was so much fun to write it's so meta i love it. I hope you like it nonnie <3 and since technically this is daemon related imma tag yallz @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony also im tagging @pearlstiare since this lovely dear seemed to enjoy my matt smith fic lol hehe i made another matt fic lol "Dark Kiss"

I was pressed against the wall, a blade to my neck, an arm pressed by my ribcage, pushing me flush against the wall.

I heaved, "do it," I spoke as the blade was pressed closer to my chin, "slit my throat," I chortled, "and then you'll realize just how foolish that decision was after you've spilt my blood."

"Demented hag," Daemon quips, pressing his arm deeper into me.

I lean into him, the blade on my neck presses deeper. I brush my nose against his, "hush, prince," I lick his lips, "we both know you don't think that."

Daemon throws his blade to the side and flips me over, pressing my chest and face roughly against the wall, one arm pushed behind my back. He breathes jaggedly against my neck, "tell me where you hid it."

"Make me," I huff, "you know how," I chuckle, "you know what I want from you."

I wince when he shoves me. I break into another chuckle, "I'll take it however you want to give it, pretty boy."

"Last chance," he warns, "while I'm being nice."

I hum, "I don't want you to be nice. I want you to ruin me."

I smile when he does not reply. I strain my neck trying to look back at him, "dragon lost his fire?"

All at once, I am released and turn back to deviously eye the prince. I bite my lip when he begins to undo his breeches, "you will regret it if you do not obey me."

My heart jumps to my throat at his words. I fall against the wall as he steps forward. I reach out to him as he bunches my skirt up.

I lean against his forehead and sigh when he places his hands on my hips. I raise my leg up to his side and pull him with me as I shift back. I steal a kiss from him and nip at his lower lip when he evades me. When he takes his hand underneath my thigh, I instinctively call out his name.

That was my mistake.

Instead of calling Daemon, I say Matt.

Matt pulls his head back upon hearing his name. He breaks into an airy chuckle, "baby," he coos, leaning into me, hiding his face in the crook of my neck, pecking the area quickly.

My eyes go wide and I slap my hand on my mouth, looking out to the director and the rest of the crew when I realize my mistake.

Matt pulls away from me, laughing, releasing his hold on my leg to look past the camera. He turns back to me, as I profusely begin to apologize under my breath. He is in a fit of giggles when he seals me into a tight embrace, kissing my shoulder affectionately.

"I am so sorry," I mutter in a guilty tone as I am lifted off my feet by the laughing Matt.

"I'm not," he says, looking out to the camera. He points, "you caught that, right?" He giggles, "I'm going to need a copy of all of these outtakes."

I feel blood rise up my neck, "Matthew, please."

"What?" he turns to me, "my male ego is thriving, lovie. What is this, the tenth time?"

"No!" I call, "... I think only five."

There is a chorus of laughs; someone corrects me by saying it's the seventh.

Matt kisses me cheek, "I'm proud of you, babe."

"Matt, please," the director calls, "stop being distracting."

The entire set breaks into a fit of laughs. I burn with embarrassment, wanting nothing but to be swallowed by the ground, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I turn to Matt and grab his face, "Daemon. Daemon. Daemon."

Matt grins, "Matt. Matt. Matt."

"Stop!" I warn, pulling away from him as I repeat my mantra, "Daemon, Daemon, Daemon."

"Rouge Prince. Dashingly handsome," Matt rubs his nose. He looks at the director, "from the top then?" He chuckles under his breath, "that's what she said."

"Stop!" I whine.

"Oh, alright," he smirks, turning to me, "do me a favor and mess up again. For me?"

"Stop!" I call out the same time as the director.

lol you wanna read another matt smith fic?

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fairysluna · 1 year

Text

a dragon's fury.

Once you found out that your beloved husband was wounded in battle, the dragon within you comes to light, and you're eager to help him during these war times.

MASTERLIST

PAIRING – Cregan Stark x Targ!Reader.

TAGS/TW – fluff, a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, winterfell is at war with the wildlings, the greens won, dilf!cregan, cursing, mentions of murder, mentions of blood and wounds. If something is missing let me know!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE – this is the 4th part of my Cregan x Targ!Reader stories, but it can be read as a standalone too. People have ask for it and I'm here to provide.🤗🤍

WORD COUNT – 2.7k

FEEDBACK, SHARES AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME!!

"Lord Stark has been wounded in battle."

Your eyes immediately left your son’s shape and reached the guard in front of you. Your softened haze soon turned into one filled with worry and fear, rage even. You carefully removed Lysara from your arms and stood up from the fur carpet beneath you. With your now shaky hands you fixed your thick dress before sighing deeply, trying not to raise any alarm to Rickon, who was already old enough to understand what those words could possibly mean.

“Where is he?” You asked. Your usual sweet and charming tone was now replaced by the hardness, stern words which demanded an immediate answer.

“He's in his bedchambers being attended by the Maesters,” the guard informed, to which you only managed to nod.

“How bad is it?” Those words came out as a whisper as you grabbed his arm and started to walk away from the children, so they would not hear.

“Lord Stark is conscious, though some of his wounds are quite deep according to what the Maesters had said,” He replied with the same low tone as you, noticing your intentions.

Your hand went to your belly, trying to find some comfort in it before you realized it was now empty. Your sweet boy had been born just a few weeks ago; Elion Stark. A beautiful babe that was now sleeping in the crib, right next to a white dragon egg, a gift from your brother King Aegon. You looked at the crib where your son was peacefully resting, and after you made sure he was alright you wiped the sweat of your hands on the fabric of your dress. Before you could even notice it, your legs were taking you out of the nursery room and towards your husband’s chambers.

Each step made your heart beat faster, the overwhelming sound of it making your ears buzz and your breathing to tremble. Your loyal guard was walking behind you, following your quick steps with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his guard up just in case you would find some intruders in your way. The war with the free folk had left Winterfell as a target for your foes, leaving you and your children exposed to the danger and risks that this war entails.

You have learnt how to live without fear after being raised with a dragon by your side, you also knew that your children, including Rickon, will be shielded by the same beast that brought you comfort and protection when you were their age… but Cregan was another story. The stubborn man would reject that much needed protection, leaving him exposed to any risk that may come his way; and as consequence, you would spend your days sitting in the nursery room with your babes, praying to Seven for the well being of your beloved husband.

But you decided it was enough once you crossed the wooden door that separated the halls with the chamber that you shared with Cregan, and saw how the maids and Maesters were running from one side of the room to another while your harmed husband was staining the white sheets of the bed with his crimson blood. Your eyes shifted with the purest of terror at the scene, and your nose started to itch as a sign of the upcoming tears that were threatening to escape your eyes. You stood there, right in the door frame, looking horrified at the scene in front of you and holding the handle of the door with such a strength that your knuckles turned white.

Your lower lip quivered as you slowly stepped inside the room, your hand pressing against your chest, which was moving rapidly and unsteadily. A maid was the one who first noticed your presence and bowed before you, staring at you with frightened eyes. You came to wonder which expression was the one on your face for her to have such a reaction.

The silence ruled over the room once they noticed your presence. They all bowed and stepped back, leaving you a path to follow towards your husband's bed. You managed to see his bare chest covered in bruises, a deep cut in his left arm and his gorgeous face swollen with violet stains and cuts that were still dripping blood. His left eye was now red, the gray color you so dearly loved was now replaced by the crimson tint that you so deeply hated to see on him.

Cregan saw you, and he took a deep breath that seemed to have hurt, for his expression furrowed with the signs of the immense pain he was suffering. Your eyes were clouded by tears, your heart aching at the sight. It was unbearable.

"My love," you whispered softly as you walked closely. "Who- who did-" you were unable to keep talking, for your voice broke in mid sentence as your soft hands fell gently on his chest. You felt his hand covering yours, he squeezed it three times and you lifted your face to see his. A little smile appeared on his face, as if he was trying to make you know that he was fine; but you were not blind, he was obviously not fine at all. "Who. did. this?" You spoke again, this time swallowing your sobs and using a more demanding tone.

"My princess," he weakly muttered, "no need to worry, I'm fine-"

"Cregan, I am not playing right now. Who did this?"

His eyes squinted with the unusual pronunciation of his name from your lips. You used to save it for two different occasions; for those which were filled with lust, or for those in which your inner dragon was about to spit fire. "My love-" he tried to excuse himself again.

"Who did this?" You insisted, starting to feel the worry leaving you and being replaced with anger. "Tell me the truth."

He looked around the room, observing the servants and Maester eavesdropping the conversation without trying to hide it at all. You pressed your lips with discontent as you noticed this, and you quickly stood up straight. "Out," you demanded of them, but no one moved. This only made you frown, increasing the anger in you. "All of you, out!" You repeated.

"My princess, our Lord requires our attention," a Maester said to you. Your jaw clenched at the defiance. "His state is-"

"I know what his state is, do you think I do not have eyes to see how my husband is harmed?!" Your voice rising as your cheeks turned red with fury. The middle aged man in front of you shrank in his position after he received your words. "Now get out, but stay around. I will call for all of you once we're finished. Now!"

You saw hesitation in his eyes, but the man simply nodded and with a small gesture he took all of the people out of the room. They quietly left the chambers as you shared stares with your husband. He looked up at you with those gray, puppy eyes, as if he had done something wrong and he was expecting you to scold him anytime now. He looked defenseless.

Only when the door was closed, you said, "Spit it out."

"It was a giant," he confessed, as quickly as you finished pronouncing your words.

"A giant?" You repeated, incredulously.

"I was fighting against the wildlings and this giant came to me out of nowhere…" He took a brief pause, shifting his position to a more comfortable one. You could see in his expression how it pained him to move, and you felt your heart break after seeing him in such a state." Last thing I knew I was flying across the field and landing on the rocks covered by the snow."

"You dumb, tall child," you muttered as you sat next to him. He immediately reached for your hand once again.

"For a moment I thought I was about to die," he confessed, "my mind played a memory of your laughter and I could've sworn I entered the heavens." You almost blush at his charming words, feeling the warmth of his love filling your heart with joy once again. "But then, I got really scared, my love, because I thought, for an instant, that I was leaving you behind… that our pups would've grown without his father, and that our Elion would've not known how to recognise my face."

And just like that, it was as if he was storytelling your worst nightmare; something that you were unable to think without shedding tears. The mere thought broke your soul into pieces. "But you are here," you whispered as you leaned to touch his face, "the gods had brought you back to my arms, because they know I cannot live without you." You grabbed a small bowl on the nightstand which was filled with water, and with a small cloth you started to wipe the blood out of his face. "You have no excuses now, I'm coming with you next time."

"Are you insane?" He quickly said. "Look what they did to me!"

"I would be riding my dragon, love… patrolling the skies so no other being can hurt you again," you spst with rage. "Look at you! They almost took you away from me, I will not allow this to happen again."

"My love-"

"I will not accept defiance from you, husband. I will burn them all, all those savages will die screaming for what they did to you," your voice broke mid sentence as tears streamed down your face. Cregan carefully stretched his arm to cupped your cheek, your immediate response was to lean towards his touch. "You forbade my participation in this war because I was carrying our child, but now I'm prepared enough to fight, and I will call my brothers, they will-"

"Do not," he stopped you, "there's no need."

You frowned, shaking your head. Your stern look was enough to make your husband know that you were disagreeing with him. No words needed, he knew you too well.

"You cannot," he muttered.

"Winterfell is my home now, the place where my children were born… the place when I married the love of my life. It is my duty as Lady Stark to protect it."

"I will not allow it," he shook his head. "I refuse to put your life at risk. Our children need their mother."

"As well as they need their father," you added. Cregan haze softened and his jaw was unclenched. He sighed, tired, hurted, but you did not bend to his words, you were firm in your decision. "Ten years ago we made a pact; you fulfilled your part of the deal by taking your tropes and your bannermen to secure my brother's claim. Aegon is king because of you, my family is alive because of what you and your men did," you reminded him. "It is time for us to return the favor. We got married because of this alliance, remember?"

"We got married because I fell in love with you the instant you arrived in your dragon," he confessed. You leaned back, a bit incredulous.

"You're a liar," you accused him.

"I swear I'm telling no lies, my beautiful princess," he smiled softly, still showing signs of his pain. The hand that was holding your face shifted its position to let his thumb wipe your tears. He scoffed after seeing your expression. "What? Did you really think I would let myself be seduced so easily?" You blushed, remembering the boldness in your attitude on the day of your first encounter. "I let myself go because you were something I just could not resist. You're my greatest weakness, my love, and for that exact same reason I cannot put you at risk."

"I can't let you come back out there alone, not when I have a dragon to protect you. Not when this happened."

"Please…"

"I love you, Cregan," you interrupted him, "and I cannot make it without you. I'm begging you, let me help you… allow me to call my brothers, they will be here within days."

"But-"

"No," you shook your head, "no buts. Let me protect our home, let me fight for it. Together we make a marvelous team, my love… we will win this just if we are together." You got closer to him, close enough to press your forehead against his. The blood of his wounds stained your skin but you did not seem to care, you needed to feel him close. "I don't care if I have to fly my dragon across the Wall, as long as I kill every single one of those who harmed you." You whispered your words, Cregan could taste the rage in them.

Your hands were caressing his wounded face as he moved his chin up in order to reach your lips in a tender and soft kiss. You felt the drops of blood coming out of the cut in his lip and being spreaded against yours. You could not care less.

"Promise me something," he whispered, your eyes remaining closed. "promise me that as soon as you feel something is wrong you will return here…"

You frowned, pulling away from him and opening your eyes. A confused look in them as you said, "and leaving you behind? No way."

"Y/n…" He sighed.

"No, I will not leave you there, Cregan," you shook your head. "As soon as I feel like something is wrong I will make you get up on my dragon and i will fly away with you."

"No, it's too risky."

"I do not care!" You grab his face, softly to not hurt him but strong enough to force him to look at you. "I will be by your side until death do us apart, get used to it. I will not abandon you, no fucking way. So either you accept this, or I will go to ride my dragon and kill them all, without you."

He knew you meant it. He knew your words were not lacking sincerity. He knew you too well. A small nod was all you needed to let go of the air contained in your lungs. He had accepted, making you feel some kind of relief. He was too tired to keep fighting against your ideals, and some part of him knew that, no matter how hard he tried, he would not change your mind.

"Send ravens to your brothers, my love," he said. "I'll send them to my bannermen."

"Okay…" you whispered, leaning forward just to press a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I will."

You stroke his brown thick hair before straightening up and attempt to walk out of the room. He held your hand, however, making you stop before you could move away. You turned to look at him, and Cregan smiled.

"I'm so in love with you, my little princess," he murmured. "My little dragon."

You felt the warmth in your cheeks as you pressed your lips to repress a silly smile. You had been married for more than ten years, and you still feel like a maiden being courted every time he would say those things to you. Your heart jumping out of excitement, making you forget all the problems that existed on the other side of the door. You allowed yourself to soften your hard demeanor, just for a few seconds, and only for him to see.

"We're going to protect our home," you said, "we're going to bring peace to our children's future… I promise you that."

"I know," he nodded.

A small silence was present afterwards, but it was quickly interrupted by your words, "I love you."

Cregan smiled.

"And I love you too."

You kissed his hand before letting him go. Walking towards the door and allowing the Maesters and the maids to come inside to attend your husband once again.

You gave one last look inside the room, and once again your hand fell on your belly out of habit. As the door closed, your facade became hard and stern. Your jaw clenched as your haze became one full of anger and hate; you asked for forgiveness to the gods, for you promised to yourself you were going to make all those savages scream in agony for what they had done to your sweet husband.

You were going to make sure of that.

BOLD MEANS I COULDN’T TAG YOU

GENERAL TAG LIST - @borikenlove @aemondsversion @jvpit3rs @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore @valeskafics @clairacassidy @aemondx @randomdragonfires @theminesofmoria @gothtargaryen

CREGAN TAG LIST - @melsunshine @satansdarlin @aelora-a @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @xfancyuu @megatardisbaby

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maidragoste · 5 months

Text

Thinking about Sea Dragon meeting Rhea Royce for the first time.

After you married Daemon you force him to take you to the Valley to give gifts to Rhea and apologize to her for marrying her husband and make the entire kingdom now talk about the three of you. You are surprised when you see her.

Y/n: You are beautiful

Daemon/Rhea: what?

Y/n: Rhea, you are beautiful! *hits Daemon* You said you'd rather be with a sheep than her. What's wrong with you? You're blind?

Daemon's karma is watching you and Rhea team up to irritate him. Besides hearing you refer to Rhea as "our wife"... At least you only do it when the two of you are alone.

#daemon's wife!au!#sea dragon!reader #velaryon reader #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon x y/n #daemon x you #rhea royce #hotd x you #daemon targaryen #daemon imagine #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #hotd

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arcielee · 6 days

Text

ānogar

Summary: Your husband helps comfort you. Paring: Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader Word Count: 2k+ Warnings: Reader AFAB, menstrual mentions, there will be blood, fingering, oral (f receiving), edging?, unprotected p in v Author’s Note: Thank you @schniiipsel and @sylasthegrim for being my beloved beta readers and making sure Daemon was Daemon-y enough. Thank you to the wonderful @zaldritzosrose for this banner! And thank you @lady-phasma! Your return to Tumblr and your anons inspired this depravity. 🖤 Valyrian translations: ānogar means blood, sȳz riña is good girl.

While the king only sought to sate the hold that the house of the dragon held within the Seven Kingdoms, the Lord Hand wished to find a wife to preoccupy the king’s brother. You were carefully chosen with this intention, the embodiment of what they both searched for, with the echo, “A sound match,” following your footsteps.

Before you had left for King’s Landing, your mother made it painfully aware of the weight of the reputation belonging to the Rogue Prince. “You must satiate his appetite, at whatever cost,” came her hot whisper in your ear, pinching your upper arm to hold your attention, “and make sure it results in a babe.”

Her words left a fluttering trepidation that accompanied your heavy steps, a hesitation that was twisting in the pit of your stomach as you entered the Council Chamber. Inside you could see that the king and his Hand were already seated, as well as Prince Daemon.

The silence was thick around you, and it seemed the prince was almost amused with your apparent discomfort. His steely gaze washed over you before falling to your fidgeting hands; a smirk played at his mouth.

“Well done, Otto,” he announced loudly, emphatically, and you burned from his informality. The king grimaced and Ser Hightower pursed his lips, but Daemon continued, unabashed: “Ābrazȳrys mazōrīnna.”

I accept my wife.

Though you were wary of the marital obligations that your mother frightened into you, the prince quickly soothed them away. He was as insatiable as rumored, but not in the way you had been warned. Instead, there was an unseen kindness that was reserved for you alone. Daemon took care to show you consideration and the first month of wedded bliss was a heady haze, an entanglement of bare limbs and open-mouthed kisses that boldly bruised your skin.

Though despite all this, you failed to produce an heir, and your shame came hot and slick between your legs.

“Imagine my hurt to learn that my wife does not wish for my company.”

Your maids had just left you alone after helping you change into a sheer chemise and wrapping the heated stones to place on your lower abdomen, something to help soothe your cramps. You look up to see Daemon leaning against your doorframe, waiting.

“I have been unwell today, husband,” you said, unable to hold his eyes.

His brow knots with his concern and he glides across the cobblestone to your bedside, his hand reaching to touch your face. “You are flushed, but not warm,” he observes, his eyes trailing to your tight grip on the bed linen. His large hands are gentle to unfurl your hold, pulling away the layers until he sees the wrapped stones laying on your stomach.

You squirm under his scrutiny, all too aware of how your body presses against the fabric you wore, all too aware of the crimson stain. Daemon dips his head to capture your eyes, his own showing a flicker of amusement while yours were wet with your embarrassment. “And this was reason enough for you to deny my company?” His voice was soft, but his cheeky undertone remained.

You struggle to put the words together. “But I am unclean.”

His eyes darkened with your admission, a grin spreading across his face. “What’s a little blood to a dragon?” He teases, looming closer to capture your lips.

You gasp, your body already yearning to touch him. Your fingers follow along his jaw and drop to pull at his collar, to pull him closer. He growls against your skin, a low rumble that reverberates through you; his hand moves to cup the nape of your neck and he bites into your lip.

You whine softly, a pulse of pleasure that is quickly crushed beneath the stones. You pull away. “Daemon, we shouldn’t…” but your protest is weak. Your body is already moving, spreading your legs to welcome him.

And Daemon knows this. He smirks, his hands pulling away the stones. “If you truly believe that I fuck you for the sole purpose of a silver haired babe, then perhaps I have not done my part right.” He shifts between your thighs, his hands just as warm as the rocks removed, skimming across your flesh and pushing up your chemise until you are able to pull it over your head. “Allow me to rectify that, ābrazȳrys.”

You fall back onto the bed, bare for your husband and already burning under his potent stare. His chin falls to his chest, watching his fingers flit to your patch of hair, trailing lower and pressing to spread your folds. A cooper scent fills the air, mixing with your own arousal, and he lets out an appreciative hum. His palms press to your thighs to lower himself between, placing a kiss on the inside of your knee with a tickling touch that you squirm against.

His hands tighten his hold on you, dimpling into the softness of your thighs. “Paghagon, sweet wife.” Breathe. The exhale with his command was a cool contrast to your heat building, your blood mixing with your passion that was thrumming to the surface. He pushes closer. “Allow me.”

You melt from the intimate kiss he places, your head tucking to see the glint of red to his wicked grin. He watches you as his other hand moves to touch and your mouth falls open with the wet squelch of his fingers curling within you–the same that have learned you so well. You feel the stretch of your velvet walls as Daemon searches carefully, delicately, until you finally emit the softest sound.

Daemon returns his attention to you, victorious, watching the gooseflesh ripple over you and your nipples pebbling from his touch. His fingers continue to curl upwards to that sweet spot, slow and deliberate. His other hand grips into your hip, pulling himself closer to place another kiss to your pearl that trills up your spine. “That’s it,” he murmurs against you. “Let me hear you.”

Your body is aflame from his ministrations; the come-hither pace of his fingers have your moans falling with abandon from your lips, from the buddying warmth that spreads and begins to brim on overwhelming. “Yes,” he growls, his grip now anchoring you to this pleasure building, almost bursting. You whine, your hips bucking. “Sȳz riña, just like that.”

It erupts from you with a fiery passion, your blood searing through your veins and muscles contracting, twisting the air from your lungs. You arch your back against the mattress, your fists knotting in the sheets as Daemon continues to pull this pleasure until you see spots of light dizzying in front of your eyes.

You are panting from this euphoria, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes before he finally withdraws his hand from you and wipes it onto the bed, a crimson red bold against the cream color. “Sȳz riña,” he repeats, and you feel something stir in your core again, sparked by the little bit of Valyrian he has taught you thus far: good girl.

“Daemon, please.” You push to your elbows, your eyes glassy. “Jaelan tolī.”

I want more.

He glows with a sense of pride with how it rolls off of your tongue and the bed dips with his weight, leaning over for his lips to trail towards your stomach. It tingles with the mixture of his mouth and the billow of his tunic, dotted with red. “Who am I,” his each deliberate word spills as his fingers dimple into your skin, pulling himself up and closer, “to deny my wife of what she wants?”

Your writhe beneath his weight and he moves to claim your mouth again. His lips are soft and warm with the taste of iron; when you sigh sweetly, he swallows it.

“You did so well for me.” His voice is velvet, a sultry praise you cherish. He shifts his body on top of you, pulling himself from his breeches and settling into the cradle of your hips. “One more for me, my sweet wife,” but he says it more as a statement than a request.

You are already willing, already canting your hips towards him. His arm reaches between to guide his length until you feel his swollen cockhead lining with your entrance with a slick, dull pressure that jolts through you.

He begins to move with gentle thrusts to fill you until he is sheathed deep within; Daemon stills when his hips are flushed to your own. He watches as you gasp for air, clenching to adjust, and his grin returns in tandem as he continues the slow roll of his hips, pressing even deeper.

Your moans mix with your cry, and the sound only spurs your husband to pull upright, reaching behind your knees and pushing until the tops of your thighs touch your chest, folding you and hovering above to set a brutal pace. Each thrust sparks something smoldering through your veins and pouring into your core.

Your cunt suctions greedily, a sticky mess. “I am close,” you gasp with the flutter of your walls. Daemon pulls away and you let out a sound.

“Not. Yet.” His large hands grab you with force, twisting you onto your stomach. You feel his palms kneed into your lower back, a firm touch that follows up your spine, massaging your aching muscles, and you moan but in a different way. You relax into his touch, and the bed shifts again as he leans over to press his lips to your spine.

“Daemon,” you are breathless, a different ache you are begging him to soothe. “Please.”

He tsks, still grinning, still pressing his palms to your skin, and you cannot help but savor the warmth of his tongue. “Sylugon arlī.” He says. Try again.

You lick your lips. “Daemon.” You are desperate. “Kostilus.”

“Please what,” he taunts, but you can feel his biting grip into your hips, pulling your arse upwards. You gasp as he sinks into you again, stretching you from a new angle. You bury your face into the bed, muffling your moan, a wet spot forming from your spit.

His fingers curl into the nape of your neck, pulling you up to meet with his merciless rhythm. He pounds into you, deeper and harder, and your pleasure begins to brim to the surface again. Your fingers curl into the linen as it splits you in half, a returning ecstasy with full force; Daemon allows you to fall forward, a sobbed release into the linen and its tangy mix of sex and blood. He bends over until his brow presses between your shoulder blades, a low groan as he hotly empties himself inside of you.

There is a quiet moment that follows, the sweet exchange as you both gather your breath, the returning tenderness reserved for you alone. You feel another kiss on your backside and your skin ripples in response. Daemon pulls away, a sticky mess in his wake, and you lazily roll over to watch as he tucks himself back into his slacks, unbothered by the red stains that now adorn his clothes.

He moves towards the door, but stops. “I will call for your handmaidens to draw you a hot bath,” his eyes flicker over towards you, “and to heat up new stones.”

You curl into the sheets, allowing ample skin to show for your husband. “Shall you join me for the bath?” Your tone is purposefully coy.

Daemon turns fully to look at you, his eyes raking over you and color still staining his cheeks. His heavy steps pull him back towards you, using one arm on the bed edge as the other reaches to grab you. You meet with him, hungry to kiss your husband again, and his tongue craftily rekindles the warmth you can still feel pulsing in your core.

He stops and pulls himself upright. Your eyes are wide, watching his signature smirk, his arrogant strut that takes him from the room. He leaves you with a fluttering warmth from his kiss, and though he said nothing, you trust that he and his insatiable appetite will return to you.

general taglist: @gemini-mama @fan-goddess @abecerra611 @myfandomprompts @dixie-elocin

@darkenchantress @fictionalmenjusthitdifferent @namelesslosers @itbmojojoejo @multyfangirl

arcie's navi || house of the dragon masterlist period smut collab

#house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x wife!reader

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barbieaemond · 7 months

Text

A curse for a curse

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, sub!Aemond, smut, oral sex (f and m receiving), overstimulation, orgasm denial, p in v, chains kink (idk if that’s even a thing but it’s there)

Word count: 8.5K

Author’s note: PLEASE READ THIS ->There's a little canon divergenge as in Rook's Rest is not happened yet, so Aegon is King and Aemond went to Harrenhal. Based on a request I got for sub!Aemond.

Taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @ashovertheriver

Harrenhal tastes like curse and smoke when she enters the blackened and ruined walls.

She is sure, as she is sure that dragons are real, that this place has been cursed over and over since Balerion and Aegon the Conqueror proved that not even stone was safe against dragonfire.

The air is heavy in her lungs, as breathing through a thick layer of wool and her steps echo down the corridors in a strange way; it seems like a never ending sound, echoing through the walls and many lost ages.

But her stride is steady, her eyes fixed on the doors of the Hall of One Hundred Hearths where she is sure to find him, where she will end this thing for which she has no name, and yet it is draining her, wearing her out like a starved leech.

“When is Aemond coming back?” the Queen Mother asks, and then little Jaehaera asks the same question, even Helaena, in those rare moments of clarity, wonders about her brother. And each time, she doesn’t know what to say. Her lip grows stiff, her jaw clenches and she wonders obsessively from dawn till dusk. What is he doing there?

Why has he not returned now that Harrenhal has been taken?

What is he doing with that bastard woman?

“They say she’s a witch.” King Aegon says with his glassy eyes, putting down his cup as he looks around to choose a target on which to pour his anger. Wine seems to not work anymore, it is not enough to quench his thirst for revenge, and unfortunately, she happens to be the easiest mark.

“He killed everyone in that gods-forsaken place. Everyone except the witch.” He leans forward, watching her with amused anticipation just like a child who waits for his favorite toy to break. “Why did he not do it, sweet good-sister?”

He wants her to snap, and surely something does snap inside her, but she refuses to be humiliated like this.

“I do not know, your Grace. Perhaps my husband learned the Gods’ mercy and decided to spare a woman.”

His chest shakes violently as he laughs, and there’s nothing more humiliating than his laugh, not even the whispers traveling all the way from the Riverlands.

He’s taken her as his prisoner, keeps her in his chambers.

She has utterly bewitched him.

Every word is a stab to her heart and every time his word reaches her through a raven, the wound splits more open and festers.

He does not mention the bastard witch. He says nothing on the matter. He informs her of the war progressing, tells her he will come back soon.

Soon.

Soon was two moons ago and he’s still there.

It doesn’t matter anymore, she thinks as she reaches the doors of Harrenhal. Soon is now.

The look on Ser Criston Cole is almost comical as two soldiers open the doors of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. “Princess?”

She immediately looks around, but there’s no silver in that huge black hall.

“What are you doing here?” the Hand asks, walking to her “It is not safe for you—”

“Where is the Prince?” she cuts him off, her tongue hitting her teeth like a blade cleaving the air.

Ser Criston looks puzzled for a moment, and even if she doesn’t show it, anguish twists her gut. But then he says “The Prince is not here, your Grace. He’s out, on the battle camp.”

She looks at the soldiers in the room, watching her like some kind of weird creature—a lamb in a den of wolves. That is no place for a princess, no place for a woman. And yet, it is precisely her place.

She belongs to his side. As he belongs to hers. It’s what she’s been telling herself for two moons of sleepless nights.

She should have come here with him in the first place, war be damned.

“Leave, please.” She orders the men “All of you. I need a word with the Hand.”

They may not be used to taking orders from a woman, but they immediately leave the Hall like a pack of unruly children.

The thud of the doors is like some kind of curtain falling and she is finally free of this act, free to snap.

“What is going on here, Ser Criston?”

He shifts on his feet, looking down, looking utterly incapable to answer her question. “The situation in the Riverlands is quite delicate at the moment—”

“I don’t give a shit about the war, Ser Criston.” She almost hisses “You are perfectly aware of what I’m asking.”

His mouth shuts and she resists the urge to use her hands as talons to part his lips and grab the truth from his throat.

“What is going on between Aemond and the witch.” she states, she is not asking.

The Hand sighs deeply and takes a step closer. His whole demeanor changes, becomes confidential, almost fatherly. “My Princess, you must not believe the foul whispers that have been spread.”

She feels a glimmer of relief blooming in her heart, but not strong enough to relinquish the leeches sucking at her bones. “What should I believe then?”

“It’s true. The Prince spared her life.”

“Does he keep her in his chambers?”

“What? Seven Hells, no. She has her own chamber. A little room in the wing intended for servants.”

“Did she ever visit his rooms? Alone?”

Ser Criston looks down for a moment, his lips contracting. “You must understand, my Princess. There are no servants here.”

The wound between her ribs cracks open.

There are no servants here. Did she help him dress? Did she help him bathe? Did she do all the things she used to do? All the things only she was entitled to do?

“I want to see her.”

“Princess, it is not wise.”

“I believe it is very much wise, Ser Criston, since my marriage is at stake here.”

Ser Cole sighs again. “She’s…dangerous, my Princess. She’s eerily persuasive.”

“So, you think it’s true? That she’s a witch?”

“I’m not sure about her powers, my Princess. All I know is that…one of our soldiers spat in her face when she was still a captive by order of the Rogue Prince and she just…murmured something to this man.” He swallows lowering his gaze and takes a deep breath. “The next day he ripped out his own tongue with his bare hands, bleeding to death.”

Disturbing as these words can be, she keeps a steady and cold face.

“She claims she can read the flames. That they speak to her, that she saw all of this happening—the Prince coming here. She claims she saw the fate of the war.”

A long silence stretches between them, but however right the Hand’s reasoning may be, she is not keen to let magic and superstitions take what she has come here to retrieve. “Take me to her.”

Ser Cole stalls for a moment, trying to make her give up by merely looking at her. But at last, he caves. “As you wish, my Princess.”

Her room is completely bare, save for a hearth and a bundle of dirty covers and a pillow thrown on the ground.

She enters and the air feels even heavier, more cursed. She feels it like something weighing on her shoulders, drying her throat.

There’s a woman sitting before the fire, clad in rags with long black hair falling down her back. She seems to register the door opening and closing only minutes later, as if she was too focused on her fire staring. But then she turns her head and looks at the woman before her with a strange smile.

“Alas, you have come.”

The Princess blinks quickly, watching the woman stand up and walk closely to her, chains on her feet and hands. She feels something unsettling under her skin, behind her eyes, as if she can’t stop looking straight into the green eyes of the witch, not even if she wanted to.

“You must be Alys.” She says, quickly scanning the witch before returning, inevitably, like a magnet, into her bright green eyes.

The woman, whose age is impossible to determine, keeps her smile as she looks at the Princess from head to toe. “You are exactly as I saw you in the flames.”

“That will save us some time, then. No need for introductions.”

“No. I know who you are.” The witch says, curling her cracked lips some more “I can see his mark on you.”

“His mark?”

“Yes.” She says, unnaturally widening her eyes. “He leaves a mark on everything. Things, places, people. Much like me, I’d say.” From her throat gushes a high-pitched laugh, jarring and spiteful. “We have much in common, the Kinslayer and I.”

The way she utters the last words makes the Princess grind her teeth, as if they were…what? Friends? Allies?

Lovers?

“Have you been in his chambers all this time?” she finally asks and the witch has the boldness to roll her eyes. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To know if he cheated on you?”

“Answer my question.” The Princess orders.

“Darling, If I wanted to fuck him, I would’ve done it ages ago.” She starts laughing again, grinning mischievously and then she sighs. “You left your mark on him as well. I can feel you in his head. And you are so heavy.”

She doesn't know what to make of that. There is not a single reason why she should trust her word. And it's not just the alleged powers this woman may possess. It's her whole demeanor. Haughty, even though she is a bastard. Mocking, as if she looks at the young woman before her, and sees much, much more.

“Just as you, I’d say, since he’s forsaken his family and his wife to do whatever you’re making him do it with your witchcraft.”

She bursts out laughing, so loud that the Princess flinches and takes a step back.

“I’m not making him doing anything. I can’t play with his head. He’s too stubborn. I did not curse him, sweetheart. Your beloved prince is already accursed.”

“Then what do you want? Gold? Lands?”

“I do what the flames command. I serve no God, no King, no Lord. And neither does your husband. It was his choice to see.”

“To see what?”

“What the flames choose to show. I know how this war will end. I know which color will stain the other for good. I know who will sit on the Iron Throne.”

The Princess furrows her brow, confused and puzzled, apparently pleasing the witch who smiles again and nods. “Oh yes, he will make a sight to behold wearing the Conqueror’s Crown.”

Who? Aemond? On the Iron Throne?

“So that’s how you’re keeping him here. With visions and fantasies.”

“He asked me to. At the moment I’m more valuable to him than all his generals and soldiers put together. Besides, I know how to deal with him.”

The Princess almost laughs at this. “I see. You think you can handle him, don’t you? A wild dragon for you to tame, is that what he is for you?”

“Well, I’m not denying he’s handsome enough to please my eyes.”

“And once you have tamed him, what will you do? How will you handle him when you scratch the surface, and you see the neglected son? Lonely, misunderstood, maimed. The boy no one cared for.”

It is the first time the witch does not have a quick biting answer. It makes the Princess rejoice.

“All your witchcraft won’t be enough to handle him.”

The witch falls silent. There is a distant look in her eyes as she observes the Princess and the more she stares, the more the younger woman feels dreadfully uncomfortable. She starts to feel something in the back of her mind, like a gentle abstract push.

“Ser Criston." she says suddenly, swallowing but keeping a collected mask. "The keys, please."

“Your Grace, Prince Aemond will not be ha—”

“I’ll deal with Prince Aemond.” She says, looking straight at the witch and the ghost of a superb smile hovers on her lips “I know how to handle him.”

The Knight slides the keys from his armor and hands them to the Princess. She is ready to free the witch’s wrists, but she stops, locking her eyes on Alys. “There is a carriage outside. And some guards who will do whatever Ser Criston will order them. Take it and go wherever you want, there’s even gold in the—"

“I told you, I don’t want—”

“I don’t care of what you want!” The Princess snaps, raising her voice, and the pushing dissolves. “You live to serve the flames? Fine. Do it elsewhere, far away from us.”

Alys shuts her parched mouth, and simply nods. “As you wish, Princess.”

She removes the shackles from her feet, and then from her hands, holding the chains between her fingers. Alys touches her hurting wrists, before tilting her head down in some kind of bow, or maybe a mocking gesture. The Princess cannot bring herself to care.

The witch makes her way past the younger woman but at last, she stops for a moment, leaning back her head of dark curls to say “I did touch him, just once. He put a knife to my throat.”

Vhagar likes to nestle on the burned blackened towers of Harrenhal, like some kind of dreadful reminder of the legacy of ruins and ashes Balerion the Dread has unleashed on this cursed land.

Aemond enters the castle walls with his circle of counselors and generals. They crowd on him like bees with honey and he knows why. He knows that most of the time they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. They hang on his lips and jump like little good soldiers, jostling with one another in the hope of gaining something more when the war ends. A land, a title, one of them had even had the guts to offer a daughter to marry.

“I am not sure of what you are implying, my Lord.” He had said to the Lord with a dangerous black glint in his eye, as the fool thought it was wise to remind the Kinslayer that he and his wife had had no children yet. “Whether you are insulting me or my wife. I am sure of one thing, though. You will shut your hole before I take your tongue and feed it to my dragon.”

There were no more talks of unwed daughters between those walls.

“My Prince, if you allow me—” one of them says as they enter the Hall of the Hundred Hearths “We should give the lords who pledged for the Blacks more time to consider—”

“I gave them enough.” He says turning with a glare, looking even taller than he is, with his silver armor streaked with gold and the long green cloak. “They will pledge to my brother before dawn or I will bring dragonfire to their lands. Then we shall see where their loyalty lies while they burn to the crisp.”

They all shush and Aemond almost thanks the Gods for this brief blessed moment of peace. He ponders for a moment and then looks at a young soldier behind him.

“Summon the witch.” He orders “Bring her to me.”

He looks down to remove his riding gloves but out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the boy is still there.

“Uhm, my Prince, the witch is not here anymore.”

“What do you mean she’s not here?”

“S-she left, your Grace.”

The last word does not even leave his mouth the poor soldier feels a hand around his neck and the Prince is easily lifting him from the ground as if made of feathers. “You let her flee?!” he rages with his eye blown wide.

“I-I did—not your Grace!” the boy manages to croak while he’s choking, legs kicking like a chicken in the butcher’s hands.

“He’s right. I did.” Her voice cuts through the air and Aemond turns his head in a blink, looking positively stunned to hear his wife, to see her there.

He lets the soldier boy go and stares at her on the threshold of the huge Hall. He blinks with disbelief, as if he’s finally able to see after days and nights spent in a cloud of fog. Something shifts inside him him—something that has been wandering ceaselessly day and night, lifting the weight from his shoulders, from his black heart. Not Harrenhal’s weight, not Alys’. A weight far darker, a curse far more dangerous.

“Out.” he orders the Lords “All of you.”

They obey at once, scattering down the Hall only to stop for a moment before the Princess, to pay their respect.

The doors close but she stays on the threshold. His eye roams on her figure, once and then twice. He has never seen her wearing such a simple dress, easy to disguise her noble roots, her royal ones. And even though the mere sight stokes almost three moons of ugly and burning desire, it only makes him angry. It only makes him ashamed.

“What in the name of the Seven are you doing here?”

She walks to him and without uttering a single word or even sparing a glance to him, she begins removing the heavy armor plates from his body.

“What are you doing?” he asks with deep wrinkles on his forehead.

“My duty as wife.” She replies sternly, holding his arm “Or did you forget you had one?” she looks at him and sees rage blazing behind his eye—rage and maybe a tinge of hurt.

“Am I doing it right?” she asks removing the armor plate from his forearm “Was your witch friend better than me?”

The metal clatters on the ground as he grabs her arm, hard, pulling her close. “I asked you a question. We’re at war and you go strolling around the continent? Have you lost your mind?”

She tries to wriggle herself out of his iron grip, unsuccessfully as always. “How strange, that is a question I should ask you.”

“Enough.” He says grinding his teeth, digging his fingertips into her skin until her mouth twists with pain.

“Enough was two moons ago, Aemond. When you were supposed to come home, to your family, to me.”

“In case you didn’t notice, we’re at war, my dear wife. Things in war don’t go exactly as you planned them—”

“Oh spare me!” she cuts him off, freeing herself “Spare me the war talk, that’s all I’ve been hearing from you.”

“What did you expect exactly? Love letters?”

“I expected what I deserved. To know the truth. You have not mentioned her. Ever, not even once. Do you have the faintest idea of what I’ve been through all this time? Of all the dirt they have been spreading behind my back?”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” He says turning his back on her, as if he had not done that enough.

“No, you will.” She promises, circling him to look straight at him again. “They said you were so besotted with her to deny her leaving your chambers.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.” He says again, closing his eye for a moment.

“They said, and this was from the wretched mouth of your beloved brother, that you put a child in her womb since I was not able to give you an heir.”

“I don’t want to hear about it!” he shouts, and she knows she hit a nerve there, because he never shouts.

“Why? Does it make you ashamed? It should. I had to hear all of it. I had to endure it while you stayed here playing fortune teller with your witch whore.”

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath and raises his gaze to look at her, dead serious. “You know nothing about her powers. She saw many things, happened precisely as she predicted. I needed her. I needed her powers and you had no right to send her away.”

“You needed her?” she repeats, pale with utter disbelief. “You needed her for what? For her to tell you how good you’ll look wearing the Conqueror’s Crown? To feed you with fairy tales while we risk our lives staying in the capital, unprotected because Dreamfyre can’t fight and Tessarion is still in Oldtown. What if the Blacks decide to attack us now? They have a dozen of dragons, we have only Sunfyre.”

“The Blacks will not attack.”

“Did she tell you this? Did she see this in the flames?” she can’t fight back the contempt curling her lips “Are you listening to yourself? Flames and visions to win a war? You poor fool.”

“Watch your mouth, woman.” he seethes “You don’t talk to me like this.”

“Or what? Are you going to chain me up? I kept her chains, you know? I thought you’d like a token of your time with the witch.”

“Did you come here for this? To make a scene like some common girl who feels threatened by another woman?” his lips turn upwards, curling and twisting with ugly deprecation “What do you think you know about the war? What is your contribution while you lie around in a lavish castle waiting for me to come back and fuck you? I’ll tell you. None. You can’t even perform your duty to give me an heir. And you come here to lecture me?”

The wound is rotting from the inside and he’s pouring salt on it.

“I came here for my dignity. As a woman, I have nothing else. I came here for your mother, who I fear will go mad with worry just as your sister. And lastly, to tell you that I’m with child.”

Aemond stills completely, so much that she thinks the witch’s curse is hitting him right now, no matter how far she is, turning him into stone.

“But it seems utterly irrelevant to me right now. So, go. Hurry! You might still find her.”

She moves to leave the room and he does it at the same time, trying to reach her, to stop her, but she flinches as he tries to touch her, battling his hands away.

Aemond utters her name, softly, and it makes her stomach turn.

“I will leave at dawn.” She informs him with a blank face “I won’t disturb you and your precious war any further. Fret not, husband. I will stay in my lavish castle like the good soldier I am, waiting for you to come back and fuck me.”

This is place is not only cursed, but it is also so freezing cold that she wishes for one of those direwolf furs the Northerners use to wear as she sits before the hearth in what she assumed to be Aemond’s chambers. The room is large, even larger than the ones they share in the Red Keep, but it’s completely bare and almost ominous with its black walls that stink of ash and smoke.

A cursed place, fitting for a cursed woman.

She has been for quite some time. Because she chose to stay by his side, because she chose to love him.

“We could turn to a Septon. Annulments are rare but possible. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins.” Her father had said in a letter, in the aftermath of Lucerys’ death.

As if she could leave him, as if she could turn her back on him and marry another man.

As if he hadn’t left his mark on her.

She thought the Gods had cursed her for good, that was why, however much they tried, she couldn’t bear his child.

“A child is the highest of the blessings from the Gods.” Her mother had said during one of her last visits to the capital “How can they bless your union with a man so accursed?”

And yet.

She is impatiently waiting for the sun to set. Even if her limbs have never been so heavy, as much as her heart, she finds no reason to stay here, not when she can’t stand even the sight of him. But of course, how can there be peace in such a cursed place?

She hears the door opening. She knows his gait. She wished to hear it for two moons as she lied alone in their bed.

She hears him approach until he is beside her, but she does not look at him. She only sees his arm holding out a small tray.

“Eat.” An order, not an invitation.

She doesn’t even bother to look at the food, keeping her cold gaze on the fire. “I’m afraid I lost my appetite, dear husband. You can thank yourself for that.”

She can feel his eye piercing, burning her skin, the air coming from his nose short and harsh.

“Eat or I’ll feed you myself.”

She doesn’t bother to even answer this time.

Aemond stares at her, waits for her to look at him, he needs for her to look at him. “Is it true?”

“What?”

“That you’re with child.”

“In my husband’s lovely words, I lie around all day so I guess I’m capable enough to notice if I miss my moonblood.”

He leaves the tray on the stone mantelpiece, noticing a pair of chains lying there, and then looks down at her. “You will stay here with me.” Another order.

Another rejection. “I will not.”

“Yes, you will. You are not going anywhere, not in your condition.”

“I see. Now I’m worth something to you, am I not?” and finally she looks up “My duty is fulfilled, my womb is finally swollen. It’s a shame your witch left, we could have asked her to look in the flames and tell us if it’s a boy or a girl.”

Aemond lowers his shoulders and grabs her chin with the same cruelty he is used to brandish his sword, tightening her cheeks to prevent her from uttering another word. “I said enough.”

He watches as she tries to escape his grip, pushing his shoulders as her eyes grow more and more scornful, and he knows he deserves it. But that ugly thing breaks, snaps like a thin rope pulled too tight.

His mouth is on hers, fingers squeezing her cheeks to force her to take his kiss, which is not really a kiss, but more of an act of war, a relentless and rather quick siege, because she was already starving. She opens his mouth and this alone makes him whine with relief as his tongue slides between her teeth. Her hands grab his doublet collar, knuckles turning white and she angles her head, only to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He winces as he pulls his head back and sees her licking her lips, a dead distant look in her eyes. But her hands move, gently, through his silver strands. "My words are but blunt knives on you. I must hurt you in the only way I can."

“I did not touch her.” He says like an oath “Ever.”

“I know you didn’t.” she reassures him, but her eyes stay distant, as if even being this close now, they are also miles and miles apart. “Maybe it would’ve been better if you had.”

“Did you want me to fuck her now?”

“I wanted you to need me, not her.”

His eye is on flame, rage and shame dancing together, but it’s not aimed at her. He finds that the only person on the receiving end is none other than himself.

Something dies in his eye, his shoulders slump and his head falls forward, hiding what no one would dare even think of seeing on the stern, cruel face of Aemond One Eye.

He kneels before her and lays his head on her belly, catching her off guard. She can't see his face, and yet she has it before her eyes, clear and indisputable as something carved into stone.

The surface has never been so frail. She doesn’t even need to scratch it, she only has to lift it.

No man is so accursed as the Kinslayer.

She had thought it true enough, but what about Aemond’s curse?

“I know you feel guilty.” She says, or rather whispers, as if she’s being blasphemous by accosting such a word to such a man. “I know you feel guilty for Jaehaerys. For Helaena.”

His answer is mute, but it’s the loudest confession she could get.

He fists the fabric of her gown between his hands, knuckles turning white on the verge of breaking. She feels him nestling further inside her, like a child, and she closes her eyes for a moment, placing a hand on her wound to stop the bleeding, and leans over him, sliding her hands on his back, softly but firmly, as if helping him to stay whole, as if preventing him from breaking into pieces.

Aemond didn’t believe in curses.

He did not regret, not even for a moment, the murder of Lucerys. He did not care that the Gods had turned their backs on him. They had done it a long time before. He did not care of how people called him, of how they would baptize him in the annals of his lineage.

He had started to care, to feel guilt, after he actually killed his kin.

For he had killed Jaehaerys, he had killed Helaena.

Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer.

In his head, he heard that word with his mother’s voice, with Aegon’s, Helaena’s.

He found some kind of peace, of solace, only in his wife. But then the war was calling and he fled to Harrenhal. It was his duty, it was his way to try to make things better, to get revenge.

He had taken Harrehanl back and he knew he should have come home. But then the witch, the very same who had forced a man to rip out his own tongue, had spoken to him, talking about visions and flames, of predictions that happened to be alarmingly accurate, of him sitting on the Iron Throne with the Conqueror’s Crown on his silver head.

And he saw an opportunity, however blurry, to set things right, as they should have been in the beginning. He saw a way to get the upper hand in this war. And furthermore, as much as he did not realize it, he had found a way to stay away from the Keep. He would rather dare with witchcraft than return home and hear Helaena's wails cutting through doors and walls, and through his heart.

But next to the guilt had come the shame, for he had turned his back on his wife, for he could imagine the filth their enemies and non would spread, like shit flowing in the sewers.

He had tried to confine her to the back of his mind, but she became heavier and heavier as the days passed, along with the scarce letters in which he never mentioned the Rivers bastard.

She, of course, had sensed it immediately.

“You can’t win this war if your mind is elsewhere.” She had said one night, on one of his visits to her room.

He always stayed on the threshold, arms laced behind and poorly disguised distrust stretching his features.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking head.”

“You need not worry, my Prince.” She retorted with a chilling smile “I can’t play with your head. It’s too heavy…and ugly. And this woman…oh, she’s eating you alive.”

The witch is gone now, and yet she is still there.

She lingers on the walls of his chambers like a ghost, she imposes a wall between him and his wife and perhaps neither of them is strong enough to climb it. So, for days they just circle one another like wounded animals.

The Princess is staying with him of course. He has forbidden her to leave his side and she has caved, on one condition though. She has given him three days to deal with the Riverlands and then they will go home, together, where they are needed, where the mighty dreadful Vhagar is needed.

The day before their departure, Aemond returns victorious from the Riverlands. He has gained the allegiance of the lords in a way Visenya Targaryen would be proud of.

He will never forget the Lords' faces draining of color, probably pissing themselves, as Vhagar roared a war chant in the sky, and tongues of fire brushed the lands as warning.

He enters the chambers quietly and sees her crouched on the floor as her hands dig into a drawer, pulling out papers that she carelessly drops to the ground. Aemond closes the door firmly, announcing his presence, and she looks at him for a single moment before sighing in defeat, closing the drawer.

“Looking for my love letters?” he teases, for the first time after days of loud silence.

“I was looking for ink, actually.” she says looking below a paper left on the table. “Besides…love letters from you? Ghastly.”

He can’t fight back the smirk curling his mouth as she walks close to him and begins removing the armor. He looks at her face and she’s stern, almost rigid in her gestures, in the way she touches him, as if she despises doing it and yet she can’t help herself.

He doesn’t have a clue.

He doesn’t know that her stiffness has nothing to do with contempt. He doesn’t have a clue of how much she aches for him. Of how much she wants for him to take her, fast and rough, as he often used to do, because she can’t stand to be treated like some porcelain doll to be cocooned thanks to his child growing inside her belly. She wants to be more than that, she demands to be his wife again.

“Have you eaten?” he asks her, gently, and she wants to break something.

She can’t stand it anymore. She can’t stand all the questions.

Did you eat? Did you rest? Did you sleep?

“Is this how is going to be from now on?” she asks looking up “You acting as if you are my maid?”

He clenches his jaw and his face turns stern just like hers.

“First you accuse me to have forsaken you and now you don’t want my attention. Make peace with your mind, wife.”

“I want you to be my husband.” She says getting close to him until she smells dragon and ashes.

She wants to bathe in it. “I want to be your wife.”

Aemond’s eye lingers down on her throat, on her constricted chest, and his lips part. “You are.” He vows, locking his eye on her.

“Prove it.” She whispers tilting her head with a challenge dancing on her parted lips, hovering against his.

He is one breath away from swallowing her whole but he stops, melding their breaths in one, and he grins. “Are you going to bite me again?”

“As if you didn’t like that.”

A moment later his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her lip, her neck. His hands are everywhere, frantic and needy. She can feel he’s restraining from holding her too tight, but she wants, no, she needs more. She wants him in her bones.

They move without logic, clinging to each other, trying to assert dominance on one another. He grabs her wrists and forces her down on the chaise beside the hearth. He is looking at her in the same old way, as if he’s blind to anything else. She aches so much for him that she’s breathing hard, the word please climbs her throat, slides on her tongue, but she will not beg for him.

In all truth, she doesn’t have to.

He kneels on the ground like a pious man at the altar, and she hikes up her skirts, spreading her legs to place them on his shoulders, heels pressing on his back to bring him close.

“You know what you want, don’t you?” He teases with a feral grin.

“Curse you and your hideous smirk.” She says sliding on the chair to bring her apex close to his overly talkative mouth.

“You love my smirk.” He says grabbing her thighs to secure them around his face. “Besides, I’m already cursed.” He leaves a red mark biting on the soft skin of her thigh, looking straight at her and how she startles, whining in half pain half pleasure.

She catches a glimpse of the sapphire glinting between her thighs before her eyes fall shut and she moans unnaturally loud as he licks a stripe along her wet folds and up to her apex.

She is trembling with anticipation, with arousal that pools from her, glistening his mouth and nose. Her hips begin bucking against him and he moans contentedly as he buries his tongue inside her, lapping and tasting like a starved beast.

Her breath grows shorter and shorter for how close she is already, so much that he stops to look at her with a spiteful grin. “Already? Gods, you must have missed me terribly.”

“Shut up.” She whispers hoarsely and pulls herself up just enough to grab his head, pulling his hair to force him to take where he left off. Her hips are rocking on their own against his face, nails scratching his scalp harder and harder as she comes undone in his mouth, while he hums with pleasure, drinking of all her. Eye fixed on her as he watches her throw her head back, spasming and trembling with a loud moan.

Her back hits the back of the chaise as she catches her breath and looks at the black ceiling in a moment of pure bliss. Two moons of anguish are but a distant memory, her mind is foggy, she doesn’t even remember the face of the witch.

He dismantles her legs from his neck and she looks down at him, cheeks red, watching as he climbs on her, unbuckling his belt.

“No.” she says, and she stops his hands. “Do you think I would make it so easy for you?”

Aemond looks at her, half puzzled half curious, and then she pushes him down, overturning their positions so now she’s sitting on his lap, feeling all of his hard length against her.

“It’s my turn to prove it.” She says raising an arm that goes on the mantelpiece behind them.

“Prove what?”

“That you’re my mine.” She promises, and Aemond hears the distinct sound of metal clinking.

She lowers her arm and he sees a pair of chains between her fingers. He is bold enough to smirk at her. “I thought you were the one who wished to be chained.”

“I’m not the one in need of a lesson.”

She grabs his wrist but he easily pulls away. “What if I don’t want to?” but there’s an intriguing glint in his eye, on the edges of his arched mouth.

“Then who will take care of you?” she asks with fake innocence, grinding on his cock, and she smiles as the air comes out of his mouth in a hiss. “Are you sure your hand will suffice?”

He looks at her with challenge, breathing slowly through his mouth, and he caves.

“Chain me.”

She smiles darkly and grabs his wrists, fastening the chains and then locking them to the sides of the chair. She stands and grabs his legs, sliding his back further down.

She notices his eyebrow rising and she looks at him. "I want you to be comfortable. I'm afraid this will not end so soon."

He swallows with anticipation and watches her as she slowly climbs back on top of him and begins to unbutton his doublet., pushing the fabric aside to reveal his diaphanous pale chest and her hand slides over it, over his ribs, stomach, and navel, halting his breath.

Her lips hover against his, swallowing his shallow breath, but suddenly her head dips down, leaving a trail of little heated kisses on his neck, on the planes of his chest.

He watches as she does that, feeling her lips like burning embers marking his skin. Her eyes lock on him and she opens her mouth engulfing one of his nipples, circling her tongue around it. He tilts his head back, lips parting to let a puff of scorching air out, and then she's grazing her teeth over the soft pink skin.

The chains metal clink as he winces.

She grins pulling herself up and slides a bit down his legs with her bottom, so she has open room to his belt. She begins unbuckling it, looking at him, watching the glare he’s giving her.

“I can’t tell whether you want to kill me or fuck me.”

“I need you to fucking do something.”

“Like what?” she asks, palming his cock through the fabric “Tell me, husband. I may grant your wish.”

He rocks his hips in one slow movement, trying to feel every inch of her hand, but it’s a faint touch that only makes him ache for more. “Move, grind on me.” His voice is imperative as always, but his tone is different—all heated and husky.

She frees him of the constricting belt and breeches and lays on him, releasing a blissful sigh when she feels the hot hard flesh colliding perfectly against her core. The chains clink again as he tries to move and she smiles, caging his snatched waist between her legs.

Aemond is panting quietly, trying to get a grip on his own body but he finds it’s a useless fight when he’s so hard it’s starting to hurt.

But then his wife seems in favour of granting him some mercy. She starts grinding on him and his lips part some more, panting loudly this time, as he feels, and hears, the beautiful obscene sounds her wet flesh is making rubbing on him.

“Lift up your skirts. Let me see.”

She stops grinding and he almost whines with annoyance, moving his chained wrists in a useless attempt to grab her waist and force her to move again.

“I don’t like that tone, husband.” She says, and her voice is husky as well, her breath labored “Ask nicely.”

Aemond is silently starting to regret this whole thing. Patience was never one of his virtues, if he even has virtues. He’s completely at her mercy and cannot do anything but comply.

“Please. Lift your fucking skirts and let me see.”

“Hmm.” She hums smiling. “Better.”

Her skirts turn into a bundle of fabric around her waist and he dips his chin, looking straight at their flesh as she resumes her torture.

“Fuck” he utters, his eye growing heavy but he keeps looking, and he doesn’t have a clue whether it’s the rubbing or the mere sight of her coating his cock that draws a moan out of his throat.

“Do you see how I much I’ve missed you?” she asks hoarsely, grinding more and more firmly.

His head hits the back of the chair as he keeps panting and rocking his hips against her, lifting his waist as if desperately trying to slide inside her.

“I touched myself every morning. I woke up all wet and aching for you. And where were you? Here, plotting with your witch.”

“Enough of that fucking witch.” he croaks, a sheen of sweat is ghosting on his forehead. “Faster.”

She does the opposite. She stops altogether. And this time, he can’t do nothing to muffle the whimper gushing out of his trembling mouth.

The Princess tilts her head, savoring each moment, and soon his piercing glare comes back even sharper. “Once I’m free of these fucking chains, I’m going to fuck you senseless till morning.”

“Unless you are still chained to this chair in the morning.”

He watches as her hands hover on his thighs, a feather touch that drives him mad, that makes his hips buck uselessly. His lips twist, swallowing a plead his pride won’t allow him to let go.

But she hears it nonetheless, in the way his fingers flex and twist, in his chest raising fastly. It may suffice, but it doesn’t.

“Stubborn, are we?” she teases, just like her hands, barely touching down his navel. “Your witch got it right. She said you are too stubborn, that’s why she couldn’t play with your head. She couldn’t handle you.” her fingertips finally dip down and she can see the silent plead in his eye.

“I can, though.” her palm brushes the tip and he whimpers, again.

“Please…” he whispers impossibly low, too low for her liking.

“Louder, my love.”

His mouth twists again but the need, the ache is so heavy that it burns out all the pride numbing his tongue.

“Please…” he begs freely “Please, touch me.”

A groan rolls out of him as she finally grabs it, squeezing softly before starting a slow rhythm up and down. He pants loudly, hips moving on their own as he tries to fuck her hand with a steadier pace. “Don’t rush it.” she scolds him, placing a firm hand on his waist to stop his frantic movements.

“I can’t take it…let me come…”

“Already? Gods, you must have missed me terribly.”

“You’re cursed, woman.”

“Takes one to know one. A curse for a curse.”

She looks at him, hair all ruffled and sweaty on his forehead, a painful pleading expression twisting his sharp features and she smiles victorious. “I have half a mind to leave you like this.” She says and for a moment, he dreads she’s being serious.

“Luckily for you, I’m just as greedy as you are.”

In a swift moment she nestles between his legs and he’s moaning loudly before he even has time to register anything, except her lips locking around his tip, sucking so harshly he thinks she’s going to utterly drain him.

She starts a steady pace, just as he likes it, taking all of him, down to the base untili it hits the back of her throat. The chains clink and clink against the chair as he twists his wrists, bucking his hips harshly to fuck her mouth as deeper as he can, enthralled by the lewd sounds she’s making.

“Gods, yes…” he moans watching carefully as he slips in and out of her “Yes…just like that, just a little more…”

She feels him tense inside her mouth, she feels him tense all over and she knows he’s dangerously close. She stops for a moment, licking her lips and looks at him. “Don’t tell me you’re going to break the rule.”

Aemond groans with frustration, not having the faintest idea of what she’s talking about. He isn’t even sure he remembers his own name. He is just blood boiling and bones so tense they’re close to snap.

“What was it again?” she asks “Ah, yes. My seed belongs in your cunt.” She leaves a trail of soft kisses on his hard flesh and he whimpers once more. “My ever-romantic husband.”

“Fuck the rule, you’re driving me mad. Let me come.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please.” He begs “Please let me come in your mouth.”

The Princess is merciful enough to grant his wish. She engulfs him once more and he moans loudly for how sensitive he is. She picks up the pace and pride washes over her, pooling between her legs, as she sees him writhing beneath her, moaning with his mouth open, eye closed shut and the chains clink like a frantic bell while he twists his scratched red wrists.

He curses and mumbles nonsense under his breath until he stills completely letting out a long and loud grunt, spilling abundantly inside her mouth. She swallows to the last drop, gently sucking the pulsing tip.

The chains are finally still and silent. He’s breathing hard and short with his head thrown back, staring at the ceiling without seeing anything.

That is until he winces, feeling her hand on his sensitive skin. He raises his head to look at her, almost puzzled. She smiles slyly, moving her hand up and down. “Did you think it was over?”

If he did not feel so spent, he would be utterly thrilled and definitely flattered.

“Seven Hells, woman, give me a bre—” words die on his tongue wiped out by a hoarse gasp as she takes him in her mouth again. But this time, she sucks so slowly that Aemond actually whines in pain. And she looks straight at him, while her head bobs, relishing every moment, watching as he comes undone beneath her, babbling pleads, begging her to stop and a moment later to keep going. His voice is breaking, cracking as he whines and whimpers, poised between pain and pleasure.

Soon though, she hears more whines of pleasure than pain, as gets harder and harder in the hot haven of her mouth.

Suddenly she stops, and just stares, savoring the sight before her. The cruel Aemond One Eye, chained to a chair in a mess of sweat and sobs.

“Untie me…” he says, trying to make it sound like an order, but it’s a pale imitation of his usual tone. His words are slow, sluggish.

“You are not in charge here, my love.”

“Then quit the act and fuck me.”

Perhaps, if she wasn’t so equally desperate for him, if she wasn’t leaking between her thighs, she would have prolonged this torture, this excruciatingly sweet punishment. But she can’t take it anymore.

She climbs on him, and it takes her the least effort to let him slide inside her. He slips his back further down that chaise so that his hips are angled just enough to thrust into her, fast and steady.

“Oh Gods—yes!” she moans throwing her head back, frantically bouncing on him.

“D’you miss this?” he rasps, with a tinge of his usual infuriating confidence “Did you think of this when you touched yourself? Missed my cock inside you, hmm?”

She clamps a hand on his mouth to shush him and he bites her palm, thrusting even harder, making her whine loudly until her throat goes dry and her sight go white. They fall in a wild frenzy, utterly intoxicated with each other, leaving bites and marks all over, sealing one inside the other with a curse much more dangerous than any kind of witchcraft.

They come together, as she clutches his head to her chest so tight that he can barely breathe. He rests his head on the chair, slowly catching his breath, and she nestles against him, still sank on him.

He moves his hands to touch her, wincing for his aching wrists.

“Untie me now, would you?” he asks softly on the crown of her head.

“I’m not sure.” She muses against his chest. “I’ve quite enjoyed having you at my mercy.”

“Who said I didn’t?”

She moves her head to look at him, a little smile starting to light up her face and he looks down at her lips, mirroring her.

“Besides, it’s your turn.”

She raises her eyebrows fighting back a smile. “Now?”

“Haven’t you heard? No man is so accursed as me.”

#a curse for a curse #liv (in la vida loca)#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond x wife reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x wife reader #aemond smut #hotd fic #house of the dragon #aemond one eye

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dedicatednotobsessed · 10 days

Text

Comforts of the Night [Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader]

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Other HOTD stories [requests open]

Summary: After a long day of trying to hunt down your elder brother, Aegon, you and your husband, Aemond unwind, trying not to think of what the morrow will bring...

TW: Mentions SA on a minor.

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Your long silver hair was down and flowing, and you were already dressed for the night while you put your twins to bed. Your fingers ran over the gold trim of the book in your lap, furrowing your brows. You wanted this moment to last forever, knowing that your peaceful life would plunge into chaos on the morrow.

“Mama?”

The small, sweet voice pulled you from your thoughts, smiling at your daughter, who watched you with big doe eyes, the same shade of soft purple as yours.

“Yes, little one?” You replied, standing up to put the book back on the shelf.

“Why didn’t papa come?”

You sighed softly at the question. “Your papa had a long day.”

Vhaenys pouted. “Will he still come? He always comes.”

You turned to your daughter, giving her a soft smile. Vhaenys leaned more onto your brother-husband, Aemond, whereas her elder twin brother, Vanar, was more attached to you. Vanar was more timid than his sister, but sometimes you caught Vhaenys chipping away at his shy shell.

You stroked back her hair, frowning. “Perhaps he will still come in to bid you goodnight.” You leaned down, kissing the top of her head. “But because the sun is asleep, I need you to close your eyes, sweet one.”

“But, mama-”

“I will make sure Papa comes in and bids the both of you goodnight before we rest.”

The little girl pouted but nodded, hugging her stuffed green dragon close to her body. It was a toy given to her at birth. Hers was made to resemble your husband’s dragon, Vhagar, and your son had a white stuffed dragon to match yours—a shimmery iridescent dragon known as Revnass.

You pulled the blanket around her before giving her another small kiss on the forehead. You walked over to Vanar, who was already fast asleep, kissing his head. “Goodnight, my byka zaldrīzoti*.”

You took a deep breath, wrapping your dark blue robe tight around you as you made your way to your marital chambers. You walked in to see Aemond in the same spot he was in when you went to read the children to sleep, still dressed in his doublet. You stayed silent, making your way over to the wine to pour yourself a glass.

“Did the twins go down easy?” Aemond asked, breaking the silence.

You nodded, taking a small sip of your wine. “Vhaenys falls asleep easier if you read to her, though.”

“I will make it up to her and Vanar as well.”

You glanced at Aemond, watching his mannerisms, your eyes wandering down to his hands. The way he was fidgeting his fingers gave him away in his calm composure. He tried to hold his head high, but you could tell his mask was slowly crumbling.

You licked your lips lightly, looking down at your cup, tracing the lip of it with your ring finger. “Why did you never tell me what happened on our thirteenth name day?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Aemond replied, playing simple.

“Aemond,” You whispered, the hurt evident in your voice. “I know you better than you know yourself. Do not toy with me.”

His hand fidgeting stopped his gaze still on the fire before him. “What would I have said to you, Y/N?” Aemond questioned, his voice thick with emotion.

“You would have told me where Aegon took you, what the Madame–”

“We were children then!” Aemond raised his voice, his mask washing away as his voice cracked. “No one would have believed me in the end.”

You frowned, his words breaking your heart. “Oh, my love.” you set your wine down before making your way over to the fireplace. You bent beside his chair, taking his hand in both of yours. “Aemond, look at me.”

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. He only turned his head when you reached up, cupping his cheek. The tears rolling down his cheeks glistened from the firelight, the sight utterly shattering you. It was rare to see him cry, your husband not even shedding a tear when he lost his eye from your nephew many years ago.

You sighed softly, blinking back the tears stinging your eyes. Slowly, you stood, taking his other hand to help him up. You reached up to remove his eyepatch, your thumb gingerly tracing his scar, his sapphire sparkling back at you. You moved your hands to remove his doublet, your eyes flickering to your husband. He seemed to be in such a vulnerable state.

“Come on,” You whispered, taking his hands once more.

You led him over to your bed, getting on first before you took Aemond’s hand after helping him take his boots off. You relaxed against the pillows, tugging Aemond to you. He sniffled, laid his head in your lap, and hugged you around the middle. You laid back slightly, removing the tie from his hair and running your fingers through his silver locks.

“I can kill her for you if you’d like,” You said softly after a moment. “The Madame,” You clarified. You did not enjoy how she was eyeing him earlier, as though he was prey and she was waiting for the right moment to strike.

Aemond sniffled and shook his head, his tense body loosening under your touch. “I do not want to think about her,” He whispered, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, although your mind was already hatching ideas on ways to kill the Madame or torment her the same way she tormented your husband. Aemond squeezed you tight as though if he let go, you would disappear. You sighed while closing your eyes, your fingers still running carefully through each strand of his soft hair as you began to sing a lullaby. It was called Twin Green Dragons, one your wet nurse would sing to you and Aemond, and now you sing it to your twins;

“In a realm where moonbeams dance,

Two green dragons, twins of chance.

Their wings unfold, a gentle sight,

Guarding dreams throughout the night.

Twin green dragons, side by side,

In their realm, they’ll be your guide.

Close your eyes, let worries fade,

In their care, your dreams are made.

Sleep now, dear one, without fear,

The dragons’ song is drawing near.

Twins of green, they softly sing,

To you, their lullaby they bring.”

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*byka zaldrīzoti: It means little dragons in High Valyrian.

Thank you to @mrsdaemontargaryen for writing the lullaby, Twin Green Dragons for me to include at the end of this Aemond drabble. ❤️

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flowerandblood · 1 year

Text

The sweetest fruit

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Valyrian! • female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, sexual tension ]

[description: (Anon Request) Aemond is to meet his future wife from Essos, in whose veins runs the blood of Old Valyria. They've been engaged since they were kids, but he's in no hurry to get married and he's not happy about her arrival. His future wife, however, turns out to be someone completely different than he expected. Smut, angst and a lot of sexual tension.]

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Aemond knew this day would come someday. He had known since he was a child. He knew his wife would be a woman from across the Narrow Sea, the blood heiress of Old Valyria of House Vhassar, residing in the Volantis with her family. The thought of her was as distant to him as the continent she was on.

When his mother told him that his fiancée would eventually come to Westeros to marry him, he thought he was going to faint. For some reason he thought that he had more time, at least a couple of years.

He had Alys, who he visited whenever he wanted, satisfying all his needs. He made sure she didn't get pregnant, not wanting to have bastards. The freedom she gave him suited him. He felt like a dragon about to be locked in a dragon pit.

Nevertheless, Volantis was King's Landing's greatest bank and sponsor of some war expeditions. He knew their alliance was of state importance, and he couldn't refuse.

He took his mother's words in silence, clenching his jaw and looking away. He tried not to show how much he disliked this idea and made the decision, that he would fulfill his duties properly.

On the day her family arrived at the royal harbor, a great feast was held in the main hall. He waited until the very end, not wanting to look at her or talk to her. He knew what he looked like. He didn't want to see the bride's look of horror or disappointment that she would have to spread her legs for him in the nearest future.

Finally, however, his mother came for him, saying that everyone was expecting him. He nodded, tense from head to toe, and strode forward down the corridor, his queen mother a few paces behind him. They entered the hall through the side entrance, on the side of the main table.

At first no one noticed them, there was a buzz of conversations, laughter and music to which couples were already dancing. His mother walked over to him and pointed to a girl who had just been talking to Helaena. He felt his throat tighten into a thin knot.

It terrified him how beautiful she was. He thought it would make her even more disappointed with him. His body froze, unable to move, his face completely petrified.

He watched her slender hand go to one of the bowls for a fruit that he had never seen before. A small, dull orange-red ball, the size of an apple, but softer and hairy. She bit into the fruit easily, pursed and licked her lips as she listened intently to his sister. Suddenly her eyes flicked to him.

They stared at each other for a moment, and he felt his heart pounding like a hammer. He felt shivers run through his body as she smiled at him in a way he had never seen a woman smile at a men before.

The corner of her mouth twitched rakishly upwards, her lips tightened and moistened slightly, opening again, now sticky and luminous. He felt his manhood pulse in his pants in shock at the sight and looked away, embarrassed.

Lady Vhassar was clearly not intimidated. On the contrary, she waited for her father who had already noticed the prince. They approached him and the queen together, both bowing low. Aemond dared to look at her again. Her gaze was lowered meekly, there was no trace of her expression from a few seconds before.

She was wearing a thin, translucent dress made of a very delicate material in a shade of lilac. Her light skin went perfectly with this shade, her black hair was partly pulled back in a bun, her bright eyes seemed to glow. His gaze involuntarily moved to the line of her breasts, he could easily see the outline of her nipples.

He looked up and met her gaze, he knew she had caught him in the act. Her lips parted, her gaze expressing satisfaction with his condition. He had no idea what was going on with him or what kind of woman she was, but she certainly wasn't acting like the ladies of Westeros. Her father spoke.

"My queen, my prince. I am glad that our bloodlines remain in a strong bond, which we intend to maintain through marriage. Me, my daughter and the whole family are honored." He said softly, bowing again. He owned the largest bank in Volantis, constantly conversing with outsiders. He had a talent for diplomacy and spoke with ease. The queen nodded.

"We are grateful too, Lord Vhassar, for the tremendous support you give us. Your deeds will never be forgotten." She said warmly.

Finally the king entered the hall and everyone sat down at the tables to start the feast. His fiancée was sitting across the table, with her family. They stole a glance at each other, her gaze showing neither embarrassment nor fear. He was curious what she was thinking.

He had heard that the women of Essos were more liberated and less restrictive about how they shared their beds with men. He thought that he was pretty sure she wasn't a virgin. He felt he had no right to judge her, since he himself had slept with another woman.

Aegon bent over him, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"I envy you, brother. Will you fuck them two in turn, or will you introduce them and fuck them two at once? Either way, it sounds wonderful." He said, taking a piece of roast into his mouth. Aemond said nothing, taking a sip of wine, his face expressionless.

***

Lady Vhassar glanced furtively at her fiancé once in a while with a faint smile on her lips. She thought she was lucky. He was handsome but withdrawn, terrified and terrifying at the same time. It was a challenge for her, and she loved it.

She wasn't surprised to find out he had a mistress. She had heard a lot about marriages in Westeross, but certainly not that they were successful and passionate.

The other woman didn't bother her, of course as long as he kept her at a distance. She had already spotted several handsome guardsmen who she knew would provide her with wonderful entertainment if her husband turned out to despise her. For now, she has set herself the task of having fun only with her future husband.

She wondered what he had learned from this woman and whether he was a good lover. She felt wetness between her thighs at the thought. She thought she'd go fuck him in the hallway if he wanted to. She saw how he looked at her. How greedily he stared at her breasts and mouth.

She swallowed the last bite of her roast, dipping her hands in the rosewater that was standing nearby. Her brother, Vhogar, commented quietly on what he saw with displeasure.

"They pretend to be saints and bred but I heard Prince Aegon is one big pig. It's a good thing you're not marrying him, but his brother." He said, taking a sip of wine from his goblet, grimacing. "Gods, they have some diluted shit here, not wine. Don't we have our bottles somewhere?"

His sister laughed lightly at his words and placed her hand on his shoulder. They leaned towards each other.

"Hold on a little longer. You'll be home soon." She said gently. He frowned.

"Without you." He said dryly. She sighed softly at his words. They were inseparable from childhood. They were each other's confidantes, telling each other about their adventures, lovers and broken hearts.

"I know." She said softly.

After the feast, it was time for dancing. Her future husband didn't even flinch, but she thought that if he could barely talk, he couldn't dance for sure.

She didn't care, dancing with every lord who wanted it in turn. She saw their greedy glances, escaping to her mouth, breasts and hips. She knew that if they could, they would take her to their chamber for the night.

She stared at the dissatisfied, frustrated expressions of their wives in between. She thought she felt sorry for them and was not going to take their husbands away from them. She suspected that wouldn't stop them from continuing to seek relief in the arms of servants or kitchen wenches.

After another tiring dance, feeling beads of sweat running down her bare arms, she glanced toward the table. She saw her future husband sitting alone, pensive, toying with his goblet. She wondered what was going on inside his head.

She smiled to herself and moved towards the table, walking lightly up the steps, standing in front of him, taking him completely by surprise.

He swallowed loudly and tried to get up, but she shook her head, as she crossed over to sit down next to him. She sat down so that her back rested against the armrest and she was sitting half-side to him. She crossed her legs, her body glistening with sweat, her strands slightly sticking to her face.

She grabbed his goblet and took a sip of wine from it, without taking her eyes off him. He was staring at her intensely, his one hand clenched on the table. She put his cup back in its place, licking her lips.

"Forgive me, my prince. I was thirsty." She whispered and saw him inhale faster, his nostrils flaring.

He didn't say a word, his gaze expressed surprise, horror and curiosity all at once. She smiled warmly at him, got up, and walked back to the dancing couples, leaving him alone.

She knew he watched her dance. She knew he didn't know how he felt about her, wanting to be indifferent, while being jealous and frustrated at the same time.

She laughed inwardly at the thought that perhaps it would be better if that woman were his wife and she his lover. She thought it was a brilliant idea to steal a men form his mistress.

When the feast was over she went to her rooms without giving him a single glance. She asked her servant to follow him and remember where his chamber is. She wanted to be able to recreate this path later.

She changed into her thin, beautifully embroidered nightgown. It was so hot in Volantis that she slept naked. Often she even walked around the chamber like this, knowing that there were only her servants outside the door, letting her know when someone was approaching.

She felt then like a goddess among her nymphs, free and beautiful. Here everything seemed gray and gloomy, devoid of emotion. She wondered if this was what her future husband was like.

After a few hours she went on a journey through the darkness of the palace corridors. She knew his quarters were nearby. She waited patiently for the guards to pass through the corridor and walked barefooted, holding only a peach in her hand. It was her gift for him.

She quickly opened the door to his quarters and closed it behind her. She heard him jump up in his seat by the fireplace, staring at her in disbelief, his mouth parted.

"What are you doing here?" He asked softly and low, the first words he ever said to her.

She smiled at him, walking lightly towards him, unfazed by the fact that her nightgown covered practically nothing. She knew she shouldn't be there, and that if anyone heard them they'd both be in trouble. She stopped in front of him and held out her arm with peach in her hand.

"I have a gift for you. I brought them with me from my homeland." She said gently. She saw him purse his lips, all tense. He didn't know where to look, sucked in a breath.

"You should go back to your quarters." He said coldly. Silence fell between them.

She raised an eyebrow at him, slightly amused. She thought she'd play with him. She had no desire to win his heart by begging him to look at her kindly, giving him a sweet look full of hope and pain. She figured they'd have fun together or apart, but she certainly wasn't going to cry over him.

She lifted the peach to her mouth and bit into it. Its soft flesh yielding easily, the juice running down her lips she licked off with her tongue. She loved this taste.

She watched with satisfaction as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his gaze fixed on her lips.

"You're embarrassing me." He said finally. She wanted to burst out laughing at that remark.

"Your lover doesn't embarrass you?" She asked lightly, taking another bite, her face calm and gentle.

He looked at her shocked. He was horrified that she knew about his little secret. He pursed his lips and swallowed hard, apparently completely wiped off the board.

"What do you want?" He finally asked quietly. She looked at him deliberately, wondering why he was so tense. She twisted a bitten peach in her hand.

"I want you to taste my present." She said, looking at him from under her long lashes. He looked at her shocked.

"If I try it, will you leave?" He asked softly, giving in.

She smiled warmly at him and nodded. He reached out to grab the fruit, but she wouldn't let him. He frowned, frustrated.

"I said I want you to taste it, not bite it." She said, biting into the fruit herself again, licking the sweet juice from her lips. When he realized what she meant he shivered, his lips parted slightly.

She approached him slowly, unhurriedly. His whole body was tense like a string, and she knew something violent was going on inside his head. She thought that he was going to hit her right away or fuck her.

She bit into the fruit again, this time deliberately sucking on the flesh for a moment, spreading its juices over her tongue and lips. She slid her hand under his hair, grabbing him gently by the nape of the neck, pulling his face to hers. He leaned back a bit, terrified, his lips slightly parted. He didn't protest.

She stood on her toes, pressing her soft lips to his. She felt him inhale hard and shiver all over. She brushed his lips, waiting patiently for what followed a few seconds later.

Helplessly, he opened his mouth and she slipped her tongue in, letting him taste the sweet fruit. The tip of his tongue licked hers, and they both moaned into each other's mouths, surprised at the intensity of the sensation.

Their tongues licked for a moment, both of them not even noticing when their hands closed around their bodies. Their caresses were drawn out, their tongues rough, sticky and wet, exchanging saliva and the delicious taste of peach each time.

She felt her nipples harden in surprise, wetness trickling down her thighs. She took his hand, clenched tightly around the material of her nightgown in hers, leading her down.

"There are plenty of similar sweet, sticky, juicy fruits in Essos, my prince." She whispered into his mouth, continuing to caress him, their tongues dancing together in a slow, lazy dance. She felt a shiver run through him at her words, and at what she was doing with his hand.

She lifted her nightgown and slipped his hand between her thighs, letting him feel how wet she was. He drew in a sharp breath as he felt it, his lip quivering helplessly. His fingers ran timidly over her sticky, hot entrance, making her moan sweetly into his mouth.

"All the fruits in Essos have this much juice?" He asked low, his voice quivering, his tongue sliding deep into her throat. She moaned loudly, surprised by his words, a shiver ran through her body. She thought with delight that her future husband could give her what she wanted.

"Yes." She whispered helplessly, her hand pressing his fingers to her womanhood, craving more intense caresses, her hips beginning to rub against him, seeking fulfillment. They both began to breathe louder, their kisses one sticky, wet mess.

"If you want, you can try another fruit I brought with me, my prince" She whispered sweetly into his mouth, and he groaned loudly. She knew it was over, that they were about to fuck on his bed.

He lifted her suddenly by her hips. She wrapped her thighs quickly around him, making him moan in her mouth again. He threw himself on his bed with her, laying on top of her.

They didn't stop kissing, licking the tips of their tongues and sucking each other's lips, his hands quickly lifting her nightgown, spreading her thighs shamelessly in front of him.

He pulled away from her, her face hot and smudged, no trace of shame or fear. She saw that he was looking at her with a dark, unpredictable look, that made her feel throbbing inside.

"Let's have a taste." He purred low, suddenly going through a change, as if he wasn't the same person. She thought that she hadn't been aroused so much in a long time.

He cupped her thighs low with his big hands, massaging them leisurely. He leaned in, the tip of his tongue running over her entrance all the way to her pearl, causing her to lean back with a loud moan. Her hand tightened automatically in his hair. She felt him smile, his tongue teasing her clit, swirling around her, then moving down again, licking her juices.

"Delicious." He whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth, gasping sweetly with delight. She felt that if he kept going like this, she would soon come.

Her thighs began to move towards his face, demanding more intense caresses. She moaned loudly as she felt him slide his tongue inside, moving it rhythmically with a wet click. She leaned on one hand, lifting slightly, making his tongue touch her where she felt the greatest pleasure. She moaned softly, looking at him tenderly, her nipples hard with desire.

"Oh gods, yes, lick me!" She sobbed, throwing her head back, her hand tightening on his sheets as she moaned loudly. A wonderful, strong, hot orgasm ran through her body. She came on his face and he, unmoved, licked everything that flowed out of her, making her tremble all over.

"Gods…" She whispered helplessly, laying on her back, panting heavily. She watched, as her future husband ran his tongue over her throbbing, hot womanhood and then up her thigh. She pursed her lips, exasperated.

"Can I taste you too, my prince?" She asked quietly, and he gave her a shocked look, his mouth parted slightly. After a moment he smirked in a way that sent shivers down her spine. He stood in front of her, undoing his pants.

"Come here." He instructed gently. She obediently got up and settled herself on her lap, kneeling at his hips, looking at him expectantly.

"Have you tasted many men?" He asked teasingly, amused, letting her pull his pants down.

She thought that when he was like that, ironic, direct, dark, she could fuck him all night. She thought that she had great lover material. She wondered what his woman would think if she saw them now.

She looked down at his manhood and licked her lips in satisfaction, seeing how big he was. She thought she would make sure he gave her a lot of pleasure in the future.

"I've never tasted a dragon before." She purred, his attention making him smile from the corner of his mouth.

His lips parted in delight as she leaned over him. She licked his entire length with her tongue, glancing at him without a trace of embarrassment. His cock throbbed impatiently, swollen and hard. His hand gently tangled in her hair.

"This is not how I imagined you." He whispered and moaned low as her hand gripped the base of his member, her tongue teasing his tip, licking his own juices. She smiled at his words, popped him into her mouth, wetting him with her saliva, and pulled him out with a loud, wet click.

"Aren't you ashamed of me anymore?" She asked sweetly, shoving his length deep into her throat. She heard him chuckle lightly at her words, his hips moving against her mouth. She sucked him unhurriedly, caressing him with her tongue, taking care of every second of his pleasure.

"No. I changed my mind." He purred low, panting loudly, his hand forcing her to speed up. His member slammed against the wall of her throat, her lips pressed tight against him, driving him crazy. His buttocks pumped his manhood hard between her lips with a wet, sticky sound.

"You have to swallow it all. You know that, right?" He hissed, his hands clasping her hair, he was answered by her purr of satisfaction. He parted his lips, panting heavily, as he felt his fullfilment approaching.

"Oh Gods, swallow it, swallow it like a good girl" He panted, cuming hard deep in her throat, his length throbbing in her mouth. She moaned loudly at his words, swallowing all of his semen patiently, waiting for the last drop to spill out of him.

"Just like that." He whispered, looking down at her, stroking her hair. "Such a good girl."

To his astonishment, he noticed that not a drop had escaped her mouth. She released him from between her mouth with a loud, wet plop, licking her lips.

"Delicious." She whispered.

They stared at each other with hazy eyes, as Aemond pulled up his trousers, tying them back. She wanted to get up and just leave for her chamber, but he closed his hand on her shoulder and stopped her.

"What are you doing?" He asked surprised.

"I keep my promise." She said softly, taking her arm away, avoiding him with a light, unhurried step.

"Stay." He said suddenly. She stopped, looking at him in surprise.

"Are you sure?" She asked, trying to hide a smile of hot satisfaction, her eyes shining. He pressed his lips together, sliding under his sheets.

"Come here and go to sleep. I have to get up at dawn tomorrow."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @avgdusterfan @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @random-ocity @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @snh96 @malfoytargaryen

1K notes · View notes

toms-cherry-trees · 8 months

Text

Not Worthy Of You || Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: An unexpected visitor at night brings some clarity to the last months

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Mention of B&C and Storm's End. No beta reading

Author's note: This was supposed to be short. This was supposed to be 1k words. But I got carried away. Enjoy!

The candles had long died out, and only dying embers remained in the smouldering fireplace, too feeble to give the room any light. Piercing darkness entered through the gaps in the drapes, the moonless night shrouding the Red Keep in a thick, ponderous veil of black. Not a sound disturbed the quietness of the Holdfast, nor the peace of those sleeping in it.

You stirred in the bed, the sheets rustling and a pleasant tingle spreading through your body as you stretched your limbs lazily. You felt well rested, perhaps for the first time in many moons. It had been a long time since you last woke up naturally, instead of being forcefully taken from your slumber by aches, cramps, and most recently, little cries throughout the night. At that thought your eyebrows furrowed, and still partially asleep you rolled over in the bed, your hand searching in the darkness for the little wooden cradle by your side.

Your fingers only found emptiness, the abandoned blankets still holding your newborn’s warmth.

Whatever drowsiness lingered in your mind soon dissipated as worry crept upon you, settling like a heavy weight atop your chest. You sat upright with such haste you felt faint, having to hold onto your head until the bright lights vanished from your vision. Fright quickly overcame your senses. You double checked the crib, pulling blankets out and looking under your bed, as if somehow the babe, barely a fortnight old, could have climbed out and hidden somewhere without you noticing.

Desperation clouded your thoughts, your heartbeat quickening and your breath coming in shallow pants. You scrambled from bed, barely having half a mind to grab a robe; the parky night air covered your skin in gooseflesh. You headed for the door, the call for help ready to sprout from your lips, when the smallest, softest of coos drew your attention to the opposite side of the chamber.

Now that your eyes had adjusted a bit, you could vaguely make out the shape of a person sitting in front of the large windows in a sturdy rocking chair your family had gifted you when they received the news of your impending motherhood. Slightly hunched forward, gently swaying back and forth, the rockers barely made noise against the thick carpet they laid upon. At first you believed it to be the wetnurse, who usually sat there to feed the baby, but you had specifically requested to have no servants in your chambers at night, wishing to carry the bulk of the childcare yourself. Hoping that that way you would feel more connected to your child, instead of staring at it like a foreign being that had been dropped on your lap by the Mother. Lovely, yes, and so dearly loved, but foreign nonetheless.

Soon it became obvious, however, that it was not the wetnurse, nor a maid, the one who sat in the chair. The dark figure sat tall, shoulders muscular and long legs stretched out, rocking the chair with a lazy sway of heavy boots. Oppressive panic stole the breath from your lungs at the vision of the unknown man, his arms positioned in a way that could only mean he currently held the infant in his embrace. The memory of what had recently happened to Helaena and her sweet child remained fresh in your mind.

You considered screaming for help, but not even a choked cry managed to come forth. Or maybe it did, and you just couldn’t hear it above the frantic hammering of your heart, rumbling in your ears like menacing war drums. Blindly you sought a weapon, any means of protection you could grasp to defend yourself and your child. Your trembling fingers gripped tightly the handle of an ornate letter opener you so happened to have left in the nightstand. You tried to swallow, but found your mouth to be as dry as the Dornish deserts.

Your feet barely made a sound in the flagstone as you carefully approached the intruder. Your mind overflowed with horrifying images of what had occurred to sweet Helaena. Even though you had not been witness to the act, the whispers reached you nonetheless, despite the Dowager Queen having carefully instructed the servants to not mention the crime near you, for fear of upsetting your mood and spoiling your health, right in the middle of your seventh moon of pregnancy. Despite the efforts, the nightmares lasted for weeks, fuelled by the clamour of your good sister’s wails as she escaped her chambers at night and wandered the halls calling for her lost son.

Slowly, as if wading through mud, you approached the chair. But it seemed the distance lengthened with each step, or perhaps your imagination had fooled you and you remained rooted in the spot. Your brain overflowed with horrific scenarios, a million outcomes to the situation, and the hopeless need to cry out, even if your mouth refused to open. As your eyes finally adjusted to the pitch darkness, however, you noticed silvery white tresses covering the person’s shoulders, and a thin dark strap wound around the head. The arm carrying the weapon lowered slowly, and the letter opener slid from your sweaty grasp onto the floor. Although weightless, in the silence of the night, the little piece of metal resonated like thunder.

The man didn’t flinch nor move to seek the source of such scandal; his smooth voice echoed in the chamber, a careful murmur to be heard without waking the baby.

“Abrazȳrys”

The familiar term of endearment should have calmed your nerves, but the word spoken so abruptly made you jump in your spot, hand coming to your bosom as your heart raced, as if ready to escape from the confines of your chest and make a run to safety.

“Seven hells, husband. You scared me half to death” You protested, pressing your cool palms against your heated cheeks and taking slow breaths. An immense wave of relief washed over you, mixed with an overpowering sense of weakness; all your energy had been consumed in the eternal moments you thought yourself and your child in danger, and now it took all you had not to collapse on your knees.

“My sincerest apologies, wife” He replied with a tone of propriety so usual in him, as if he merely apologised for bumping on you in the hallway, instead of scaring the living daylights out of you. His violet eye met yours as you moved within line of vision, taking seat in a low cushioned bench against the wall.

The bundle of blankets wrapping their firstborn appeared small and radiant against the dark planes of Aemond’s chest; the child tightly tucked in shades of green and trimmings of gold, chubby cheek snuggled against the warmth of her father’s body as she slept soundly. It amused you how easily the girl cozied up to Aemond, considering that, as far as you knew, they had not met before.

Fifteen nights and fourteen days had passed since their daughter Daenys came into their arms, letting her powerful cries be heard throughout the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast as the hour of the bat reached its peak of darkness. The child stunned those who helped bring her forth into the world, having been born with her eyes open, the right one violet like a Targaryen, and the left one with her mother’s colouring. A full head of silvery hair mixed with stray wisps of darker hues, giving her a colour no one could quite describe.

The day of her birth, her father shone in his absence. He evaded the Holdfast as if it were a cursed place. First he escaped towards the sparring yard, demanding to be taught the usage of a bastard sword, and turning a deaf ear to Cole’s comments that he should be with his wife. When the pestering became unbearable he tried to see his sister instead, but his wife’s screams echoed through every hall, making it impossible to ignore. Defeated and overwhelmed, he turned towards his dragon, far away from everyone. The smallfolk saw the massive shadow of a winged beast soar the skies, framed by the last rays of the setting sun as if engulfed in a fireball. Sight of him was lost with nightfall, but the dragon’s cries could still be heard, hidden behind clouds.

Aemond would have remained airborne until sunrise, had not young Daeron been sent out to pursue him and inform him that his wife had brought forth a most precious healthy girl. But not even such joyous news managed to lure the Prince back to the Red Keep. He flew again, towards unknown destination, not to be seen until the following day, well after the sun had begun its journey across the sky. Yet instead of rushing towards his family, he locked himself in the library, buried between books and scrolls until past dinner.

His attitude puzzled many around the court. Even if he perhaps found disappointment in the gender of his firstborn, his commitment to avoid his wife and child surpassed all levels of understanding; whispers began to spread of all sorts, most showing support to the beloved lady than to him. Some even said it was for the best; who would want a kinslayer to come near a newborn anyway?

No one could come even close to understand the why of his actions..

He had not been the same since Storm’s End. After his return, while his brother rejoiced and his elders frowned in worry, Aemond found himself numb, cold even, as if the icy winds and gelid rain that accompanied his flight that night had seeped into his bones. He only recalled broken fragments of what had occurred after he flew in pursuit of his nephew; the rattling of the saddle chains against the wind, Valyrian words shouted into the storm he did not remember pronouncing; a feeble, pathetic little fireball blown into Vhagar’s eyes, not doing more harm than a pebble would against the mountain. The horrific crunch of Arrax’s bones under ferocious jaws, as whatever remained of him and his rider floated down towards the restless sea.

The horrifying knowledge that his actions had caused the death of not one, but two boys.

After that, he shut himself more, if possible. He refused to see anyone, spending days and nights alone in his chambers, permitting only the presence of a servant to bring him his meals and news from the outside, isolated like a common prisoner. He abandoned his marital chamber, moving instead to the ones once meant for his wife; connected by a door he kept permanently locked and blocked.

His mother attempted to coax him out with gentle words and his grandsire with stern reproaches. You knocked on his door at nights, softly whispering his name, almost like a plea. He saw your shadow under the door, pacing or sitting on the floor against it, waiting for something to happen, to at least receive a word of acknowledgement; but night after night your hopes crumbled into dust, and soon you gave up. There’s no helping someone who doesn’t want to be helped

Yet a flicker remained, that the ice would melt with the fire of newborn life. That the cries of their so awaited child would break the trance Aemond had submerged into and return him to his senses.

He opened his door that day, yes, but only with the intention to flee.

And now, without warning or explanation, he showed up in the dead of the night, hidden by darkness like a lowly criminal, pushed by some unknown force to finally hold the being that had changed his status from man to father.

You sat with your hands on your lap, patiently awaiting for an explanation. Yet Aemond didn’t move, nor spared you a second glance; his whole focus on Daenys. His eye fixed on her soft features, arms protectively around her, holding her with dexterity you did not yet possess, but he had acquired with his little brother and his niece and nephews. One arm around the body, the other under, lithe finger cradling her head and gently caressing the silvery hair. Even in the dark, you could see the enthrallment in his gaze. The fearsome warrior Prince, wrapped around Daenys’ minuscule finger

“Husband?” You called out softly, trying to attract his attention

“I heard her cry” He replied, his thumb brushing across Daenys’ cheek “Whenever she cries I hear her from my chamber. You always tend to her so quickly, almost as if you awake before she makes a sound” You blinked fast, perplexed. You never imagined he could hear from his chambers, but again, Daenys had a pair of lungs that could be heard from across the city if you wanted to.

“But she cried and cried tonight, and nothing happened. I thought you could not settle her, but I didn’t hear your voice like when you speak or sing to her. So I came”

You wanted to be embarrassed that he had heard that too, but instead focused more on the fact that if Aemond knew all of that, he lingered at the door whenever their daughter cried, wishing to know what was happening with her. For a moment you imagined him with his ear pressed to the wood, holding in his breath to not miss a sound.

“She kicks a lot when she cries” He commented “I thought she wanted to be fed, or was cold. But you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you, and I-” He swallowed before continuing, His index traced the baby’s features, from the roundness of the cheeks to the sharpness of the nose, a perfect match of his own.

“I took her in my arms and she settled. I suppose she didn’t want to be alone”

His voice held amusement. As if he could not believe his daughter, his own blood, could find comfort in his embrace. He had expected her to kick and scream and alert the world that a monster had come for her. But she didn’t. She just snuggled close to him and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the safety of her dad’s arms.

You felt your heart ache for him, as you finally began to comprehend some things. The why of Aemond’s distance. He had killed a boy. His bastard nephew, and the object of his ire, but a boy nonetheless. Because of that, Jaehaerys had been lost. And now he feared something similar would find his girl, for it seemed that a path of tragedy and blood followed his every step and dragged those close to him into the same fate.

You stood, not without difficulty, and moved to stand behind him, one hand on his shoulder. He shifted position, holding Daenys on one arm and holding your hand with the other, thumb caressing your knuckles. They remained in silence, both staring at the fruit of their love with adoration only a first time parent can conjure.

“She’s beautiful” He whispered “Gevie hae se hūra”

You only understood ‘gevie’, and that sufficed to make you smile. You leaned down until your chin rested atop Aemond’s shoulder, cheeks pressed against each other “She’s perfect. And she looks so much like you”

“Only the good parts” He replied, almost a bit harshly, the mere notion of his daughter resembling him setting him off. But soon he relaxed as Daenys stirred, mouth open in a quiet yawn which left her tongue trapped between her lips.

“She will be the best of us” You commented, your arms coming under his own to hold her. To hold them both; Aemond needed your support as much as the babe did. Right there, maybe even more.

“I will hurt her” He whispered, barely audible, his grip on Daenys tightening as he leaned down, his forehead against hers as he closed his eye. “If something bad happens to her, it will be on me”

“You would never” You rushed to reply, a coil tightening in your throat. How could Aemond think such a thing? He could never. You knew it. You knew it from the moment you saw him with the child in his arms, that he would burn down the entire country to safekeep that little girl

“Directly or indirectly, but I am dangerous for her. I’m not worthy of her” Sorrow laced his words, a sentiment foreign to your husband, who always held his emotions carefully and kept them well hidden under a mask of serene indifference. Seeing his vulnerabilities surface felt wrong, as if you had witnessed something private, a crack in the surface of an indomitable mountain. But he had no privacies with you; you were his wife, and you were meant to know him whole.

You moved to crouch before him, hands cradling his face and forcing him to meet your firm gaze “You are her father. The Gods blessed us with this gift because they deemed us worthy of her. And I know you won’t let anyone touch a single hair in her head, because they will be ash and dust before they can even get close” This time, you flattened your forehead against his, never letting go of him “You are worthy of this. Of her. You are worthy of good things”

His eye closed and he leaned into you, your bodies together shielding Daenys, keeping her warm. You two remained there for who knows how long, in silence, holding each other again after so long apart. It was him who broke the spell, his hand coming to circle your waist

“Let’s put her to sleep” He replied in a soft whisper “And then I’d like to sleep in your bed, if my lady wife will have me tonight”

You smiled without meaning to, feeling his warmth spread over you

“Tonight and every night. All the nights you want”

#aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen one shot #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x wife #aemond one eye #aemond kinslayer #house of the dragon #aemond stannies #marsie writes

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sapphire-writes · 1 year

Text

Teacher's Pet (modern!HOTD)

read the second installment Lessons

pairing: professor!Aemond x student!Reader

summary: A night out during the spring semester of your senior year of university leads to a run-in with your former professor.

warnings: NSFW 18+ (explicit sex, unprotected, fingering, oral fem-receiving, overstimulation, titty sucking, praise, degrading language) mature themes, power imbalance

word count: 4.5k

note: I got a saucy little anon saying y'all needed a student x teacher fic from me, and to celebrate 3,000 besties I had to deliver!! thanks for all the love and support, you all mean the absolute world to me! Excited to keep creating for you all, ilysm 😘

You and your best friend Sara Snow grew up together, and spent nearly every waking moment attached at the hip. You know those friends you have that are more like siblings than friends? Sara was more like your twin. So when she stayed in your hometown going to Winterfell State, and you traveled to Citadel University, it was like you’d lost a limb.

Which meant you had to visit each other as frequently as possible. Sometimes you’d travel back home and visit Sara, and other times she’d come to you. Sara preferred visiting you, she loved the wine bars and clubs of Oldtown.

“The vibe is just different here,” she says, sipping her wine, “I love it. Very chic.”

You’d chosen a new wine bar to explore this time around. It’s a super cute place, with low lighting and a chalkboard bar and tables, with chalk for drawing laid out on all the tables. Sara, being mentally 12 years old, had already drawn a veiny cock in front of you. You swipe it away with your hand.

“Rudeness!” she says, pouting as you destroy her artwork.

“Stop drawing dicks,” you tell her and she narrows her eyes.

“You’ll have to kill me,” she teases, eyes flickering toward a blonde girl who passes on her way to the bathroom.

“You’re staring,” you tell her and she sticks her tongue out at you.

“She’s been staring at me for a while,” Sara tells you, grinning, “I for one, plan to get laid tonight.”

“I love that for you,” you tell her, smiling.

“This guy at the bar, totally checking you out right now,” Sara says, sipping on her wine.

Your face flushes and you turn your head slightly to look. Sara makes a noise of disapproval, setting her glass down.

“Don’t look,” she whispers, pushing some dark hair over her shoulders.

“I’m not,” you hiss, tilting your head.

“You totally are,” Sara accuses.

“What’s he look like?” you ask.

Sara’s dark eyes scan the man, you watch them move seemingly over his form.

“Tall, platinum blonde, like seriously, must have an extensive hair care routine,” she says, nodding, “We love that, love a man with good hygiene.”

You snicker, living for her analysis.

“He’s lean, but like you can tell he’s muscular,” she glances at you, “I know you’re a hand whore, and I can tell he’s got nice hands.”

“You’re so rude,” you accuse, blushing because she’s right.

Sara scoots off of her seat.

“C’mon, we’re going over there,” she tells you.

“Okay,” you agree and she links your arm pulling you from your seat.

You finally get a look at the guy and your stomach drops.

It’s your professor.

Not this semester, but last semester. Westerosis Literature taught by Professor Aemond Targaryen. A great class, hard as hell. He worked you fucking hard for that A. You mean to tell Sara but you’re still in shock as you come face to face.

“Hey there,” Sara says, smiling sweetly, “I couldn’t help but notice you checking out my friend, thought you’d like to buy her a drink? Maybe keep her company while I visit the loo?”

Aemond’s eyes rake over you, clearly recognizing you. You blush furiously, mouth gaping.

“She likes Sauvignon Blanc,” Sara tells him, motioning to the bartender, “I’ll be back, take care of my girl.”

And with that, she flounces off toward the restroom.

“I’m sorry professor,” you tell him, nervously playing with your fingers, “If I had known it was you I wouldn’t have let her drag me over here.”

“Something tells me your friend would be hard to deny,” he tells you as the bartender comes over, “A glass of Sauvignon Blanc please, and I’ll take another gin and tonic.”

You flush as the bartender nods, getting your drinks.

“She’s very persistent,” you tell him, nodding in agreement and casting your eyes to the floor.

Aemond cannot keep his eyes off your glowing cheeks, the way your lashes flutter against them as you avert your gaze.

“I can just take this back to the table,” you say, grabbing the glass of Sauvignon Blanc he paid for.

Aemond shakes his head.

“You shouldn’t drink alone,” he tells you, patting the empty chair next to him, “Indulge me for a bit, will you?”

You look back towards the table you shared with Sara, though she has yet to return to it. She’s probably chatting up that girl she had her eyes on. You bring your gaze back to Aemond.

“Okay, if you’re sure you’re comfortable with that,” you tell him, slipping onto the stool.

“Because that paper was cruel and unusual punishment, even for you,” you tell Aemond through a laugh.

You’re on your third glass of wine, the hours ticking away as you converse with your former professor. Sara has made herself scarce, though she’s been texting you.

“You did rather well if I recall correctly,” he says, with a sly smile on his face.

You roll your eyes, taking another sip. You’ve always been a good student.

“Only because I dedicated a week of sleepless nights to that assignment. Seriously, you should be paying for my therapy after that,” you tease, leaning your cheek against your hand.

You’ve gotten closer to him during the night, your knees brushing against his thigh, heel clad foot mindlessly rubbing against his calf. You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the ease of the conversation that has you feeling so comfortable around him.

“Send me the bill,” he jokes back, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“I’ll put it in your mailbox tomorrow,” you giggle, taking another sip, “You know, I was really disappointed when your Essosi Literature class was full this semester.”

“Is that so?” he asks, sipping his gin and tonic, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Now I’ll never have the chance to take it,” you continue, “Unless you teach a summer course, otherwise your popularity has thrown off my entire plan of study.”

“My apologies,” he insists, grinning at you, “My popularity, you say? I thought I was a hard ass.”

“Oh you are,” you assure him, “But that doesn’t mean you’re not popular.”

“How so?” he pushes, a long finger dancing around the rim of his empty glass.

Your eyes follow the circle he traces, up the veins on the back of his hands. How have you never noticed how sexy his hands are? You’ve never been this close to him, his lectures always held in one of the large lecture halls on campus rather than the more intimate classroom settings. You wet your lips, desire pooling in your belly before you meet his eyes once more.

“You know,” you tell him, unable to keep the secretive smile off of your face, “I mean, you must know.”

“Know what?” he murmurs, staring at you with such intensity it makes your thighs tremble.

You brush a strand of hair behind your ear, chewing on your lower lip. This will be your last glass of wine, you feel too giddy, too at ease in the presence of your professor. You’re going to regret this little flirtation in the morning, you can feel it in your bones. But the alcohol is liquid courage, and you’re a senior after all. Once this semester is over, you’re out in the real world, done with Citadel University.

“You’re popular with the ladies of campus,” you tell him, “and the men, and everyone else.”

Aemond quirks an eyebrow at you.

“Oh really?” he asks.

“Of course, I mean you’re the youngest tenured professor, you are a hard ass grader but your lectures are so enticing, and it helps you’re easy on the eyes-”

You choke as soon as the sentence escapes you. A freudian slip if you’ve ever had one. Aemond’s mouth quirks up into a wolfish grin.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell him, covering your mouth.

“It’s alright,” he assures you, but you’re off on a nervous ramble.

“That was seriously so shallow of me and inappropriate to say-”

“Y/N,” he says, resting a hand on your knee, “It’s alright, really.”

You laugh nervously, enjoying the feeling of his hand on your leg. You can feel the heat it emits through your tights. His hand is huge, and you lose yourself in the moment wondering how it might feel against the bare flesh of your thighs, you neck-

“I should see if Sara texted,” you tell him, reaching for your phone.

You’re greeted by a dropped pinned location and a text from Sara saying she went home with the blonde from earlier. Lucky bitch.

“And she’s left me,” you say aloud.

“Everything alright?” Aemond asks.

“Yeah, yeah. This has been great,” you tell him, “Thank you for keeping me company, but I should probably get home, call an Uber.”

“Let me drive you,” Aemond insists, “It’s no problem.”

You bite your lip. You shouldn’t do this right? He’s your professor, your teacher.

“Are you sure?” you ask and he nods.

That’s how you end up in the passenger seat of his mercedes, the dark leather seats warm and inviting. You know you’re staring as you watch him drive, long fingers gripping the wheel, the other hand resting on his knee.

As you pull up to your apartment, you swallow the lump that has formed in your throat. You almost want to invite him up. He watches you closely, as though sensing the words swimming around your head. No, you're not doing this.

“Thank you, professor, I appreciate it,” you tell him, leaving it at that.

“I think I embarrassed myself big time Sara,” you tell her groaning on the phone.

There wasn’t much time to debrief the night before Sara had to head back to Winterfell. You brought yourself to the campus coffee shop, settling in to complete some homework while you had some free time.

You’d been staring at your laptop screen, and the empty word doc that was pulled up, for the better part of an hour before deciding to call Sara.

“You did not,” she insists, “I don’t care if he is your professor, he was totally into you.”

“He was just being polite.”

“I know polite, and I know eye fucking. Professor Big Dick was the latter,” Sara insists.

“Sara!”

“You know I’m right,” she tells you.

“Fuck,” you tell her, placing a hand against your forehead.

“Look, if you’re that worried about it, go talk to him,” Sara says, “Drop by his office or something, bring him a coffee and tell him you’re sorry.”

“You don’t think that’s weird?” you ask, nervously chewing your thumb.

“I think it's weird you didn’t suck his dick when he drove you home,” she answers honestly.

“Bye Sara,” you tell her.

“Love you too bitch,” she says, making a kissing noise into the receiver.

You decide to take Sara’s advice, bringing Aemond a coffee as an apology for your behavior. You walk through the building; it’s quiet with no classes, not many people pass you on your way to the faculty offices. Most doors are closed, but you see Professor Targaryen’s door is ajar, signaling his presence.

You’d been to his office one time before, dropping in for office hours the previous semester when working on your midterm. He grilled you hard, and you left feeling frustrated but with a strong desire to please him. You always did crave academic validation.

You knock on the door, greeted by Aemond’s gentle timbre telling you to enter. He’s seated behind his desk, a book open on his lap. He’s wearing gray slacks, a simple button down shirt and his silver hair is pulled away from his face in a loose, low bun. His violet eye lights up as you enter, blue sapphire prosthetic winking in the afternoon light that filters through his window.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” you tell him, closing the door behind you.

You walk further into the room and place the coffee cup on his desk.

“What’s this?” he asks, closing his book and placing it on the desk.

“An apology from a tremendously bright student?” you tell him, smiling nervously.

“What do you need to be apologizing for?” he asks, picking up the coffee, inspecting the order on the side.

You chose black to be safe, not knowing this is how he preferred his coffee. Aemond takes a sip, humming appreciatively.

“I just really didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, I know I was a little tipsy, and I hope I didn’t cross a line or anything,” you tell him.

Aemond stands, picking up his book and walking over to his bookshelf. It’s stacked with books, classics and other contemporary novels.

“You’re very thoughtful, Ms. Y/L/N,” he comments, sliding the book back where it belongs.

“Thank you, professor,” you tell him.

“If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me,” he tells you, walking in front of his desk.

He leans his back against it, resting his palms on the edge.

“Why would you apologize?” you ask, tilting your head with curiosity.

“Well, if anyone’s responsible for making our interaction inappropriate it's me,” he tells you, jutting out his sharp chin, “I’m your professor, you’re my student.”

You flick an eyebrow up at him.

“You were my professor,” you tell him, “I’m not in your class anymore.”

“Still, that power imbalance doesn’t just go away,” he insists, eyes meeting yours.

There it is again, that look. The one with such intensity it makes your knees weak. You can see his tongue poking his cheek as though he’s contemplating something. Your breath catches in your throat and you nervously wet your lips.

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” you tell him, “No more flirting with strangers at wine bars for me.”

“I’m not a stranger,” he says.

“You know what I mean,” you tell him.

The air between you is warm and inviting. It’s like the bar all over again, you can feel some invisible force pulling you closer to him with every word you exchange. It’s so effortless, this playful banter, you fall into it easily with him. You have to stop, have to stop before you cross another line.

“Anyway, take the coffee,” you tell him, “and let me know if you decide to run that summer class, cause I’ll totally take it.”

“You’re graduating,” he teases.

“They’ll let me hang around, I can be very persuasive,” you insist, kicking yourself for the insinuation.

Aemond lets out a breathless laugh.

“I’m sure,” he says smirking.

You stare a moment longer, appreciating how his tall, lean frame looks resting against his desk. Your gaze drops to his hands again. His hands. You blink, steadying yourself, but he’s definitely noticed the mental lag you had.

“Goodbye, Professor,” you tell him, “Have a good rest of your day.”

You turn walking toward the door. You reach for the handle, pulling it open slightly before a hand reaches above your head, pushing it shut. He keeps his hand on the door as you turn around to face him.

“Don’t leave,” he murmurs, bringing his opposite hand to trace a line down the side of your face, before cupping your cheek.

Your breathing turns ragged as his thumb strokes your cheekbone. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your lips, and smell his cologne. His hand strokes the doorframe, following into down until he reaches the handle, flicking the lock into place.

“I thought we weren’t doing this,” you whisper, hands clenched into fists at your sides.

“Then why’d you come here?” he purrs.

“I was being nice,” you tell him, as he brings his other hand to your waist, pulling you against him.

“Such a good girl you are,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours.

Your hands fly to his neck instinctively, pulling him as close to you as possible. His mouth feels so perfect against yours, the mingled taste of spearmint and coffee sharp on your tongue as you greedily drink him in. Your hands fist the back of his shirt.

You’re practically gasping against his mouth as his hands move to cup your ass, before he bends his knees to lift you up by your thighs. You wrap your legs around his slender waist, continuing to kiss him all the while, moaning as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

He turns, walking you away from the door and placing you on the corner of his desk, hastily brushing his arm to move loose papers and knick knacks out of the way, sending them crashing towards the floor. Not that either of you care. Your hands work quickly, tearing at the buttons on his shirt, revealing his chest. Your nails rake down his abs, reaching for his belt. You’re desperate and you don’t care, you need to feel him inside you.

Aemond removes his lips from yours, laughing breathlessly at your eagerness before swatting your hands away.

“Let me,” he murmurs, sinking to his knees in front of you.

His hands travel up your thighs and you squirm against his touch as they disappear beneath your skirt. You feel his dexterous fingers loop through your underwear pulling it off of you. You assist him, bunching your skirt in your hands revealing your dripping cunt to him.

“So wet for me,” he purrs, “Are you always like this?”

“Fuck,” you mewl as his tongue flicks out, tasting the wetness between your folds.

He hums with appreciation, as though tasting a fine wine. Aemond pressing his face into you, nose nuzzling against your clit, sending spark waves of pleasure dancing upwards toward your navel. His tongue swirls around your center, dipping into your tight heat.

“Did you sit through my lectures with your pussy dripping like this?” he asks, voice rough with desire.

You squirm against his mouth as he wraps his lips around your needy clit, suckling gently and flicking his tongue around the sensitive nub. Your hand flies to the back of his head, foot digging into his shoulder blade.

His hand squeezes your inner thigh roughly, before slapping the tender flesh causing you to cry out.

“Oh gods,” you moan, head tilting back in the throes of pleasure.

“I bet you did,” he answers his own question, smirking at you.

He moves his attention away from your clit momentarily, dragging a finger through your folds. You can’t see his hands but you can picture them, his long, skilled fingers as you feel him sink one into your tight heat.

Your spine curves, pushing your pussy closer toward his face as his finger searches for that special spot inside of you.

“Oh fuck, fuck!” you cry as the pad of his finger pressing against the spot inside of you that paints stars behind your eyelids.

Aemond glances up at you, watches as your brow creases with pleasure, and your mouth forms a perfect O shape.

“There we go,” Aemond purrs, wasting no time and slipping another finger inside of you.

Every crook of his fingers has you trembling against him, his pace relentless as pressing against your g-spot. He brings his attention back to your throbbing clit, increasing the pleasure building in your abdomen, tingling up your spine. His tongue laps away, little kitten licks against the sensitive button drawing you closer and closer to orgasm with each flick.

Tears well in the corners of your eyes and your nails dig harshly into his scalp, not that he seems to mind. Aemond simply groans against you, the vibrations only adding to your pleasure.

“I’m gonna come,” you pathetically whine, shaking against the desk.

“That’s a good girl, c’mon,” Aemond insists, slipping a third finger inside you.

The wet slurping of your soaked cunt echoes in the room as he never relents the stokes of his fingers, the flicking of his tongue. It’s all too much and the tightly wound coil of pleasure inside you snaps with a strangled sob. As your high washes over you, all the tension in your body releases.

Only Aemond doesn’t stop.

“Professor,” you moan, feeling the wave cresting inside of you again.

His fingers are soaked, easily sliding in and out of your greedy cunt.

“Please, please, it’s too much,” you beg, slumping against the desk.

“But you’re such a good girl,” he insists, “You deserve one more, give me one more.”

“I can’t- holy shit!” you squeak, as his lips suck your clit.

You’ve never been treated like this before. One orgasm-if you’re lucky-has been your experience with your past lovers. But you can’t deny him as his fingers work their magic, his tongue swirls around your puffy clit.

“Yes you can,” he purrs, and of course he’s right as you feel yourself thrown over the edge of pleasure once more.

“One more,” Aemond insists and you feel tears leaking down your cheeks.

“Professor I can’t-” you tell him, and he shushes you.

“One more, on my cock, huh?” he asks, unbuckling his belt, “Yeah, you like that idea baby?”

Your eyes light up, and you push yourself on your elbows to watch as he reveals his impressive length. Sara’s always told you guys who are lean are usually well endowed. Boy was she right. Your eyes widen taking in his length, as he grips it in his hand, pumping it. You bite your lip, watching precum leak from the reddened tip.

“I changed my mind,” he says roughly, dragging you toward him like a wolf with its prey, “Two more, you’ll give me two more.”

Your eyes are round as he drags his cock through your folds. You wiggles as he drags the tip over your clit, up and down, using your arousal as lubricant.

“You’ll cum just like this,” he says, continuing the movement against your sensitive clit.

You’re squeaking and moaning embarrassingly, wriggling like a trapped kitten as he holds your thigh tightly with one hand, while the other continues to rub the head of his cock against your clit. Your third orgasm builds quickly and crashes over you just as powerful as the first two, leaving you gasping for air.

“So pretty like this,” Aemond murmurs, bringing a hand to the back of your neck to kiss you.

You whimper against his mouth and his hands move to your shirt, breaking the kiss only to pull the material off of your head. You reach around to unclip your bra, leaving your breasts free and hanging heavy with need. Aemond brings his attention to them immediately, his erection pressing against your thigh as he circlies your nipple with his hot mouth, sucking on your breast.

You’re babbling uncontrollably at this point as he switches, suckling at your neglected other breast before aligning his cock with your soaked entrance.

“You sure?” he asks, hesitating for a moment.

“I’m on birth control,” you manage to gasp, “I’m sure, please, please.”

Aemond grins wolfishly before sinking into your wet heat. His jaw slacks as your pussy greedily accepts him, warm walls holding him firmly inside as he stretches you out.

“So fucking tight,” he murmurs, slowly dragging out only to thrust back in, balls slapping against your ass.

Your head is full of cotton at this point, unable to form coherent thoughts as he plows into you. His hands rest securely on your lower ribs, as your own hands grip the back of your thighs, allowing your legs to bend at the knee. Your back is arched off of the desk, head thrown back and mouth hanging open in pleasure.

“You like that?” he asks.

You can’t find it in you to reply, answering only in a breathy moan. Aemond merely chuckles.

“Awww did I fuck you stupid, baby?” he teases, causing you to whimper.

He feels so fucking good, sliding easily in and out of your tight walls, the sounds of lewd, wet slapping filling his office. It’s filthy, it’s erotic, and it’s so so bad of you but you can’t help but love the position you’ve found yourself in.

“I think I did,” he continues, “Poor, silly, baby thought she could handle it her professor fucking her.”

Desire and humiliation tingle up your spine, spreading across your body like wildfire at his taunts. The pitch of your moans increase as he brings his fingers to play with your clit.

“She’s all cockdumb now,” Aemond croons, squeezing your breast.

He releases your breast to bring a hand to grab at your chin.

“Look at me,” he demands, and you do so with tears in your eyes.

The head of his cock bullies against your sweet spot, rubbing the tender spot with precise devotion.

“You’re going to cum all over my cock,” he tells you, “Soak my cock like the good little girl you are.”

He keeps his hand on your face, forcing you to look at him as he plows into you and your fourth orgasm rolls over you. It’s intense, almost painful with the pleasure it brings you as your walls clamp down against his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans as you tighten around him and he chases his own release.

“I’m going to fill this pretty pussy up,” he tells you, and you feel him spill inside of you, warmth flooding through you.

You stay connected for a moment, relishing the feeling of him inside of you. You’re incredibly sensitive from the overstimulation as he begins to pull out, moaning slightly with the loss of contact.

Aemond grabs some tissues, gently wiping down your inner thighs and beginning to clean you up. He glances up at you as you attempt to find your bearings.

“Holy. Hell.” you tell him, breathing heavily.

Aemond smirks.

“Was that too much?” he asks, a note of concern in his voice.

You shake your head.

“That was amazing,” you tell him, shyly looking away.

You grab your bra, putting it on and reaching for your shirt as he stands. You clip your bra, pulling your shirt over your head as he hands you your discarded panties.

“Thanks,” you tell him, standing on shaky legs.

You nearly fall over putting your panties back on, Aemond’s arms catch you, helping you stand.

You chuckle nervously.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, his arms still holding you.

“Yeah,” you assure him, “I should go though.”

“Of course,” he tells you.

You move toward the door but pause, turning to look at him. He’s just finishing buttoning up his shirt.

“Was this…was this a one time thing?” you ask.

Aemond looks up at you.

“It should be,” he tells you.

Your heart flutters in your chest, and a smirk tugs at your lips.

“That’s not an answer,” you tell him.

He smirks at you.

“No, it isn’t,” he agrees.

You hold his gaze a moment more.

“I’ll see you around, professor,” you tell him, unlocking the door and leaving his office.

You walk quickly, heat pounding, desperate to get back to your apartment and call Sara. You hop on the campus bus, holding tightly to the railing, trying to ignore the dull ache between your legs, and the warmth of Aemond’s cum that is still trickling down your thighs.

Boy are you fucked.

note: I hope you liked it my loves! Again, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!! For all your support and love. I'm truly so lucky to have such amazing support on this site and a place to post my silly little stories. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!! until next time besties 😘

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