#not when driftmark is on the line | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

its-actually-minicika · 1 year

Note

Hi, love your works so much! Can't wait for more updates 🥰🥰 I was wondering maybe you'd like the idea where book!Aemond and Velarion!(Strong?)Reader are in an arranged marriage. But Reader just knows what to say and how to act so that Aemond is wrapped around her finger (kinda thought of Margaery and Joffrey situation, she was such a talented schemer, worthy of winning the Throne 😭). I don't really know about the setting, like if it's before, during or after the Dance... just thought it'd be interesting to see this kind of plot with our beloved Prince 🤴🏼🐉

If you don't like it, just ignore me 🙈

Dragon Sickness (18+)

Pairing: bookcanon!Aemond x Strong!Niece!Reader

Warnings: No usage of (Y/N), Greens win AU, bookcanon Greens, the obvious Targaryen incest, mentions of major character deaths (we're entering spoiler grounds, but not really), blood, gore etc.

Word Count: 3.5K+

Author's Note: I fell in love with this idea the moment I saw it! I ended up altering the plot line for this one-shot a little bit - the reader will definitely grow into the Margaery architype, but today you shall see her as she was when she just learned how to make ends meet with her newfound life at Court.

I don't know if I should turn this into yet another series, but if you guys enjoyed this, let me know

Also, thank you so, so much for your kind words ♡ i'm hugging you to the moon and back!

PART 2 IS OUT NOW ♡♡♡

Who could ever blame you for your indiscreet acts? Alliances change when the world you know suddenly turns upside down.

She remembered how weak she was. How scared she had been.

How her eyes widened into two brown specs of uncertainty, how her mouth fell agape, as she mulled over Alicent’s words.

‘You shall marry Aemond within the next moon turns. For the good of the Realm.’

The Dowager Queen had openly admitted to being against the match – of course, the prospect of her perfect son, married off to a lowly bastard of Rhaenyra's (otherwise said, her last surviving child), didn’t specifically thrill her. Much less her demanding and scornful father.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. And if the Velaryon wanted to keep her head away from a spike, she had no other choice but to comply.

Although… she wasn’t a Velaryon now, was she? Aegon the Usurper made sure of that.

His final gift to her was to strip her of all her titles. She had been openly declared a bastard – before the masses, before the Court.

With a wide smile upon his burnt lips, the “King” had told her she’d be a Targaryen instead. Driftmark wouldn’t matter, her legacy wouldn’t matter. Aemond would inherit the seat with the Usurper’s blessing, as a homage brought to his able fighting and his shown bravery on the bloody battlefield.

Never mind that he’d never partaken in a fight; save for the one that killed her stepfather, Daemon, and sent her poor mother in a downward spiral. Aemond had chosen his adversaries wisely, and managed to go through the whole war without as much of a scratch upon his silver armour.

‘I shan’t marry your son. Not now, not ever.’ Her own voice rang out.

‘You will do exactly as demanded.’

‘I would rather die than bear the treacherous children of that monstrous beast.’

A monstrous beast. That is what Aemond was.

And that is what he shall remain. No matter how many gifts he brought to her. No matter how many hours of their days and days in their weeks and weeks in their months they spent promenading those ghastly gardens.

‘You will if you know your best interests. Your own head may hold no value to you, but a single swing of my son’s sword would be enough to bring forth the ruin of House Blackwood.’

At first, she’d been restless in her attempts to escape the Keep. Her every waking hour was spent shamelessly inside the Sept, where she prayed not for the safety of her brothers’ souls, but for revenge against the mutted Greens.

The slight breeze of the cathedral mended her flesh from the heat of summer. And no one dared to approach or talk to her. The quietness was a welcomed deed.

During the first night of their betrothal, her glossy eyes scanned Aemond’s face. His hands wantonly gripped at his thighs and a slight twitch of his mouth, accompanied by an elongated hum escaped his lips.

There was no other discernable expression. And when he led her to the chambers of her early girlhood, he merely bowed and kissed her hand.

She spent the first night of their betrothal scraping her knuckles so harshly, that they broke and cracked under the stimulation of the cold water.

Her thirst for vengeance ceased after the first two months. Her wedding date was approaching swiftly, and she found herself faced with the abhorrent truth. She had no allies. No more friends at Court. The girl had shut herself in her tiny room, losing her mind with the pain and grief that flooded her at night: the faces of her mother, her brothers, her father. The sound of their screams and their endless pleas for help.

Every night, without a fail, she woke up tormented by nightmares – her throat burning with absolving shrieks of fear, exacerbated breaths of air and flimsy nightdresses, damp throughout by breaks of sweat.

The first night she lashed out onto her bedding was the night she found out Aemond had moved his Quarters next to hers. He yanked the door open and stepped into the light of her candle – looking ravished, completely out of breath and startled. Started not for his own accord and safety, but for the state that his future wife had been in.

‘Shit, it’s alright, I’m here–’

The echo of his mellow voice deterred her to let out a blood-curdling scream, that would have rivalled even the one of the late Queen Rhaenyra, after Aegon the Usurper ceased her at Dragonstone, and reeled his dragon to eat her whole.

‘Get the fuck away from me! Get the fuck out of my room!’

Her sobs pierced into the man’s heart, but his hurt expression was masked quickly with one most bitter and taciturn. He clenched his fists ruefully by his side, and spat out an apology in a low and dangerous tone.

‘As you wish.’

And how dearly he loved those words:

‘As you wish.’

'As you desire.’

Even though nothing had been, or ever will be, as she achingly wished them to.

“You could at least attempt to look happy.” His chastising tone rained upon her, as his Lady remained hammered in her seat. Maids flocked to her like lost chickens to their cock, arranging her hair and picking out dresses fit for their engagement parade.

Her face contorted into the mirror, and a faint sigh beleft her lips. Carefully she turned around, reflecting his stance with a subtle arch to her shapely brow.

“It’s bad luck to see your bride before the wedding ceremony.”

“An old wives' tale. And one that applies only on the day itself.”

“Perhaps we should encourage tradition more. Make it so we don’t cross paths at all til then.”

Just as fast as it came, the feral look dissolved over his tired face. Aemond heaved out a heavy exhale and merely settled to growl at her maids.

“Leave us. Now.”

A discontented look painted over her fair features. His niece opened her mouth in protest, to try and stop the fleeing girls from truly making their escape.

“I must remind my Prince that the engagement assembly will be held in less than an hour. I believe I should like them to stay.”

The gathered women exchanged lost and protruding glances, until the former King Regent spoke again.

“They will leave us at once.”

“They’ll do no such a thing. They must make haste to get me ready. We wouldn’t want to upset your mother.”

“I’m more than capable of lacing up a loose bodice.”

The tight expression on her face deserted her features with the leave of his smug retort. She swallowed thickly in enraged abandon, and silently beseeched her ladies not to leave her all alone.

Still ravishing her with his bold stare, Aemond stepped another foot into the cosy confinements of her tidy prison. “If I’m to turn around now and find any of you standing before me, I’ll arrange that you’re all flogged and defiled beyond the utter of salvation.”

Brisk footsteps swallowed the room, echoing wildly through the narrow dark hallways. The former Velaryon shook her head in disarray, and graced her soon-to-be-husband with a tight smile and a nod.

“Congratulations.” She uttered humorously, “I should enjoy looking like a fool tonight much more than being proper by your side.”

As if drowned below a trace, Aemond took another step in the direction of the frowning Princess. His face remained impenetrable, but as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice ran meek, unsure and hoarse.

“Turn around.” He commanded her gently, whilst grabbing a deep green garment from the cluttery made on her bed. Despite her lack of desire to abide by his request, the woman turned her back to him and muttered slowly, though much softer than intended.

“I don’t like that one. It’ll make the skirts look out of place.”

“Which one do you want, then?” His whisper had made her draw in a sharp gasp; the warmth of his breath fell soothingly over the nape of her neck, caressing her delicate skin in a way she hadn’t known was possible.

“The red one with black lacings.”

His hand came to spin her back around, and their noses nearly touched together. A smile tugged at the ends of his upturned lips, but the look inside his eye remained frigid and unforgiving.

“Your petticoat won’t be those colours.”

A conceited scowl graced her face. She reached her hand behind him and skillfully snatched one of a different design. “Fine. I want to wear this one, then.”

The obnoxious blue and silver danced across her paling skin. And if Aemond weren’t so dazed by their proximity and lack of air, he might have laughed at her feeble attempts of vexing him.

“Those are Velaryon hues.”

“Perfect. I shall honour my house well.”

“You are not a Velaryon to grace them with such a feat.”

“No, you are absolutely right. Your brother did name me a Targaryen.”

Their faces were so close to each other, that their moving lips were almost touching.

“Yet I can’t wear black and red either.” A prompted look disarmed the Prince, “It is all very confusing.”

His lone orb descended to her puffing bosom, but Aemond soon directed himself upon a more elusive image. His fingers twitched with the need to grab a hold of her – to pull away those last pieces of cloth that shielded her away from view.

“You know full well why I can’t allow that.” He hummed in unmoving disapproval, “As much as I enjoy your voice and the raptures of your closeness, I must say this conversation bores me.”

“I should be able to wear what I want.” Came her prompt and swift reply, “But of course, Your Grace, forgive me. ‘Tis not for men to pounder on laces and brims.” Her palms took to rest upon his bulging chest, and the girl nearly removed them at once, as the thrumming of his heart enterlaced with her slim fingers. Still, she furrowed her brows in a most perplexed of mockeries, and insatiably drove on, “Indeed resilient men such as yourself occupy their time much better.”

The callouses of his hands fell heavily upon her cheeks.

“Fucking their ways through brothels, getting their pricks wet, and fantasising about wars.”

The harshness of his next tug nearly broke her brave facade – her eyes widened in mistrust, and a slight recoil braced over her straightened back. Her small fingers clasped over his shaking wrist, which held onto her face with a gentleness untoward; one completely mismatching with the predatory glimmer in his eye.

The man he was, and the man he was trying to be would surely never mend to one.

A Kinslayer. A monster. A divergent freak.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

His thumb played absent-mindedly at her lower lip, and the young Princess tried her damnest not to bite him. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?”

“You are as imprudent as you are beautiful. A family trait, I assume.”

“You have my gratitude for the flattering commentary. I’m very proud of my heritage.”

His lilac orb bore into her, and the man let out a reserved laugh, “Your bastard brothers were ample proud. Look where that brought them.” The rough end of his hand gripped her own painfully, before she could make for a swing at his handsome face. “Lost in the seas, rotting at the bottom of an ocean, nestling inside Sunfyre’s belly.”

While her hands were clasped together, her mouth wasn’t sown shut. With a single and effective move, she spat harshly in his face, eliciting a groan from her broader perpetrator.

Though his nostrils flared up in disdain, the man graced her with a calculated smirk. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?” He mocked her with feigned interest.

“Fuck you,” She hissed out slowly, “Don’t you dare talk of my family – my brothers were ten times the man you are.”

“Oh, but I have every right to talk about your family. Given that I will be all yours shortly.” Once more he forced her to turn around, and kneeled over to her spasming form, to begin dressing her up; in nought else, of course, but the mundane silks of his choosing.

"Doesn't the prospect thrill you? To become my lady-wife, to finally bear a true Targaryen inside your royal womb?"

So hopeless and defeated she felt, that the youth jerked herself relentlessly, while repeating him the same plethora of words. “You cannot force me to be your whore. You cannot force me to wear this. I will not bear your Hightower green.”

Aemond could feel his patience running thin – and when her foot came into contact with his setting knee, the man let out a ferocious growl, and promptly trapped the girl in his arms, with the aid of a nearby wall.

“So you want to be difficult? You don’t want to wear this? Hmm? Well, who am I not to abide my Lady’s burning wishes?”

The sharpness of his dagger came into quick contact with the milky skin of her thighs. And she might have almost screamed, if Aemond didn’t immediately pull himself away. His hard chest grazed hers for but a moment, as the Prince cast his attention to her moving shadow.

“If you wish not to attend our engagement parade wearing the clothes I’ve chosen for you,” He muttered against her face, a scorned look adorning his own, “Then you won’t be wearing anything at all.”

She huffed out a dispensing pant and pursed her lips into a tight line.

She remained rigid and poised, until a spark of amusement swirled into her eyes.

The first crack was that of a lax smile. The next, a tremor to her lips. The calm before the storm approached, until all rattled down with a mirthed laugh cascading from her reddened lips.

“Do you mean to frighten me with this promise?” She asked through the arch of an uncertain brow, “As if every man in this cursed Keep won’t get to watch me whore myself out to you anyway, when our wedding night will come?”

His face suddenly hardened at the notion of their reality – as if he didn’t give much thought to the bedding ceremony. To his Lady being watched by a thousand other eyes but his.

Aemond suddenly darkened, and his fist came into contact with a near spot on the wall, so awfully close to her frightened, paling face.

She watched with wide eyes how his stare contorted from one of realisation to one of fury. He stiffly peeled his body away from hers, and strained himself to leave her be. The jealous and possessive knots that churned painfully inside his stomach burned his skin upon the surface, and constricted the air he brashly took in.

He nodded to her in a spry and calloused manner, and brought his hand out to touch her cheek. His knuckles had begun to bleed, busted by the force of impact that his fist had faced for him. Behind his eye danced a look of seldom shame – he gnawed harshly at his bottom lip, and pondered, for a while, on apologising to his niece; for his lack of princely conduct, for his show of impropriety – for his inability to keep himself at bay.

Still his thoughts failed to merge to words, and so the man ran his eye one final time over her defensive pose, and merely left her standing there.

As if turned into a statue, the girl barely registered the lethargic closing of the door, the hurried and heavy footsteps that travelled further and further away from her quaint and cluttered space, and the animated curse that slipped past her uncle's throat.

Did he just dare to leave her there, with her petticoat half up her legs, in nought else but a flimsy nightdress?

At first she thought that his avoidance was a blessing in disguise.

For after clashing wits with Aemond, and after his swift hurried departure, the man had barely graced her with another word.

His hand held onto hers for the whole duration of the procession. He wordlessly forced her to dance two dances, and led her to her Quarters as soon as she mentioned that she was tired.

But his palms didn’t linger on the shape of her narrow waist – his lips barely grazed her knuckles, and Aemond turned with lest a word to add after their fake sympathies were exchanged.

Had he gotten bored of her? Realised what a terrible match they made, and begged his mother on his hands and knees to break off their ill engagement?

For the first time in a while, a new notion of fear engulfed her.

The Greens couldn’t kill her. Of that, she was almost certain. It wouldn't be a wise move, and it would anger the North beyond the power of salvation. The war had had its say on every army that fought into it, yet the Crownlands were especially weak.

But if Aemond were to sever their solidary alliance, then her future would be most uncertain.

Otto Hightower would make her join with an old and withered Lord, no doubt – one with more than enough sons to further on his pesky line. One who couldn’t even get it up to her, who’d never procreate and mend their blood, who’d make sure Rhaenyra’s line would end with her.

Or perhaps she’d be sent to join the Faith – become a Septa or a Silent Sister, among the infamous Maris Baratheons of the Realm. Yet another girl who wouldn’t keep her tongue when asked.

And history might remember them as ‘the women who couldn’t be tamed’, but their lives would be thrown to ruin. Their existence would remain a sham.

No, she had whispered to herself, as she writhed into the soft bedding. If she still thirsted for revenge, she would have to marry Aemond. Keep him interested and relaxed – yearning for her voice and company.

… And if she had to whore herself to him to do it, she would obediently assume her role.

“I beg your pardon?” Aegon asked through another gulp of bitter wine, “Gods be good – I believe that now I’ve heard it all.”

Aemond paced about his brother’s room, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his face set into a deep grimace. He hummed in admission to his brother’s words, and glanced his way with the instance of a hooded eye.

“There is to be no bedding ceremony.” He repeated himself with ease, “I frightened her enough already. The girl will be plenty uncomfortable without the aid of chafing eyes.”

His brother smiled and raised his brows in nothing else but blinding wonder. A small shake of his head indicated his perplexion, and a sharp inhale his drawn decision.

“Mother insisted upon it. You know that well.” The man steadied himself in his chair as he spoke, whilst letting out a small grunt at the contact that the wood made upon his burnt remnants of skin. “I don’t see any reason to annul it. Especially now, an eve before.”

Another sip of the stinging liquor interrupted his smooth and ready trail of thought. The Targaryen brushed off Aemond’s concerns, and gleefully bided his teasing.

“It’ll do the two of you good – you’ll get to see she’s as pure as a bastard girl can be; and she’ll have no deniability that any of her future heirs are yours.” He pointed his weary digit in the direction of his stiffened form and swallowed down a hefty laugh. “Not to mention that Lord Redwyne and Tarly already placed bets on the state of her maidenhead. Would be a shame to disappoint them both, don't you think?"

“What mother thinks is of no consequence. And the amusement of the Realm matters not to me. There will be no bedding ceremony.”

“Nonsense, Aemond. It is our duty to upkeep the Realm – and to entertain its inhabitants if need be.”

When his reckless teasing was met with glacial silence, Aegon sighed as he briskly leaned forward. He watched his sibling with an indiscernible expression across his scorched veneer, and yawned greatly at his indisposed behaviour.

“Of course, we’re here to talk it out. But after so much time spent in your company, I fail to see the necessity for such a thing.” A sly smirk danced across his puffy lips, “Are you concerned that she won’t bleed? Or that you’ll be too cunt-struck by her to last enough to make a statement?”

Aemond’s fists descended upon the polished wood of Aegon’d desk. He thrashed his brother with a defiant glare, and hissed through his gritted teeth, and tight-set jaw.

“There will be no bedding ceremony for my niece and I. Tell that to every Lord that wishes to glance upon my wife – if they do so much as to cast their hands on her, they’ll be fucking their own wives with a wooden cock.”

Amusement laced with grave concern – the finality of Aemond's words ought to have vexed him, irk the King in his sibling's weighty insolence. Instead Aegon nodded, pushing back the feeling of dread that settled deep within his bones. His head jerked towards his closed oak door, signalling to his brother that his visit had been overstated. “What sort of brother would I be, to not grant you with this simple whim?”

The younger Targaryen mirrored his stance, and turned abruptly on his heel after a low grunt of gratitude.

His hand reached for the golden handle, but Aegon's words deterred him to a halt.

“But be careful with that one, Aemond. She’s brash and wholly unpredictable. Make sure the blood that stains your sheets come morning isn’t somehow your very own.”

Perma Tag List: @welcometothelioncage @kravitzwhore ♡

1K notes · View notes

avtrbee · 2 years

Text

dragon blood

✢summary: daemon doesn’t often love, and when he does he deals with it in the worse ways possible

✢tags: daemon targaryen x reader

✢tw: reader is implied to be a targaryen so typical incest

✢a/n: ik i don’t write things with reader bring preggy and kids because the very thought of it disgusts me, but seeing as the story is set in the game of thrones universe i doubt any woman can refuse to have children especially if they are highborn.

Daemon loves many things. He loves his girls down in Flea Bottom where every whore would approach him like flies to honey at the sight of his white hair for a chance to sleep with a Valyrian prince. He loves his role as the commander of the City Watch and his gold cloaks who are loyal to his demands, he loves the violence, the blood that slicks his hand red when he slits the throat of a criminal or the painful look of a rapist’s face when he cuts his cock off. Daemon loves war, this war for the Stepstones is something he has craved for a long time. The weariness of it, the frustration, the battles and the sword fights- Daemon loves every bit of it.

Daemon loves his ancestry, his Dark Sister who fights with him in every battle, his Caraxes, his pride and joy, whom he rides on to war like a god as cold wind wooshes through his hair in the sky. Daemon also loves his brother, despite popular belief. Viserys who was there from the start, a peacemaker to his violence, someone soft to Daemon’s harsh lines. Viserys, who Daemon bends every rule and law for his attention. Viserys just makes it so…hard to love him sometimes.

Viserys has also given Daemon a wife, who he does not love.

Viserys did not realize that Daemon wanted to choose his wife, not to be given another as soon as his previous marriage was annulled. He does not love his wife, but the Lady Y/N Targaryen is far easier to look at than his old bronze bitch. They both have the blood of the dragon in their veins, strumming chaos and fire in their blood, making it enjoyable to bed her. And so Daemon did, over and over again, until her screams rang across the Red Keep, eating his lovely Targaryen wife until she fainted but even then Daemon did not stop- until her peaks were just short shivers, until she was heaving heavily with no thoughts in her head but his name.

Daemon likes the way the court averts their eyes every time he sees his wife, yanking in her hair to expose her neck to him. He likes the way her neck feels in his hands, so soft and delicate, but he likes the sultry gaze Y/N Targaryen gives him more.

There was only one moment where the thought of loving his wife came up in his mind was when he had held his son in his arms, still freshly birthed and red from blood. “Jaehaerys,” she whispered, taking his attention away from the babe to her. “A name of a great king to a great babe.

Daemon merely nodded and drunk in the sight of her. Y/N’s cheeks have sunken and eyes have darkened after long hours of labor. Her hair was tied to her back by a handmaiden in the middle of her labor but some strands had managed to escape. She was wearing nothing but loose robes with no jewelry on her neck or hair, a far cry from the the Lady Y/N Targaryen of the Viserys’ court. Daemon had never seen her so beautiful. And now, she had given him his son.

Before he could even stop himself, Daemon leaned over and pressed a kiss on her sweaty forehead. “Thank you.”

Y/N have him a surprised look.

Perhaps this was it. Perhaps he could stay here, in Dragonstone, with his wife and Jaehaerys without a thought of the world. Perhaps he could love her as he already loves his son. Kings Landing could die and he would not care, but…

Second sons must make a name for themselves, Daemon’s head echoes the words of Corlys Velaryon upon his summons at Driftmark.

Daemon gives Jaehaerys one last kiss before giving him back to his mother. He had ridden Caraxes to the Stepstones by sundown.

You had barely even finished your fast when you were suddenly rushed by your handmaidens to dress quickly. “The King has called for an audience, Princess,” said Mhyra, gently guiding you to your vanity as you sit down before it.

Alys, your other handmadien, scurried to you from your closet with a red and black dress in hand. Your eyes squinted on her bold dress of choice. It was one of your ‘strong’ dresses that boasts your house with two dragons on your shoulders while rubies are bejeweled to the embroidered third dragon on the back. “Audience for what?” You asked.

Behind you, more of your ladies in waiting scurry around in a flurry. “Get the Price Jaehaerys!”

You turn at the mention of the prince, watching as three of Jaehaerys’ maids walk briskly out of your chambers. “Wha- what is happening?”

“Prince Daemon has returned with victory from the Stepstones, my lady.” Mhyra answers, as you immediately tense.

You almost fail to hide your displeased grimace.

Within minutes you are dressed in your best dress directly below the Iron Throne as is your right. You watch as the Kings Guard fill Viserys’s court first, then sworn shields, then the lords and ladies of Kings Landing flock to the hall until it was full. Chatter and whispers fill up the hall of the Iron Throne with rumors of Daemon’s victory, Daemon’s defeat, or god forbid- Daemon’s rebellion from the Iron Throne.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Rhaenyra’s platinum head among the chatty crowds. You give her a questioning raise of your eyebrow as she should have been in Dragonstone while she sheepishly smiles in response.

Silence holds the room immediately as Daemon finally walks through the halls. He walks slowly, taking his time like he was strolling through a garden. He is still arogant, it seems. Though the crowd wa already split into two, you think that Daemon was like a shark swimming through schools of fish as the crowds take a step back when he passes by as he walks towards the throne.

The first thing you notice him was he was wearing a crown of white bark held together by a dark strings. You raise your head up to the Iron Throne and almost immediately, Viserys’s purple eyes return your worried gaze.

You turn your head back to the exiled prince. The second thing you notice- his hair. Gone was his flowing white locks of hair that passed by his shoulders. His hair was now sheared short that ends before his nape. He looks as handsome as ever.

Before he can take another step towards the Iron Throne, Daemon is stopped by a sword. The crowd hold their breath as Daemon raises his own sword to the King before dropping it to the ground. “Add it to the chair.”

The sword echoes as it falls to the ground.

“You wear a crown,” starts Viserys, looking down at Daemon with the legendary sword of Aegon the Conquerer rests sheathed on his hands. “You also call yourself king.”

“Once we smashed the triarchy, they named me King of the Narrow Sea,” Daemon shrugs in explanation. A wave of tense anticipation rolls to the shores of Viserys’s court. You do not fail to see the Kingsguard slowly grasp their sheathed swords. Beside you, your own sword shield has moved from your side to your front, ready to defend you if chaos arrives.

You do not blame them, as you yourself had already calculated an escape plan. You would hand Prince Jaehaerys to your shield, and run towards fastest way to the dragonpit to mount your dragon. Lords and ladies flicker their gazes back and forth to the King and his brother, waiting in anticipation of his next words. Would this be a surrender or Daemon’s rebellion?

“But I know that there is only one true King, your Grace,” Daemon’s words were sweet as honey as he kneels in genuflect infront of his brother. Viserys turns to his Otto Hightower in silent contemplation, then he turns his gaze to you.

Viserys cranes his neck to the crowd as he searches for his former Master of Ships. “Where is Lord Corlys?”

“He sailed home to Driftmark.” Answers Daemon, still on his knees.

“Who holds the Stepstones?”

“The tides, the crabs, and 2000 triarchy corpses stakes to the sand to warn those who might follow.”

Viserys descends down the steps of the Iron Throne and takes Daemon’s wooden crown. He looks at it in discontent before passing it to one of his Kingsguard, as it pales in comparison to his own crown and all the riches House Targaryen has to offer. “Rise.”

Viserys holds a hand to Daemon’s shoulder as a fond look appears on his face. As if he was weak to his brother’s touch, Daemon’s head immediately falls to Viserys’s shoulders.

The court finally breathes free as a thundering applause echoes across the hall. Any rumors of Daemon’s rebellion has now faded away to praises of ‘King Viserys’s mercy’ and the brothers’ love for one another.

But the clapping soon faded as soon as Daemon soon removed himself from Viserys’ loving embrace to face you.

“My lady,” he starts, and the crowd goes silent again. “I have won the war at the Stepstones for you and out King.” Daemon walks to with a smile that you can’t decide is charming or apologetic. Your face is stone as you remember how Daemon left so abruptly, the ladies that whisper at your back in court, the pitying stares Jaehaerys gets when he walks down the halls of the Red Keep.

You see Daemon’s eyes pan to you, then down to your dress to look at the boy who looks so much like his father, who has been clutching your skirts like it was a shield. For a moment, you see Daemon soften infront of his son like he did three years ago when he held him first.

“And who might this little prince be?” He breathes so reverently that you have never heard Daemon sound so gentle before. There was no question as to who the father was. Jaehaerys’s Valyrian looks hav attested to that. Jae’s tiny fists curl tighter around your dress as Daemon kneels infront of him.

“I’m Jaehaerys,” came the little voice from behind your skirts. Normally, Jae would be a cheerful child, a far cry from the shy on that Daemon sees now. Jae is a ball of restless energy, eager to please and talk. But this stranger is someone else.

“And do you know who I am, little Jaehaerys?” Daemon’s head tilt at the child.

Immediately, you regret telling your decision to tell Jaehaerys’ stories of Daemon- of his brave acts in battle, and how he is strong as he is brave. You remember his sad words as Jae asks why Daemon isn’t here when his Aunt Rhaenyra’s father is with her like how his cousins Laena and Laenor has Lord Corlys by their side. You regret telling him that he has sadly left to defend the realm when in reality he had left Jaehaerys as soon as he was born at the first mention of a war.

“You’re my father.” Jae answers bravely. “Isn’t that right, mother?” Your hand instinctively moves to rest on Jae’s head as he looks up to you in confirmation. You look down at Jaehaerys’s purple eyes that looks at you to innocently, but you also feel the gaze of hundreds of people at court.

A nod from you was all it took before a wide smile appeared on his face. His shyness was tripped away as he let go of your skirts and jumped to Daemon’s arms with no fear. Applause filled the room again as the court adored the sight of a loving father-son reunion, paying the scorned wife no mind.

if you like this, check out my masterlist!! as always, please don't hesitate to leave your throughts through comments. they keep me going :))

#daemon imagine #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon headcanon #daemon targaryen imagine

4K notes · View notes

squirmhoney · 1 year

Note

Can i require a dark aemond smut fic where reader is the second daughter of rhaenyra (and harwin) and she went to storm end, here he met aemond that is really obsessed with her. He takes her to king's landing just to share the bed with her and the next morning marry her (both forced). That is a bit dark, but i would like u to write it if u like my idea ❤️

My Dear

A/N: There is so much Valyrian in this and the translations are so off but just imagine what they are saying from my translations. Sorry for it. This is a lot and very angsty at times but I hope you enjoy. Warnings: Non Con. Dub Con. Over stimulation. Smut. Incest. 18+ Angst. Manipulation. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader Word count: 3.2k

Master list

Aemond's stare was intense, making your skin crawl as you dared not to look back at him.

"Go home, girl," Lord Baratheon barked, shooing you away with his hand.

"I will take your answer to my mother," you told him, your gaze shifted finally landing on your uncle. "To the Queen."

His face twitched, lips snarling upwards at you.

You turned your body around, stalking out of the doors as the guards followed you.

The guards left you once you got to your dragon, leaving you with the noise of the howling wind and rain to fill your ears. Your hand reached out to touch the side of Vermithor's face, your head gently resting against him.

"Nyke zūgagon skoros bisa bantis might ōregon," you whispered, eyes closing as you rested in to your dragon. I fear what this night might hold.

Vermithor could sense your tense body, a dragon's howl roaring from his throat.

"My tala." Niece.

You twisted around, looking through the rain but not finding anyone there. You swore you heard it, the sound of his voice sending a shudder down your spine.

"Sagon sȳz naejot issa, Vermithor," you told him, patting his skin before climbing on his saddle. Be good to me, Vermithor.

It was a short ride back to Driftmark but the rain was soaking your clothes and clouding your vision. At this point you didn't know if you were trembling from the chill or the fear of your Uncle possibly being near.

Vermithor was playing up, suddenly backing up as he spit fire into the wind.

"Naejot, Vermithor. Naejot," you commanded him, holding onto his reins with a tight grip. The rope burned marks into your skin but you continued to hold on, not wanting to fall off your dragon. "Rȳbagon naejot issa." Forward, Vermithor. Forward. Listen to me.

But that's when you saw it, a dark shadow larger than your own dragon in front of you. You twisted the reins, yanking Vermithor downwards as he flew.

You dodged it, Vhagar flying over you in one big swoop. You didn't have time to think, just pulling Vermithor back in the same direction.

Even through the wind, you could hear his cackling as he taunted you.

Luckily for you, Vermithor was almost as big as Vhagar and speed wasn't a problem for him. He was younger as well, meaning if it came to it, in battle he might be able to defeat Vhagar.

However, you really didn't want it to come to that. As much as you feared your Uncle now, you were close once and you may have wanted to loathe him but you loved him still.

Eventually you were through the dark clouds, a clearing of blue surrounding you. But your gaze still turned back, glancing towards the clouds in hopes that Aemond was long gone.

But then you felt it, a presence below you as something came quick through the wind. You shifted to the side, Vermithor following your tug as he dodged out of the way. He blew a long line of fire at Vhagar, making the dragon roar in retaliation.

This isn't what you wanted.

"Daor, Vermithor," you yelled, beckoning your dragon away. No, Vermithor.

Your eyes scanned around you, landing on a small island in near distance. You tugged your dragon to the island, Vermithor sensing your urgency as he practically crash landed into the ground. You were quick to dismount, hand sliding up and down Vermithor's scales as you tried to sooth him.

Vhagar soon followed, landing too close for comfort. Aemond jumped off, stalking over to you in an instant.

"Ao could emagon ossēntan issa," you screamed at him, eyes brimming with tears as you bit back a sob. You were never an emotional person but Aemond brought a side out of you that you didn't know. You felt overwhelmed with emotion in his presence. You could have killed me.

He stepped closer, a bit too close for your liking as you backed away. Vermithor shielded you as you cowered behind his neck. He roasted at Aemond, fire sitting in the back of his throat as he waited for your command.

"Ruaragon inkot aōha zaldrīzes, skorkydoso nēdenka," Aemond hissed, holding his position. Hiding behind your dragon, how brave.

"Mēre udir. Bona iksos ry nyke jorrāelagon," you told him, grinding your teeth down to try and hide your broken voice. But it was not use, Aemond heard the crack in your tone. One word. That's all I need.

"I only wish to talk to you," Aemond admitted, sounding sincere as his voice softened. "Issa jorrāelagon." My dear.

"Don't call me that." Your voice was completely shattered as were you, tears running down your face. You let out a shaky breath, trying to gain control of your emotions. "That is not fair."

"It is true." He steps forward only to be met with Vermithor's snarling teeth. "Who knows if we ever may have a chance like this again."

"You said what you needed to say." You shook your head, biting your lip. "You said a lot that day in the Red Keep."

"Nyke regret ziry." He placed his hand out towards you, in hopes that you would take it. I regret it.

"Nyke jaelagon naejot jikagon lenton. Nyke gaomagon daor jaelagon naejot ȳzaldrīzes." I wish to go home. I do not wish to talk.

"Gaomagon daor pirtir." He shook his head, shivering slightly in the wind. "I can tell when you lie." Do not lie.

It was true.

"Umbagon gīda," You hushed Vermithor, sliding your hand against his scales. Stay calm.

You stepped out from behind him, his head beckoning away and into himself as he rested.

"What do you wish to say?" You asked, stepping closer to him.

"I wish to apologise for the cruelty that you received from me when you came to Kings Landing," he admitted, hand still holding out towards you. "I never wanted to hurt you. You must know that."

You gulped, your walls crumbling in his presence.

"Please, Y/N," he pleaded with you, drawing attention to his hand. "We may never have this chance again to talk."

You reached for his hand, your delicate fingers intertwining with his rough ones.

Aemond wasted no time, yanking you in almost immediately as he twisted you around. Within seconds you could feel his dagger on your throat as your back pressed against his chest.

"I'm sorry. But there is no other way to take you back to Kings Landing with me." Aemond pulled you away, making Vermithor shift as he felt your discomfort. "You'll tell your dragon to stand down or you'll kill us both."

"Aemond, please don't do this," you cried, lips trembling.

"Now, Y/N."

"Obūljarion, Vermithor. Umbagon dīnagon." Yield, Vermithor. Stay put.

Vermithor cried as Aemond dragged you away, taking you to Vhagar.

All the way to King's Landing he was silent as you wept, hardly bothering to comfort you. This was the true hun, you reminded yourself in your head, not the one that you believed him to be.

He had brought you back in the middle of the night, no one seeing you as he brought you to his chambers. He had a bath made up by the servants, something you were awfully grateful for as you sat in wet rags.

The servants tried to leave the room but Aemond stopped them by the door, hissing something at them. They were timid bowing at him before leaving, scattering out of the door.

"Wash," Aemond commanded, standing by the door way. "I will be back in a minute."

You did.

When you were done, the only thing you could find to cover you was a thin night robe. You pulled it over, sitting by the fire and drying your hair with a cloth.

Aemond was back, finally. The door was shut with a slam behind him, the locks being bolted as well. You were his prisoner.

Your eyes found his, flinching away as he stripped himself of his clothes. You listened to each piece falling to the floor, staring at the fire in front of you.

"Come here," Aemond demanded.

You inclined your head backwards, only to return your gaze back to the fire as you realised his nudity.

"Don't make me drag you," Aemond's voice was coarse and unsettling. "Because I will."

You stood up, a gut wrenching feeling telling you not but you did anyway. You were slow as you made your way over to him, eyes holding his gaze rather than anything else.

"Tomorrow we will marry," Aemond announced, hand gripping the back of your head to pull you closer. "But tonight I will make you mine."

"No," you voice was barely above a whisper, struggling to take it all in. "No, I will not marry you."

He pushed his lips against yours, capturing them in a furious and bruising kiss. His hand wrapped around your throat while the other tore your night gown off your body. He pressed his bare chest against yours, pushing you against the bed.

You were quick to scamper up the bed, getting away from him. "Get away from me."

His hand caught your ankle, yanking you right back down. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"I will not be bedded by you," you screamed, hitting against his chest in hopes he would move. "I am to marry Cregan Stark, not you."

Aemond didn't take this lightly, hand gripping at your throat once again but this time his hand tightened cutting off your air supply. "You are betrothed to me. No one, not even the Gods can take you from me."

You couldn't breathe, a wheeze leaving your lips as you clawed at Aemond's hand.

He let go, cupping your face instead as he went to look at you. His head rested against yours, a sigh leaving his lips. "I'm sorry."

He pushed your legs down folding you as your body became limp for him. You were terrified looking up at him, lips quivering as you lower lip pouted out.

"This will hurt at first but I swear I will make it pleasurable."

And it did.

He thrusted his cock in slowly, a sob leaving your lips at the sudden burn. Your walls stretched around him but as he pumped himself in and out, it didn't feel any easier or better with time.

"I know, I know," Aemond hummed, pressing feather light kisses against your wet face.

You turned your face to the side, closing your eyes as you tried to pretend you were anywhere else but there.

You thought it would be over quickly, that once he did it that you could wrap yourself in the sheets and forget.

But once Aemond had you once, he never wanted to stop.

Some where along the way it had got easier, there was a wetness between your legs that hadn't been there before and your cunt was used to the intrusion.

"I swear to the seven I'm never letting you go," Aemond groaned into your ear, chest pressing against yours as he did all the work. "I shouldn't have ever let you go."

"Aemond," you cried, one of pleasure and sadness.

You couldn't help as your walls clenched around him, practically holding him there. You couldn't stop him as his hand reached down towards your clit, rubbing you there.

Your body was tired and it was futile trying to fight against him at this point. If you could, you would. Well that's at least what you told yourself.

"I love you," Aemond confessed between kisses that he pressed against your lips.

You didn't respond instead you moaned his name as you came undone, eyes closing as you tried not to look at him. He was soon brought to his own release, spilling into your walls once again as came inside you. He collapsed after that, falling on top of you as he rested there.

While he slept, cock buried inside of you and his head in the crook of your neck, you painted yourself a picture. One where you and Aemond weren't part of this monstrosity of a family or at least one where he had taken you away from them after you returned to Kings Landing. In that place you could pretend that this was still the Aemond you loved and cherished, that this wasn't a man that called you a bastard and told you he wanted nothing to do with you. A man that had changed his mind, deciding he needed you and almost killing you on dragon back in the process. One that had taken you against your will.

In this world he was the sweet boy you had doted on. The one that suddenly became nervous after your mothers had betrothed you too each other even after knowing each other all your lives. One that adored you and would do anything for you.

That's where your dreams took you as you slept beside him, hoping that one day it could be like that.

"I will send the servants in. They will bring you some clothes and food," Aemond said, leaving you lying under the covers.

He was cold, all of a sudden another man once he woken. But you shook your head, not thinking anything of it.

"My princess," the servants bowed as they came in, bringing in a night gown and robe. "Would you like for us to draw you another bath?"

"If you'd be so kind," you said in a small voice, wrapping the robe over your body to cover you.

"Some food to eat," one of the servants placed a few trays down on Aemond's table, pouring you a tea before moving away.

"Thank you," you nodded, completely famished as you chomped on the food.

"You should have someone see to those bruises," one of the servants pointed to your skin. Aemond had sucked and bit all over your skin, claiming you as his.

"Maybe you could call the maester." You turned to them only to met with worried faces as they looked away.

"You could ask Prince Aemond," one of them suggested.

"I should." You nodded, turning back to your plate.

Something was off but you only realised what when Aemond returned to your room.

The servants were long gone by now and your bath was luckily still piping hot.

"You said we will be married," you said to him, gesturing to your gown. "Is this what you intend to marry me in?"

"It does not matter that you are wearing," he snapped at you.

"So when shall we leave?" You asked.

"Tonight."

It finally clicked. "No one knows that I'm here."

His gaze snapped towards you, grinding down his teeth as his jaw clenched.

"Do they?" You smirked as if this helped you at all. "Because if anyone was to know they would have me thrown in a cell for treason."

"Once we are married, they won't," Aemond replied, stepping closer to you.

"You don't know that." You shook your head.

He kneeled down to your position, fingers sliding into your hair as he pulled you in. "No one will take you away from me again."

"You don't know that."

"I won't let them." Aemond's hands slipped under your night gown, finding slick still there from last night. You flinched away, wishing you hadn't waited for the bath to cool down and had bathed already.

"Aemond, if you love me you'll let me go," you pleaded with him, tears brimming your eyes.

"No," Aemond growled, hovering his body over yours as he pushed you to the ground. "It's because I love you that I knew the best way to capture you. I knew calling you my dear would bring you back to me. Like it always has." He was quick to slip his breeches off pulling them far enough down to release himself from his the right restraints. "Kesrio syt nyke gīmigon ao jorrāelagon issa." Because I know you love me.

"Don't do this," you begged, slapping his face in hopes he would stop. "I do not love you. I hate you."

Aemond didn't stop instead you felt his cock press against your folds, sliding across it before slipping in. "Ao jorrāelagon issa," he whispered against you lips, pressing your arms on top of your head. You love me.

Your eyes closed, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he started to push in and out of you. This wasn't right, you tried to convince yourself. But Aemond felt right between your legs, your whole body weakening for him.

"See how you crumble for me," Aemond told you, rutting his hips into yours. "We are meant to be."

"I don't love you," you repeated, your voice getting smaller and smaller as Aemond sank further into you.

Eventually there was nothing but moans falling from your tongue. They mixed with Aemond's as they filled the room and you both clung to each other. All thoughts vanished as he you felt every ridge of him so deep inside you, unable to fight the oncoming feeling of a climax like never before.

Aemond could sense, fucking into you slightly harder as his mouth sucked on your tits. Your body was so reactive, hips bucking up into him as your walls squeezed him.

"Ivestragī jikagon jorrāelagon ābrazȳrys," he hummed, hands gripping your hips tightly for support. Let go, dear wife.

That's all it took, his words sending you over the edge as you came around him. Your cunt twitched so over worked that it didn't know how to handle it. Your own climax swept Aemond's right from him, having him spilling inside you with a few sloppy thrusts. You could feel him filling you up and you couldn't help as your walls clenched down trying to keep it all in.

Aemond noticed this, grinning when he pulled out and heard the desperate whine that escaped you.

"I will marry you under the seven tonight," Aemond reminded you, wrapping his arms around you as he pulled you up. "After that no one will ever be allowed to take you away from me again." He gently placed you in the bath, joining behind you as he held you against him. "I will kill anyone that stands to tear us apart."

Aemond dragged you through the Kingswood that night, to a small clearing by the lake. A clergy was waiting for the pair of you, shaking at the sight of Aemond.

You were sure Aemond had threatened him.

But at last the pair of you were married, under the Gods and there was nothing or no one that could stop it. Aemond clung to you after promising you that you wouldn't come to harms way. He had sent the Clergy off, taking you on the cold floor of the woods for the night to see.

As you lay there underneath him, you only knew one thing.

That you did love him. And that you would pray that nothing would take you away from him now.

If that made you a traitor, so be it. Because you would bow in front of anyone to be with Aemond, even the man that had usurped the throne from your mother and had waged war on your family.

Tag List:

@ophelialaufey @cl-0-vr @julianaaleticia @azzir11 @auratiqs @targaryenmoony @brb-readingurfic @aegonsgf @poppyflower-22 @ietss @lilostif16 @candypurplebutterfly @mandiiblanche @much-adoo-about-smut @valsandoval @jamespotterismydaddy @floswife @yearninginpages @dragonslutsblog @coriellesmarya @schniiipsell @esmeralda-tupi @alexxavicry @itsapurrfectstorm @singular-itae @f4ll-for-you @jallen0126 @piceous21 @witchy-jadda @hb8301 @ebaylee422 @sallyscigarettes @clairacassidy @sachafirebringer @tssf-imagines @aleemendoza2425-blog @savagemickey03 @readsalot73 @midnightrqin @spinachtz @watercolorskyy @magnificantmermaid @janelongxox @multitargaryen @eddiepicker @sahanna @smayhem @bebeos @joliettes @jimins15thhair

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut

1K notes · View notes

queenvhagar · 2 months

Text

It's interesting that Rhaenyra is consistently framed as being "not like other girls" in such an extreme attempt at feminism that it veers way over to other side in that all the other girls in the story, especially those who act differently than she would or who act in opposition to her wishes, are somehow not as good as her or even evil.

As the show loves to show us, Rhaenyra's not like other girls. She loves being a bit of a rebel. She defies the rules of the world and doesn't care what anyone's opinion of her is. She embraces her sexuality. She's bold and says what's on her mind. Now, these are fine things for her as a character, for sure. The problem comes when looking at how the other girls are depicted and how the show expects you to feel about them vs Rhaenyra.

Alicent accepts her position in life as the daughter of a second son and marries for her family against her wishes. But it goes against what Rhaenyra wants, so she's evil. She should have just been more like Rhaenyra! Defied her father, said no to Viserys, went against the patriarchy... except Alicent does not have the privilege that Rhaenyra has as a dragon riding Targaryen princess, the king's beloved daughter and heir to the throne. What power did she have to resist the wishes of her lord father and the king? She acted like any girl of her time would, given the circumstances of her powerlessness, and yet somehow the show wants you to believe that's a character flaw.

Laena is second to Rhaenyra, something the show made painfully obvious when depicting her marriage with Daemon (which sucks especially because there was no indication that this was the case in the books; rather, her and Daemon were happily married and both were extremely close to Rhaenyra the entire time). Her death is changed from its original and unique tragedy to prop up Rhaenyra's eventual fate and its "epic" quality, so when it eventually happens we can view it as a true "dragonrider's death." Then, on the night of her funeral, her husbands finally gets with his first choice Rhaenyra. Laena who? She is made to look less in comparison to Rhaenyra.

Baela and Rhaena, despite having huge roles in the Dance and the aftermath, are largely sidelined by the writers. Baela's a fierce dragonrider like her mother... yet the only scene allowing her to show any aspect of that is left on the cutting room floor. Rhaena wants a dragon and is the only one of her family who isn't a dragonrider... yet the writers have yet to give her any personality beyond that or explore this aspect of her character with any depth. The twins' adult versions barely have any screen time or lines. Even when they are betrothed, seemingly without their prior knowledge, they can only smile by the side.

Helaena is a dragonrider, a dragon dreamer, a mother, a daughter. Forced to use her Targaryen royal womb to make heirs. But the writers aren't interested in exploring any aspect of her character in depth or showing her relationships with her family.

One woman is the exception, as she does share some qualities with Rhaenyra in that she's also not like other girls and the audience should root for her too... it's Rhaenys! She's got a dragon! She'll put it in the Greens' faces (never mind hundreds of innocents killed - so cool!). She'll call someone out for toiling their life in the service of men (even though she's done no differently with her own life!). And because girls support girls no matter what, of course she's Team Black all the way (even though her daughter died a continent away because of Daemon and her son was clearly killed because of Rhaenyra). Rhaenys will hitch onto the Black train despite everything that's happened, and in supporting Rhaenyra she'll take away Baela's claim to Driftmark and instead link both her granddaughters to the people who are the reason both of her children are dead...

#hotd critical #hotd analysis #anti rhaenyra targaryen #anti team black

152 notes · View notes

legitalicat · 1 month

Text

Sweet Sister (Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader x Jacaerys Velaryon)

AN: Oh gosh guys. I did it. Thank you to @zaldritzosrose for being my workshop partner (I also got the amazing dividers from her) and to my spiritual twin @foxyanon for reading a bit of it when I needed to make sure it was okay. Also this snowballed very hard very fast I am sorry.

Masterlist here!

Summary: It wasn't the fault of them that this was their lot in life. Aemond and YN could only make the best of a marriage they did not particularly want. Yet Jacaerys does not see it as an obstacle. The gods made her for him. She was meant to be his.

TW: Language, characters are over 18, AFAB reader, use of YN in 3rd person pov, use of she/her pronouns, SMUT SMUT SMUT, oral (fem!receiving), a smidge of dry humping, lactation kink, tiddie sucking, masturbation, cuck!Aemond, threesome, Dom!Jacaerys, switch!Aemond (mostly veering on subbing), sub!reader, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, Jace's monster cock, NO DANCE, canon typical Targcest, Jace grinding his cock on Aemond, Jace cumming on Aemond, cum eating, spit, political marriage, Jace kinda teaching Aemond to proper fuck his wife, I think that's all

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon Niece!Reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x younger sister!Reader

Word count: 6.2k

It wasn’t his fault.

It was a thought that lived consistently in her mind in the years since her marriage. Both of them offered to each other’s mother as a solution to the growing rift between them. A marriage made in desperate hopes to avoid an ever looming annihilation.

It was good, she supposed, that it was to a man she was so familiar with. Her Uncle Aemond, while never particularly warm, had always been kind enough. He usually spared her the vitriol he shot at her brothers. Even when making it clear he knew the truth, he was less violent in his hatred. Queen Alicent raised him to be better than that.

A spat between boys here and there was acceptable, expected even. Training together, he got plenty of chance to beat on them, to spill the vile whispers that invaded his ears. Nobody but Ser Harwin ever said anything, but Aemond figured it was only because he was too stupid to pretend as everyone else did.

YN was different. Between his mother and Ser Criston, he knew that every woman was meant to be seen with a certain amount of respect. Despite who her father was, or wasn’t, YN was a princess. She was not like her brothers, who antagonized him at every step. And so he would hold his tongue.

As children, they were polite to each other. If he and the Velaryon boys were arguing, he went quiet when she would walk into the room. He would hold the door for her and in the same motion let it slam on Jacaerys.

It was this politeness that allowed Alicent to see reason. She couldn’t marry her only daughter to one of Rhaenyra’s sons, yet the King made it clear that it was his will their lines would converge. She made a counter offer to Rhaenyra’s, Aemond wed to YN. The Princess of Dragonstone denied for many the same reasons The Queen denied hers. But the Driftmark Incident all but forced her hand if she wished for Lucerys to remain unharmed as a consequence.

He was a good husband to her when they married not long after her coming of age. He stood by her side at court, always keeping her close. Over the moons they spent at each other’s side, a natural affection was felt between them. It may not have been a fairytale romance, but he at least could be counted as her friend. And for a girl who was without her family for the first time in her life, a friend was exactly what she needed.

It wasn’t Aemond’s fault that they were still expected to provide children to their line. They held off as long they could. Yet as they approached two years of marriage, rumors of infertility started hanging over their head. He could not bare to leave his wife to such scrutiny. It was only then they started laying together as husband and wife.

The affection they felt gave a solid foundation for their relationship in the bedroom. It was an awkward beginning in which he would blush every time his hand grazed her breasts and a small squeak would leave her lips when she saw him naked. Aemond, though, was a man of proficiency. He always planned to be the best in everything, the need in him increasing tenfold upon learning that bringing his wife to orgasm increased her odds of becoming pregnant.

“You looked lovely tonight at dinner,” he commented as they came from dinner.

“Thank you, husband. Your words flatter me always,” she told him.

He opened the door to their suite, the warmth of the fire already having filled the living space. When the door closed behind them, she let out a noticeable breath of relief. She always preferred the peace of their suite.

He stepped closer and began to unlace her gown. She reached behind her as he did so and took a hold of one of his wrists.

“Are you nervous?” he whispered. She hadn’t been nervous with him in months, but he always asked.

“Grateful, I suppose. For a husband like you,” she told him. Her dress fell to the ground in a pool around her ankles. She had forgone her slip and so she now stood naked in front of him. “I must admit though, today I am eager. I feel as though soon I shall be pregnant.”

He gave a small smile even though she could not see him. “A darling mother you shall be. How many do you wish us to have?”

“No less than two,” she told him. “So I hope you do not mind continuing this for a few years yet to come.”

“Never, my sweet niece. After all, I do still enjoy myself as a man should when I bed you.”

Satisfied, she released his wrist entirely so that he move as he wish. A feather light kiss to her shoulder as he began to undo his pants. A hand roaming the front of her body from behind, grabbing and squeezing to elicit soft little hums of approval from her. With his pants off, he stepped closer to her.

“Settee or bed?” he whispered in her ear, his hard cock pressing firmly against her ass.

“Settee,” she whispered while a shudder moved through her. Within a heartbeat, he lead her to the sofa near them.

“I want to make sure my seed takes in your womb, little wife,” he whispered in her ear before he helped her into position.

His touch traveled from her hip to entangle itself in her hair. She turned her face to him to allow a single kiss before he pushed her head roughly onto the settee’s cushion. Any sound she made was muffled by the cushion, but it was how they preferred.

The blood rush provided by his delicate fingers created as many desires in her as it sated. Any looks of love he would give her would be fake, they didn’t love each other. Yet when his nails raked against her back as he prepared to grab her hips, she knew she was lucky in this.

His left hand rested along the curve of her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold her where he wanted her. His right hand moved between her thighs before finding their home in her folds.

The fabric where her mouth was pressed warmed against her skin as she let out small, repetitive moans. In the months since their first bedding, his fingers had become experts at a quick orgasm. He would flex his thumb to rest against her pearl with fluctuating pressures in time with the speed of his middle and ring fingers thrusting into her cunt.

Her thighs trembled as Aemond curled his fingers, coaxing her orgasm ever closer. A faint sound of her moaning made it to his ears as her walls tightened around the digits. She came hard, only getting a second’s reprieve before his hand moved away and it’s presence replaced by his long cock.

His hips repeatedly moving into her turned him into a desperate man. Watching himself disappear into her cunt while her ass melted against the muscles of his lower abdomen was a sight made of sin. She was soaked around him, her juices dripping off his cock.

Aemond was a restrained man until he was on the precipice of orgasm. It was when she felt his fingers return to her swollen pearl and his hips start to stutter that she cried out. She could feel him pawing at her back, his once anchoring grasp becoming a desperate touch. His movements were no longer careful and considered as he rubbed his thumb eagerly against her pearl and fucked into her with abandon. She could feel the tension begin to build within her as she whispered his name into the cushion again and again.

She came for a second time, squealing into the cushion as she attempted to move forward. The pleasurable band that had snapped inside her belly increased how much she felt tenfold. Every movement of his cock was like the sweetest torture. The head pushed against that spongy spot inside of her, making her whimper with every brush. Her walls gripped even tighter, like he was the missing piece of her.

He groaned out her name as he released his spend, ropes of white coating her walls. She was certain, as he pulled out of her while trying to steady his breath, that this was it. This would be their luck.

Within two moons she had confirmation she was pregnant. She wrote letters to her family immediately upon telling Aemond. Together, they would walk to Her Grace the Queen’s apartments and tell her she would once again become a grandmother. One would think they had divulged the secrets of the universe with the way the Queen became so overjoyed.

She was approaching her fifth month of pregnancy when her family returned to King’s Landing so that her mother could take the Throne. With the passing of King Viserys, many had anticipated war. But neither Rhaenyra or Alicent wanted to risk losing their grandchild. If war had broken out, both knew that the baby would be torn between the desires of both it’s parents. That was enough.

YN stood in wait for her family alone at the Dragon Pit. The peace was tense already, and they had yet to arrive. But one by one, the elder members of her family landed on their dragons in front of her.

A journey by ship would take too long when there was a throne to take. Her mother dismounted Syrax with grace befitting a queen. Her eyes though did not fix themselves to her mother, instead the new Prince of Dragonstone capturing her full attention.

“My sweet sister,” her older brother said once he dismounted Vermax.

Jacaerys looked at her like she was his favorite toy. Two years her elder and that had never changed. She was his little sister, the one he knew the gods crafted from the heavens specifically for him. It was everything he believed to be true. She was meant to be his Queen, to be his.

That is why he was never too worried about her betrothal to Aemond when it was announced. Jace knew he didn’t necessarily need to be her first husband. Men run away or die every day, leaving their families behind. Knowing his uncle meant knowing how perfect the one eyed man had to be. He anticipated Aemond running away the moment he proved to be subpar at being a husband.

And when he did inevitably run, when he did abandon his wife, all Jacaerys needed to do was be there. He had told YN her entire life how he adored her, how he would give her a crown and a throne and nobody would doubt his devotion to her. She would be his equal in every way once he was King. No marriage to some lesser standing man would change that.

“Jace,” she said with a smile on her face. She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He was sturdy, lean but firm. There was no sway in his body when she all but collided into him in her excitement, her small bump pressing against him. He held her just as close.

Even her pregnancy could not dissuade him from believing they were meant for each other. Jacaerys knew she would have children from this marriage, he had long prepared for that reality. But this child was as much of her as it was of Aemond, and he would love every part of his beloved sister.

“You are stunning, my queen. The babe is not too much trouble, I hope?” he asks when he pulls away. But only enough to look at her.

“Oh none at all. The little bug has only just began kicking,” she told him.

“I was more referring to your husband, but I am grateful your pregnancy has been easy thus far,” he told her with a smirk, creating a giggle she could not hold back.

His eyes look over her face more times than he can count. He had never seen a beauty such as hers. From the way her lips stretched as she smiled, to the little furrow in her brow as she watched him look at her, to the subtlety of her eyes shining with a joy he doubted she had for years. Everything about her captivated him.

As his eyes raked further down her body he was a man in love. Her breasts already were beginning to swell with milk, looking deliciously full and ripe for providing his pleasure. The bump was small, he knew she wasn’t too far along just yet, but seeing evidence of a child growing inside her was enough for him to feel like a man gone mad.

His cock began to swell under his trousers. He could not resist pulling her in for another hug just to be able to rut against her for a mere moment. It was subtle, discreet, one would be forgiven for thinking it was the embrace of a brother who missed his sister. She knew what he was doing. She could feel his bulge pressing through his skirts and against her heat.

“I have missed you dearly, my queen,” he whispered in her ear.

“I have missed you as well, my dear brother,” she whispered, hugging him tighter to her.

Pregnancy had a way of clouding her judgement. She desired more than just this juvenile attempt at some relief. And while it was true Aemond would tend to her when her hormones became too overwhelming, there was a difference. Aemond was her husband, the man she was legally bound to. He was the father of the babe cradled safely inside her. He was allowed.

Jace was her older brother. Adore him as she might, he had no true claim to her. They had risked enough the night before her wedding when he made her ride his thigh to orgasm. It was his way of ensuring she knew pleasure before he would get the chance to properly give it to her. But now, to even do this was a slap in the face to her husband and an affront to the gods.

He pulled away, completely this time, and smiled at her. “Your presence has been missed deeply, sweetling.”

And with no other words he stepped away and allowed a proper greeting between her and their mother.

With Rhaenyra’s coronation and subsequent restructuring of the Small Council, life remained hectic for months. Rhaenyra was smarter than her father as a ruler, she understood that the only thing that posed a threat to her rule was the ambitions of one man in particular. The best way to remove such a threat was to understand the ambition and give it only enough power to remain useful to her.

Her first act? Removing Otto Hightower as Hand. He was still on the Small Council as Master of Whisperers, as he was a man best kept close and an expert of intelligence. In his stead she placed Jacaerys until such a time he was married and would move to his seat of Dragonstone. It would give him opportunity to learn the workings of ruling the country that would once be his. As a way to create good faith between her and her brothers, she offered them positions as well. She would appoint Aemond as Master of Laws, as she doubted there were any who knew more of Westeros’ histories and laws as him. And for Aegon she created the position of Master of Celebrations, offering no further explanation before he accepted.

Being as her husband was preoccupied with his newfound duties, YN spent many nights alone. The babe, due in the next month by now, made her ache and weep. It was all she could do to avoid such pains. If it wasn’t her back or hips hurting, both from the weight of her stomach and the way her body prepared for labour, it was the way her breasts were already filling to the brim.

Her only comfort was found in her baths. The water ran so hot it would be uncomfortable for many. She had the blood of dragons coursing through her, she carried a dragon inside her. A little extra heat did nothing to dissuade her.

In fact, she was sitting on the bed, waiting for her maids to bring forth the water needed. Her hands massaged her aching breasts to attempt to provide any relief for her. As such, she was hardly covered by anything. Only a thin sheet laid draped over her lower half.

There was a knock on the door. She beckoned them inside, assuming it was her maids. Yet when she opened her eyes, there stood Jacaerys. Her eyes widened slightly, though she made no grand attempt to hide herself.

“My sweet, are you okay?” he asked her softly. His voice was filled with a love she had mostly forgotten.

“Pregnancy is hard on the body, at it turns out,” she joked as he came closer to her. It was then she pulled the sheet up further, now hiding her breasts.

“And your husband is not here to attend to you,” he commented. He sat in front of her on the bed and repositioned the sheet, exposing her breasts and pregnant belly to him.

“He does as he can. His duties have been weighing more as of late, though, so I am typically asleep by his finishing hour,” she told him.

“A dutiful wife. Never speaking ill of him,” he whispered.

“He has been good to me, Jace. He cares a great deal for my safety and happiness. Better to me than I believe many would have been,” she said in response. Her words were soft and genuine. She bore no ill will for Aemond, truly she did not. And she would not pretend she did.

“I am grateful you were granted such a kindness by the gods.”

His hands moved now from the sheet he stilled gripped to roam her stomach. The babe kicked at his touch as if to say hello. The two chuckled at the sensation.

“She has never kicked so eagerly before,” YN told him.

“She?” he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“Call it instinct,” she shrugged, smiling at his hand on her stomach.

“She has a fiery resolve, just as her mother and her mother before,” Jacaerys told her happily before leaning forward and placing a kiss to her stomach. “Such a beautiful mother already, my queen.”

“You are too good at your flattery, brother,” she whispered.

“Is it flattery if it’s true? Is it flattery if just the sight of you, swollen with a babe and practically dripping milk, make my cock harden?” he asked, looking up at her with his chin rested on her stomach.

When her jaw slacked and her lips parted, he knew he had her attention in the way he needed. He moved up her body, pressing gentle kisses along her stomach and breasts as he did. Her uptick in breathing was bordering on panting as she watched him. His mess of curls tickled her skin just as his lips did.

“Can’t wait until it is my babe in your stomach. But I will love this one just the same,” he murmured against her skin.

“I am married, brother,” she whispered as she attempted to move his head away.

“You think the gods care for the law of man when they have crafted you for me?” he asked. His body did not budge at her insistent nudges.

“Jacaerys,” she whispered.

His hand flew up to grip her wrist. It did not hurt but it was a former grasp than Aemond ever had. In a moment her hand was being held to the mattress by his own, his head unmoving. His face was nestled comfortably in the crook of her neck where he inhaled deeply.

“You know you were made for me, little one, just as I have known it always. And you said yourself our uncle cares for your happiness, yet where is he? Why does he not tend to you as you prepare for him the greatest gift?” he murmured against her neck.

“He is busy,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as he once again inhaled her.

“The gods themselves would have to bind me to the earth in order to keep me from putting my cock in you whenever you needed,” he told her before nipping at her skin.

His free hand found it’s way to her left breast. She whimpered a bit under his touch, the pain she felt earlier mixing with a pleasure from how much he desired her. She could feel his smirk against her neck as he began rutting his hips against her lap. His hardened cock pressed painfully into her thigh.

She should tell him to move. She knew he would respect her desires. But how could she focus on any desire she held save for him? She had always loved Jacaerys as he loved her.

Her first memory was of Jace promising her she would be his Queen. He doted on her from the moment she was born. He had always told her she was his, made for him by the gods to be his perfect match, even after her betrothal. And while she understood the role she was meant to play in keeping the peace, she believe it too.

“What is this?” Aemond’s voice said from the door.

YN was about to answer him, to insist that despite what it looked like she had only been waiting for her maids to draw her bath. She could only hope he would understand. Instead, Jace sat up. He smirked at his younger sister before turning to face Aemond, his hand never leaving hers.

“I am doing your job, since apparently you do not find my sweet sister important enough,” he said to the blonde man.

“Do not speak to me of my wife,” Aemond said darkly. “She understands the nature of my position.”

“You do not speak to me of my sister,” Jace commanded. “She is beauty in all she is, she is carrying your child, and yet you do not wait on her hand and foot? Instead leaving her to rot in this room while you pour over your books and scrolls.”

“I am a prince you do not get to speak to me this way,” Aemond said angrily, though not as loud.

“And I am Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne!” Jace all but shouted. “I should have your cock removed since you do not use it as you should! Send you to the Wall for daring to deny my sister an existence of gluttonous pleasure!”

Aemond silenced himself and looked to his wife. His wife who, until this moment, he wasn’t aware could look at someone with such a burning desire. But she looked at Jacaerys the way he had once hoped they would looked at each other, when he thought there was hope they would love each other. He could see that for her, Jacaerys hung the moon and stars.

“Close the door and sit in that chair by the window,” Jace told Aemond.

Having no choice to comply, the older man did as asked. There was little doubt in his mind Jacaerys would send him to the Wall if for no other reason than to have YN to himself. And so, he shut the bedroom door and took a seat in the chair.

The bed was close enough he got a perfect side view of his wife. He could admit the sight of her displayed in such a manner stirred something inside him. He could feel his cock twitch at the sight of her full breasts, her rounded belly, but mostly? It was the way she wasn’t even concerned with him.

Her focus was solely on Jacaerys now. Her brother was back to pressing kisses against her body. It was the first time Aemond could see the faces she made with the slightest pleasure. How easily her face contorted the second Jacaerys took one of her nipples between his teeth was a sight he wished he could commit to memory.

“Some ground rules,” Jacaerys said after pulling away from her breast. He looked to Aemond. “Sit in that fucking chair until I tell you you’re allowed to move. Answer me when you’re spoken to. Stroke your dick or whatever, just do not leave that chair.”

“And if she asks for me?” Aemond asked him.

“She won’t,” was all Jacaerys offered him. But it was enough to make YN whimper beneath him. Aemond flushed as his cock twitched once again, hardening with every passing second.

Jacaerys turned to YN, smiling down at her. “And you, my beautiful, darling, sweet sister…all I want is your permission to love your body the way it is meant to be loved,” he said. His voice with her was soft and tender as opposed to how harsh and angry he was with Aemond.

“Jace,” she whispered. She began to turn to Aemond, but Jacaerys gripped her chin and kept her gaze on him.

“No, my queen, it is not about him. It is about you, and us. About you belonging to me, if you wish,” he whispered to her. His brown doe eyes made her melt before he sat up, finally releasing her hand to he could grab the bottom of his shirt.

All she could do is nod. She was speechless with the sight of him pulling off his shirt. His toned abdomen caused a gush of her arousal to pool between her legs.

She felt heat flood her cheeks when he removed the sheet from her lower half. Her face felt even hotter when he pushed her legs apart, eyes locking in on her cunt.

“Such a pretty pussy, baby,” he praised her, hands rubbing the inside of her thighs. “Doesn’t she have a pretty pussy, Uncle?”

For the first time, YN looked at him. Her wide eyes were heavy with lust. In all the nights they had spent together, he had never really allowed himself the chance to take in the beauty of her face. He wanted more. Needed more

“Yes,” was all he could manage to say. His eyes moved from her face to where Jace was touching her. In almost expert fashion, Jace removed his pants. His cock was longer than Aemond’s, thicker too. As husband and wife stared at the monstrous cock, they both couldn’t imagine how it would fit.

“Have you drank from these tits, Uncle?” Jace asked Aemond without turning his eyes from her pussy. He smirked at how wet his sister was, feeling more desire in him than he had ever felt before.

“Not yet,” Aemond choked out. His self restraint was out the window now. He pulled his cock from his trousers and gripped it in his hand.

“Seems fitting, I suppose. You were the first to fuck a babe into her, I shall be the first to drink from her,” Jacaerys smirked at the idea of claiming a part of her Aemond had not.

He laid his cock in between her slick folds, allowing it to rest against her clit while he leaned down and began suckling from her. His left hand held one tit while he suckled from the other. Her sweet milk flowed freely past his eager lips and onto his greedy tongue.

He moaned against her as he ground his hips against hers. Her slick aided his cock in sliding between her folds and creating a friction that caused her to whine out. She couldn’t hold the moans from her lips.

“Fuck,” Aemond whispered. His pupil was blown wide as he desperately stroked his cock. Pre-cum beaded on the head just to continuously be wiped away by a swipe of his cum.

With a loud pop, Jacaerys pulled off her tit. He kissed her hungrily. There was nothing he needed more than her. He couldn’t help himself. He pulled his hips back just far enough to readjust, pushing his cock into her. She groaned into the kiss, feeling the burn of stretching around him. His hips stilled when his cock was seated half way inside her.

He broke the kiss after several moments. He looked between her lips and her leaking tits. His cock throbbed at the sight.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “So fuckable. So perfect on my cock.”

“Yours, Jacey, yours,” she muttered. She made a pointed effort to ignore her husband whimpering in his chair. The thought of him so hard at this sight made her pussy flutter around the cock inside her. “Want your fucking cock, Jacey. All of it.”

He kissed all over her face as he pushed further into her. She cried out his name repeatedly, moaning, begging for more in the same breath she cried it was too much. Jacaerys nearly busted inside her in that moment. Her full tits moving with just the slightest snap of his hips, her cock drunk expression written on her face, her pregnant stomach pushing against him.

With her beautiful sounds as encouragement, he began fucking into her with abandon. All that mattered to him was how perfect she felt around him. Her walls squeezed around his cock in a quiet desperation to keep him inside her. With every stroke, the tip pushed against the spongey part of her walls, causing her to cry out his name. She was more sensitive in her pregnancy, allowing for her orgasm to build quickly.

“Fuck, fuck,” she moaned out as the band inside her snapped and her orgasm washed over her entirely.

The gush of her release flooded over his cock. He wanted to hear her moans every day. It was all he could think about as his balls, heavy with his load, slapped against her ass. His grunts and groans of pleasure drowned her out until finally he cried out her name, spilling his seed deep inside her.

“Stop,” YN commanded Aemond after a few seconds.. He looked to her face desperately, obediently stopping his furious tugs of his cock just as he was on the verge of his own release.

“What do you wish, my queen?” Jace panted, pulling his still throbbing cock from her.

“Eat your spend from my cunt. Then when you pull away I wish Aemond to begin to fuck me, and you spit your seed into his mouth,” she told her brother, never looking away from Aemond. She watched as his cock twitched with anticipation. “I think that is what my husband wants, too.”

Jace smirked at her once more before looking to Aemond. “Come over here, then. Naked. My Queen wishes to enjoy you.”

Aemond had never moved so fast in his life. As Jace moved down his lover’s body, YN took her husband’s hand. It was a small moment of intimacy neither had allowed themselves before. Until tonight, a certain part of them remained duty. But now, there was no pretending.

Jacaerys lapped eagerly at her clit once he found his home between her thighs. She squirmed under his careful tongue, whimpering his name. Aemond felt desperate now, to make her replicate those sounds for him.

Jacaerys pulled away from her right before she came again. She was breathing heavy, eyes wide, as she looked down at him. Without breaking eye contact, he reached beside him and grabbed Aemond by his cock. Wordlessly, Aemond allowed himself to be lead, occasionally bucking his hips into Jacaerys’ hand. YN moaned at the sight.

With Aemond in position, his cock firmly pressed against her entrance, Jacaerys grabbed his uncle by the jaw and squeezed. Aemond instinctually opened his mouth. The brunette looked to his sister, who at this point was rubbing her own clit, before turning back to Aemond and spitting the mixture of his seed and YN’s release onto his waiting tongue. Just like a seasoned whore in Flea Bottom, Aemond swallowed eagerly.

“Tell her thank you for the gift she has bestowed in you,” Jacaerys whispered in Aemond’s ear. His hand moved to grasp his uncle’s cock, giving slow, lazy tugs. Between the heat of his wife’s pussy all but begging him to fuck her and the firmness of his nephew’s hold, it was almost painful to not begin to fuck her at a reckless pace.

“Th-thank you, for giving me a child,” Aemond stuttered out. Jacaerys began grinding against Aemond’s hip, his cock hardening with every passing moment.

“Apologize to her for not satisfying her enough,” the future king demanded. His eyes watched his sister’s fingers rubbing furiously against her clit, her body trembling. And then they traveled up her body. “Tell her what a goddess she is.”

“Such a goddess,” he whispered, looking down at her. “I am a fool for not worshipping every moment.”

“Mhmphh,” Jacaerys breathed out as he rutted against his uncle. “Slide your pretty cock into her and beg her to keep you. Beg our Queen to decide she wants to keep you when I marry her.”

As soon as Jacaerys’ hand fell away, Aemond buried himself to the hilt inside her pussy. But his hand was not unoccupied for long. He batted her hand away from her clit and replaced her fingers with his. He rubbed the sensitive nub in time with his thrusts against Aemond’s hip.

“Do not cast me aside,” Aemond begged her, his hips moving at breakneck speed as he pounded away at his wife’s pussy. “YN, my wife, please. Keep me by your side, fuck, fuck, and and I will worship you.”

“Slow yourself, match your thrusts to mine. Deeply,” Jacaerys whispered his ear. Aemond was quick to adjust his speed. He wanted to make both of them happy.

“Fuck,” YN whined out. Her thighs were trembling uncontrollably as once again she approached orgasm. “Want both of you. Want to be Queen. Want to be both yours,” she begged the two men. Her back arched as she screamed out, their names tumbling from her lips in a jumbled mess. Both men tried to maintain their movements as she rode out her eye.

Jacaerys came first, still sensitive from his first orgasm. His sticky spend painted Aemond’s pale hip before beginning to slide down the taut muscles and onto the mattress below. Aemond followed sooner after, his seed finding home deep inside his wife.

The three of them were breathing heavily. Jacaerys stepped back off the bed, finding a cloth so that he could wipe off Aemond’s hip. By the time the blonde prince had pulled out, his cock had softened. But neither man could avoid staring at her pussy as it leaked cum.

Aemond laid beside his wife, Jacaerys on the other. She giggled and pulled a sheet over their bodies.

“We shall wed in the Valyrian tradition, and our Uncle and I shall take turns fucking babe after babe into you,” Jacaerys whispered as he kissed her cheek.

“It is against the Faith, the law,” YN reminded her brother.

But Aemond saw the frown on her face and knew how much she wanted that future. And he wished for it too, wished for more nights in which the three of them could spend together. Something inside him shifted as he looked at the two of them. What was once a marriage to his dearest friend was now more. It was a chance at a happiness he would never have allowed himself.

“Lucky for us, we know the person responsible for the law,” he murmured as his hand rested on her stomach. “And I have it on good authority he wishes nothing more than to allow us this pleasure.”

She looked up at his face, her gaze soft. “Truly?” she whispered.

“Jacaerys is right. I have been a fool. A fool for not realizing the beauty that you are, the wonderful thing you are giving me,” he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “And this was the happiest I have ever seen you.”

“It is the happiest you have ever been either, dear husband,” she pointed out. “I have never seen you so responsive.”

Jacaerys rested his own again against her stomach, his finger tips grazing Aemond’s. “I am glad to have seen it from the both of you.”

“Marry her. And we shall all be together as we were tonight,” Aemond murmured. Jacaerys chuckled. “What?”

“Oh next time, I’m fucking your ass while you fuck her,” he smirking. “Or maybe we should see if both our cocks could fit in her.”

“Oh, I think she’s definitely a good enough girl to let us try. Aren’t you, my wife?”

She nodded eagerly before leaning up to kiss him. He hummed against her lips for just a moment before she pulled away and kissed Jacaerys.

When she pulled away, both men moved as close as possible to her and held her.

“I love you, sweet sister.”

Taglist: @alexagirlie

#aemond targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #aemond targaryen x reader smut #jacaerys velaryon x reader smut #aemond x reader x jacaerys #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen smut #use of yn #reader insert

130 notes · View notes

arcielee · 3 months

Text

We gave our time to something undefined

Summary: Aemond receives a late night visitor. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Rhaena Targaryen Word Count: 2.7k+ Warnings: Kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, loss of virginity, and Aemond is still the consent king 👑. Author's Note: This is part 2 of Quietly, it slips through your fingers though I may do a third, as they have me hostage Gif edit by the wonderful @myfandomprompts. A big thank you to my beloved @aemondsbabe for being my beta reader and helping me hone my craft. Also ñuhon is Valyrian for mine, and sȳz riña is good girl, but I trust you all already know that one. 😈

Aemond was poised in front of the fireplace, dressed in cotton sleeping trousers and a tunic that was unbuttoned to his navel; his silver hair was slung over his shoulder in a low braid. A golden hue spilled from the hearth and washed over his practiced stoicism, his one eye trained to the flames that were crackling and curling around the blackened logs.

His arm was stretched on the rest, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm to battle how his heart was still rattling against his ribs; his other was bent, fingers pressed into his prominent chin. He swore he could still smell the remnants of the heaven he had touched earlier, something that was both sweet and intoxicating, something that now consumed him wholly.

He thought back to earlier that night, to after he had torn away from the small hall, his heated steps leading him throughout the corridors in a desperate search for an exit that would bring him outside of King’s Landing. He knew that Vhagar would be awaiting him, the she-dragon keenly aware of her rider’s agitation. Aemond longed to climb aback of her, to tear over the night sky, as if his ire could only be sated by dragonback.

Or so he initially thought.

He could not say what had stopped him—perhaps the low rumble of his nuncle. It pulled him to watch from the shadows as Daemon and his daughter, Baela, took their turns to growl at one another about the night’s events.

Rhaena was also present, also watching.

She was a woman now, with the same quiet confidence Aemond recalled as he watched her observe her father and her sister. He noted that she did not meet with their bravado on display, but instead remained watchful; her head tilted slightly with a flicker of amusement across her lovely features.

It reminded Aemond of Driftmark, all those years ago when everyone gathered to grieve, to pay their respects for Lady Laena. He was only a boy but still aware of the heavy sadness in her eyes that absorbed everything around her. He recalled when her gaze fell to him, how it rooted him to the stone. Rhaena watched at his failed attempt to try and speak from his heart; she did not scowl, but merely held a clear curiosity for whatever he had to say.

Instead, his tongue thickened and he walked away, the grief unsaid.

How quickly her expression changed later that night, how her lovely eyes burned with betrayal when he sauntered back, covered in ash, dragonless no more—

“—I know Dark Sister sings for blood,” and the taunting words brought Aemond back to see Baela squaring off towards Daemon. At that same moment, Rhaena noticed him, as if she was drawn to how his blood now burned in his veins.

Aemond stalked away, quickly and quietly, his ire rekindled. He thought of the patronizing expression that had shown in the lines of Daemon’s face. Arrogance will weigh the dragon down, his sister often sang; Aemond only scoffed at the thought.

You have lived too long, nuncle.

He heard the footfalls echoing behind, though he did not think they would follow him out to the terrace. Aemond planted his palms to the cool stone of the balustrade, greeted by the sea breeze and the distant rumble of Vhagar. He then felt her presence, that same curiosity from long ago.

You are lost, princess.

Aemond wished to frighten her, but she did not balk, but remained stance, facing him just as Baela had Daemon. Her gaze was unwavering, analyzing, almost desperate to see what was underneath. His fingers itched to show her, removing the eyepatch but even then she responded in a way that he never thought possible.

There was no pity to be found, just a genuine remorse that left him shattered—the softness and the warmth of her lips against his marred side, his skin prickling from her touch.

Back in his room, Aemond could feel the warmth emitting from the embers in front of him, or perhaps it was from the memory of what had followed that kiss, of how she fit against his chest, of how she looked up at him unabashed, unafraid, unwilling to leave him.

His fingers flexed, balling back into a fist, still feeling the ghost pulse of her erratic heartbeat from the pleasure he had pulled from her…

His blood simmered, but a soft tap on his door brought his mind back into his room. Aemond moved, a flash of silver to welcome the distraction. When he opened the door, Rhaena slipped in; she was quick to pull it closed behind her, her back pressing against the oak, breathless.

His every nerve was alight as he drank in the sight of her–her deep breaths, the rise and fall of her chest, her lithe curves pressing the pastel silk of her nightdress and her skin peering through the matching silk robe hastily pulled over. Her silver locs had been knotted back into a long braid, accompanied with a pleasant scent of rose water.

Her eyes held the same look from earlier, wide and glassy, uncertain but also unwilling to leave.

Aemond swallowed.

You came, he wished to say, but his arrogance won his tongue. “So soon, princess?”

I had to see you, she did not reply, but instead her face shifted into a coy facade. “You told me to come find you if I wished to find satisfaction…”

Her words ignited something within him and Aemond closed the space between them. His one palm grabbed her hip and the other moved to touch her jaw, gently tilting her head to claim her lips just as he had out on the terrace. Her trepidation from before was gone, now replaced with a warm familiarity as her tongue curled in rhythm with his own.

Aemond hummed his pleasure and Rhaena pulled him closer until he melded against her, the surge of fire meeting fire with a burning desperation. She gasped softly and he deepened the kiss, drawing the air from her aching lungs. His leg shifted between her thighs with a pressure that made her mewl, softly, sweetly. It trilled the length of his spine, his cock throbbing against the seams of his slacks.

He pulled back and reached for her hand, her fingers lacing as though they belonged in his grasp. She followed quietly as he pulled her towards the bed, a giggle spilling, gleeful. Then Aemond paused and turned to face her again; his large hands moved to cradle her jaw, holding her gaze, and her skin rippled with gooseflesh from the contrast of his gentle touch and the roughness of his palms.

“This will only go as far as you wish it too,” his voice was low, his words tinged with a fear that she would simply change her mind and leave.

But instead hope bloomed with the flutter of her lashes, her lips curling into a smile as she stepped closer to capture his lips. Her hands knotted into the loose fabric of his tunic and she pulled him closer still, smiling. Aemond thrummed from the taste of passion, tilting her head to savor the kiss.

The silk she had been wearing was now a puddle at her feet, and Aemond discarded his tunic, his hands pausing at the waistband of his pants. He looked at Rhaena, watching her carefully, the black now swallowing the blues and the purples of his one intensive eye, an amber gleam flickering in the sapphire of his other.

Her smile remained as she took a step back, resting on the edge of the bed. She did not look away from him as his eye trailed over her soft curves, admiring the golden glow of the fire on her brown skin, how it rose with the night air, her nipples pebbling in response.

Beautiful, he does not say but instead swallowed to wet his throat. “That bastard does not deserve you,” his rasped confession wrenched from his lungs.

Only then did she look at her hands resting on her plush thighs, and offered a soft hum in return. The boldness that had brought her to his room continued her motion, her hands reaching to grab the waistband of his slacks, her fingers precariously placed above the heady bulge that pressed against the crotch.

He felt his blood roaring to stain his cheeks as her eyes washed over his bare body, trailing the silver scars now displayed, the lines that cut into his trim waist before she met with his gaze again. Aemond allowed himself a step closer, a heavy sway, moving between her parted thighs until he was close enough for her to softly touch his unmarred side, until he could feel her breathless whisper hot against his skin–

“Then claim me.”

And he burned with how each syllable dripped with the honey that spilled from her kiss-swollen lips. “Aōhon ynot sahās,” she said, her eyes locking onto him.

Make me yours.

His hand covered her own, turning his head until his lips feathered the pulse of her wrist. “Ñuhon,” he growled against her skin, mine, and then he pushed forward until she melted into the mattress, lifting her legs and welcoming him into the cradle of her hips.

His mouth was hot, ravenous, only allowing her a moment to breathe when he moved his attention to the curve of her jaw and to her neck. His teeth nipped at her skin, leaving dark plumes of color in his wake.

He could feel her trembling beneath him, her head falling back with a gasp. “Aemond!”

It was his siren song, those sweet sounds from the terrace. They remained with his steps that brought him back to his room, echoing in his mind until it curdled the marrow of his bones, a dull ache that knotted his lower organs. He wished to draw those same sounds but with his tongue; his hands pressed to open her thighs further, and he sank between them to place an intimate kiss that made her shudder in response.

She was slick, a taste divine, and his tongue trailed between her folds until he felt her hands knotting in his hair. He feasted between her thighs with a hold that dimpled the softness of her skin, anchoring himself to her core. Aemond pulled her towards a new plateau of pleasure with his mouth, his tongue laving until she tried to writhe away.

Her back arched with the expanse of her chest begging for air, her hands moving for fistfuls of bed linen to ground herself. Her lips parted with a wordless cry as his dexterous fingers curled within her. “Aemond,” she panted, panicked, but he touched her with familiarity, feeling how her every fiber sang for him: heart thrumming, muscles tensing, desperate for more.

Aemond hummed against her cunt and the low vibration caused a soft cry, a pulse of her velvet walls around his fingers. “Sȳz riña,” he murmured, adding another finger that met with the tandem of his first. His tongue returned to carve through her sweet lips with an unrelenting pace that pulled her towards her peak.

It shuddered throughout her, a sob spilling that Aemond moved to muffle with a kiss, his praises soothing against her lips: “Sȳz riña, sȳz riña.” He melted into her warmth, her body pliant and molded against him. His arms caged her to the bed and his cock twitched, the heat from her bare cunt calling and pulling him closer.

Rhaena squirmed beneath him, and he tried to lift his weight but her nails bit into his waist, stopping him. “Aemond,” she was breathless, almost begging. “Please, I–” but she faltered to find her words. He could feel her pulse still fluttering against his chest, and she swallowed thickly.

“Aōhon ynot sahās,” she repeated, a desperation now touching her tone.

Aemond felt his heart seize in his chest, and he tilted his head for a gentle kiss. “We will begin slowly,” his voice rasped with his reserve, “I promise.”

She nodded and he was careful to slot his slender hips between her thighs, his swollen cock heavy and pressing against one side. She sighed, and he looked to see her drunken smile splayed on her lips as he nestled against her. His arm weaved between to guide himself, and she tensed from the unfamiliar pressure, his swollen head sliding through her folds and lining with her entrance.

A muscle ticked in his jaw with his concentration, his slow thrusts sinking into her warmth with a shuddering halt when his hips met with hers. Aemond then stilled, watchful, worried, seeing how her face was clouded. He moved to kiss her, his body shifting against hers, and she let out a small noise that he swallowed.

“Rhaena…”

Her eyes fixated on him, and he felt the fire in her veins pressing towards the surface. Her head nodded yes, a whispered, “Kostilus,” please, and only then did his hips begin to move. Her tension began to fall away with his slow rut, his rhythm continuing. She mewled softly, canting her hips to meet the snap of his own, sparking something different, something deeper, and he felt her tighten around him.

Aemond hummed, and his pace quickened with the lewd sound of skin-to-skin. The heat curling in his core began to spread under his skin, a bowstring taut to nearly snap at the sound of her breathless cries, the pulsing of her velvet walls that pulled him after.

He groaned, his hip stuttering, and his brow pressed to her own. He felt her legs wrapping around his waist and looked at her. Rhaena combed her fingers through the silver hair that spilled from his braid, pulling him close for a kiss.

“Stay with me,” his voice was low, blooms of red staining his cheeks. “Kostilus,” he added.

Please.

Rhaena kissed him with the promise to stay and only then did he pull away. He pulled on his slacks again, unbuttoned, and moved towards the wash basin to grab a clean cloth. Aemond turned on his heel and saw her, bashfulness now replacing her boldness from before, wrapped in the sheets. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with something he now understood.

Desire, thrumming with the ichor of Old Valyria that ran rampant in their veins.

He moved towards her and a smile curled on her lips, her eyes falling to the sway of his hips and the silver patch that peered lewdly above the waist of his trousers. His hand reached to pull the sheet away while his other began to carefully wipe away his pearly spend.

She sighed, different than before, now with contentment and a consideration as her thighs fell open to welcome him again. He burned under her sense of awe as she watched his hands move over her skin; Aemond murmured his questions and she promised she felt fine, catching his wrist and bringing it to meet her lips for a kiss.

He pulled away a second time–the last time he swore–discarding the soiled cloth and pulling through his drawers to retrieve a silk scarf that had been gifted from across the narrow sea. He watched her hands move to wrap her hair and he shyly offered to knot it at the nape of her neck, pressing a chaste kiss there when he finished.

With their earlier tension spent and staining the sheets, their exchange was now natural, a tethered bond that seemed to be planted on that fateful night of Driftmark. Aemond climbed beneath the covers and his hands could not leave her, pulling her until her back was flushed to his chest, fitting like a missing piece. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close enough to feel the thrum of his heart.

Her voice was soft, breaking the quiet that had settled over them. “What will happen now?”

His hum reverberated through them and he pulled her closer until his lips could touch her shoulder once, twice, following the curve and pressing against the soft spot under her ear, pressing contemplative kisses before he said: “Tomorrow I will petition the king for your hand in marriage.”

Rhaena shifted in his arms. “What if he says no?”

He nuzzled into her neck, smiling against her skin. “Vhagar remembers you,” he began, his breath tickling; she bloomed with his words. “If they say no, I will take you to Driftmark and we will have a ceremony anyway, just as our ancestors did.”

“But what–”

“But nothing,” his tone cut through, a gentle resolve, and he pressed another kiss to the nape of her neck. Rhaena relaxed against him. “Iksā ñuhon.”

You are mine.

Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @black-dread @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @theobjectofyourire @troublesomesnitch @hb8301 @snowprincesa1 @namelesslosers @darylandbethfanforever9 @helaelaemond @qyburnsghost @niocel

arcie's hotd masterlist

#we gave our time to something undefined #my titles are hozier lyrics still #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #rhaena targaryen #aemond x rhaena #rhaena x aemond #rhaemond

148 notes · View notes

dedicatednotobsessed · 2 years

Text

Bound in Fire and Blood [Aemond Targaryen x Reader]

Series masterlist || Other HOTD stories

Summary: You are the younger twin sister of Aemond Targaryen and the second youngest child to King Viserys and Queen Alicent. Growing up you were extremely close to your twin brother, practically inseparable and as you continued to grow, you realized your feelings for him were more than just a sibling love….

TRIGGER WARNING: This is a story of incest (obviously, it’s Game of Thrones). It contains strong depictions of sexual content and blood. Please read at your own risk.

Warnings in this chapter: This chapter contains graphic violence + spoilers for episode six: the princess and the queen + episode seven: driftmark. (I have read the book but I’m following more the show’s storyline as of right now :) )

Chapter One: Bonded in Blood

Gif does not belong to me 💚

In Westeros, it is considered bad luck for one to birth twins, yet when the King and Queen welcomed their newborn twins, it was a joyous celebration lasting for seven days. It is said the twins were inseparable since birth, when Aemond did one thing, you followed suit. Your mother had tried to separate the two of you on multiple occasions— even going as far as to betroth you to your other older brother, Aegon— and somehow, you always came back to one another.

You stood, bored, in front of the long view mirror staring at the dark green dress your mother had insisted on you wearing for the night’s party. It was a celebration to announce the betrothal of you and your older brother, Aegon the Second.

“Mother,” You whined a bit turning to your mother who seemed to be beaming. “I don’t want to wear this.”

“Hush, my sweet one,” Alicent said, waving you off. “You look gorgeous, a perfect dress for the party.”

You only blew out a bored breath and looked back at yourself in the mirror. It may have been a celebration for your betrothal, yet it felt as though it was more of a celebration for your father and mother. You were only nine years young, Aegon being twelve.

You were to not wed until you flowered which was a few years down the line, however, you never wanted to marry your older brother. You had a twin by the name of Aemond, who was very different from you. He was hot headed and short tempered whereas you were mild tempered and had a caring heart. You always thought you were bound to him, that he would be the one you would marry…until your parents had announced you were to wed Aegon instead.

You looked down when your mother took your hands, your violet eyes meeting her dark ones. Your mother was of House Hightower, your father House Targaryen. Like your brothers and sisters, you took after your father with silver hair and violet eyes.

“Can you at least pretend to be happy for one night, Y/N?”

You let out a sigh but nodded. “Yes, mother.”

Alicent smiled softly and leaned over kissing your cheek gently. “Thank you.” She stepped back a bit, looking at the emerald green dress with gold trim along the plunging neckline. “I believe this would be the perfect dress for you.”

“I like the white one more.”

You turned hearing the familiar voice, a soft smile coming onto your lips at the sight of Aemond. “You do?” She asked softly.

Aemond nodded walking further in looking over at the white dress with silver off the shoulder sleeves. “You would look beautiful.”

“Aemond, should you not be training?” Alicent spoke up with furrowed brows.

Aemond sighed at the slight scolding tone your mother gave but he turned away. “I only wanted to see her dresses.”

“I do enjoy your opinion, Aemond. Thank you,” You spoke up smiling softly at your older brother who returned your smile and nodded a bit.

You held onto Aegon’s hand, the crowded banquet hall cheering loudly for you as you put on a fake smile. You were bidding your mother’s wishes and pretending to be happy just for one night.

“You look lovely, sweet sister,” Aegon whispered in your ear.

“Thank you, brother,” You replied keeping your eyes ahead.

You had decided on the white dress Aemond picked out. You knew that if he liked the dress then he would enjoy seeing you wearing it and it proved to be true when his eyes connected with yours, the expression on his face in awe.

You giggled a bit at his expression but kept your composure as you neared the grand table, you and Aegon taking a bow in front of your mother and father.

Viserys watched the two of you, a warm and cheerful smile resting on his lips. “I have gathered all of you in my hall tonight to celebrate the betrothal of my eldest son, Aegon, to my youngest daughter, Y/N!”

You turned with your brother, smiling at the crowd as they cheered loudly for the two of you. You glanced over when the music began and took a deep breath as Aegon took you onto the dance floor.

As you placed your hand against his, your violet eyes went over to Aemond. You could not read the expression on his face very well, yet the glare gave you a certain idea.

You turned with Aegon, Aemond out of sight as you finally gave your older brother your full attention. You looked up at him, a certain glint in his eyes. You gave him a small smile and looked down, a bit sheepishly. You have heard rumors of the certain looks your brother gave handmaidens in the castle and you knew exactly what it meant. You knew though that deep down, you wanted Aemond to be the one to give you the same looks.

❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈

One year later

You held up the skirts of your dress, heading towards the courtyard where your brothers and nephews would be training, having snuck off from your own lessons.

You were with your mother and Helaena when he came in, a guard holding onto his arm tight and dirtied. You knew exactly what he did, having gone into the dragon pit multiple times. Out of all of your siblings, Aemond was the only one without a dragon. Yours was a lovely white she-dragon known as Revnass. You knew how upset your brother was, but you had faith that he will eventually get his own.

You turned away as your mother rushed over to Aemond, anger washed over her face. You looked down at the needlework in your hands furrowing your brows hearing that Aegon along with your nephews pulled a prank on him. They gave him a pig with homemade wings and a tail.

“Y/N,” Alicent called to you as you quickly stood up and followed after your brother.

You ignored her though, catching up to Aemond. “Those bastards will pay for what they did,” She stated lowly, referencing your nephews Jacaerys and Lucerys. They were the sons of your half sister, Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor Velaryon, yet they looked more like the knight Ser Harwin Strong. Everyone knew.

Aemond sighed and turned his head away. “Do you think I’m a failure? I’m the only one that doesn’t have a dragon,” He asked suddenly.

You looked at your brother and frowned, taking his hands in yours, pulling him to a stop. “You are going to get a dragon. A strong and powerful one.” You smiled lightly when his violet eyes met yours. “I know you will, Aemond.”

He couldn’t help the small smile on his lips. “Thank you, Y/N.”

You turned your head away when you made eye contact with Aegon, your brother sending you a smirk. He had been acting strange ever since your betrothal last year. You were just thankful though that you have yet to flower.

You always thought the betrothal was unfair, not understanding why your mother and father could not match Aegon to Helaena. You did not know why they were trying to separate you and Aemond.

“Are you here to watch your future husband?” Aegon called to you suddenly causing you to snap your head up.

Four pairs of eyes turned to you and you turned away, especially after noticing Aemond’s face turning red.

“Princess, should you not be at your lessons?” Ser Criston spoke up.

You gulped and nodded a bit. “I’m sorry.”

Aegon smirked a bit. “No, let her stay.”

“My Prince—“ Ser Criston began to protest but Aegon waved him off.

“Let her watch. You wanted me up against my lovely nephew, correct?”

“No, it’s okay. I really should—“

“Stay, sweet sister.”

You stared at Aegon, his stern voice sending chills through your spine.

“Aegon, leave her alone,” Aemond spoke up, his pale face only becoming redder.

“What, brother?” Aegon stepped up to his younger brother, the smirk still on his lips. He laughed when Criston pushed them apart so he could fight Jace.

You stood back a bit, your hands clasped in front of you while you watched Aegon beat Jace until Ser Harwin step in although your eyes weren’t on the pair. They were on Aegon. The color in his face didn’t flush off and you frowned.

“Aemond,” You spoke up, your voice soft.

“What?” He snapped and sighed at the shocked expression you gave him. He sighed glancing over as Ser Harwin separated the boys before walking over to you. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You only shook your head a bit. “I just want to know if you’re okay,” You whispered taking his hands gently.

“I’m fine,” He replied a bit harshly although he had a look of hatred towards Aegon.

You sighed, knowing it was a lie although you decided to let it slide. “If you say so, Aemond.”

❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈ ❈

Although you were never very close to your Aunt Laena, you had gone to her funeral in Driftmark with your family for your Uncle Daemon. It was dark outside and the children were supposed to be in bed, yet you were currently chasing after your twin brother through the sands of Driftmark.

“Aemond!” You called out, sighing when he only kept walking. It seemed as though he was speeding up on purpose.

You grunted a bit as you lifted your skirts to rush up the hill and looked down at him before glancing up to see the massive dragons sleeping ahead of them.

“Please, don’t tell me—“ You began and yelped when he suddenly took your hand to pull you down.

“Are you trying to get both of us killed?” Aemond hissed.

You took a deep breath and looked ahead, frowning when Aemond slowly stood up, his hand slowly slipping from yours and you quickly followed him as he got closer to the massive dragon.

You took your brother’s arm again when the dragon lifted her head and stared up at her after Aemond had tried to grab her ropes. Your violet eyes went wide as she opened her mouth, a fiery glow coming to the back of her throat.

“Lykiri!” Aemond shouted, shooting out one arm to the dragon, the other in front of you as though it would do anything if Vhagar burned the two of you. “Lykiri, Vhagar!”

You stared at your brother when his eyes connected with yours and took a deep breath when Aemond slowly walked over to the dragon. You watched in awe as he gave Vhagar another command in Valyrian and she flew high in the air, Aemond screaming as he held on tight.

A laughed passed your lips when your brother landed and walked over to him, holding onto his hands tight. “That was incredible, Aemond!” You exclaimed leaning up to kiss his cheek.

Aemond laughed with you and smiled wrapping his arms around you. “When we get home, we must go on a ride together. You on Revnass and me on Vhagar.”

“I would like that,” You replied with a small smile and a nod, slowly letting go of him so they could head back inside, holding onto his hand tight.

You squeezed his hand tight seeing your cousins and nephews rushing over, one of them shouting.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Aemond replied.

“Vhagar was my mother’s dragon. She is mine by birthright!” Rhaena shouted.

“If she was yours, then you should have claimed her,” Your brother replied coldly.

A fight quickly ensued between the children after Aemond made a comment of your nephews parentage, you pushing Baela and Rhaena away when they began to attack Aemond. One of the girls had punched you in the face causing you to stumble back and coughed as they kicked you in the stomach.

“Don’t touch her!” Aemond shouted as he tried to get your nephews off of him and gasped when sand was thrown in his face.

You pushed Baela off and stumbled noticing Luke trying to go in to help his brother who was at Aemond’s mercy. You cried a bit when Rhaena kicked you again but managed to get up and tried to wrap your arms around Luke. Your head whipped to the side when he slapped you, causing you to have a busted lip.

“Aemond!” You cried watching in horror as he stood up only to be met with Luke’s blade, holding tight onto his left eye, blood quickly running through the cracks of his fingers.

You rushed over, your face beaten but in that moment you didn’t care about yourself. You wrapped your arms around him as the tears formed in your eyes, glancing up when two of the kings guard that traveled with you rushed over hearing the screaming.

Your tears were dried as you stood next to your brother’s chair while the maester stitched up his eye. He had ended up losing his eye to his nephew which caused the blood to boil within your veins.

Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were nothing but bastards and with this act of treachery, they were all surely going to pay including the babe Joffrey.

“Are you all right?” Aegon asked quietly in your ear, leaning close to you.

“I’m more concerned for Aemond than myself,” You replied back, your eyes still on your twin brother.

Aegon looked over you, a frown noticeable on his lips but it quickly turned to surprise when your father snapped his head towards him after Aemond accused him of hearing the true parentage of your nephews.

“We all know,” Aegon stated quietly, his head sheepishly down taking glances to the nephews who were clutching tight onto their mother’s skirts. “Everyone knows.”

You frowned, squeezing Aemond’s hand tight. You were worried about his well being more than anything, although your head snapped up when Alicent nearly attacked Rhaenyra. You held onto Aemond as he stood up, looking up at him.

Your brother looked down at you and squeezed your hand in reassurance before slowly letting it go and walking over to your distraught mother.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” He began and Alicent looked up at her son who was severely beaten, battered and bloodied. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

You watched the room slowly disperse and the tears brimmed your eyes once more as you hugged Aemond tight. “I thought I lost you,” You whimpered into his shoulder.

Aemond returned your hug tightly, closing his eye. “We’re bound in fire and blood, my sweet sister. You won’t lose me so easily,” He said softly as he stroked your silver hair. “I promise.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, listening to his words. There was some kind of comfort that you got from Aemond that you did not get from any other person, yet you didn’t know how to describe the certain feeling. You only knew that you loved him and he loved you.

2K notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 8 months

Text

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 3: We Drown Traitors In Shallow Water]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, people being aware of Daeron's existence, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, Aemond having feelings (not good ones), references to sexual content (18+), an unexpected field trip.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

Aemond never tells you where you’re going.

You follow him—ivy-green velvet tunic, silver flood of hair like moonlight—to Grand Maester Orwyle’s chambers and up a narrow spiral staircase to the rookery of the Red Keep. Windows open out into all four cardinal directions: wests towards the Reach, south towards the Stormlands, north towards the Riverlands, east towards the Narrow Sea. Late-afternoon sunlight like the pulsing glow of embers paints you both in gold, in rust. As Aemond goes to the writing desk and begins drafting a letter—his penmanship is always slow and precise, painstakingly neat—you look at the ravens that tiptoe on talons like a dragon’s through the straw beds of their cages. Each enclosure is labeled with the castles that particular raven is trained to fly to. One raven knows the way to Lannisport, another to Riverrun, a third to Winterfell where Cregan Stark is gathering far-flung Northerner soldiers to help him march south and leave his mark on the world, something like a brand or a bloodstain or a bruise. You notice that a particularly clever raven—old, greying, fast asleep with his beak tucked into scruffy feathers—is assigned three separate strongholds, all in the Crownlands: Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle. It is not often that you see all the Valyrian houses of Westeros listed together; it is not often that House Celtigar is properly acknowledged. Generations of intermarrying with Westerosi bloodlines has camouflaged your Valyrian features, but still, the truth is inescapable. The fates of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and Celtigars are hopelessly intertwined. They always have been. You survived the Doom together; you are meant to prosper or burn together.

“Who are you writing to?” you ask Aemond.

He speaks without looking up from his letter, straight regimented lines and meticulous dots. “Eastbriar.”

The seat of House Thorne, your supposed kin. You choke down a dismayed mewing—it rises in your throat like stream from a kettle—and imagine the tone of your voice to be like a ship: vital to keep level and upright, even in the roughest of waves. “A summons for our soldiers?”

Aemond nods, his eye still on the parchment. “They have had ample time to mop up after Rook’s Rest. Those who have survived and are capable of battle will meet me and Criston as we lead our army north to the Riverlands.”

This is a compromise, you know. Aemond wanted to depart from the capital on Vhagar and pursue Daemon and Caraxes alone. Everyone was against it—Criston, Otto, Alicent, Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the entire Kingsguard, Aegon when he was roused enough to pry an answer out of—and so Aemond relented. But there is still a restlessness that lives in the icy blue cave of his remaining eye like a caged animal. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“This brings me great confidence, the endorsement of a woman with no tactical proficiency whatsoever.” And you think: I might know more of wartime strategy than your own advisors. I have heard what the Black Council discusses. I have stayed up with my father and brothers until the dark, lonely hours of the early morning as they plotted, Clement rabid to see combat, Everett assisting Father with calculations of cost and gain. Aemond smirks and beckons you closer to the desk. “I’ve finished. Go on, leave a note at the bottom.”

“What?” You stare at him, then down at the parchment. “Me?”

“I thought you might like to include a brief postscript for your family. I assume you have told them that you are here and safe. They would appreciate further report on occasion, I’m sure. To read that you are perfectly well in your own words.”

“Right,” you agree uncertainly.

Aemond crosses the rookery and turns his back to you. His hand slips into a pocket of his tunic and reemerges with small pieces of crumbly bread; he feeds them to the ravens, voracious black beaks jabbing out from between metal bars. “I will give you privacy to disparage me as much as you wish to,” he says, and you can hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He’s not suspicious, you realize. He means this as an act of kindness, of esteem. He trusts me.

And you have grown to understand Aemond well enough to know that this will only make things worse for you if your treason is discovered. It is not just the Greens’ security or strategy that is implicated here. It is Aemond’s pride. Sometimes, you think, it is his grudging affection as well.

You pick up the quill and contemplate the letter to House Thorne. What do I write? What the hell do I write?

Then an idea occurs to you. You add to the bottom of the parchment, just below Aemond’s signature:

P.S. Please send any livestock that you can spare to help sustain Sunfyre at Rook’s Rest. His alertness and strength improve each day. The Greens cannot spare any of our dragons…and Sunfyre is beloved for his ferocity by all the loyal subjects of the realm.

You hesitate, then sign in a looping scrawl:

Aegon II, King of the Seven Kingdoms

This comes so easily, like breathing, like healing, a treachery as smooth and painless as milk of the poppy.

“Done?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.” You roll up the parchment and give it to Aemond. Without looking at what you’ve written—he trusts me, he trusts me, a chant that is in equal parts honored and horrified—he ties it with a green ribbon, attaches it to a twiglike ink-colored leg of the raven trained to fly to Eastbriar, and looses the bird out into the troubled world through the open window that faces Blackwater Bay.

The sunlight catches on something: gold wings, jade eyes. Aemond is wearing Aegon’s ring, the one you stripped him of at Rook’s Rest as he lingered at the gate between our world and the one beyond, above or below or wherever you believe it to be, ice or fire or clouds or void.

“You should give that back to Aegon,” you say. “His hands are no longer too swollen to wear it. And I think he has noticed it’s missing.”

Aemond watches you, twisting the ring where it remains on his finger. He is thoughtful in a way that you cannot decipher. “You have done your king a great service. I know you will be generously rewarded.”

“That’s not why I’m helping him.”

“Yes, I know that part too.”

A silence, deep and laden and uncomfortable. Then Aemond winces—a tiny gesture he is used to hiding—and touches his fingertips to his forehead just above the black leather of his eyepatch. You have never seen him without it. “Headache?” you say.

“Having pieces of your eye scooped out of its socket comes at a price. I’m still paying it, I’ll never stop.”

You see it clearly, the story you were told: Aemond climbing up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, his skull rattling with vengeful maroon glee, slate-grey storm winds in his rain-soaked hair. “Is that why you killed Luke?”

Aemond gazes out the open window over the frothing waves speckled with sunbeams, and there is something strange in his face: not gloating but a pensiveness that grows almost despondent. At last, he speaks. “Now he has his brother to keep him company in the afterlife.”

“Jace?” you say, shocked. “Jace is dead?”

“Larys just informed me. The rest of the city will know by nightfall.”

You remember Jace, self-assured and ambitious and looking nothing like a Velaryon. You’ve met him. You’ve met all of the Blacks, even if only fleetingly or from a distance. “How?”

“Corlys’ navy attacked the Triarchy’s fleet in the Gullet.” The Triarchy are Essosi allies of the Greens, won over by Otto’s diplomacy, notes and promises that Aegon was too impatient to wait for. At last, they have arrived. “Jace and Vermax were torching our ships. Vermax was struck by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the burning wreckage of a galley. He struggled for a while and then disappeared into the waves. Jace clung to a piece of debris but was shot by arrows until dead. His body could not be recovered before it sank.”

You don’t know what to say; it is a defeat for the Celtigars, it is a victory for Aegon, it is a tragedy for all humankind. Are we any closer to peace? Or is this a wound that rips apart its stitching again and again until infection turns all our blood to poison? “So Rhaenyra has two sons buried in the sea.”

“There is something else that Larys told me,” Aemond says. And he does not seem like a man just handed news of a triumph. “Vermax was not the only dragon at the Battle of the Gullet.”

Caraxes is with Daemon at Harrenhal, last you heard. “Syrax?”

“No. The bitch won’t fight.” He means Rhaenyra, not her dragon. Aemond looks at you with fear swimming in his river-blue eye, something he rarely lets others see. “Silverwing, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and one that was never ridden before. The Blacks call him Sheepstealer.”

“Four more dragons,” you exhale with terror. “Four battle-ready, full-grown dragons.”

“They can’t use them here,” Aemond says, like he’s comforting you. “Rhaenyra cannot sanction the burning of King’s Landing and keep the love of the people. The people’s fondness for her is halfhearted at best already.”

“But the Blacks can use their dragons against you and Criston when you march north.”

Aemond smirks, half-taunting and half-warm. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

You ignore this. You don’t know how to respond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A week or two.” He swipes for your wrist. You pull it away just as his fingertips graze your skin. Aemond smiles. “I’ll leave it to you to inform Aegon of Jace’s demise. I’m sure it will cheer him.” Then he descends the narrow spiral staircase and abandons you in the rookery, surrounded by squawking, pacing ravens that claw at the walls of their cages.

You stop at Helaena’s bedchamber before going to Aegon’s; he drained his goblet of milk of the poppy an hour ago and is almost certainly still unconscious. He is trapped in a cycle of bitter disappointment. He has a day when he feels better, overexerts himself, and then spends the next three or four sleeping to escape the pain. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him to be cautious, to be patient. You walk into his room and find him polishing his sword, trying to pull on his boots, crawling out onto the balcony after nightfall when the sun cannot burn his fragile skin.

The queen is sitting in a chair and staring at the wall. She is watching the shadows of birds flit across tapestries depicting the night sky, a flurry of butterflies, unicorns, ladybugs, Dreamfyre. Each day you bring her flowers from the gardens; they sit in vases all over the room gathering dust, lilies and irises and tulips and daisies, roses red like the crabs that scuttle across your true house’s sigil. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Helaena says nothing. When you move closer, you see that her ghost-pale eyes are wide and vacant.

“Helaena, come walk in the gardens with me.”

Her voice is quiet, as if from a great distance away. “Is Jaehaerys playing there?”

It takes you a moment to decide how to answer. There is no sense in upsetting Helaena; she has suffered so much already. You will not remind her that her firstborn son was beheaded in front of her. “We’ve sent him away to keep him safe. You will see him again when the war is over.”

“I’ll see many people again when the war is over. But not you.”

You hold out your hand to her. “Helaena, please. Let’s walk in the gardens before the sun sets.” Before the world ends, you think randomly, unwelcomely.

You do not expect Helaena to take your hand. She never has before, though you offer it frequently. But this time her delicate, feather-light palm finds yours. One of her children is dead, and she cannot bring herself to act as a mother to the two that remain. Her marriage never brought her happiness, her father never cherished her. You cannot change any of this. But you can remind her that she is not alone. When you have spent an hour strolling through lush greenery and past ponds that ripple with the splashing of fish, you bring Helaena to Otto—he has supper with her most nights—and then continue on alone to Aegon’s bedchamber.

You stand in the doorway watching him as he sleeps, this man that you as a Celtigar have no business touching, this man you cannot bring yourself to leave.

He is mending. He is past the worst of the danger. If I disappeared now, Grand Maester Orwyle would be more than capable of tending to him. And every second I spend in King’s Landing is another opportunity to be discovered, imprisoned, interrogated, punished, ransomed, killed.

So when will you go?

Today seems impossible. Tomorrow isn’t any better. A few days, a week, a month?

Never, you think, so abruptly and forcefully that it stuns you. I never want to be away from him.

Aegon stirs, his eyes opening in bleary slits. His mess of silvery hair cascades over his face; the scar on his right cheek spills across his skin like blood in snow. He spots you from across the room, smiles, reaches out to you with one seeking, unburned hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aegon, you have to set it free.” It’s morning, days later. Outside the sun is bright and forbidden; in his bed across the room, draped in cool shadows, Aegon follows your eyeline to the glass jar on his bedside table, to the tiny creature Helaena gifted him. The once-caterpillar is now a captive butterfly with shimmering gold wings.

Aegon looks at it without much interest. “I’m terribly sorry. I was distracted by my many deformities.”

“Stop trying to lure me into complimenting you.” You remove the lid from the jar. The butterfly ascends through the opening, meanders around the room, and eventually finds its way through the window. “Besides, lots of women appreciate scars on a man.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Women in general, or one in particular…?”

“Quiet, miscreant.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages and inspect the places you are most concerned with: the crooks of his elbows, the backs of his shoulders, his waist where the scar tissue strains when he moves. You begin massaging rose oil onto his arms, starting at his wrists. He is lucky the flames did not claim his hands; from what you have learned from books and maesters, keeping fingers nimble and stopping them from fusing together as they heal is nearly impossible.

“You’re always undressing me,” Aegon muses, gazing at you with hazy, murky blue eyes and a playful smile. “Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.”

You won’t. But Cregan Stark will. And for the first time you are vividly aware that the thought of Aegon touching you—anywhere, everywhere—does not fill you with fear or dread but rather a sort of curiosity, maybe even willingness, maybe even the first pangs of a craving like hunger.

Aegon’s smile dies as you knead rose oil into his right forearm. He will require the use of it if he is to ever wield a sword properly again. “I did not mean to offend you. Allow me to apologize. I am thoroughly medicated, my judgment is impaired. And I confess that it was not so good to begin with.”

“I’m not offended. I’m…distracted.”

Distracted by the promise-prison of your betrothal, Aegon knows. “Angel,” he says firmly, and waits until you meet his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Aegon. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You have enough worries already.”

“You’ve helped me,” Aegon insists. “Now let me help you. I may be weak and hideous now, but I’m still the king. Whoever he is, I can have him married off to someone else. I can have him sent to the Night’s Watch. I can fix this.”

Your words spill out in a mournful whisper. “You can’t touch him.”

Aegon shakes his head, stretches out his hand, skims his thumbprint across your cheekbone like shadows dance over walls. “Who the hell is he?”

There is a noise outside, a shrill reverberating shriek that grows louder as it nears the Red Keep. You and Aegon share a startled, knowing glance. It is the cry of a dragon, and not one already housed here in the Dragonpit. You do not recognize this voice: a high whistling, a tinny quality like a small bell being rung. Not Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not the reptilian infants Shrykos or Morghul…

Then Aegon begins to laugh. “Oh, Aemond is going to murder him.”

You jolt up off the bed and race to the open window. Down on the beach, it is landing: a shining lapis-colored beast about the same size as Sunfyre, lean, regal, sprightly, swanlike. A white-haired boy, perhaps fifteen, is climbing down out of the saddle as waves bubble up around his mount’s claws. “Tessarion,” you breathe, awed despite yourself. You have no fondness for dragons—you are too closely acquainted with their singular capacity for destruction—but her beauty is striking. You understand now why she is called the Blue Queen.

“And Daeron too, I assume,” Aegon quips. “Or has she eaten him?”

“No, he is presently uneaten. His hair is already longer than yours.”

“Yes, everyone’s is.”

You turn back to Aegon, sitting up in bed and wearing only his loose cotton trousers. “Why is yours so short and…” What is a polite way to put it? Haphazard? Irregular? Uneven? “Choppy?”

“Do not bully me, angel. I may perish and you will regret your harsh words.” He smiles drowsily. “I used to cut it myself. I have since I was eight or nine years old.”

He has servants for that. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to look like a Targaryen. I didn’t want to be one at all. But this inheritance cannot be refused, it seems. It’s written into parts of me that can’t be burned away. The whites of the bones, the chambers of the heart.”

It occurs to you as you say it: “Had you not been born a Targaryen, I never would have met you.”

He studies you thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it was not all a curse.”

There are robust, hurried footsteps, and then Aegon’s bedchamber door is thrown open. Daeron stands there. He is already as tall as Aegon. He is athletic, fussily dressed in seafoam green, more conventionally handsome than either of his brothers. He lacks something…an edge, a cynicism. He has a cape that flutters around him as ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

“Seven hells,” Daeron gasps as he approaches Aegon’s bedside, large blue eyes—a clear, shallow blue like Aemond’s—sweeping over Aegon’s wounds: gnarled thickets of angry red scar tissue, raw spots that are still weeping, a scorched landscape like the ruins of Valyria. “You look awful.”

Aegon chuckles. “I know. I’m a roasted pig.”

“A burnt-to-a-crisp pig, rather. A dragon might eat you, but no human would.”

Aemond and Sir Criston stampede into the room, blinking at Daeron as if he is a mirage that may vanish at any moment. Aegon tells Daeron: “Now we must stop discussing pigs.”

Aemond ignores this and addresses Daeron. “You’re supposed to be with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army.”

“That’s where I was. Until the Battle of the Honeywine.”

Aemond exchanges a puzzled glance with Criston. “The what?”

“Well I won it, you see.” Daeron grins, and you suddenly glimpse so much of Aegon in him it hurts, it feels like someone is digging around in the marrow of your bones with a rusty blade. “The nobles of the Reach who have sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra descended upon Lord Ormund’s forces and all hope was lost. Until Tessarion and I arrived. Our enemies look worse than Aegon now, if you can believe it. They are puffs of ash and memory.”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Aemond says.

“News never travels faster than by dragon.”

“But you’re too young to fight,” Criston says dully, his mind struggling to catch up.

“Am I?” Daeron replies with mock scandal. “Thank you for making me aware. I will free Tessarion immediately and take myself back to the nursery. Is there a wetnurse available for suckling? I’ve flown a long way, and I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you’re here,” Aemond says flatly. “She’ll want to have a feast.” Then he strides out of the bedchamber, long hair streaming and aisles of daylight cutting stripes across his back. After a moment, Criston trots after him.

Daeron says to Aegon: “I heard he stole your crown.”

“No,” Aegon replies, as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “For some reason, he’s only borrowing it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A banquet in the Great Hall would be ostentatious during wartime when others are expected to ration their bread and send their sons to slaughter. Instead, Alicent settles for a private early supper with the royal family and only their most essential guests, of which there are three: Hand of the King Sir Criston Cole, Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, and you.

Daeron is regaling the table with the dramatic tale of his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. He is using the chunks of carrots and squash on his plate to demonstrate military formations. Otto is beaming at Daeron with bright, probing eyes, suddenly aware of his worth. Alicent touches her youngest son constantly, his hands and his hair and his face. He allows this; perhaps he even enjoys it. He is the only child who does not make her feel like a failure of a mother; he is the only one she can love in a way that is uncomplicated. Helaena stares down at a tiny figurine in her hands, a bear carved out of wood. Aegon made that for her years ago. Aemond says little and frowns often.

Aegon was determined to attend. He wears an emerald green tunic over his bandages, his burns hidden except for the scarlet plume on his right cheek. He sits beside you taking frequent gulps from his wine cup, dripping sweat from his temples, glazed-eyed and exhausted by even the smallest motions: the tearing of a hunk of bread, the slicing of a slab of beef wet with gravy. As he saws with his knife, his movements grow slow and feeble and labored.

“Aegon, please, let me cut that for you.” You reach for his plate; he slides it away.

“I can do it,” he pants.

“Aegon—”

“Dignity,” he says. He wants to keep what little of it he has left. “But if your fingers are too idle, I have another task for you.”

You do not need to ask what he means. Smiling, you begin weaving a fresh braid into his hair; his most recent one was washed out last night. Criston observes this with awkward fascination. Aemond twists off the ring—Aegon’s ring, the golden dragon with jade eyes—and tosses it over. It lands on the tabletop, bounces twice, and comes to rest by Aegon’s wine cup. He picks the ring up and examines it.

“I was wondering where that went.” He slips it onto a finger and grins at Aemond crookedly, mischieviously. “You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine.”

Aemond tells you as you braid Aegon’s hair: “He can do that himself, you know. I’ve seen him. He just pretends he can’t when you’re around.”

“Do we know who the new riders are yet?” Otto asks Larys, and now the conversation has been monopolized by the machinations of war. Everyone—with the exception of Helaena, who is walking her wooden bear across the table like a child would—is listening to Larys.

“Vermithor is ridden by a Dragonstone bastard, the son of a blacksmith,” Larys says. He is eating red grapes with his pink, rodent-like hands; he peels each one completely with his fingernails before popping it into his mouth. “He calls himself Hugh Hammer. Seasmoke was claimed by a boy rumored to be the bastard of Corlys Velaryon.”

Daeron mutters to Aegon: “Goddamn, it’s bastards all the way down over on their side.”

“Silverwing is ridden by a man known as Ulf the White,” Larys continues. “He has the Targaryen coloring. And is supposedly a drunk and an unreliable character all-around.”

Otto casts a glance at Aegon, long and unsubtle. Aegon pretends not to see it.

“And the last one?” Aemond says. “Sheepstealer? Ridden by yet another undesirable dredged up from the slums of Dragonstone, I assume.”

“Interestingly, no,” Larys replies. “She is a girl from Driftmark called Nettles. Fierce, rugged.” He pauses meaningfully, reeling his audience in like fish on hooks. “She is now at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

“With Daemon?” Alicent echoes. “As an…understudy? Strategist? Accomplice?”

“As far more than that, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh, may the Mother have mercy,” Alicent murmurs, gripping her gold necklace in the shape of the seven-pointed star.

“Daemon? With a teenager?!” Criston says. “He’s repulsive. He’s ancient.”

Otto laughs, a wicked low rumble. “Rhaenyra must be mortified! She must think of little else.”

Larys nods, smirking, conniving. “My point is, my lords…and ladies…these lowborn new riders—Dragonseeds, as they are being called—possess unsound loyalties. They risked their lives to claim the beasts for the promise of land and riches, not to help any particular faction win the Iron Throne. They do not love Rhaenyra or her cause. Already they are causing discord within the Blacks’ ranks. In time, they may prove to be liabilities more than assets, and if we could win even only Vermithor or Silverwing to our side…”

You peer over at Aegon as plots sail across the table. He is swaying in his seat, hands trembling, agonized and empty like a dry well. His eyes are dark and glassy; he gazes inanely straight ahead. He needs to leave soon, and you will go with him. But you have one question to ask first.

You say to Larys: “Do you think the Pact of Ice and Fire might be dissolved? Now that Jace is dead?”

Everyone looks at you; everyone, that is, except Aegon and Helaena. They are well-matched for once, equally present in body but not in soul. Too late, you realize that perhaps this was an unwise inquiry. You should not be attracting attention to yourself. You should not be expressing anxiety about Cregan Stark’s allegiances.

Fortunately, Larys does not seem to be wary. He titters, peeling a grape with those rat-like little fingers. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky, Lady Thorne. Cregan fancies himself to be an honorable man, and he believes Rhaenyra—as Viserys’ allegedly chosen heir—to be the honorable choice. And I’m sure she will offer him some redress for his lost future daughter-in-law, perhaps a daughter of Joffrey.”

“Or Daemon and Nettles,” Daeron adds, snickering.

“In any case, there is another matter keeping Cregan on the Blacks’ side,” Larys says. “I heard months ago that he is apparently smitten with some Celtigar girl, and she’s been promised to him—”

Aegon groans and nearly tumbles out of his chair; you leap up to steady him. “The king must be taken back to bed immediately.”

Alicent stands and throws down her green cloth napkin onto the table. She’s wrung it with nervous hands into a tight little twist. “I’ll go with you.”

You and Alicent trail after the guards as they carry Aegon to his bedchamber. Grand Maester Orwyle meets you there and helps you undress Aegon, drug him, clean him, inspect his wounds for any new abrasions or signs of festering, apply honey to raw patches, work warm rose oil into the scar tissue around his joints, rebandage him with fresh strips of linen. Alicent watches all of this with tears brimming in her eyes, those vast shadowy pools of memories, so few of them good.

When Orwyle is gone and Aegon drifts in bottomless psychic darkness that he will likely not surface from for days, you ask Alicent: “Would you like to touch him? You can. On his hands, his face. It’s alright. You won’t harm him.”

Her own hands are clasped together so tightly her knuckles are a bloodless shade of white. “I won’t?”

“No. Come and see.”

She steps closer tentatively. She ghosts her fingertips across his limp left hand, where his dragon ring glints and his flesh is unscarred. Then she threads his braid through her hand. Her voice is so soft you can barely hear her, though she stands right beside you. “If he died, it would kill me.”

I understand. I’m afraid that’s becoming true for me too. It’s spreading like infection, like plague. “He’s not going to die. He is mending.”

Alicent nods, sniffling, swiping tears from her flushed, puffy face. “What can I do? Anything?”

“Tell him you love him. And that you’re proud of him. That he is a true Targaryen and a worthy king.”

“Yes,” she agrees; but she looks as if you have given her instructions in a language she does not speak. She flees from the room in a daze, in a nightmare she cannot wake up from.

An hour later, you are sitting on Aegon’s floor in an corridor of late-afternoon sunlight and reading a book on herbology when Aemond comes to collect you. He never tells you where you’re going, and now is no exception. You follow him down hallways and staircases, through throngs of courtiers who wear green and toast to the deaths of Jace Velaryon and those traitors at the Battle of the Honeywine. Contrary to your best guesses, Aemond does not lead you to the council chamber or the rookery or the library.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says as he beckons you out into the gardens. There are a group of nobles clustered by a trickling fountain and chatting merrily. One of them is Sir Rickard Thorne. “Your family is here.”

Cold blood in your veins, a terror like a prey animal’s, legs that threaten to buckle. Your shoes halt mid-step. “Family…?”

“Some of Sir Rickard’s relatives came to visit him before we march north. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see your aunt and cousins—”

A woman screams, a sound like glass breaking. She drops the cup she was holding and wine floods across the cobblestones like blood. Her hands fly up to her face. You know her: Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother, a name like Clara or Cora or Camila. Her daughters yelp and gape alongside her. Aemond is baffled but not alarmed. The truth is too unthinkable for him to consider.

“Why is she here?!” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother hisses through bared teeth.

Aemond looks at you, then to the woman. “She is not your kin…?”

“She’s not ours.” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother points at you, a finger like a knife, stabbing, lethal. “She’s one of Bartimos Celtigar’s daughters!”

Someone is yelling, not you, but someone. People are making accusations and demands. Aemond is not listening to any of them. He is staring at you with his remaining eye wide and filling up with blade-sharp realization, shock, betrayal, hatred. You have no good options. You choose a not-good one. You bolt away from him and through the gardens, trampling flowers and ricocheting off marble statues. You can hear Aemond behind you, swift and deft like a falcon. You crash through a wall of scrubs and tumble blindly into a fishpond. You gasp for air as you burst up out of the water, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on rocks slick with algae. Panicked fish zoom by you, their fins leaving paper-thin gashes in your skin. Aemond is at the water’s edge, his hand closing around your wrist to drag you from the pond. And now there is nothing funny about it; now Aemond isn’t smiling.

You’re on the cobblestones and coughing water from your lungs, you’re being yanked upright, you’re being hauled through the gardens. You claw and shove, you fight him viciously. It’s just like when you first met. Except that now Aemond knows exactly who you are.

“Aemond, stop, stop, please listen to me—”

“You fucking liar,” he seethes. He is towing you out into the streets of King’s Landing. Where? Where? “In our bedrooms. In our council meetings. While your father bankrolls Rhaenyra’s treason.”

“I meant no harm to you—”

“House Thorne!” Aemond roars into your face. “I asked you which family was yours and you said House Thorne, you masqueraded as a Green, you deceived us, you lied to me—”

“So you would let me help him!” you shout back. “You asked me to save Aegon’s life and I did, I did and I was the only one who could, and you never would have let me near him if you knew who my family was!”

“A Celtigar.” He snarls it like a curse that can kill. “You never cared about any of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“A traitor, a spy.”

“I never spied—”

“Sending letters home to your avaricious demon of a father.”

You strike at Aemond’s chest as hard as you can, hard enough to try to get him to listen. “I never wrote letters! Not one! They don’t know I’m here, they don’t know anything, all I’ve done since the second I met you was serve your house, your king!”

“Keep moving,” Aemond snaps. Smallfolk and mule carts jostle by you. Street venders and shopkeepers bellow out the attributes of their merchandise. You are accustomed to the aftermath of battles, but not filthy and bustling city streets. You are overwhelmed by foreign sights, sounds, scents. People gawk and bow when they spot Aemond, perhaps genuinely, perhaps because they know he commands the largest dragon in the world and does not shy away from murder. Where is he taking me? Where?

There are women wandering in the streets now, their faces smeared with sweated-through makeup, their sleeves hanging off their shoulders. They simper at the prince regent, they reach out to comb their long painted fingernails through his hair. They are prostitutes.

No, you think. No no no.

“Aemond, where are we going?”

“Exactly where you belong. You sell lies. There are lots of women who make a living that way.”

“You can’t do this,” you say with horror.

“I assure you, I can do just about anything.”

“You found me!” you scream at Aemond. “You dragged me off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest and into that tent, you brought me to King’s Landing, every step I made was orchestrated by you, you found me, so don’t you act like I gained anything from this except the satisfaction of saving your brother’s life when you were incapable of it!”

“Your father funds Rhaenyra’s war effort,” Aemond says with chilling matter-of-factness. “Now you can help fund ours.”

“No!” You struggle against his grip, scratch at his face. Your fingers catch on the strap of his eyepatch and tear it away. Beneath is a sapphire that glitters cruelly in a nest of the frayed remnants of his eyelids. You shriek, but there is no one to help you, nowhere to run.

“Are you finished now?” Aemond demands, glaring ferociously: one eye of flesh, the other of cold earth-mined fire. He draws his dagger from his belt and lays the blade against your jugular. “Yes, you are. You’d better be.”

He brings you to a doorway. There is a woman standing in it: voluptuous, beautiful, middle-aged, hair long and braided and the warm brown color of a stag’s coat. She summons a practiced, enticing smile. She knows about things you do not want to imagine. “Hello again, my prince.”

They are already acquainted. Aemond does not seem pleased that she is being so forthright about it. “She will stay here,” he says, meaning you, this terrified woman with a dagger to the pulsing arteries of her throat.

“Yes,” the brothel madam agrees immediately.

“She will be put to work. Each week, someone will come to collect her wages.”

“Very good, my prince.”

“She must be watched closely.”

“All the girls are.”

“Especially closely. If she tries to escape, kill her.”

“Yes, my prince,” the madam says as you breathe in the sweat, salt, cries, moans, feigned pleasure, real pain of this place.

“Aemond, please don’t do this, please don’t leave me here, not here, anywhere but here—”

He flings you into the arms of the madam, tucking his dagger away. He gives you one last glance—dismissive, hateful, soulless—and then disappears into the swarming, anonymous streets.

Who will save me?

“You poor thing, you’ve had the fright of your life, haven’t you?” the brothel madam says, stroking your hair tenderly.

Clement? Father? Alicent? Aegon?

“Don’t worry, love. You can help in the kitchen tonight. We’ll get you situated tomorrow. I can’t have you running off clients with this hysteria anyway.”

No one knows I’m here.

“It isn’t so bad. You’ll see. We’ll take good care of you.”

How will they save me if no one knows I’m here?

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fic #aegon ii x reader #hotd fanfic

356 notes · View notes

moris-auri · 15 days

Text

Heaven is not fit (to house a love like you and I)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Baela Targaryen

Summary: The war, bloody and devastating, is over. Having bested his uncle over the God's Eye, Aemond returns to King’s Landing and to his elder brother.

But his victory is short-lived when Aegon dies in 131 A.C. without an heir. After more than a half year of peace, the realm is thrown into chaos once again. Made to choose a bride after having the ruby studded crown of Aegon I placed on his head and made King, Aemond chooses his cousin, Baela Targaryen.

And Baela Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, grows more than fond of saying "Fuck the realm."

WC: 8k

Beta'd by @vampire-exgirlfriend ILYSM Alex ❤️❤️

Warnings: NSFW 18+, spoilers for Fire and Blood (A Song of Ice and Fire)

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The title sits like ash in her mouth, lingering on her tongue like sour, spoiled wine. It had ever since her arrival nearly three days prior; carried from the ship that had brought her from Driftmark to the Red Keep, she has done little else but think about it, over and over and over again.

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her conviction only grows stronger each time the thought comes, her conviction that becoming his wife and Queen is the very last thing she wants. That Aemond is quite possibly the one person in all the realm she despises. She has still not forgotten the things he'd said and done in the past, the half-sullen, half-angry boy he'd been in their youth. She has not forgotten the words he had spat so cruelly in the tunnel the night he claimed Vhagar just after her mother's funeral, the same night Luke cut out his eye. Has not forgotten his toast to Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey the night her father took Vaemond Velaryon's head, nor has she forgotten the manner of Luke and Arrax's deaths over Shipbreaker Bay.

She's had dreams sometimes of what it would have been like to be Jacaerys' queen, late at night when she could not find sleep and spent half the night tossing and turning in her bed. Dreams that were hauntingly vivid, things of what could have been if he had survived the Gullet. Glimpses of what it might have been like if war had not broken out, damaging the realm so much it was near irreparable in some places.

But he had not.

None of them had, save for herself, Aemond, Rhaena and little Aegon.

If only her uncle were here to see the utter ruin of their House, what their family had become. The Crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided.

Divided indeed.

It's almost laughable, she cannot help but think, letting out a faint, mirthless huff of laughter, how the might and entirety of House Targaryen- a line going back to the Dragonlords of Old Valyria, was now all but wiped out in less than five years. And over a chair no less.

"I've been looking for you, girl."

The sound of her grandfather's voice from behind her drew her back to the present, his tone sounding sterner than she can ever remember it being.

"You've found me, grandfather," she said testily, resisting the desire to roll her eyes as she stood, still facing the windows of her chamber that overlooked the city, arms crossed over her chest, fighting the urge to shout her fury.

His voice came again, but she didn't catch whatever he said. Except for one word.

Husband.

"I won't do it," she says as she shakes her head. She crossed her arms over her chest, not caring in the slightest if he thinks she seems petulant as she squashes the desire to toss her head back and laugh, instead savoring the bite of pain that ricochets up her arms when she presses her nails into the skin of her palms. "Let Rhaena wed him."

Silence.

She immediately regrets it, feeling the guilt rise inside her, chasing the anger away like a tide. She knows as well as he does that the pit of snakes and rats that the royal court is would eat her twin alive and spit out her bones. "He's a kinslayer," she says instead, a not so small trace of bitterness lingering in her voice, "Or have you forgotten how he murdered Luke?"

"I have not. But he is king now." her grandsire reminds sharply, disapproval rolling off him in waves. "This realm has seen enough war and bloodshed, child."

Baela feels her cheeks heat at the chastisement, clenching her hands into fists at her sides again. "I won't do it," she repeats, but she can feel how futile her protests are even as she says it. She doesn't want this fate; the fate of so many women before her. She feels her eyes begin to sting then, the unwanted thought of what a Queen's duty was bouncing around inside her head, bile rising to the back of her throat. Would her fate be the same as her mother's? As Queen Aemma's?

Corlys sighs, the sound almost as heavy as the hand he places on her shoulder. "You'll be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, girl. Be grateful."

"Be grateful?" she says incredulously as she whirls around to glare at him, her anger returning stronger than it had before. "Be grateful? For being bartered off like a chest of riches?"

His face tightens, his hand falling back to his side. "Be grateful," he adds gruffly. "That the king has chosen you."

She snorted derisively. "As if you gave him any other option. I know he only chose me because you dangled me before him like bait." She hisses the words at him spitefully, eyes narrowed. "I wish Father had killed him," she added vindictively as an afterthought.

"Enough of this," he grounds out, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "You will. For the good of the realm."

"Fuck the realm." She says again. A final, futile effort to stop this.

"Baela!" His voice grows in volume, in frustration, all but bordering on a bellow. She doesn't so much as flinch, bold and willful thing that she is. Her mouth twists, blood roaring in her veins. She opens her mouth, but closes it just as fast when he sends her a warning glance.

You will marry him.

"Now," Corlys cleared his throat. "He requests your presence in the Small Council chamber."

"Now? But I'm-" she glanced down at herself, a thread of panic entering her voice.

"You look fine," Corlys said, as if he could sense her panic. The reassurance in his voice does little to calm her, though, made clear in the look etched on her face. "Now come," he said, steering her forward with a hand against her back.

She's barely been in the room for a minute before she feels the weight of Aemond's gaze land on her, the burning intensity of it making the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She swallowed then, tucking away the unsure part of herself, pushing back the sliver of self preservation that reared its head in recognition that she was no longer the only dragon in the room, the sliver that felt like she could potentially even be prey when in his presence. The eyes she fixed him with then were hard, the weakness she resented shoved down deep within her, eagerly ignored.

She cannot help but admit how much he looks like a king in that moment, with his spine as stiff as a board and his hands clasped together before him in an almost penitent manner that was at odds with the unreadable expression on his face. The blank, carefully crafted expression on his face that made her feel disconcerted, wary and ill at ease at not being able to tell what he was thinking or what he was feeling. Did he hate this farce as much as she did? This plan to mend the shattered, broken shards their family had become? Or did he want it more than he let on?

And if he did, why?

"Cousin," her soon to be husband says from where he sits at the head of the long table, his hands clasped together in front of him. "Sit," he murmurs, the command clear when he gestures towards the vacant chair to his right. She does so without a word, but not before glancing at her grandfather, who only nodded at her with a look of pride on his face.

"Cousin," she returns once she's situated, her tone bordering on saccharine and falsely sweet as she forces herself to remain at ease, to remain calm and not spit a slew of curses at him when the rage in her eyes did not affect him in the slightest.

She ripped her gaze away from his face, sliding upwards before stopping, her lips parting as her gaze landed on the crown situated atop his head, the crown that had once sat on his brother's head. The sole ruby in the center winks in the light, the valyrian steel surrounding it looking almost black despite the sun shining into the room.

"What are your plans for the ceremony, Your Grace?" her grandfather interrupts after a long moment, elbows resting on the edge of the table as he leans forward.

Her gaze drops back to Aemond's face at the sound of the low hum he lets out in response to the question, watching as he presses his steepled fingers against his mouth, as if in thought. "In the Old Valyrian way, of course," he responds, casting a fleeting look her way, his gaze searching, before averting his eye almost nervously.

‘Let him be nervous,’ she thinks almost vindictively, feeling her mouth twitch in response. He says something else that she doesn't catch entirely, listening with one ear as they speak of other things pertaining to the realm that she knows she should care about but cannot bring herself to truly care about.

Not yet at least.

Her mind drifts to thoughts of her father as she tunes the sound of their voices out, knowing without a doubt how he'd make no attempt to show or let his obvious disapproval at this be known if he were here. Pain lanced through her at the thought of him, chased by the knowledge that he would never speak again. That she would never see his face or hear his voice again - not in this life, at least. Not when he was nothing more than a decaying corpse at the bottom of the God's Eye now.

"What say you, cousin?" Aemond asks as he leans closer to her, the sound of his voice dragging her back to the present. "The way of our House? Or the way of the Seven?"

"Excuse me?"

"For the ceremony," he repeated steadily as he met her gaze. His expression had gone unreadable again, save for the slight tightening around his mouth, the sound of his fingers drumming against the table drifting towards her.

Baela felt her cheeks go hot as her eyes widened in surprise, caught off guard by the question. She swallowed her sudden apprehension as she opened her mouth to respond, a memory of the day her father had married Rhaenyra in the traditional Valyrian way resurfacing.

He was asking her what she wanted.

She hesitated a moment before biting her lip, her heart pounding behind her ribs. She stiffened her shoulders as she looked up at him from under her lashes, her mind made up. If she was to do this, she'd do it in a way she knew would've made the Rogue Prince proud.

"The Valyrian way."

The day of her marriage comes a week after her arrival and she wants nothing more than to scream. The bedchamber that is hers now has been a hive of activity for the last several hours, the space full of chatter from a handful of different voices, namely those of the seamstresses and the Dowager Queen.

She has seen neither hide nor hair of Alicent Hightower since she stepped foot into the Keep over a week ago, though she had heard far and few in between whispers from the servants. Spun tales of a bereaved, grief stricken Dowager Queen who had retreated to her bedchamber after losing almost everything but the son that now sat the Iron Throne.

She had not put much stock in them before, but the sight of her soon to be good-mother is more than enough to make her believe them. She remembered the woman who had sat at her Uncle's left, glowing and resplendent in rich green and gold, hair laying across her shoulders in a sheet of burnished auburn waves.

There is hardly a trace of that woman now.

Now Alicent Hightower is pale, drawn and almost ghostly. Her hair is done plainly, an unadorned braid wrapped around her head, her dress a shade of black that seemed to swallow her whole, making her look slight and diminutive. That had been another thing she had heard, her complete disavowal of wearing anything made in the colors of her House, and as much as she does not want to pity her soon to be goodmother, she cannot help it.

Drawn from her reverie, Baela turns her head at the sound of the head seamstress clearing her throat, her gaze falling to the final part of the ornate robes the woman held in her hands. Resisting the desire to roll her eyes, Baela made a motion with one hand, beckoning the woman forward without a word.

Rhaena only had to take one look at her face as soon as the final clasp on the bodice was closed, no doubt catching the steadily heightening agitation brewing like a storm cloud in her eyes, a wordless communication passing between them. "Leave us," she says sharply as she stands from the chair she had been sitting in since early this morning, the hem of her dress soundless on the flagstones as she neared.

If there was one good thing to this, it was that she still had her sister at her side as a pillar of support. Everytime she had thought about it, about being alone in this cesspool with only the distant attention of her grandfather, she felt dread churn low in her stomach. And so it had been the one thing she'd refused to budge on. 'If I must do this,' she had said to their grandfather the second night, the look in her eyes daring him to argue with her, 'I will have her with me.'

Baela shot a fierce, withering glare at the servant who wavered by the door, the order to get out burning in her gaze. "By the gods-" she mutters the instant the chamber is fully empty, her chamber now, she thought belatedly as she rolled her shoulders in an effort to lessen the tension. She could already feel the weight of the robes she wore bearing her down like an anchor, stifling and heavy; as did the ornate headpiece, brought from Dragonstone on such short notice. She reached up to tug on it, only to let out a startled yelp when Rhaena smacked her hands away with a glare. You'll mess it up, her sister's eyes seemed to say.

Baela scowled at her as she rubbed at the now stinging skin, but let them fall to her side nonetheless, her head twisting to the side a minute later at the sound of knocking, followed by a voice partially muffled by the thick wood of the door. "Are you ready, Your Grace?"

She let out a breath as she dropped her hands to her sides. She was not ready, and she doubted she ever would be but she raised her voice nonetheless, just loud enough to let her reply carry the distance to where the servant could hear her clearly. She glanced down one final time, inhaling a breath as she steeled herself silently, the thump of her heart as loud as a drum in her ears.

"You look beautiful, sister," Rhaena murmured, as if she sensed the conflict raging beneath her skin.

"As do you," Baela said as she shot her a grateful smile, squeezing her fingers gently. She let go of Rhaena's fingers a minute or two later as she pulled away, smoothing her palms over the stiff cloth, exchanging one last glance with her before stepping past her and out into the corridor.

The ride to the Dragonpit was torturous, and she hated it.

Her previously half pleasant mood was gone, having vanished like smoke what felt like ages ago, replaced with irritation and the steadily growing urge to snap at someone, despite the fact that it was only herself and Rhaena in the wheelhouse, a fact she cannot help but be grateful for.

"If I must suffer one more-" she all but snarled as she grit her teeth each time the wheels of the wheelhouse jostled over the uneven streets the closer and closer they got to the Dragonpit. Or what was left of it, half demolished as it was now.

Her hands dropped to her lap, resting one over the other as she began twisting the gold ring around the fourth finger of her left hand in a nervous tic.

"At least we're almost there," Rhaena murmured half under her breath from the seat across from her, an attempt at placating her, leaning forward to rest a hand on her arm. Baela made a wordless sound of agreement in her throat as she turned her head to the side, blinking every time sunlight filtered in through the star-shaped holes. Rhaena opened her mouth to say something else, but Baela had turned away, in no mood to hear another word.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, save for the jubilant sounds of shouting from the people lining the streets on either side of the carriage. "Gods above-," she grumbled out in relief when she felt the wheelhouse rock to a stop, seeing stars as she raised her hand to her eyes to block out the glare of the sun, the sight of their grandsire standing hardly more than a foot away, the Velaryon seahorse stitched out in silver thread, bright against the dark hue of his tunic.

"Grandfather," she greeted shortly as she stepped down, ignoring the hand he had extended towards her, exhaling when both her feet were flat on the ground.

"Granddaughter," he said gruffly in response as he set his hands on her shoulders, tilting his head to look her in the eye. She squinted against the sun as she tipped her head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the odd look in his eyes, one that she did not know what to think of.

"If only Rhaenys and Laena could see you now," he murmured, his words doing little except to startle her further, "They'd be so very proud of you. I know it."

Blinking in surprise at the mention of her mother and grandmother, Baela felt the pricking, tell-tale sting of tears in the corners of her eyes as his words sunk in. She opened her mouth as if to speak, a question on the tip of her tongue, but he turned away before she could.

She knew he grieved for his wife as she and Rhaena did, mourning her in his own way. He fell silent again, the look in his eyes turning into something more scrutinizing, as if he was studying her. "His Grace is waiting," was all he said, his voice turning brusque once more, brooking no room for an argument. Baela watched him go silently, the broad width of his back filling her vision as he ascended the steps of the Dragonpit before disappearing inside.

"Ābrazȳrys." Her husband's tone is cold and flat, carrying nary a trace of affection- not that she expects him to have any.

Husband.

It still felt more than strange to call him that, the sole word as foreign to her as anything, even though it's been a month since their marriage. No matter how fervently she wishes to forget, she can still remember some parts of the ceremony as clear as day. She doubted she ever would now, not with the way they all but clung to her like shadows in the back of her mind.

The feeling of the dragonglass Aemond had pressed to her lip and to the skin of her palm. The sharp pain that had followed it and the iron smell of the blood that welled in its wake. The look in his eye when he had drawn the Valyrian glyph for fire on her forehead. The look on his face when she had done the same to him, the glyph for blood standing out as red as garnets against his skin.

"What do you want?" she demands of him, knowing what he'll say anyway. She braces her weight on her elbows as she looks towards where he stands in the doorway, not missing the way he's still wearing the same tunic he had been earlier.

Aemond frowned at her words, a crease forming between his brows. "We must do this for the realm-" he starts to say, his voice now carrying a steely edge. "Our duty-"

He was standing close enough for her ears to pick up the breath he let out, the sound long and slow- a sign of his growing agitation. Baela fought the urge to smile as she half turned on her side to face him, her shift slipping down her shoulder. "Damn the realm," she said viciously as she all but bared her teeth at him like some wild beast.

Even with the urgings of the Small Council, as well as those of her grandfather and his mother, she had hardly, if any desire to know him. "I do not want you here. So go away," she repeated, her voice little more than a snap now, doing her hardest to ignore the heat crawling up her spine, more than acutely aware of his stare, feeling the heavy weight of his gaze burning into her skin. "You're more than welcome to go slake your lust elsewhere, husband."

He retreated a step or two at her words, a wounded look darting across his face.

"Another day," he said finally, when she didn't relent, making his way towards the door.

She ignores him anyway.

"Cousin."

Rhaena's head lifted at the sound of Aemond’s voice, eyes trailing to fall on his expression.

Even from this far, she could taste the tension all but oozing from him like wine overflowing from a cask, his brow furrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown, as if something was troubling him. He looked half out of place in her chamber, looking rather like an inkblot, the dark of his tunic and his breeches standing out against the lighter, paler colors.

"Ae-"

No, she could not call him Aemond- not anymore at least. He was the King now, and her sister's husband to boot. "Your Grace," she says cautiously, setting aside her book as she rises to her feet. "Is there something I might-"

He cuts her off before she can finish speaking, his eye darting around her chambers before settling on her face. "Your sister," he all but blurts out, before clearing his throat, spots of color infusing along his cheekbones. "Baela," he amends as he twists his arms behind his back. "I…I do not know what to do. She-"

Rhaena tilted her head as she studied him, her gaze as sharp as a knife's edge, more than aware of how he seemed almost nervous, her good-brother, flustered in a way she cannot remember ever seeing from him- not even when they'd been children.

"What have you tried, Your Grace?"

"I-" he seemed to stumble over the word, glancing up at her before dropping his gaze downward to his feet. Rhaena watched as he removed his crown, holding it with one hand as he ran the other over his hair, sending the pale silver-gold strands further into a state of dishevelment.

"My sister is being unfair," she admitted, feeling a faint pity for him. "But she is headstrong, willful and proud. She always has been."

"You do know her best," he murmured quietly as he met her stare, a sliver of light skirting over his face in a way that illuminated the smudged, half-moon shadow under his eye. Her pity for him grew, though she kept it to herself as she nodded wordlessly, gaze dropping down to his boots, a slew of thoughts churning in her skull.

"If I might speak freely, Your Grace?"

He nodded, the bobbing of his almost eager in a way. "Please."

Rhaena hesitated. "She likes hawking," she said finally as she bit her lip in thought, "And riding. We used to do it on Dragonstone when the weather was favorable."

He nodded again, humming as he listened to her, a resolve growing in his eye.

His eye met hers then, an unspoken agreement passing between them. Baela would no doubt be angered by this, but her anger would fade, it had to- for the good of the realm. Rhaena let a half rueful grin form on her lips, practically able to hear the sound of her sister's voice in her mind, seething and laden with fury, as well as the saying she had taken to like a fish to water. Fuck the realm.

"Thank you, goodsister," he said lastly, half turned towards the door. Rhaena dipped her head, the sound of her braids sliding over her shoulders filling her ears.

She could only hope that it would work.

And it does.

As one turn of the moon becomes two, then three, the change within the Keep grows more than noticeable with each day that passes, much to the relief of them all.

They have been married for four moons when Baela enters his chambers, crossing the room in several short strides to stand before him, arms folded behind her back, tapping the heel of her riding boots on the flagstones, her stare lingering on the sight of his bowed head, unused to the sight of him without the crown, his hair falling loose and unbound over his shoulders. She does not blame him though, not really, not when she knows the weight of it.

"Will you take me flying? On Vhagar?"

Aemond's head lifted at the sound of her voice, grinning softly at the sight of her before him. "Hello to you too," he murmured as a greeting.

"Well?" she asked again, more than a little impatient now, rocking forward then backward on the balls of her feet. She could not help but think of her own dragon then, pretty Moondancer, who had perished during the fall of Dragonstone, and even thinking about her now felt like a shard of glass embedded in her chest, like a phantom limb, the pain of which would never truly go away.

Aemond's stare only seemed to grow sharper the longer he held her gaze, searching and almost intrusive in a way, as if he meant to cut her open from the base of her throat to navel, and Baela cannot help but shiver faintly at the thought of it. “Why do you want to go so badly?” he countered, voice laden with suspicion as he stands, unfolding himself from the chair behind the desk with a languid, effortless grace.

“Can I not wish to spend the day with you?” She grins, her tone taking on a teasing edge as she stared down the bridge of her nose at him. Or tried to at least, the action made all the harder by the inches he had over her. He only hums as he raises an eyebrow, standing near enough to where the ends of his boots touch her own.

She can practically feel the heat bleeding through his clothes, the blood of the dragon running hot indeed, she muses. His breath fans across her face softly, still smelling of the baked apples soaked in honey they'd broken their fast on hours before.

"I cannot simply abandon my duties to go flying. The realm-"

She huffs a laugh, raking one hand through the braid Rhaena had been successful in wrangling her curls into. "Fuck the realm. It can spare you for half a day. I am your wife and I wish to go flying with you." She says as she stares at him, daring him to protest more.

"Very well," he relented with a sigh, turning his head to the side to glance back to the stacked parchment on his desk.

She fought the desire to grin victoriously.

Her lips parted slightly at the sight of Vhagar before her, little opaque wisps of smoke coming from her nostrils as she slumbered.

Since the war had ended, she'd taken to sleeping more and more, her chosen resting spot the patches of now flattened grass just beyond the city gates. One of her eyes opened as they neared, the great orange pupil surveying them.

Aemond's shoulder brushed against her own as he moved forward, "Lykiri, Vhagar," he murmured as he laid his hand flat on her snout, the sight making the sliver of affection that had lodged in her chest grow, warmth pooling low in her stomach.

Aemond stretched out his other hand to her, the look in his eye almost gentle. "Come."

Baela stared up at him, hesitating for a moment, before she edged forward, keeping one eye trained on Vhagar as she slid her hand in his, letting him pull her up. She let out a sound, one as close to unbridled delight as Vhagar began to lumber forwards, each flap of her wings sending them higher and higher into the sky. She let her eyes fall shut at the feel of the wind whipping through her silver curls, lashing like shards of ice against her cheeks, the space all around them empty save for clouds and the blue of the open sky stretching as far as she could see.

It was peaceful, flying on dragonback this high up, so much so where she could almost forget anything and everything that was happening miles below her. Her breath hitched in her chest at the feel of Aemond tightening his hold on her, the arm he'd wound around her waist before they'd left the ground growing almost impossibly tighter, constricting like a serpent.

The aquiline slope of his nose nudged against her cheek as she half turned her head to the side, the sound of him muttering something against her skin drowned out by the shrill whistle of the wind, his words faint enough for her to miss, too distracted as she was by the sound of his breath against the shell of her ear. By the steady rise and fall of his chest behind her and the feel of his lean frame, a hard line at her back.

"Look," he rasped, his voice coming louder this time as he raised a hand from the ropes, applying the faintest bit of pressure on her face to turn her head forward again. They were still flying, but it wasn't the city under them anymore. Instead it was the coastline and the familiar waters of Blackwater Bay, the almost dirty gray hue of the water lit gold by the sun, and her eyes widened at the sight before her.

It was beautiful.

Startled, Baela shrieked when Aemond's hand tightened on the reins, angling them downward into a nosedive. She let out a sharper sound when Vhagar leveled, angling to the right, one wing brushing the water's surface and sending a spray of water into the air.

Full of exhilaration, she felt a laugh bubble up in her chest, blood roaring in her ears.

Oh, how she had missed this.

They had returned to the Keep just after the sun had set, the almost rose hue that had made the houses and buildings of the city all but glow fading as the sky darkened to the familiar indigo of the approaching twilight, the two of them windblown and stinking of dragon.

The servants had needed no further warning before a line of them entered one after the other, bringing in bucketfuls of steaming water. Baela had watched them fill the gleaming copper tub almost impassively, arms folded across her chest as she had waited until the last one had left before turning her focus back to where Aemond had sat in one of the chairs situated around the hearth.

His hair gleamed, shadows from the flames highlighting the angles and lines of his cheekbones, dancing across his face. She drew herself up tall, spine going taut like a drawn bowstring as she stared at him, desire pooling low in her belly.

"Aemond…" she crooned from where she stood, still wearing the black dragon riding robes she had earlier, her desire clear. "Are you going to fuck me now, husband?"

His head snapped towards her, half startled. His eye narrowed, lust warring with suspicion on his face, his fingers flexing against the arms of the chair. "You-"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" She cannot help but say snidely, watching his pupils dilate as she loosened the lacing on the front. "You're too far away." Come closer, she does not say.

He shot to his feet, not needing another word of encouragement. Baela shivered as he stalked towards her, the almost predatory hunger burning in his eye. He had the singular ability to make her feel exposed now, cut open and laid bare before him.

Weak.

Soft.

A mockery of everything she was. Everything she wasn’t.

His jaw clenched each time she took a step backwards, the predatory look in his eye morphing into something more dangerous, a wicked smirk cutting across his mouth as he followed her, stopping when the backs of her legs hit the bed.

His hands fell to rest on the curve of her waist, standing out stark and pale against the night-dark fabric of her riding tunic. Baela pushed at his chest slightly, scarcely daring to breathe as he drew even closer, resting one hand on her neck. Her fingers closed around his wrist loosely, every brush of his thumb over her skin making her breath catch in her throat.

She felt warmth heat her cheeks, taking the opportunity to look up at him from under her lashes, wondering if he could feel her pulse thrumming under her flesh. She watched him as he took a half step closer, his eye darting from her eyes to her mouth and back again. It almost seemed like he was just as nervous as she was, but she did not put much stock into it.

She trembled, half out of fear or something else she could not name, tentatively flattening her hands to his chest, feeling the muscle lurking beneath the surface shift under her palms as she stilled, the sound of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

He pushed at her riding clothes roughly, sliding the fabric down her arms before tossing the garment away blindly, his breathing seeming to grow shallower as his face lowered to loom mere inches from her own, his fingers disappearing into the curtain of her curls before kissing her again. Baela moaned against his mouth, her fingernails leaving half moons in the leather of his tunic.

He let out a low noise as her legs lifted then, wrapping around the narrow line of his waist, the sound hovering halfway between a snarl and a groan that had the coil at the base of her spine tightening. "You are a wicked temptress," he groaned again, eye closing at the feel of her pressing kisses to the side of his neck.

She reached for his eyepatch then, fingers stilling mere inches from it, an unspoken question in her eyes.

Aemond nodded, wordlessly bobbing his head, his hand splayed flat against her back.

Her fingers brushed over the raised skin of his scar, skirting upwards to slip beneath the square of leather before gently tugging it from his head. The sapphire in his eye socket was more lovely than she wanted to admit, glittering at her as it did now in the low light.

She traced the planes of his face, her touch gentle and as soft as a feather. Was he surprised by it? Surprised that she could be gentle with him? That she wanted to be? Her eyes slide over him, all but devouring the way he is almost beautiful. She kissed him again, her lips brushing across his own.

Aemond hisses quietly, a breath rattling from between his clenched teeth as she does. The sound is as loud as a dragon's roar in her ear, and were it not for the near-nonexistent distance between them, she's more than certain she would not have heard it.

His eye followed the path of her fingers, watching as they dropped lower and lower before coming to rest at the laces of his breeches, nostrils flaring with each breath, the sensation of her fingers brushing feather-light across his stomach almost too much to bear.

She glanced up at him from under her lashes, a half coy smirk lifting one side of her mouth up.

Tormenting him. Taunting him.

His eye trailed up again, the sight that greeted him made his cock ache all the more. He pressed closer, his lips dragging down the line of her throat, vaguely aware of her fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders, the distraction of her kiss overpowering any rational thought he might have previously had.

"Only a dragon can love a dragon, Aemond. And you are mine."

Aemond moans in her ear at that, his fingers tightening on her hips, bruising almost. He could barely breathe, dizzy and almost breathless as the potent, rich smell of her all but ingrained itself into his senses so very thoroughly, like an insect burrowing into the ground. “If you want me to stop,” he rasped, feeling his heart slamming against his ribcage, “Tell me.” His voice was a low murmur in her ear, his breath fanning hot by her ear as he trailed his hands down her sides.

“No,” she breathed, trying to press closer to him, feeling his cock hard against her belly. “Please, Aemond-” She nipped at his skin, a barely noticeable scrape of her teeth against his pulse point, grinning as she felt it jump beneath her lips. She kissed him again, and again, feeling her pulse fluttering under the thin as parchment skin of her wrists and her throat.

Aemond only chuckled, the vibration from it rolling through her, only to choke out a moan a second later, the noise weaving and twisting with hers.

They are married five moons when she blocks his exit from the council room with a hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump, thump, thump of it beneath her fingers.

She bit her lip as she held her breath, keeping her eyes trained on his face. "I'm with child."

His eye goes wide at her words, wider than she's ever seen it. She shifted on her feet, feeling the half elated sensation in her chest fading the longer he didn't speak.

"Truly?"

"Yes," Baela nodded, feeling the giddiness grow stronger, unfurling low in her belly like a ship's sail. "The maester confirmed it this morning."

A buoyant smile splits his face cheek to cheek. It was not the smirk she had all but grown used to seeing, a genuine one that stretched his lips, making his eye crease.

"Baela."

She stilled, the thought that this was the first time he's called her by her name echoing in her head as she turned to face him. "Say it again," she demanded.

"Baela," he repeated, drawing the word out slowly.

Between one blink and the next, she all but launched herself at him, twisting and coiling around him like a serpent around its prey. She thinks later that it was in that moment she could almost love him.

The news does not stay between them for long, and soon enough a feast is hastily prepared in celebration.

Glancing at Aemond from the corner of her eye, Baela could feel the tension thrumming under his skin, all but radiating from him in waves where he sat beside her, one hand curled loosely around his cup, his other tapping an almost agitated rhythm against the cloth covered table, the line of his shoulders stiff and his posture unrelenting.

She leaned closer, her hand grasping his arm as she arched upwards, ghosting her lips over his ear. "Dance with me," she murmured boldly, delighting internally when he stiffened at the contact.

"You know I abhor dancing, ñuha jorrāelagon."

Aemond’s voice is barely more than a whisper, low and hushed, in that manner that is entirely his own. It is a trait of his that she has grown rather fond of, his ability to not be one to speak when he did not need to, choosing instead to stay silent and observe those around him like a bird of prey.

"And you are-"

Her gaze sharpened, daring him to say it.

"Forgive me."

He must have sensed her irritation as not even a minute later she felt his hand settle on her thigh, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the fabric of her dress. She huffed under her breath, lips pressed together tightly. "I might," she says nonetheless, knowing full well the effect her words would have on him.

Sure enough, his hand tightens on her thigh, his touch turning slightly painful. She can feel the weight of his attention on the side of her face, not having to even turn her head to be able to tell his eye is heavy-lidded, his pupil no doubt swallowed and dark now.

"Do you think they'd notice? If we were to depart," she murmurs innocently, offhandedly, keeping her gaze straight ahead, pressing her lips together to repress a smile when the sound of his breathing changes, growing ragged and hoarse with each second.

They have been married for six moons now, and it is the first time she does not wake up alone.

"Good morning," she breathed quietly, watching as Aemond cracked an eye open, his breath little more than soft huffs of air against her face.

"You're watching me," he noted, his voice low and rasping, still carrying miniscule traces of sleep.

"Perhaps I like watching you, husband," she said in return, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear, letting the earthen smell of him envelop her then, the heat he radiated making their bed almost stiflingly hot.

His mouth twitched at her words, faint and almost hardly noticeable. There was a softness in his eye as he looked down at her, thumb swiping as light as a feather across her lower lip. “Gevie,” he murmured as he cradled her face between his palms,, the golden glow behind him caught in his hair, setting the pale strands alight.

"I love you," She breathed as she tugged his hand away from her face. She twined her fingers with his, turning his hand over to trail a nail over the lines in the center of his palm, lifting it to her lips, watching his expression as she did, knowing deep down that there was no going back.

Not now. Not ever.

More time passes, the months going by one after the other, her belly swelling until she cannot see her own feet. She has few visitors, not that she minds, having her twin and Aemond beside her more than enough. Though there had been times she'd been seconds away from snapping at him out of ire.

He is locked within the council chambers- has been since that morning, a fact that she is more than grateful for, to be honest. It is only Rhaena and one of her handmaidens now, both of them hardly breathing a word.

"Rhaena," she forces out, fighting to keep her face blank at the sharp bite of pain in her belly. "I think-" she does not have to say another word, watching with wide eyes as her sister scrambles to her feet.

"Should I-"

Baela nods, a single, sharp dip of her head.

She squeezes her eyes shut as she lets out a guttural breath from between clenched teeth and wishes the pain would stop.

"Push, Your Grace," the midwife ordered, not unkindly. Baela only glowered at her as she gritted her teeth, nostrils flaring with each inhale and exhale she took.

"Where is he?"

"He's outside, sister," Rhaena soothed, squeezing her fingers lightly. "Waiting."

"Bring him here," she growled, uncaring of the way the midwives exchanged slightly uneasy looks with each other. "Do it!" she all but snarled at them. They did, scattering like a flock of birds, one of them moving brusquely towards the doors.

"Aemond."

He moved towards her quickly, half settling beside her. "Ñuha jorrāelagon," he murmured as he clasped her hand in his, pressing his lips to her brow.

The midwife comes forward again, mouth opening to speak, though Baela hardly hears a word as she closed her eyes, hearing Aemond's sharp inhale of breath as she squeezed his hand, her nails leaving reddened marks in the shape of half moons in his skin. Time seemed to tick by as slow as a snail's pace before she let out another breath, her chest rising and falling quickly as she half slumped against his chest, tendrils of her sweat soaked silver hair clinging to the skin of her neck, hearing the wailing of not one babe two split the quiet like a crack of thunder.

"Twins, Your Grace."

"Let me see them," she said as she held her arms out.

"She looks like your mother," her grandfather says later, the tip of his finger tracing over her daughter's face from where he stood beside Rhaena. "Does she have a name yet?"

"Laena," she says softly, "Her name shall be Laena. For my mother." She half turned towards Aemond, a question lingering in the depths, "And Aegon for your brother?"

Aemond shook his head. "No," he echoed, feeling his throat tighten, "not Aegon. Daeron."

"Daeron," Baela murmured in agreement. "It's a strong name for your heir."

"It is," he agreed, albeit weakly from where he stood over her, his eye flicking from the newborn boy cradled in her arms to the girl resting in Rhaena's arms opposite him. The boy who was the spit of Aemond, right down to the shape of his eyes and the slope of his nose.

His son.

His daughter.

Twins.

He swallowed as he took a half step closer, keeping his eye trained on them. "May I?"

Baela's head snaps upward at the sound of his voice. "Are you truly asking to hold your own children?" she asked, an incredulous expression spreading across her face. She let out a laugh as he sent her a more than unamused look. "I jest, husband."

He only frowned at her, hardly looking convinced, but let it go anyway.

She shifted against the pillows, careful not to jostle their boy too much as she sat up straighter. "Here," she said, softer this time as she placed Daeron in his arms. She watched them carefully, not missing the way Aemond stiffened, watching with rapture as his son's eyes opened, already a light shade of purple.

"He has my father's eyes," she noted, drawing a finger over the skin of his cheek, meeting Aemond's gaze when he glanced up at her, a look in his eye that she'd never seen before.

Rhaena had been right that day, she couldn't help but think as she grinned at him. He had been trying to be a good husband to her, patient even when she rebuffed and refused him those early months, refusing to budge over and over and over again.

Or maybe she had been too prideful, too full of her own hubris and too blind to admit it.

#my fics #aemond targaryen #baela targaryen #house of the dragon #prince aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond smut #aemond targaryen fan fiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction

147 notes · View notes