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ladythornofrivia · 5 months

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Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Five)—Revised

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

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summary: aemond spying on the reader as she meets the council. council meeting gone wrong.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

Chapter Five: The Council

~Aemond's POV~

Hidden in the secret pathways, he was sure he was slowly losing his breath. Not because the profoundness of the Blacks and Greens have attended, or the conversation he has heard in countless times. Or the fact when Aegon volunteered himself to watch the council within to pass of as entertainment. Alicent insisted on her sons to stay put. As always, they behave. Especially the new encounter in King’s Landing.

As much as Aemond hated to admit, he couldn't abide anymore to what's in store for the council, especially to a certain name he expected to hear.

“I still don’t know what you find so special about this girl,” Aegon commented, peeping through the secret view from the secret tunnel.

Swallowing, Aemond paid him no mind as the meeting was about to commence.

“I thought you prefer to a company of older women,” Aegon added.

On his thirteenth nameday, Aegon has taken the young Aemond to Streets of Silk. His innocence is ruined by the time he returned back to the Red Keep.

“Quiet,” Aemond said, not facing his older and drunken brother, now that Aegon carried wine in a pouch. “We don’t want mother to scold us again, do we?”

“Daemon is here,” Aegon whispered in his ear with dismay.

With certain guests like Daemon came for one thing. To question.

“But our father isn’t present,” Aemond said. "Even if he is, I doubt he’ll live to see the forging tale before us.”

“Who cares about him? He’s in his bed, slowly dying away even when he’s already a rotten corpse.”

Aemond ignored him.

“This might be a chance for us to survive from the fate of our house,” Aemond whispered, but Aegon is unsure and oblivious to what Aemond meant.

The moment the doors droned a creaking sound, the council ceased their talk and focused on the main objective they have been longing to grasp.

You, appearing as miserable and beaten, limped legs dragged.

It was quite clear either Otto—or Daemon—ordered the guards to escort you.

Aemond held his breath. He has seen countless women in the Street of Silk, but has never seen like a strange aura exuding, something he can’t quite put. He has seen many women in tourneys and gatherings and ceremonies, he has seen them in training yards for a good long look of his training, and gardens and lavish gatherings and lessons with the septa—all are stiffened with false courtesies and sweet smiles. But the air of your presence filled him with conundrum, raw and ethereally indescribable he couldn’t pinpoint to how he reckoned you, regardless of exchanging words once.

His eye laid watching the soft sways on your locks and cinch of your waist clung tight nightwear. The suppleness on your skin somewhat bruised. Other than that, you’re in your broken state; bandaged and eyes averting to look below.

Watching you tossed your hair over after the guards pinned you down, the twinge in his chest lightened. As soon as he learns your name, he’ll endow you. But quickly faded when he spotted to how their mistreatment.

"What in Gods’ name happened to her?" Aemond muttered.

Aegon discerned Aemond’s eager impatience.

“Patience, Aemond,” Aegon said, eyes twinkled at your quiet presence. “You wouldn’t want your special lady to be feared by you if you show yourself again.”

Aemond leaned in back to mutter Aegon’s ear. “Perhaps it’s you who’s impatient.”

Only Aemond could watch afar, despite the distance is at its proximity between the secret walls. Soon, he abided, await for your lowering gaze to come alight and basked in glow.

~Your POV~

The guards released you after a sudden drag they put you from your deep sleep. Men in the council weren’t the only thing to watch out for; at the corner of your eyes, the guards were there, Daemon is also present in the council.

“At last,” Otto stated in quiet merry. “I was afraid you might not show.”

Still drowning under the influence of Milk of the Poppy, you said nothing but you head bobbed in sleepiness; shaking on the inside; your hands clamped in cold sweat, rubbing your palms altogether, gawking your lulled eye down on the ground.

You said nothing; eyes narrowed in drowsy exhaustion.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions regarding to your first arrival at the Red Keep,” Otto informed, wearing the sincerity of his smile. Daemon, on the other hand, observed you by the pillar; his posture was exteriorly calming in a calculating way. You’d think meeting with the cast is a good for setting up pranks, but turns out the meeting is set for an intimidation. In other words, King Viserys is nowhere to be seen.

“You’re well aware to why you’re summoned in the council,” Otto asked.

Without looking, you felt the eyes of the council members and the guards sent their pierced gazes at you before you responded, “I know.”

“The King wishes to acquire of your existence,” Otto resumed. "But he's ill, as of late. Would you kindly introduce yourself to the court of the small council?” he demanded.

The sky outside the Red Keep thundered.

Over your veiled face and bandage from your tousled hair, Steady, you eyed on each member, not knowing on who to look; you didn’t want to make a miscalculation that could lead your early demise.

Beside you, Alicent’s hues sparked with encourage; a tiny curved quirked upward upon her lips.

Behind the council walls, there was none other than green shadows of her sons. Although while Aegon peered with amusement as Aemond with intrigued notion. Darting your eyes at Aemond, the sensation in your body faltered with alerting thrill and admiration. Without realizing, corner of your melancholic lips twitched, one dimple dented, but reformed back to a scowl, bandaged hands, your back slouched as your hands folded and rubbed altogether.

Drowsy, your head threw back in lazy gesture, released a heavy sigh, your vision blurred.

Otto inclined back in his seat with his hands folded, attentive. “Might I acquire ask to where are you from?”

Your heart thumped.

“Based on your accent, you neither sound like one of us as Westerosi. Are you from Essos?”

Subtly, you shaken your head.

“Great Moraq? Leng? Quarth? Yiti?”

You licked your parched lips, eye frantic below your lap. “Where the fuck is my cigarette,” you hissed.

Startled, the council is confused with your question.

"I beg your pardon?" Otto spoke, stunned.

“I'm not going to give the answer you wanted unless I have my belongings,” you answered, your quiet voice deepened with loudness, lounging back against the chair frame as your arms resting on the armrest, you head tilted back against the frame. This time, your eyes pierced directly, knowing this information you’ll provide won’t take overnight.

Otto unyielding eyes shot back. “Whatever it is, you can retrieve your possessions back after you answer, my lady.”

You scoffed.

Meanwhile Alicent whispered—inquired Criston where your belongings are.

After a couple minutes passing, the knight returned with none other than your clutched purse.

Sweeping your hair back, huffing as you gave the council members the glare.

The council exchanged concerns.

Otto conceded. “I’d like to say my gratitude on saving my granddaughter. However, I would like to know how you got here into Westeros. More so in King’s Landing.”

You paused and adjusted yourself in the seat again, putting your folded hands on your lap. “Look, I don’t know how the fuck I got here. I went to a party, got drunk and then slept on my bed in my apartment. The next thing I knew that I was cold and wet, and someone pulled me over back to the shore from drowning at Blackwater Bay; I was unconscious for two days until the third day and then I was being chased by three men in armor.”

“Do you remember what house they’re from?”

You leaned your back and pondered. From what it appears, it’s all too hazy until it struck. “No. But this one knight saved me from them—Ser Remon Blackwood.”

“Must’ve been the Brackens chasing after her,” Daemon concluded. “Damn Brackens and Blackwoods never cease to shed grudge and the indulgence of their pettiness.” Daemon darted his unpredictable glare at you. “What I want to know is how in the Seven Hells did you survive? Or was it Ser Criston who murdered them in Kingswood?”

Some council members collectively gasp in silence, rather in a quiet outrage, anticipating.

Gritting your teeth, you explained, “For the record, I only saw Ser Criston when I woke up, when he took me to King’s Landing. Before Ser Criston found me, those three men were hunting me, saying that I should be bred with their children, called me a whore—one said he wanted to eat my flesh after done raping me and then other said whoever makes me scream the loudest wins and give birth,” you answered. “In return, I stabbed them in the knees, cut their cock off, then disfigured one man’s face with the knife. Is that good enough for you or should I spell it out for you?”

Each and every one of their faces blanched.

“Why aim for the knees?”

Your long locks shielded your good eye. “They exposed their weak spot.” The corners of your lips twitched.

“Is it true you found her in the forest, Ser Criston?” Otto asked.

Criston’s shoulders shrugged. “It’s true. She was lying on the ground when we reached to the exit, all smothered in bloodshed.”

The silence collectively ensued, replacing with coherent whispers.

“Knights often had armor on their knees, even their cocks.”

“I’m certain she’s a wildling.”

“For Gods’s sake, Wildlings would never set their foot here, not even King’s Landing!” Daemon is annoyed by the other council’s statement.

“You’ve never been into the Wall,” one council member said.

Daemon folded his arms. “No, but I heard stories of their customs—filthy animals they are as they come.”

“You mentioned Ser Remon Blackwood,” Otto said, facing you. “He managed to pull you back out on the shores from Blackwater Bay.”

Your voice lowered. “He did.”

“From what I’ve gathered, when Alicent and Rhaenyra saw you in the Maester’s room, your peculiar clothes and your hair are covered in dark sand, you were at Dragonstone while unconscious at the time?”

Everyone was looking at you intently.

“I was.”

“On that night, there was an occurrence that awoken the dragons—the whole Westeros. Nobles and common folk often talk for the past few weeks, regarding to the incident. The green star befell from the skies and plunged into waters of the Blackwater Bay—in Westeros. Have you heard of it?”

Confused, you didn’t answer.

“Daemon was there, that’s when he last met Ser Remon Blackwood—Ser Criston saw to it.” Otto then exchanged glances with Alicent. “We were…I hate to be the bearer of news or gaining the notions of accusing. But…we believed that you’re the green star that fell from the sky.”

At the very least, nothing surprises you anymore. You were drunk at someone’s birthday party, then off to sleep in your apartment, but off to sleep and find yourself awake in the middle of the forest, in Westeros, is utterly mind blowing, but soon accepted the fate that’s been thrust onto you until the reminder.

You scoffed, your hand gestured in. “Wait just a damn fucking minute,” you interfered. “Whatever you’re thinking, you—”

“So you’re the one who causes my Caraxes to nearly bitten my hand off in half. My dragon couldn’t sleep well for the last few days,” Daemon fumed as he went closer to you. Daemon clutched the side of your neck, fingertips pressured. But you were unfazed.

“Fuck off,” your voice raised, eyes hardened, shoving Daemon away, but he wouldn’t budge, his clutch tightened on you.

“Daemon, spare her—she did no such treason; she protected and defended your life with hers on the bridge and the life of children,” Otto said, but you detected his sarcasm. Otto never cared for the Blacks.

Behind you, you felt a heavy presence towering over you. But no one was there, as if someone’s watching over you.

Daemon studied your features. “I find it hard to believe that a young lady like you who could fend off your opponents with a blindfold. Tell me, how did you manage to strike under such vulnerable condition,” His fingertips caressed you on your cheekbone, leading down on the side of your throat, thumbing across the smooth flesh.

Your hand clutched his, nails deepened.

“None of your goddamn business,” you answered, cold expression in your good eye unwaver, shoving his touch back in lenient motion; your body leaned back. “A little “thank you” for saving your royal, arrogant ass would’ve been nice.”

Daemon clicked his tongue and stepped back, giving you the broken knife you once held underneath the folded handkerchief. “You attacked the men in armor with this. You stole this Ser Remon Blackwood, didn’t you? The sigil marked on his dagger,” he seethed.

Quietude engulfed the air.

“Think what you like, princeling. But Ser Remon Blackwood gave that to me for protection. I promised him that I’ll give the knife back the next time I see him…”

Daemon shaken his head. “His body has been found, buried. His family were in mourning. Seeing them would consider to be the worst idea.”

Hearing Remon Blackwood’s death, you carried no hope or peace of mind. Instead, you sulked, but insisted on not showing the upsetting factor invaded in you. When you veered Daemon’s eyes, he could offer nothing but sympathy, but molded to indifference. Somehow, it left you clouded in anger.

“This is certainly a waste for our time,” one maester said. “We’ll never get information out of her!”

“Filthy as her mouth, spiteful as a venomous beast.”

“Surely she’s a born Wilding.”

While the council spoke over, nose scrunching, you assumed, almost sinisterly ill from the flips and coils in your belly, watching the young knight carrying on what it seems to appear—your clutched purse.

Your eye fixed on the object, glaring at the young knight, who was taking his sweet time to chat another guard—a report, you assumed.

At your attentive gaze, Alicent ordered the young knight in order for you to retrieve your belongings—all which are intact due to the quality of your clutched bag.

The young knight handled your possession, but as he called you, you stare into space, contemplating. The world you admire was starting to piss you off. You understood that you’re the outsider. With your unhealed wounds, what can you do? In a world of Westeros, men and women died often.

You stared into space so much that you didn’t sense others watching you. All you wanted was a peaceful sleep, but the guards are strong, with your weakened health, you fought them off, but they got the upper hand.

But each time their discussion extended, you rarely responded; blanked expression, white noise ringing louder, and concentration in your head afloat elsewhere.

Until—

You gripped the young knight’s hand, without looking back over your shoulder and twisted his fingers; he yelped, his body collapsed as you twisted his hand and arm farther with your good hand, with your position changed—then with both hands, you shifted—slammed his weight against the marbled table, his arms twisted on the back, leaving everyone standing in shock. The council collectively had their breaths inhaled, paled at the sudden shift within you.

“I said, don’t touch me,” you reminded him, voice darkened.

Criston tried to hauled you, but you resisted.

“He has your possessions,” Alicent begged, motherly as she sounded, while the guards prowled at your direction to arrest you.

At once, you released the young knight and reclined back to your seat. From there, you opened your purse after retrieving it, inspecting all your items are intact. He hissed, appeasing the pain on his hand. The council members slowly arrived back into their seats.

“Seems you’re no ordinary maiden,” Otto said.

You ignored him. “I haven’t had a chance to get a fucking break. I think you got the answers by now that I’m not from here. I’m neither a prostitute nor a foreign bitch or a Wildling from those places you mentioned, one that you people are accusing me of.”

Nobody moved.

“I don’t think you understand the occurrence, my lady,” Jason Lannister barged in with soft voice. “In fact, you have no clue to why you’re graciously summoned.”

“I didn’t know being “graciously” summoned in the meeting by guards dragging me out of the blue.”

“You don’t know what it’s at stake. You have woken the whole seven kingdoms in Westeros! And the dragons barely slept—flying about the skies and roared as if they’re dying. I suggest you start acting like a noble maiden instead of being a foolish common whore in Street of Silk,” Jason Lannister suggested.

In paused silence, everyone was waiting for your answer.

Opening your clutched bag, you took out your dragon lighter and the pack of cigarettes; lighting up the cigarette and blew a smoke as you turned away.

The council watched in astonishment as you held a foreign object in your hand.

“Where I come from won’t matter, and as far as I’m concerned I would worry about something else more important, if I were you.” Your eyes narrowed it almost shadowed.

“Father, she’s in no better shape. It would be best if we leave her for a proper recovery to regain answers,” Alicent said, giving you sympathy. “Dragging her from her bedside while under the Milk of the Poppy won’t do much good.”

You looked at her with a smile in gratitude.

Shutting his eyes, Otto rubbed the bridge of nose. “We will continue this tomorrow. King Viserys would like to witness the accountability of the young woman.”

The council absconded the meeting, as you watched them up and left, you did the same, leaving to your quarters, but the Cargyll twins followed and escorted back.

~Aemond’s POV~

Under a stricken of nightly hour in King’s Landing, after a long watch in the secret pathway, Aemond’s internal aggravation simmered and worsened as time struck pass. Hands flexed and fingernail scratched against the palm, recalling on you exiting the council, despite the Cargyll brothers kindly escorted you back to a spare room that Aemond assigned since your first arrival. He could never undo the memory of you.

Soon, Aemond learned that Daemon ordered them to a quick way “summon” you. Ser Criston and Aemond abducted the men in armor who mistreated you, yanking the sleeping guards buried deep the underground of Red Keep, only for their tongues to be cut and their bones to be bloody and fractured.

He got up and under the lavish wooden box, it contained in miscellaneous items. But underneath, he had the possession of your clothes—all washed and dried. No blood stains or mud was to be seen.

Once he gathered the materials, Aemond lounged back on his velvet chair near at the great hearth, not averting from the bright fire, clenching your attire in his arms, and lifted to his nose; a fainted scent of vanilla and strawberry wafted, aroused his cock.

His heart aflame, determined and tribulation all at once. He must have you. He must claim you as his only lover. He must claim you and your smile alone. His white flower, his hope, his wandering light. He must succeed.

No matter what.

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