#the dragon prince canon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flowerandblood · 3 months

Text

Appearances (Oneshot)

[ canon • Aemond x little sister • female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, fingering, smut, angst, sexual tension, obsession, mention of arranged engagements ]

[ description: All Aemond cares about is the recognition and attention of his younger sister, but she seems to ignore him and shun him, driving him to an ever-increasing state of withdrawal and dark, grim agony. Something inside him snaps when his grandsire announces that it is time to marry her off. Sexual tension, understatements due to lack of communication, obsession. ]

This oneshot has its sequels: Experience, but can be read as a stand-alone story.

My other works: Masterlist

_____

It seemed to him, though because of this his throat squeezed in pain and rage, that his little sister was simply afraid of him. He couldn't explain her behaviour otherwise – the way she quickly looked away, meekly lowering her eyelids adorned with her long, dark lashes, playing with her fingers in a nervous gesture as she met his gaze.

She was the only one who didn't have their pearly white hair, the only one who didn't have the eye colour due to the gods.

Even when she witnessed his duels with Criston Cole, when she could see how much he had changed, how skilful he was in wielding his sword, defeating him again and again, she did not congratulate him – she turned and left the square, no longer bestowing even a single glance on him.

Confronted again with her wordless rejection, he thought in the back of his head that she was disgustingly ordinary with her dark hair and eyes inherited from their mother, that she could be the daughter of some commoner walking up to his knees in the mud feeding his pigs.

However, his great annoyance usually lasted only a moment, after which he went back to his state of despair.

He didn't follow her, wanting to spare himself this humiliation and discomfort, feeling his heart twitching in rage, in shame that he so desperately desired her attention, a few words of recognition, one warm look.

He saw her one morning through the window speaking to her servant, gesturing vigorously and laughing pearly, joyful; he thought with regret that she was consorting with people who might take advantage of her, who cared only about her position.

That if she were his he would protect her from them.

She would be safe.

She was so careless, innocent, wise and naïve at the same time, looking at him with those big dark eyes of hers when someone in her presence annoyed him, begging him with her gaze not to explode.

His tongue was like a blade, cutting anyone who approached him – she knew this and was afraid to open her mouth in front of him, imagining for sure how cruel his reaction would be.

He didn't know how to explain to her that he would never hurt her, his sweetest little sister, his greatest joy.

He watched from the distance like a cool, sinister shadow as her fingers intertwined with Helaena's, stretched out side by side on their armrests during supper, observed her leaning towards her with a sweet smile, whispering something tenderly, from which their older sister giggled quietly – there was something mythological in these scenes, making a shiver run down his spine.

He knew that they sometimes met in her chamber and even slept together, confiding in each other about their feminine affairs that were beyond his comprehension, however, he couldn't stop the feeling of burning jealousy that filled his chest when he thought of how he wished it was him she visited at night.

He thought then of how tender he would be towards her, how his arms would enclose her warm, delicate body in his tight, firm embrace, protecting her from anything that might frighten her.

He imagined how wonderful she would smell, her oils teasing his nostrils constantly, sweet and intense – looking at her figure seated next to him he felt the need to bite into her flesh like a ripe fruit.

He thought she would taste like a peach.

When at last they had finished their conversation and her beautiful, soft hand reached for her cup her gaze finally met his – her plump, glistening lips parted slightly, as if the intensity of his gaze frightened her, her breasts quivered in quick, shuddering breaths.

He felt what he saw in his breeches, his length all swollen, demanding her closeness.

Wanting to keep her attention on him he lifted the platter with her favourite dish, sweet cinnamon pie filled inside with apples; he saw that she blinked quickly, her cheeks flushed at the realisation that he knew she favoured them.

He watched her swallow with difficulty, her trembling hand set her goblet aside – his manhood throbbed hard when their fingers brushed in the air as she took the silver platter from him. She lowered her gaze, embarrassed, her sweet, plump lips parted to whisper a quiet, barely audible thank you.

He leaned back again, looking at the pleasing profile of her face, her long eyelashes gleaming under the warm candlelight, a drop of sweat on her skin shimmering like a small diamond ran down her neck.

Gods, how he craved her.

He wanted to touch her, stroke her shamelessly exposed back with his large hand, rough from holding the hilt of his sword, and dig his fingertips into her warm, smooth skin, with a subconscious gesture proving to whom she belonged, that she had been his right, his delight and his duty since she was born.

Why didn't she realize this?

He watched with a squeezed throat as she took a piece of pie into her mouth, the involuntary lick of her tongue with which she brushed her lower lip focused all his attention.

The thought that this fleshy lips could in the same way clench around his painfully swollen cock, suck it and squeeze it, barely able to fit it in with her sweet cry of effort.

He grunted, looking away, feeling his length twitching and pushing against the tight material of his breeches.

She didn't look at him again that evening, absorbed in a discussion with their mother and grandfather as he drank Dornish wine, staring dully ahead, its tart aftertaste melting on his tongue.

"I spoke to your mother about the importance of slowly deciding on a suitable candidate for your husband, my love." Began their grandsire with his eyebrow raised in satisfaction, directing his words to his younger sister, who froze in mid-motion – he saw that her hands, in an involuntary reflex of terror, clamped down on the material of her gown.

She remained silent.

"She's still too young, for god's sake." He hissed out feeling rage like a burning fire pulsing through his veins. He grew hot and took another quick, deep sip from his cup, an uncomfortable silence fell around him.

Otto grunted, turning with a creak of wood in his seat, his fingers stretched out and clenched into a fist on the table top in front of him, apparently wondering why such a sudden and aggressive reaction on his part.

"I understand that as an older brother you feel responsible for her safety, however, she is now of the right age and has begun to bleed, and that's why…"

"Father." Muttered their mother, looking at him pleadingly, clearly not wanting him to bring up such intimate and sensitive topics at the table, moreover in the presence of other men.

He saw out of the corner of his eye how his sister dropped her gaze, her dark eyes shining from the tears of shame that had gathered under her lids, her brows arched in pain.

If she had only asked him to marry her he would have done so at once, freed her from this laughable obligation that her marriage to some mere lord would be.

He felt his jaw clench at the thought that no one would ever love her as devotedly, dearly, warmly as he, her blood, her protector, her brother.

"In the coming months, we would like you to meet a few candidates we consider worthy of your hand." Concluded their grandfather, taking a deep sip of wine from his goblet; he felt rage filling his chest when he saw that his sister merely nodded her head, accepting her fate without a word of protest, looking down at her plate.

He got up from the table, bitter and furious, leaving the hall without a word, unable to look at her, once again letting his anger take over him, accusing her in his mind.

Her lack of reaction, her lack of opposition, when it was so obvious that her husband could only be him, him, him.

He walked into his chamber, undoing the buckles of his tunic, throwing it angrily to the ground, remaining in only his chemise and breeches. Although he did not usually do so, he reached for the wine jug and poured himself a full cup, grabbing it and sitting down with it in the chair by the fire, tilting his head back, letting out loud sigh.

He shuddered when he heard a quiet, tentative knock on his door – he ran his hand over his face, guessing it was his Queen, as usual wanting to be his voice of reason, to come to him with her stoic calm, explaining to him why he had to accept the responsibilities that faced their family, including those standing before his sister.

He didn't feel like having this discussion, however, he acknowledged with reluctance that he couldn't dismiss his own mother.

"Come in." He said coolly, staring into the flames.

He heard the creak of the door opening and closing a moment later – he glanced involuntarily over his shoulder and froze, feeling his heart stop in his throat at the sight of her, beautiful, teary-eyed, her face all flushed red with pain, her fleshy, plump lips parted in a hastened breath, her brow arched in pain.

"Lēkia (big brother)." She mumbled out with difficulty, choking on her own tears – he stood up at her words looking at her with eye wide open in shock, driven by some sudden emotion, moved that she had come to him as he had always imagined she would, vulnerable and desperate, seeking refuge and a reassurance in his arms.

"Come closer, hāedar (little sister). Come." He whispered softly, extending his hand to her in a gesture of encouragement; she moved tentatively towards him, looking up at him with her wonderfully dark, large eyes, tear drops glittering on her lashes like little stars.

He parted his lips and swallowed loudly when her smooth, warm hand touched his, thought with tenderness that compared to his she was so small, so fragile.

When he dared to lift his other hand to her cheek she twitched, wrinkling her eyebrows, breathing loudly, distrustful like a maiden who was afraid of a stranger's touch, simultaneously craving his closeness and fearing it.

He breathed quietly as she let his fingers touch and run over the wonderfully soft, firm skin of her pink cheek, her eyelids closed for a moment, a quiet, sweet sigh leaving her lips.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked in a calm, low, trembling voice, ashamed of how scared he was of her answer, of her rejection.

She looked at him surprised – her lips parted in astonishment as if she didn't know what to reply to his words, her quivering fingers touched his hand stroking her cheek.

"I fear your harsh judgment, brother. It seems to me that my person often arouses your frustration and impatience." She muttered in shame, lowering her gaze; he felt a squeeze in his throat at her words, not believing what he heard, what she confessed to him.

I am afraid of your harsh judgment, brother.

It seems to me that my person often arouses your frustration and impatience.

How could she think so? Was his eternal desire, his suffering so expressed in his gaze, his facial expressions, his gestures?

Did she perceive his rage at the lack of her closeness as his constant displeasure at the sight of her?

He was horrified by how deep the misunderstanding reached – he didn't know what he should do to fix it now, to reverse it, he ran out of words that could describe what he felt.

How glad he was that she was standing before him now, that she trusted him, that he had adored her from the moment she came into the world, cherished her with a love that was warm, tender and devoted, that he believed she had been born to be his, his sweet joy, his beautiful little sister.

He swallowed loudly, parting her plump, fleshy lips with his thumb, looking at her in emotion, feeling a painful tightness in his throat.

"My sweet sister, where did these words come from? How could I feel anything but adoration towards you?" He asked softly, feeling her whole body quiver at his words – her mouth parted involuntarily, letting his thumb go deeper, between her puffy, sticky lips.

Something changed in her gaze, dreamy and warm, from which he felt heat in his chest and lower abdomen, her fingertips digging into the skin of his palm.

"Ivestragī umbagon issa (let me stay)." She whispered in a trembling, uncertain voice, and he felt his breath caught in his throat, his manhood throbbed aggressively in his breeches at the thought that she wanted to stay in his bed, in his embrace.

His surprised silence made her lower her gaze, ashamed, apparently panicking at the thought of what she had suggested, of how indecent it was, surely thinking that he would now despise her.

"Very well." He muttered quickly, not wanting her to leave his side.

She lifted her hopeful gaze to him and nodded, swallowing loudly, her cheeks pink with emotion. He rubbed his thumb over her wet skin and leaned over her placing a tender, lingering kiss on her forehead, her wonderful scent filling his lungs again.

He took her small hand in his, guiding her towards his bed, sitting down on it with his face towards her, letting her stand over him and decide what would happen next, looking at her pleasant, girlish figure.

It seemed to him that she had no idea what they were doing, whether it was right – he could see thoughts and doubts running across her face, fears of what would happen if their mother found out.

"Come. Do not fret. Your big brother would never hurt you." He whispered in a voice trembling with emotion – he was hot, his heart pounding like mad in his chest, he felt butterflies in his stomach, a sweet delight of satisfaction spread through his body.

His words emboldened her; she stepped closer to him, standing between his thighs, breathing loudly. He sighed and closed his eyes as she took his face in her soft hands, stroking it for a moment with gentle, slow movements that made his throat dry up; he felt with horror that his cock was completely hard, all swollen and throbbing.

In a gesture of desperation he snuggled into her abdomen, clasping his large hands on her back – he heard her surprised gasp, her hands froze upwards for a moment before they began in a soft, calm motion to stroke his head as if he were a small child.

He closed his eyes, snuggling into her body, the material of her gown pleasantly delicate and soft; he could feel her flesh throbbing from beneath it, her womb that could swell with his inheritance, his dragon seed that could root deep inside her if only she noticed his devotion and love, if only she understood that they had always been destined for each other.

He clenched his fingers tighter on the material of her gown when he felt her lean in, enclosing him in her embrace – his face was locked between her shoulders, her womb and her breasts, enveloping him in her warmth, her hands running down his back with such tenderness and gentleness that he closed his eyes, wanting to focus only on that feeling.

"I am terrified, lēkia." She whispered softly, her breasts trembling in a broken breath – he moved away to look at her, his hand cupped her soft, warm cheek.

"Marry me, issa dōna rūklon (my sweet flower). Marry me and I will protect you. I will caress you, adore you, hold you in my arms, I will give you everything." He said in a quivering, low voice, placing the emphasis on the last word, so final, direct, betraying how desperate he was.

She looked at him for a moment, shocked, her lips twitching in disbelief, in terror and something else that shone in her dark eyes, but which he did not comprehend.

"You don't have to do this. Sacrifice yourself for me." She mumbled with a blush of shame, as if she thought his suggestion stemmed from his logic and tactics, from helping her not to leave her home, rather than from his feelings.

"How much longer do you want to torment me? Shall I fall on my knees before you and beg?" He asked resentfully, pain emerging from his throat with every word he spoke – her eyebrows arched in disbelief, her breasts began to rise and fall rapidly in accelerated, ragged breathing.

Her face expressed that only now did she realise what he meant.

"Marry me, brother. Marry me and never leave me again." She whispered so quietly that he barely heard her – they looked at each other with wide eyes, not believing what had just left their mouths, flushes of shame and doubt burning their cheeks.

He shuddered and drew in a loud breath as she placed her hands on his shoulders and climbed tentatively into his lap, startling him completely – he felt a jolt of heat, his cock so hard that he felt like it was about to explode.

All he felt was a squeeze in his throat and the heavy pounding of his heart when her soft fingers gently grasped his hand, her face blushing with embarrassment, a sigh full of arousal escaped her lips as she pulled her gown up, slipping it slowly between her legs.

They both opened their mouths wide and gasped loudly, surprised apparently at how intimate and shameless this sensation was – he thought in disbelief that she was leaking with desire, her hot opening pulsating restlessly under his fingers, her hand pressing them harder against her quivering flesh, eager to feel him deeper.

"− please − please −" She whimpered, breathing loudly, looking at him pleadingly with her dark eyes full of tears. He stared at her in shock wondering if it was possible that he had made a mistake, that he had misjudged the situation, that contrary to what he thought, she was reciprocating his affection.

His lack of hesitation, his fingertips that dug into her fleshy, hot womanhood surprised her so much that she squealed and hopped up on his lap – he put his free arm around her and held her in place, not letting her escape.

"− easy, little dove − shhhh −" He hushed her, his two fingers sinking into her plump muscles, collecting her moisture that leaked from her thirsty, throbbing core. He stared at her, seeing the expression on her face indicating that this experience had shocked her, sweet, soft moans erupted from her puffy, glistening lips, her hips involuntarily began to move to the rhythm of his hand.

"− that's it − let me take care of you − brothers know what is good for their sisters, don't they? −" He hummed low as if he were speaking to a small child and she only nodded, clearly having trouble concentrating. He sighed in pleasure as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her moist, sweet lips pressed against his in a sticky, loud kiss.

He murmured into her mouth with delight, thinking with awe that indeed her skin felt like the flesh of a fruit, wet and sticky to the touch, his fingertips teasing her bud hidden between her folds. He could feel her bouncing in his lap and trembling all over, quivering in his arms as his fingers roamed around that spot, their breaths raspy and loud, full of desire.

"− y-yes − right here, lēkia − mghmm −" She babbled in between their messy, saliva-wet kisses – he dared to slip his tongue between her plump lips answered by her sweet purr of pleasure, his hand all soaked with her juices, his long, slender fingers digging into her skin in circular, sure strokes.

"− just like that − soaking wet for me − issa dōna hāedar (my sweet little sister) −" He cooed in delight, feeling his swollen length pushing impatiently against his breeches, thinking only of how wonderful it would be to feel her, to watch his fat cock open her wide, her tight folds glistening from her moisture.

"− mhm −" She hummed between passionate, deep, ferocious kisses, a combination of their lips, teeth and tongues licking against each other.

She tilted her head back and moaned loudly as his fingers slowly made their way inside her, exploring her throbbing, swollen core – his thumb rubbed her her pearl, his fingertips searched intensely for the spot he'd read so much about in books, and when he found it her walls began to clench around him in convulsions, a pathetic whimper escaping her lips.

"− o-oh gods, brother, yes, please, please, please −" She mewled desperately, clasping her hands in his long hair, rising and falling on his fingers with a loud click of her moisture – he grasped the nape of her neck with his free hand and pulled her close, forcing her lips, swollen from his caresses, to join his in sticky, hot kiss.

"− come on, little one − I can feel you are close − thaaat's it, there we go −" He gasped out into her throat when a powerful shudder ran through her body, her moans of delight erupting from her mouth again and again as her hot muscles began to clench greedily around his fingers, sucking him inside, his hand all sticky with her fulfilment.

He was panting loudly along with her, cuddling her quivering body, thinking of how wonderfully warm and fleshy her insides were, how perfectly she would squeeze his cock once he could possess her whole, his sweet wife, filling her to the brim with his seed every night.

He intended to perform his marital duty with passionate devotion.

"− such a good girl − you did so well for me, dōna hāedar −" He praised her, wanting to reassure and soothe her, stroking her soft hair, pressing her face to the hollow of his neck, his hand between her thighs cupped over her pulsing, moist womanhood.

The smell of her wetness, of her flesh, of her sex filled his entire lungs, so lewd, ungodly and wonderfully carnal – his mouth placed involuntarily little butterfly kisses on her beautiful face, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted in delight and disbelief, her hands clenched on the material of his chemise.

He grasped her fingers in his and lifted them to his lips, kissing them with tenderness and reverence as his other hand stroked unashamedly her plump bare buttock hidden beneath the material of her gown.

"Now it's my turn."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses

875 notes · View notes

flowerandblood · 6 months

Text

The softest whisper (Oneshot)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x servant! • female ]

[ warnings: virginity loss, oral sex, angst, smut, cheating, toxic relationship, toxic behaviour, objectification ]

[ description: Aemond, on the orders of his brother, arrives in the Red Keep and notices that a new, young girl has appeared among his servants. Wanting to fill his time, he summons her to his chamber and forces her to read to him. His time to return to Harrenhal is approaching, and he is less and less willing to part with his new property. Sexual tension, angst, very dark Aemond. ]

This oneshot have an alternative ending: The dearest embrace

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

My other works: Masterlist

____

Ever since the war began he had felt that piece by piece he was losing parts of himself; even the knowledge that Alys would bear him his child, his bastard son, didn't brought him joy or solace.

He felt both contentment and disgust at the thought of his heir from an illegitimate bed.

He thought the gods were laughing at him from the heavens, mocking his hypocrisy.

After Luke's death, there was no turning back.

He returned to King's Landing reluctantly, at his brother's request – he preferred to stay in Harrenhal, pressing Alys with his body against her bed, the brutal thrusts of his hips pushing apart her hot, slick interior, always welcoming him home.

Alys was an intelligent, witty woman, and her visions made her mysterious and disturbing in his eyes.

He was attracted to her.

There was a darkness in her as deep as his own.

His brother, however, decided that he was to attend the next meeting of the Small Council and report personally on how the battles were going, what their situation was like in the north of the kingdom.

Therefore, he arrived on Vhagar late at night and informed his servants that he wanted to take a bath.

His order meant that his other servants who were already asleep had to clothe themselves in haste and rush to him, filling his tub with hot water.

He watched their movements with a blank stare – his pupil narrowed like a cat's when he saw some new young girl, clearly just being apprenticed to her job – her gaze drowsy, struggling to listen to what the other, older woman was saying to her as the other two ran around them.

In her haste, she had forgotten to put on her white coif, her hair pinned around her head in a tight braid, short strands of her hair framing her soft, flushed face.

She did not look at him once.

He saw her the next morning too, this time already dressed appropriately – she was helping other girl to place the dishes prepared for him on silver platters.

She was completely focused on her task and paid no attention to him, so he had no fear of being caught closely observing her long eyelashes and eyebrows, her flushed cheeks and her full, fleshy lips, her pleasantly rounded chin and her softly shaped nose.

She smiled a lot even though her companion was terrified, as if she did not understand well who sat before her.

It seemed to him that she lived in a world of her own, detached from his worries.

He waited like a predator for an opportunity when she would come to him alone and it happened two evenings later.

He commanded some books to be brought to him from the library that he wanted to return to and read again. He sat in front of his fireplace in his richly decorated wooden chair and glanced out of the corner of his eye towards the door when he heard it open – his new servant holding three thick volumes in her hands walked up to the table next to him, placing them there in complete silence, then bowed, wanting to leave.

"– Your Grace –" She said softly, warmly, lightly, and turned away immediately – he heard his low voice echoing in the silence of his chamber.

"You should ask if I need anything else." He said coldly and matter-of-factly, his pointing finger tapping rhythmically against his armrest; he sat with his legs crossed, sprawled comfortably in his seat, looking at her expectantly.

She stopped in mid-step and then looked at his face for the first time – he saw terror in her gaze, but not caused by him or his appearance, but by what he had said, by the fact that she had committed a discourtesy, that she had done her job badly and her superior or he could punish her for it.

She swallowed loudly, turning to face him, folding her hands in front of her in a gesture of humility, lowering her gaze to the stone floor in front of her.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. I am just learning. Is there anything else you need?" She asked softly – she was breathing nervously, her breasts hidden beneath the thin material of her top gown rising and falling quickly, her lips clenched into a thin line.

He liked how humble and submissive she was, how much she wanted him to be pleased with her; he hummed under his breath, lifting his chin higher, curious.

He thought he would have a little fun at her expense for his own entertainment.

"Can you read?" He asked in a low, deep, slightly hoarse voice. He saw that she gave him a quick, surprised glance, but then lowered her eyes again, apparently reminding herself that she was not supposed to do that.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Mmm. Who taught you that?"

"My father."

"The same one who sold you here?"

He saw her brow furrow in pain, her body flinch, her eyes big, she began to breathe through her mouth.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Mmm."

There was silence between them – he stared at her, rubbing the fingers of his hand against each other, and an idea occurred to him.

He liked her voice, soft, girlish, warm, calm, light; she was very young, younger than he was. He squinted his eyelids at the thought that she appeared to him to be the complete opposite of Alys.

"I want you to read me the fourth chapter of the Great History of the North. Take the book and sit on the floor next to me." He commanded; she looked at him in shock and lowered her gaze thoughtfully, her face red with stress.

They both knew it was indecent, that she shouldn't stay so long in his chamber if she didn't want to arouse suspicion about the nature of their relationship, however, he didn't give a fuck.

He tapped his finger loudly on the armrest, impatient that she had hesitated so long.

"I'm waiting. Do you want to annoy me?" He asked coolly – she shook her head quickly, clearly horrified by this vision, and walked on her trembling legs to the table, the scent of grey soap and some other scent, her own, coming to his nostrils.

Alys always smelled of oils, lavender and cloves.

She picked up the right book and, with an uncertain slow step, sat down by the fire opposite him, sitting on her knees, opening the book on her thighs, her hands trembling as she flipped page after page looking for the chapter he had mentioned.

"Pull off your coif." He commanded; she gave him a frightened, pleading look – only now did he see how large her eyes were, surrounded by a veil of her long lashes. He thought they added to her charm and innocence.

"My superior said I must not…"

"Pull it off."

She lowered her head obediently, swallowing loudly, breathing heavily through her nose, her trembling hands raised uncertainly, pulling the white cloth off her head.

Her dark hair was tangled in a braid wrapping around her head in the same way it had been before, unruly short strands at the sides of her face.

"Read." He ordered, and she nodded, going back to finding the right page. When she found it she grunted loudly, licking her lower lip dry with stress as she tried to calm her breathing.

She didn't dare look at him, all red, her eyebrows arched in horror and helplessness – she was obviously afraid he would do something more to her.

He thought that she must surely have heard stories of what his brother did to his servants.

"It is well known that Winterfell was built not as a re...representative castle but as a fortress, s-so the construction of its walls is several layers, that is, consisting of three hoops, the last of them the thickest, composed of stones. The windows in it are not large, giving the enemy no chance to assault with their help or to be the target of cross...crossbow...crossbowmen. For this reason there is only one gate leading into the fortress, protected by several layers of thick oak wood, reinforced with iron fittings, impossible to be destroyed by infantry or armed army."

He closed his eye, spreading himself out comfortably, feeling that somehow her warm, soft voice soothed him, the strong pounding of his heart began to slow down. He listened to her, analysing what she was reading and at the same time falling asleep, the fire burning in the fireplace enveloping him making him feel safe, his muscles slowly beginning to relax.

She had read to him every day since that evening, at his request.

He would always call on her after the Small Council meeting was over, pouring himself some wine, and she would take the book from the table beside him without a word, sitting down in the same place as always. Everytime before she got down to reading she would pull off her coif and place it beside her feet, no longer even waiting for his order.

Subconsciously she knew that he derived some kind of pleasure from this essentially innocent negligee of her body.

It seemed to him that after he had let her go on the first evening without touching her or taking her by force she was no longer afraid of him – he even had the impression that the fact that she could read gave her pleasure since she had no time for it on a daily basis through her duties.

He didn't care who she was, what was her story.

He just wanted to get through time somehow before he returned to Harrenhal.

However, one evening as he sat, waiting for her, drinking wine thoughtfully, a completely different girl appeared in his chamber. He furrowed his brow, furious.

"I do not recall summoning you." He growled harshly – the girl lowered her gaze, ashamed and humiliated.

"It is the Queen's order, Your Grace, I −"

"− bring her here. Immediately."

After several minutes she stood again in his chamber – however, she did not approach him but looked towards him, trembling all over.

"Your Grace, please, I cannot −"

"Come here."

"I can't, Your Grace."

"Come here, I said."

"I can't, Your Grace, the Queen specifically ordered me to −" She paused and jumped in place, horrified when he pulled up suddenly with his eye wide open – within a moment he was in front of her, towering over her, and she lowered her gaze, terrified.

"I fucking hate to repeat myself. Do you understand?" He hissed, her breasts rising and falling in rapid, uneven breathing, tears of helplessness in her eyes – she was shaking all over playing with her fingers in a nervous gesture.

"I beg you, Your Grace, have mercy." She mumbled, falling to her knees before him, humbly lowering her head, on the verge of sobbing.

"Get up." He said coolly – she cried out loudly, burying her face in his hands. He pressed his lips together, looking down at her, her small, helpless figure curled in fear.

"Get up. You are mine. I decide your fate. Stop crying." He commanded, and she drew in a deep breath through her mouth, looking up at him with those big, terrified eyes, seeking reassurance that he would protect her, that he would not let her get hurt.

She sniffed loudly with her nose, wiping her cheeks red from crying, her face all swollen from tears, almost resembling the intense colour of her top dress; she rose with difficulty, not looking at him, standing in front of him as if waiting for a verdict, staring at his chest.

"Mmm."

He turned away, returning to his seat, taking a sip of wine, gazing into the fire – she moved behind him, repeating their ritual, sitting down by his feet, closer than usual, pulling her coif off her head, opening the book.

The next day he made it clear to his mother that she was not to interfere in the affairs of his servants ever again.

His own mother was afraid of him.

She who had always seen him as her greatest support could not look him in the eye.

He felt nothing at that thought.

The time for his return to Harrenhal was slowly approaching; when she came to him again he took a deep sip of wine before surprising her with his words spoken in a calm, deep tone.

"Get ready to travel. Tomorrow you leave with me for Harrenhal."

She looked at him in shock and swallowed loudly, shaking her head – he threw her one cool, menacing look and she curled into herself, looking at him again with those big, shining eyes.

She was so innocent.

"– Lady Rivers will murder me – please –" She mumbled pleadingly. He grinned under his breath and snorted involuntarily – she flinched all over and blushed as his hand went to her head and combed her hair as if he were stroking the fur of his beloved pet.

"Do not fret. I won't allow it."

As he flew on Vhagar, she travelled in one of the carts, like the rest of his possessions.

She was his property.

Alys greeted him with reserve; her abdomen on which she held her hand firmly rounded. He stroked it with a gesture he might call affectionate, thinking of the fact that inside her was his child.

His bastard offspring.

He saw her gaze fixed on the girl who stood far behind him, looking down at her legs.

"You let her into your heart." She said to him regretfully when they were alone in her chamber, standing over him by his chair, his hand wandering involuntarily over her pregnant stomach. He hummed at her words, amused that she was jealous, but did not reply.

He didn't need to explain himself to her.

She instead let him between her thighs, moaning and panting along with him, hurting him with her nails driven deep into his skin, between his brutal thrusts hissing that she hated him only to sob a moment later that she loved him – he came inside her hard, clenching his eyes, feeling relieved.

He stayed with her for the night, but in the morning he returned to his chamber and summoned his servant, ordering that he wished to take a bath.

She stepped into his chamber ashamed, surely having heard the sounds Alys was making during the night as he fucked her – she couldn't look him in the face.

He wondered if she imagined herself in her place and felt his cock throb hard in his breeches at the thought.

She oversaw the other servants who poured water into his tub, and then personally poured the oils he used into it.

Would she be very tight if he took her now?

Would she stifle her sweet moans if his length with each deep thrust of his hips would stretch her fleshy insides and fill her with his seed?

They were left alone.

She pretended not to see or hear him as he began to slowly undress – usually he made the servants leave before he removed his breeches, valuing his privacy and intimacy, but not this time.

She knew she couldn't leave without his permission so she stood, looking sideways, trying to pretend not to see that he was standing bare in front of her.

With a slow, unhurried walk, he stepped into the tub and sighed low, feeling the pleasant heat relaxing his muscles – he was tired after travelling for hours on Vhagar and was sore all over.

"Massage my back and shoulders." He commanded coolly, lying with his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his breathing calm.

He heard her swallow loudly, terrified that someone would catch them, knowing she shouldn't do that – he glanced at her with a look of defiance and saw in her eyes that she had given in.

She approached him from behind, with a gentle, light movement taking his hair out of her way. He murmured lowly, feeling her warm, soft fingers dig into his skin again and again, surprised at how determined she was, that she could do this properly.

Her hands were pleasant against his skin, finer than Alys, she had longer fingers – he felt her warm breath on his head, felt her watching him, felt her scent, all around them just the quiet splash of water at his every slightest movement.

He thought of how pleasant it would be to feel this small, soft hand down there, on his cock.

He was completely hard.

They both shuddered, and he felt her move away from him quickly, terrified, as the door to his chamber opened – he didn't have to turn to feel Alys' oils filling his nose.

"You may leave." She said to his servant, and he pressed his lips together at the thought that she dared to command her in his presence.

He heard her quick movement and after a moment she handed him his shirt and breeches, which he put on with an unhurried, lazy movement, not caring that the mother of his future bastard son could see how ready his cock was to fuck this little girl.

"Stay." He said lowly, standing up from the water, extending his hand to her.

"What is it?" He asked matter-of-factly, without even giving her a glance, tying his breeches, pulling his chemise into them. He saw out of the corner of his eye Alys stroking her stomach in a nervous gesture.

"I wanted to speak with you in private. About my vision." She said lowly. He glanced at his servant, at her pale, terrified face – she was trembling all over, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes full of tears.

He walked over to the chair and sat down in it, looking at her expectantly.

"You may leave." He said softly. She bowed and left with quickly, closing the door immediately behind her.

"Speak."

Alys looked down at him, her lips tightened, her green eyes piercing him.

His lady, his Alys, his insufficient lover, his attempt to fill a void that could not be filled.

"I saw danger coming from the east, great and powerful like a storm cloud. I saw you in the skies. I saw you being devoured by water." She said in a trembling voice – he furrowed his brows, analysing quickly what she had said.

I saw you being devoured by water.

She knelt before him, laying her head on his thigh, and he stroked her long black hair.

"Don't leave me." She whispered.

The word that Daemon wanted to face him, that he was challenging him to a duel spread throughout the fortress.

He knew he could not refuse.

He was terrified.

He feared death.

He locked himself in his chamber despite Alys' pleas to let her in.

If she hadn't told him all this, he wouldn't have been so frightened.

If she hadn't told him he was going to die, he might have had hope.

He summoned her in.

As soon as she walked into his chamber, he ordered her to lock the door behind her, which she did.

She stood before him, looking at him with her eyes wide open, tears under her eyelids, her body shaking all over.

Of course she knew.

He was sure she would take the gold and run away, as she should.

"Spend the night with me or leave. On the table lies a sack of coins that belongs to you. You are a free woman. Take as your husband someone you deem worthy of you."

But she stayed.

She let him undo her hair, allowed him to undress her, to brush with light, butterfly kisses her soft, long neck.

Never before in his life had he been so affectionate to anyone, his hands had never touched anyone with such reverence, never had he cared so much to do it slowly.

First he kissed her on the mouth, gently and tenderly, barely touching her lips, his fingers entwined in her soft curls – she only sighed and stroked his cheek, looking at him dreamy.

He thought that this night, the last night of his life, they would be equals, that he would take her tonight like his wife, only to make her a widow tomorrow.

"Shhh." He hushed her as his mouth clamped down on her hard, swollen nipple, sucking and licking it – she squirmed beneath him and moaned sweetly, finding the courage to stroke his hair, his bare shoulders and back, driving him mad.

He sank his face between her thighs, forcing his tongue again and again between her slick folds – she didn't care if anyone heard her, her sobs loud, helpless and full of pleasure, his nose and thumb with painfully slow, circular motions teasing her pearl, dragging out her fulfilment.

"− easy now − just a little more −" He hummed between the sticky, loud clicks of his tongue – her tiny fingers clenched in his hair, her thighs spread before his face, locked in his hands hot with exertion.

"− please − please −" She mewled helplessly, her gaze clouded, her mouth wide open.

He pulled away from her, jerking his length already dripping with his precum of with a few light strokes, guiding it's fat, pink head to her hot entrance, sticky and wet from her moisture.

She was painfully tight.

He felt like he was tearing her apart from the inside.

She was almost screaming as he thrust inside her, panting along with her, saying 'just a little more'; 't's almost in'; 'shhh, sweet girl'.

They kissed tenderly as he with sure, deep, steady pushes of his hips claimed her maidenhood – he stretched her fleshy, slick muscles with his swollen cock throbbing in pleasure, her blood and their shared moisture running down his thighs and her buttocks, slapping loudly against each other.

"− gods, help me −" She mumbled beneath him, crying in terror and pleasure at the same time, not knowing what was happening to her body, all welted and sweaty, beautiful, innocent, vulnerable, her hands clenched tightly on his buttocks.

He looked down at her, panting and moaning along with her, never having experienced anything like this with a woman before – their bodies seemed to him to be one, clinging to each other, her soft breasts pressed against his chest, he could feel her hard nipples rubbing against his skin with each of his thrusts.

He sped up his pace, forcing her body to give in, to not resist him, his forehead pressed against hers, his tongue deep in her throat.

"− such a sweet girl − hm? − my pretty little servant − makes her prince feel so fucking good − such a tight, hot cunt −" He exhaled, licking her lips, feeling how, at his words, her walls began to clench against him greedily; he heard Alys voice outside his chamber, heard her pounding on the door, heard her crying, but he only chuckled, neither of them was able to stop now.

"− let her hear how good you feel with me − I'm going to come inside you a few times, hm? − just in case, to make sure I've filled you properly −" He cooed, and she cried out loudly at his words, distraught at how strong and delightful fulfilment shook her body – she tried to push him away, her cheeks red from exertion and tears, asking him to stop, overstimulated, but he just came deep inside her at the sound of her sweet, helpless voice.

"− that's it − take it − just like that, don't fight me −" He murmured feeling her body begin to relax, no more sound or crying could be heard behind the door, only silence.

He had thrust his length into her core all night, turning her into a babbling mess – he felt like he had never been more of one with anyone, that he had never been closer to what he could call peace.

He only slid out of her in the morning, watching with satisfaction as a trickle of his pearly spend flowed out of her – he looked down at her, tying his breeches, her gaze directed towards him hazy and absent, yet tender and warm.

"Don't think about me when it's all over." He said softly, her brow arched in pain, tears of despair in her eyes.

Alys bid him farewell with a tender, distraught kiss full of pain, hatred and love.

"Run away from here as fast as you can. With me gone, no one can protect you from her wrath." He said lowly, slipping his boots on his legs and walked out, leaving her alone, informing other servants to prepare his armour for him.

In response he kissed her forehead and stroked her lower abdomen, thinking hopefully as he turned away, walking towards Vhagar to soar through the skies on her for the last time in his life, that his little servant was already far away.

_____

This oneshot have an alternative ending: The dearest embrace

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy

638 notes · View notes