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zeciex · 7 months

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A Vow of Blood - 18

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

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

Chapter 18: Ruination

AO3 - Masterlist

Joyce carefully placed the last pearl in a velvet-lined box, setting it aside as she helped Daenera remove her jewelry. The princess’s fingers trembled as she unfastened the clasp, her mind weighed down by the events that had unfolded in the arena. Her dress had been shed, replaced by a flowing nightgown and a silk robe adorned with intricate dragonfly and dragon embroideries.

Daenera sat before the vanity, her eyes distant as Joyce gently brushed through her hair, working the rosemary oil into the strands. The fragrance filled the air, a soothing balm for both the physical and emotional tension. Although they hadn’t spoken about what had transpired in great detail, Joyce had been informed by Fenrick.

They shared a silent understanding, awaiting the news.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Jelissa stumbled in, her face flushed and her hair tousled by the haste with which she had arrived. Everyone in the room turned their attention to her, their expressions filled with apprehension.

“Well?” Daenera asked sharply, rising from the vanity. She twirled a ring nervously on her finger, anxiety tightening its grip on her.

“He-he lives,” Jelissa breathed, leaning against the doorframe, her breath ragged and labored.

“But?”

Jelissa’s voice quivered as she continued, “His nose is broken-”

“That can be healed,” Joyce interrupted, waving off the minor detail dismissively.

“He’s awake and alert, but he has a concussion and… it seems that his back was broken during one of the blows,” Jelissa’s voice wavered and she swallowed thickly. “He’s… he’s unable to move anything below the waist, as well as his left arm.”

The room fell silent as the weight of those words settled upon them. Daenera’s heart sank, and an indescribable heaviness washed over her. She rubbed her forehead, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Are you sure?” Joyce asked Jelissa with a slight tremble in her voice.

Jelissa nodded, tears streaming down her face. “The Maesters have said he will never be able to walk or ride again. They’re uncertain about the extent of the movement he may regain in his arm, if any.”

Joyce shook her head, her hand instinctively covering her mouth in shock. “Poor boy. Will Boris Baratheon face any punishment for it?”

“It was a dishonorable display of violence,” Fenrick answered, his voice tired and weary. “But Baratheon can claim it was an unfortunate accident. It is the risk one takes when entering into a competition like this. Aran Blackwood is lucky he did not lose his life.”

“Lucky,” Joyce scoffed indignantly, shaking her head and placing her hands on her hips, brows in a deep scowl. “There’s no luck in this. The boy would have been better off dead.”

Joyce was right. Many would rather have died than become crippled, and for a moment Daenera wondered if it really would have been better had Aran died. It was harsh of her to think, and she felt guilty for thinking it, but most agreed with the notion.

Tears welled up in Jelissa’s eyes, her hands wringing in front of her. “But what about the princess? Can she still marry him?”

“Of course not,” Joyce snapped. “The princess cannot marry a man who is unlikely to father any children.”

“But he’s still a good and kind man,” Jelissa argued in a sob and she wiped her cheeks, trying to regain composure even as the sobs wrecked through her body. “He would still make a good husband.”

“He is crippled,” Joyce told the sobbing girl, her expression caught somewhere between compassion and a scowl. “It is impossible for him to marry her now.”

Tears flowed freely as the weight of the situation seemed to settle upon the girl, and she crumbled into sobs, her hands covering her face as her shoulders shook.

“Leave. I wish to be alone with my thoughts,” Daenera cut through the sounds of sobs, feeling each of Jelissa’s heaving crack across her skull like blows, only enforcing the pounding she felt within.

Joyce stepped towards Daenera, concerned, but Daenera held up a dismissive hand. Reluctantly, Joyce complied, pulling the bawling girl with her as well as Fenrick. They shared one last look at one another, before the door closed, leaving Daenera to grapple with her emotions in solitude.

She paced back and forth, the weight of the news settling heavy upon her soul. Shame mingled with guilt, creating a storm of emotions within her. Her mind restlessly played the events of the melee, the haunting image of Aran Blackwood falling and the thunderous blows of Boris Baratheon’s sword striking his back. In that fateful moment, Aran’s life had been irrevocably altered.

Daenera’s hands trembled as she clenched and unclenched them, the ring on her finger digging into her skin. Frustration surged through her, fueling her inner turmoil.

Amidst a whirlwind of white cotton and yellow silk, Daenera paced the room, finally kneeling on the floor to rummage through one of her many chests. Her hand delved into the layers of fabric, eventually retrieving a dagger. But it wasn’t the only tempest brewing within her.

There was a storm of emotions raging inside her, mirroring the glint and glare of the steel as she unsheathed the blade. It felt sharp and cold in her grasp.

Aran had been a good man, and he still was. What had befallen him was unjust and cruel. Her heart pounded in her chest, and anger coiled like a viper in her stomach. It was all so unfair. Aran possessed goodness, kindness, and sweetness. He would have made a suitable husband, who would have treated her better than most.

The bitter taste of the lost opportunity linerged in her mouth.

Daenera rose abruptly and snatched one of the candle stakes, causing the flame to flicker in response to her rough movements. Despite being aware of the need to step back and consider her actions, she found herself unable to do so. Instead, she was driven by an absurd thrill that she wrote off as anger, and she pushed against the door she had discovered on the day Aemond had unexpectedly appeared in her chambers. The door was set within wooden panels adorned with a tapestry depicting a dense forest.

Her actions felt reckless, even foolish, but her anger had overridden rationality. As she opened the door, a gentle gust of wind brushed against her bare legs. The passageway beyond was dimly lit and narrow, similar to the many secret passages that crisscrossed the Keep. It reminded Daenera of her younger days, when she would run through these passages, attempting to commit their routes to memory.

She hoped she hadn’t forgotten which part led to Aemond’s chambers.

The existence of these secret passages was a testament to Maegor’s foresight. The passages were perpetually cold and damp, and in the darkness just beyond the reach of the candlelight, there were scuttling sounds. Pairs of small eyes glanced at her from the shadows, and the pungent smell of rat droppings hung in the air like thick fog. Daenera managed to navigate her to Aemond’s chambers, her hand gliding over the stone until it encountered the wooden surface. The concealed door to his chambers was cleverly hidden within a wardrobe.

Prince Aemond’s chambers appeared tidy, yet the table in front of the crackling fire was cluttered with stacks of books and scrolls. In one corner, various weapons were lined up against the walls. It was not the image Daenera had envisioned for his chambers.

Placing the candlestick on top of one of the book piles, she freed her hand to caress the leather-bound cover of a particular book about Valyria, its language, and its customs. The book had been written by one of the Maesters of the Citadel.

Daenera furrowed her brow as she contemplated it; Daemon would disapprove of such a book written by the Maesters.

And she did not think Alicent would approve of her son's reading either.

Suddenly, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed under the crack of the doors. Daenera swiftly concealed herself behind one of the ornamental screens, clutching her dagger tightly against her chest, her heart pounding.

As the door swung open, Daenera peered through the narrow crack in the screen, observing Aemond as he closed the door behind him. He loosened the belt around his waist, eventually removing it entirely and putting it on a chest by the doors. Next, he untied his doublet, pulling the blavk fabric over his head and casually discarding it aside. The white undershirt he wore hung loosely on his frame, appearing too big for his narrow form.

Aemond rolled his neck, releasing tension, and took a seat at the table. He reached for the flagon of wine, pouring himself a cup before reclining with a weary sigh. His hair cascaded over his shoulders like strands of spun moonlight, grazing the exposed skin of his collarbone. His skin, stretched taut over the bone, held a smooth and pale complexion.

For a fleeting moment, Daenera felt her anger subside, replaced by a morbid curiosity. But quickly, she directed her anger inward, berating herself for such thoughts. The thing that churned within her chest, the emotion she labeled as anger, coiled tightly around her heart.

“You did it,” Daenera’s voice pierced the silence, her words uttered quietly yet carrying weight. She emerged from her hiding spot, stepping into the open. Aemond’s gaze locked onto her immediately, a mixture of intrigue, disdain, and a touch of annoyance evident in his eye.

“What did I do?” Aemond leaned back in his chair, resting his head against its tall back. He relaxed demeanor ignited a fiery anger within her, tempting her to hurl one of the books in his direction. Would he even react? After all, she brandished a dagger before him, yet his only response was a flicker in his eye. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You know what,” Daenera sneered, advancing towards him. The flickering light from the fireplace danced upon the blade in her hand.

Aemond remained irritatingly untroubled. Did he believe she wouldn’t follow through with her threats? Did he take her anger so lightly? Had she not proven how capable she was?

Through gritted teeth Daenera seethed. “Aran.”

The corners of Aemond’s lips curved ever so slightly. “What unfortunate luck. He was quite skilled, I must admit.”

“Luck?!” Daenera spat, her grip on the dagger tightening. She closed the distance, standing over him. With one hand, she gripped the back of the chair, towering above him, while the other menacingly pressed the tip of the dagger against his neck. Her breath came in furious heaves. “Aran is paralyzed because of you! He will never walk again, never ride or fight or–”

“Marry a princess,” Aemond cut her off, finishing her sentence, his eye gleaming with malice and fire. He found amusement in all of this, she could see it–the sharp smirk on his lips, the cruel glimmer in his cold eye. He goaded her. “But you wouldn’t have married him regardless, would you?”

“That is not the point!”

“Isn’t it?” Aemond provocatively asked. “Wasn't that the purpose of this entire charade?”

“Aran was good and kind. He had his whole life ahead of him, and you snatched it away. You stole his future!”

“It’s a grave accusation, Princess,” Aemond responded nonchalantly. “I wasn’t the one swinging the sword.”

“No, you were the one scheming. Why else would Baratheon relentlessly target Aran? Why would he continue to strike him?” Daenera’s grip on the dagger tightened, and she leaned in closer.

“Boris Baratheon is his own man, in full control of his own interests,” Aemond drawled.

With her free hand she seized his hair, tugging it back against the chair to expose his throat and force his face towards her. His eyes fluttered, lips parting in a hiss that could be taken for a moan, and he stared back at her dangerously.

Daenera bared her teeth in a seething hiss. “Boris Baratheon may be his own man, but I know your influence played a part in this madness. Without you, Aran might not have suffered as he did.”

“Has it crossed your mind that Boris Baratheon might have thought to honor you by winning over the boy who so brazenly put forth his hand in marriage to you? That it was a mere act of honoring you.”

“There was no honor in this,” Daenera sneered. Baratheon was the puppet, and Aemond the puppet master. Even if Boris would have won the competition, without Aemond’s machinations, Aran might not have endured such harm.

“And what of you?” Aemond challenged.

A perplexed frown etched itself on Daenera’s face. “What about me?”

“Let’s not pretend that you ever truly considered him as a viable choice,” Aemond drawled, his confidence in his words palpable. He met her eyes with a knowing look, stirring something wretched inside that went beyond anger. Startled by the light touch of his fingers on her knee, Daenera instinctively moved to step back, but Aemond swiftly seized her wrist, keeping the blade pressed against his throat. The thin fabric of her nightgown and silk robe suddenly felt inadequate as layers between them.

“You are lying to yourself if you thought he was enough for you.” His voice was a gentle murmur, that lulled as the calm stream in a forest.

“I care for Aran,” Daenera uttered, her voice thick and wavering, as doubt clouded her own conviction. Aran was a good man. A good man…

“Do you?” Aemond questioned.

“I do care for him,” she insisted, as if trying to convince herself of her own words. He was a good man. He would have been a good husband. Kind. Comfortable . She let the tip of the dagger press into the fragile skin of his throat, straining it on the verge of breaking the surface. She swallowed. “I do. I do .”

“Mmm,” Aemond hummed, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest. “Perhaps you do, but you could never love him. You would never yearnfor him— burn for him .”

“Is that why you conspired against him? To same me from a passionless marriage?” A snarl of disbelief and exasperation contorted Daenera’s face. She took a step back, lowering the dagger as her eyes scrutinized him, dissecting his posture, the flickering fire in his hungry blue eye. His smirk persisted, slightly pursed, and his seemingly relaxed demeanor held a subtle tension. He pressed a finger to where the point of the dagger had kissed his neck, as if the ghost of it remained.

“Oh, gods. You’re mad,” Daenera declared, a humorless smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You paralyzed Aran simply because you desire me. You don’t want anyone else to have me, even when you don’t have me.”

Aemond rose from his chair, towering over her like a figure of barely restrained power. He prowled towards her, resembling a predator closing in on its prey. Daenera lifted the dagger to remind him of her weapon. He dismissively glanced at it, then lifted his eye to meet her gaze again. “Do not pretend that it does not excite you.”

Daenera gritted her teeth as his words pierced her skin. Gooseflesh rose across her body, and she felt a fiery heat course through her, her skin alive and electrified. She despised her own reaction, yet the disgust waned as Aemond advanced towards her. She stepped back. “Don’t.”

His head tilted in discerning curiosity. “Why did you come here tonight?”

Daenera opened and closed her mouth, uncertain of what to say. Would she tell him that she came to avenge her friend? Or that she threatened him with a dagger because she was furious over the loss of her choice in the matter? She cared for Aran, but he was a fleeting distraction. The anger she felt wasn’t truly for him but for herself. And what was even worse-much worse-was that she desired Aemond. She wanted the man who was willing to harm others to possess her. She wanted him against all reason and sense. She wanted him despite his clear intentions for her downfall.

“Cat got your tongue?” Aemond taunted.

“I came here to avenge Aran,” she replied, even though she had already concluded that it wasn’t true. “I came here to pluck the other eye from your skull.”

Aemond saw through her response immediately. “Liar.”

“Step back,” Daenera commanded, brandishing her dagger.

“What are you going to do?” Aemond questioned, taking a step closer. “You come to my chambers with a dagger, you threaten me, and then what? Are you going to kill me?”

Aemond seized Daenera’s wrist with a firm grip and forcefully pulled her towards him. He spun her around, causing her back to collide with his chest. One hand held her wrist of the hand in which she gripped the dagger, the blade veering dangerously close to her face, while his other arm wrapped around her, securing her in his arms.

Daenera squirmed, attempting to break free, but a deep chuckle resonated from deep with Aemond’s chest, the reverberation traveling down her spine. He was relishing the moment far too much.

“You are despicable!” Daenera spat.

His breath caressed the shell of her ear. “I am.”

Now it was Daenera’s turn to laugh, the sound ringing through the room, cold and tinged with a touch of desperation. It was cruel. She could feel his heat enveloping her, his chest pressing against the thin layer of fabric stretched across her back, his hand sinking into the flesh of her hip, scorching her skin. He smelled of cinders, she thought. And his touch was a forest fire. Above it all, she sensed his undeniable desire for her.

“I wondered what would drive you to such lengths just to hurt me,” Daenera remarked. In the past, he had shown a willingness to scheme and plot, but in those instances his ire had been directed solely towards her. This time, this scheme of his was far more elaborate–an escalation. “I thought it might be common cruelty, considering your fondness for it… but the answer is much simpler, isn’t it? You were jealous.”

“You know, if it had been me down there, on the arena sands, facing the Blackwood whelp,” Aemond sneered against her ear, his lips grazing the skin, paying no heed to the accusation of jealousy. “I would have run him through with my sword.”

“How terribly green of you,” Daenera mocked bitterly even as she felt something awful inside her flutter.

“And even then,” Aemond murmured, brushing away the strands of hair that fell over her ear, his voice a mere whisper. “You would still desire me.”

Daenera stomped on his foot with her heel, then thrust her elbow back into his stomach, employing the combat skills she had honed with her brothers. Aemond wheezed and doubled over, clutching his abdomen. But Daenera didn’t stop there. She grabbed him and forcefully pushed him until he fell onto the bed.

Straddling his hips, Daenera gripped the thin fabric of his shirt with one hand while pressing the blade beneath his jaw with the other. She could slit his throat–so easy it would be to draw the blade across that pale, smooth expanse of his neck and watch it be painted red with blood. If she played her cards right, she might even get away with it.

Aemond didn’t appear overly concerned. He reclined on the bed, gazing up at her with heavy-lidded eyes, hunger evident in his expression. His hands gripped her hips, urging her downward.

Power surged through her, a thrilling rush coursing through her veins, setting her skin ablaze. With a wicked curiosity, she tilted her head, lips slightly parted, as she drew the dagger from his hec and instead pressed the tip against the delicate skin below his remaining eye.

Aemond’s grip on her hips tightened, bordering on bruising, and a wicked gleam flickered in his eye–a lingering bitterness.

It amused her.

“I should pluck your eye from its socket, just as my brother once did,” Daenera drawled, increasing the pressure of the dagger against his skin.

A wicked smile played upon her lips.

“And perhaps one day I shall, Aemond Targaryen , should you continue taking things from me,” Daenera declared. “If I burn, you shall burn with me.”

The blade of the dagger lifted from his skin, a solitary drop of blood welling from the tiny cut. Daenera leaned back, still clutching the weapon, observing Aemond intently, daring him to be a man of his word.

Aemond studied her for a moment, taking in her haughty gaze, a faint surprise in her expression as if she couldn’t believe she was willingly here.

In one swift motion, Aemond sat up and captured her lips in a scorching kiss that made her skin burn even more fiercely. She felt like a flame given flesh, and Aemond was stoking the flame into a roaring blaze. The dagger slipped from her hand, and tumbled onto the mattress and then to the floor with an unnoticed clatter. Her hands tightened their grip on his strong shoulders.

Aemond’s hands ventured beneath the delicate fabric of her nightgown, their touch igniting a trail of fire along her thighs and hips. With a firm pressure, he pressed her down onto the unmistakable bulge in his trousers. As his fingers moved higher, they tugged at the edges of her nightgown and robe, revealing her bare shoulder.

Daenera closed her eyes, relishing the sensations that flooded her being. She felt his lips descend upon her jawline, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along her neck and shoulders, where he nibbled at the exposed flesh.

A soft moan escaped her lips as she surrendered herself to the intoxicating pleasure of his touch, his every caress fueling the yearning within her. Without inhibition, her hips instinctively moved, eliciting a sharp intake of air from Aemond.

The neckline of her nightgown strained against its limits, the small buttons barely holding the fabric together. Aemond paid no heed to their feeble resistance, tearing at the neckline until the string that bound the buttons snapped. His hand cupped her ample breast, his thumb teasingly grazing her nipple before he took it into his mouth, sucking with a fervor that sent shivers down her spine.

Each movement of his tongue and the firm pressure at her aching core intensified the desire pooling inside of her.

Daenera moaned in response, her hips grinding against him as she sought relief from the building ache between her legs. Her hand intertwined in his hair, pulling him away from her chest, her perked nipple now glistening. She pressed her lips hungrily against his. Her hands bunched in his shirt, causing the fabric to strain as she pushed it over his head.

In a swift motion, Aemond had effortlessly flipped her onto her back, positioning himself between her legs.

Daenera’s intense gaze met his, her exposed breast aching with desire, her neck adorned with marks of fervent kisses, her lips swollen with the heat of desire. As he unlaced his trousers and lowered them down his legs, Daenera’s eyes widened with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity. She had seen unclothed men before, but never a naked, aroused man–especially one as generously endowed as Aemond, his physical presence invoking a primal longing within her.

He gave her no time to admire him, swiftly climbing on top of her and crashing his lips against hers once more. The kiss deepened, fueled by carnal desire, while his hands slid up her legs, pushing up her nightgown, exposing her aching cunt.

She felt the inside of her thighs smeared with her own slick as they spread apart.

There was nothing sweet about this encounter. No reassurances, no tenderness in the caresses. It was raw, a primal need consuming them without mercy.

Daenera’s breath hitched as she felt his hard length at her entrance and she bit her bottom lip, as he let his cock graze along her folds. He ran his tongue over his teeth, and spat on to her aching cunt.

Daenera let out a shaky breath and swallowed the moan that threatened to spill from her lips.

“What is it, Princess? Scared?” Aemond breathed mockingly, his voice a rumble with desire and arrogance.

“Of you?” Daenera retorted sharply, “Whatever is there to be afraid of?”

A wicked smile curled across his face as he pressed into her.

Daenera bit her lip, as pleasure and pain washed over her. Her eyes welled up with tears as her nails dug into his arms, seeking an anchor amidst the overwhelming sensation of his cock sinking into her. The pain was searing, and for a moment she did not understand why women agreed to this. The taste of blood filled her mouth as she bit into her bottom lip, raking her nails across his shoulders to make him feel a fraction of the pain she felt, and she screwed her eyes shut and turned her face away, to hide the tears that threatened to spill.

A groan escaped Aemond’s lips, his hand tightly gripping the blanket beside Daenera’s head, his breath hitching as he pressed himself further into her tight cunt.

“Mmh,” Daenera hissed through the discomfort, her teeth gritted. His cock inched forward slowly, testing the limits of her capacity. For a fleeting moment, doubt crept in, questioning whether she would be able to take the entirety of his cock. Aemond was both long and thick, and she felt every inch of him.

But then, his pelvis rested alongside hers, and a strange sort of satisfaction coursed through her.

One of Aemond’s hand’s released the sheet and instead curled around her face, fingers pressing painfully into her cheeks, pushing her lips to purse. Aemond leaned down, his expression inscrutable. “Let me witness the breaking of your poorly defended maidenhead.”

The taunting words ignited a blaze of anger within her, her eyes narrowing with rage. She refused to avert her gaze, defiantly pulling her face from his grip. His smirk widened, savoring the challenge.

Aemond momentarily withdrew before plunging back into her depths, reawakening the sensations of pain and pleasure. He repeated the motion relentlessly, each thrust pushing her further to the precipice of her own undoing.

After a few more thrusts, Daenera’s hips instinctively rose to meet his, matching his rhythm with a fierce determination. The pace intensified, the force behind his movements unyielding.

Only when she acclimated to the rhythm, her breath ragged and heated, did Aemond fully withdraw from her, leaving her cunt empty and fluttering around nothing. With an agile movement, he grabbed her and flipped her onto her stomach, lifting her hips from the mattress to take her again.

Daenera groaned, her nails digging into the fabric, her eyes rolling back in response to the change in position and the depth with which Aemond filled her again. Every inch of him inside her was palpable, his cock twitching as his thrusts grew harder. Each powerful stroke against her walls amplified her pleasure, sending electric waves of sensations coursing through her body. His balls beat against her clit, sending jolts of pleasure through her that came out in breathless sounds.

Daenera bit her lip, determined to deny him the satisfaction of hearing her moans of pleasure. She wouldn’t grant him that.

“It seemed Aemond made a similar vow of silence. Apart from the occasional grunts and low hums, he remained wordless, letting the symphony of their flesh collisioning resonate through the room.

It was wrong. So wrong. Daenera buried her face in the mattress to stifle a moan. She felt her cunt tremble around him.

Aemond’s hand slid to the back of her neck, grabbing onto her tightly, keeping her firmly in place, while his other hand found its way around her hips, his skilled fingers seeking that bundle of nerves every woman had. His relentless pace continued, each forceful thrust driving them both to the edge.

Daenera gulped in the air as she turned her face away from the mattress, her hands gripping the sheets tightly as she felt her legs begin to shake, and the muscles in her lower abdomen tightened. She was going to fall over the precipice.

“Fuck, Aemond,” she gasped, her voice wavering into a breathless moan, fulled with urgent longing. She surrendered to the feeling, let the fire lick and stroke at her insides, igniting into an inferno that threatened to consume her.

“Say it again,” Aemond demanded, his voice a primal growl that sent shivers down Daenera’s spine.

Defiance seemed futile in the face of their raw desire, her resistance crumbling as a pulse of pleasure reverberated through her entire body. With a shaky voice, she surrendered to his command, her lips parting to form his name, “A-Aemond, n-ugh .”

As the intensity between them surged, Aemond’s pace quickened, his thrust becoming shallow and desperate, as fervor coursed through his veins. The grasp he had on the nape of her neck tightened, and he pulled her closer, causing her to back to arch, her shoulders colliding with his solid chest. The hand slid around to her throat, wrapping tightly around it.

With each ragged breath she took, her breasts heaved, their delicate curves bouncing in a rhythm. She lifted one hand to grip his wrist in case she needed to pry it away, while the other reached around to grab his hip for support.

The tension between them reached its peak as Aemond’s fingers pressed into the delicate skin of her throat, exerting a controlled pressure as he increased the speed of his thrusts. Her eyes rolled back, overwhelmed by the building pleasure that wracked through her body, threatening to erupt and overflow.

“You would be fucking me,” Aemond murmured into her ear. “Even if I had killed the boy myself.”

Daenera’s body betrayed her as her cunt fluttered around him, pulsating with a rhythm that was not her own. She felt how her cunt sucked him in, as if she did not want to ever be empty again. Her walls tightened around him, a fierce grip that made each of his thrusts feel almost impossible to bear.

It was both painful and exhilarating.

Her entire being was engulfed in a torrent of warmth, sending a surge of lightning through her veins, setting her ablaze from the inside out. And then, in a primal release, she felt Aemond spill his seed within her, painting her walls with a burning intensity that added to the waves of pleasure cascading through her. She lost herself in the eruption and let herself be washed away.

With a sharp intake of air, Aemond released his grip on her throat, allowing Daenera’s body to fall back onto the bed. Her hair fanned out around her, a dark halo against the sheets, while her back rose and fell with each heavy breath. The evidence of their passion adorned her skin, with red marks marring her shoulders and delicate bruises decorating her hips, like petals of a forbidden flower.

Aemond remained within her, his presence a lingering reminder of what had been done. He remained until he was completely spent. His rugged breath was similar to when he had spent hours practicing with his sword, a testament to the exertion of them both.

A shiver went through her body as Aemond withdrew from her, her breath hitching. A mixture of relief and a sense of loss washed over her. She felt the cool rush of air against her exposed flesh, the evidence of their indiscretion leaking out of her.

Her eyes flickered downward, and she couldn’t help but feel both fascinated and vulnerable as she saw her own arousal glistening on her inner thighs, mingled with the traces of Aemond’s seed and the blood of her maidenhead.

Aemond, his gaze fixated on the sight before him, felt a surge of possessiveness and satisfaction as he marveled at her spent body, leaking the evidence of her submission. His markings were littered across her flesh, imprinted into her very being. The sight was raw and primal, and it stirred something deep within him. With a subtle flick of his hand, he brushed his hair out of his face, his piercing eye locked on Daenera’s shivering form.

Unconcerned with his disheveled state, Aemond pulled his trousers up around his hips, purposefully leaving the lace untied and allowing them to hang loosely, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the expanse between his bellybutton, hips, and cock. The raw power he exuded only added to the tension in the room.

Walking back to the table, Aemond settled himself in a chair, his movements casual and confident. He poured himself a cup of wine, the rich crimson liquid swirling as it was poured in. Without hesitation, he filled another cup.

Daenera lingered on the bed, her body still pulsating with the echoes of their intimacy. The ache between her legs, both a reminder of the pleasure she had experienced, and her indulgence, served as a constant presence in her awareness. Every movement, every breath, sent tingles coursing through her.

She sat up, her hand instinctively reaching down to touch the source of her discomfort. It felt as if something inside her had been altered, a hollowed-out space or a shift in her very core. The sensation was peculiar, leaving her feeling unsettled, like wearing a pair of new shoes that hadn’t quite molded to her feet just yet.

Gently brushing the curls from her face, Daenera rose from the bed, feeling the stickiness of Aemond’s seed trailing down her thighs. The sensation was strange, a conflicting mix of satisfaction and a sense of impending doom that sent a shiver down her spine. With a heavy sigh, she dried herself off with her ruined nightgown, setting it aside on the bed. She reached for the unruined robe, wrapping it around her body, securing the dagger in its waistband.

Her eyes connected with Aemond’s and she found him observing her with an intrigued, yet, uncertain gaze, his head tilting to the side in curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, Daenera bunched the ruined nightgown into a ball, her eyes locked with Aemond’s as she made her way towards the hearth. The flames danced, casting a flickering glow into the dark room, as she tossed the evidence of their night’s venture into the fire. The fabric burned instantly, consuming the bloodstains and the traces of Aemond’s seed, turning it all into ash.

The act was both a cleansing ritual and a symbolic gesture, a way to remove the evidence that was not emblazoned on her flesh.

Aemond extended a silent offer, presenting her with a cup of wine.

Daenera’s gaze lingered on him with narrow eyed suspicion, her emotions in turmoil. One part of her longed to scream at him, to hold him responsible and accuse him of seducing her. But another voice, softer, yet, undeniably present, reminded her that she had desired this, craved it even. The truth was undeniable–she had willingly embraced the path that had led to this moment. Now she had to confront the consequences of her choice.

Aemond’s words echoed in her mind, reminding her of the warning he had given her. You will ruin yourself. The realization that he had been annoyingly right settled upon her like a heavy weight. She took the cup of wine he offered, raising it to her lips and gulping it down in a single, defiant swallow. It tasted bitter.

Aemond’s gaze remained on Daenera with an expression of curiosity and intrigue. He watched her intently, hoping to catch a glimpse of the thoughts swirling in her mind. Daenera Velaryon was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, an enigma that defied his understanding no matter how hard he tried.

She threw the ruined nightgown into the fire, with a casual expression upon her face.

A subtle smile curved his lips as he continued to observe her. He pushed the cup of wine towards her, offering an extension on their truce.

She looked at it for a moment as if deciding how to respond, and he wondered whether she’d break or accept her new circumstance. Daenera took the wine and drank it in one mouthful and put it back on the table with a calm demeanor he did not expect of a woman who understood the consequences to her actions.

A lesser woman would have broken.

In that moment, it dawned on Aemond that she truly was like poison, deadly allure that enticed and enchanted. There was darkness within her, an essence akin to nightshade, that seemed to drip into his bloodstream.

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