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perfinn · 1 day

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Aemond’s nerve damage

Disclaimer: I’m not a medical student or medical professional.

Okay *cracks knuckles* I’ve done some research and concluded Aemond would definitely have nerve damage from the cut going across his forehead, eye, and cheek.

The thickness of facial skin and superficial fat in the infraorbital region is around 1.97 mm for facial skin and 4.95 mm for fat. It’s 1.85 mm and 4.54 mm for cheeks, and 1.70 mm and 1.99 mm for forehead. (x) Aemond’s injuries suggest they were deep — if they were shallow, the dagger would have missed the eye, going down to his cheekbone, but we see his eyelids are cut. I’d say it’s safe to suggest the dagger could have cut deeply enough to go through fatty tissue to the nerve.

The infraorbital region

Now, the nerve on the photos above is the trigeminal nerve and it branches out into three main branches: ophthalamic (eyes, upper eyelids, forehead), maxillary (cheeks, nose, lower eyelids, upper lip, gums), and mandibular (lower jaw). In Aemond’s case, two branches would have been severed.

Aemond would have a condition called post-traumatic trigeminal neuropathic pain.

The effects of injury to the trigeminal nerve are chronic numbness but also pain.

Let’s look at secondary trigeminal neuralgia (which happens when a cyst, tumor, or facial injury puts pressure on the nerve) and the effects it has on the face. From what I understand, the effects of PTTNP and STN are similar. The difference are as follows: “(…)differs in duration (TN: lasts from a fraction of a second to two minutes; PPTTN: ranges widely from paroxysmal to constant, and may be mixed), associated nerve dysfunction (TN: rare; PPTTN: positive and/or negative changes) and pain quality (TN: electric-shock like, stabbing or shooting; PPTTN: burning, squeezing or “needles and pins”).” (x)

The pain is classified as follows:

Type 1 - “causes sharp, shock-like facial pain that comes and goes. Your face may throb. The pain may last for a few seconds or as long as a couple of minutes. These stabbing pains can occur repeatedly throughout the day and night. Over time, the pain may intensify and last longer. Often, the brief pains are triggered by actions such as chewing, talking or touching the face.” (x)

Type 2 - “causes a constant (chronic) burning or aching feeling. You may also have stabbing pain, but it’s less intense than type 1.” (as above)

Even mild stimulation of the affected area can cause intense pain. The condition can develop from sporadic pains to more frequent bouts of searing pain. It usually causes facial spasms (the disorder is also known as tic douloureux). (x) The pain is “sometimes described as the most excruciating pain known to humanity”. (x)

“Patients often suffer long stretches of frequent attacks, followed by weeks, months or even years of little or no pain. The usual pattern, however, is for the attacks to intensify over time with shorter pain-free periods. Some patients suffer less than one attack a day, while others experience a dozen or more every hour. The pain typically begins with a sensation of electrical shocks that culminates in an excruciating stabbing pain within less than 20 seconds.” (x)

So, as a result of Luke assaulting him, Aemond would suffer either chronic pain or bouts of excruciating pain that intensified over time (if left untreated which, Middle Ages medical knowledge) — and could have attacks as often as every hour. Washing his face? Could trigger an attack. Someone brushing their fingers on his skin? Pain. His eyepatch irritating the area? Pain.

This baby would be living with constant burning pain or with the threat of attacks of electric shock-like, intense pain that could happen at literally any time — and with the added vulnerability of facial spasms which he would despise.

This is for everyone who says “he should have gotten over losing his eye.”

Would you?

Edited to reflect more correct information.

#oh... most interesting #never considered this #tagging this as #resources #for reasons

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perfinn · 3 days

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The smile..

#oh my goodness

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perfinn · 3 days

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shake it out - aemond targaryen & shera stark.

i am done with my graceless heart tonight I’m gonna cut it out and then restart florence & the machine - shake it out

for @hotd-bigbang.

art by me, 1 1/2 hrs in procreate. shera playing the smallest part possible in this piece but shes there, i swear.

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perfinn · 4 days

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[OC X CANON APPRECIATION POST! 🩷✨]

REBLOG IF YOU LOVE AND SUPPORT OC X CANON!!

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perfinn · 4 days

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aemonds pov in thtdtl has me pulling my hair like a crazed woman

PLSSSSS UR SO REAL FOR THAT he's actually such a nightmare to write sometimes he is SO dense and SO in denial

#part of me wants to write a chapter in cecily's pov just to figure out whats going on in her head #its a lot less of a mess in there i'll tell u that #tysm for readingggg #asks

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perfinn · 5 days

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the way you write aemond makes me feel seen on a spiritual level like… that is MY pathetic and yearner one eyed prince 🫵🏼 you get me fr perfinn

HELP im glad u like him. guess it just comes naturally as a fellow pathetic yearner myself 🙂‍↕️ (with two eyes)

#asks

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perfinn · 6 days

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i feel like you give me a very warped idea of what asoiaf is like

honestly it’s mostly about people eating very sumptuous dinners and describing each other‘s cool outfits and then at a distant second place like also the cycle of violence and gender and misogyny and class and the dangers of reactionary politics and false prophets and also dragons. and not in the fun way it is also about tits. and orientalism. but really what these books are fundamentally about is that blonde people are dangerous and evil.

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perfinn · 7 days

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#naerys <3333 #🥺🥺🥺

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perfinn · 7 days

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everything about aemond and cecily begins to make sense when u realise that theyre both 18

#u ever been 18? yeah i wouldnt wanna be married to a stranger at that age either #also i have jimmied aemonds age so he'll be 21? when the dance happens #just because #thtdtl

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perfinn · 7 days

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simon sees a familiar face. tags: darkfic. ghost x nude model! reader. (given a stage name but no discerning characteristics.) violent intrusive thoughts. objectification. rough sex. marking. dacryphilia. possessiveness. dubcon photo sharing.

It's the slip of her skin in his periphery. Moisturised, gold shimmer body glaze. Tucked up against the bar and nursing a negroni in both hands, her dress riding high up on her thigh. Sticks out like a sore thumb in a pub like this, where seedy men come to drink their woes away. Just a little too clean, prim and perfect polish. Pretty enough to make his teeth hurt.

He has to do a double take before he can be sure. Where he would know her calves, those hands and varnished nails, anywhere, he can hardly believe it until she turns a quarter angle and her face comes into full view. Lips he's seen perked up and glossed into erotic O's. Eyes so often half-cast and sultry, lined in kohl, that it's odd to see them wide like this; looking around, searching for something.

Yeah. Simon knows her. Knows her like the grip of a gun, the rip release of a hand grenade, the flat lining of barrack cot mattresses. Knows her so well that his cock chubs up in an almost pavlovian response, fat and heavy and leaking already, like a bloody sixth former seeing a pair of tits for the first time. In all honesty, this might just be the equivalent for a man like himself. Aching jowls, frothy lips. Ageing, dirty beast – thrown the most delectable fucking bone.

Because it's her. Cut straight from the centrefold of his favourite magazine and pasted a mere four feet away. Just as alluring, as provocative as she is in the poster he'd gifted Johnny on a deployment birthday. The object gracing every page not adhered together with dry cum. The one thing that gets him – and frankly, every other mutt on the task force – through long missions.

He throws back the last of his bourbon and slips his mask back over his chin. The haunt is emptier than usual. He assumes the big guy by the doorway is responsible, no doubt hired to follow her around and scare the creeps away. Simon must count as one – if his intentions, latched like filthy claws in his stomach, are anything to go by – but he's also bigger. Bolder. Probably has tattoos that outlast her bodyguard's experience in the field. So he takes his chances as he stretches up and prowls up to where she's sitting.

"Selene Harlow." It's a stage name, of that he's certain. But he has nothing else to call her by, not having fallen short of searching for her true identity. She's good at keeping herself safe from perverts like him. A good fucking girl, if not a little minx.

"Only on the clock." She smiles softly, dipping the orange peel in and out of her drink. It looks untouched, glass sweating onto the bar top. He thinks of holding her head back by her hair and knocking the concoction down her throat. "You don't look like my date."

Simon makes a sound. "No' your usual type, then?"

"I didn't say that." Her dress is low cut, bandage tight. When she breathes in, he devours the way her chest heaves out of the material. Begging to pop free, or else be ripped open right here. He can't imagine she would be opposed to being stripped in public. Not with her breasts plastered on a million different publications, issues displayed in the illicit material case behind every gas station counter.

"Well, he must be soft in th'head."

She shrugs. "Don't sound so surprised." Simon wonders, if he were to press his thumbs down onto each collarbone, how much pressure it would take to snap them in place. He's always liked the delicate arch of her shoulders, the swan-like column of her neck. With how he fixated he is on them now, he can hardly place the dejection in her voice. "Not a lot of people wanna go out with a girl who does what I do. It was only a matter of time before he found out."

"Can' be too pissed at him, a'suppose."

"Hm?"

"His loss is my gain."

"Aha." A flash of teeth. She turns on the bar stool to fully face him, and her knees knock his. Soft fucking legs, plush like a chew toy and he knows– he knows what they look like completely nude and spread open. But nothing could've quite prepared him for how different it is to see them in real life. To see her – real, fleshly, blood full – and not be able to take. Have to hold himself back despite the way he's pumped himself raw to her arse almost a hundred times now. He lost the plot some time ago. His mind must think of her as his. "Is that what this is?"

And what is this? Simon doesn't have a name for it. All he knows is the way his head itches, the tantalisation crawling in his skin. The sheer self-restraint it takes not to pocket her home and chain her to his bed. He wants to dig his teeth into her cheek.

Instead–

"Could be."

"I think that's up to me." She crinkles in a wily little smile and he chuckles because it's funny. Funny because she takes him to be a good man. But with the way her bodyguard is eyeing him from across the room (fucking muppet), he knows that's not the quality he's projecting. There's the urge to crack a sick joke, something about clipping a bird's wings, just to see her pick up on the rot he carries with him. "You military?"

"Tha' obvious?"

"Hm, no. Wild guess." She straightens her back and the vague gesture she makes with her wrist is enough to drive him up a wall. It sets a timer, ticking time bomb, in his brain that'll detonate if he doesn't get his nasty old hands on her waist. Thirty seconds on the clock. He can never be patient when it comes to sweet things. "Your... stature. And I tend to be popular with servicemen, anyway. What's your name?"

"And why do you wan' to know my name, bird?"

She flutters her lashes, pointedly looking down to where he's bulging in his jeans. Bird is right. She shines like one with pretty feathers, begs to be plucked, because why else would mother nature create things like her if not to appease men like him?

"Figure you'd want me to moan it later."

And it's like watching one fly into a cage on its own accord. His blood boils hot and thin, flooding his head until his eyes strain with something ferocious. "Why wait." Simon says. He can't wrap an arm around her waist fast enough, scooping her from her seat and wrapping her tight against his side. Tight enough that, if she changed her mind, she wouldn't be able to flap her way out of it. "Name's Simon, and there's a bathroom 'round back."

It's nasty. Depraved. Graffiti lines all four walls and it's no coincidence that the one he pins her up against looks the filthiest. Something in him craves to see her degraded (the same part that marked a picture of her in black ink, chicken-scratch body writing proclaiming her as his), brought down to the same peg that he occupies. Beasts with too much baggage stored in their marrow. Humans, men, with moral compasses that skew a tad too far left. Animals. Animalistic.

"I don– Don't usually do this..." She breathes, excuse stuttered through little whimpers as he mouths at her jaw. Maybe she's afraid of living up to her name, or whatever image Selene Harlow projects. Not a prostitute, he can almost hear her say. Tastes the fear of misconception, sour on otherwise tart skin. He hums and tugs her breasts free with one, scarred paw.

"Doesn' really matter, bird. Were fuckin' made for it." He squeezes the two mounds, pinches knotted nipples and rolls them between his fingers until she cries. Her voice breaks in little bubbled sobs – starts crying so fast that, christ, it must be some sort of record – and he aches in his trousers. Ready to burst if he doesn't bully his cock into a hole soon, just like she's been ready to be unravelled all night. "Made to be mine, yeah? Bloody 'ell, jus' look at you."

Frayed little tapestry. If he weren't so mad with lust, he'd obsess what drove her to this point. What brought her to some shitty pub in Manchester to meet a good for nothing lemon. Why she mewls and completely melts into him when he slaps her tits, just to see the way they jiggle. He's an ugly bastard, definitely punching just by breathing the same air as her, and yet she's so perfectly willing. Flaying herself open, skinned alive. Gasping selfish gulps of air when he finally pulls off his mask to sink his canines into her shoulder.

He's so used to seeing her posed, perfectly still. To have her like this, a trapped worm underneath him, feels like concentrated lightning on every artery. Overstimulating. Paralysing. He never thought he'd see the day where she exposes herself in motion: folding her dress up over her wide hips, slipping soaked panties down to her ankles.

(In fact, he vividly remembers brooding over on an interview her magazine had added to the corner of a cover page, once. Selene Harlow tells all! Answers inquiries on video pornography and more!

I don't think I'm the right person for that sort of scene. Not much an actress, I'm afraid.)

Not that her feigning was ever a concern. Simon knows the giddy gossamer over her eyes can't be artificially replicated. She's too clumsy, too amateur in the way she readies herself for him. Used to doing all this prep in a frilly dressing room with apathetic staff members directing her. Sways a bit on her heels and holds onto his thick forearms as she widens her stance. He stands until she's steady, then drops to his knees in search for the star of this show.

And the sight is as much a bludgeon to his self control as seeing her for the first time was, trigger for the feral mongrel that barks and chomps on his ribcage. Her cunt is just as perfect up close in this grimy bathroom as it is well lit, professionally oiled, and printed on coated paper. A little fuzzy, swollen enough that it flowers open for him on its own. Shyly inviting him to dig his nose right under her clit and inhale, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the scent of her, undiluted. Salivate blooms around his teeth.

When he flattens his tongue against it, she tries to find purchase in the roots of his shorn hair. Nails scrambling along the buzzcut until she forfeits and clamps her hand behind his ears, head thrown back to knock against the wall. If he were a nice man, he would spend hours buried between her legs. Sated by licking her slick from its source, like a kitten given a bowl of cream. Would make her cum until she forgets how to keep quiet, until she screams his name loud enough for the world knows their muse is off the market now.

But if he were a nice man, he wouldn't be defiling her here. He would've taken her out to the Greek place that never seems to have room for him alone, and then back to her apartment, where he'd drop her off with a chaste kiss and a promise to call her tomorrow.

So Simon combs through her lips once, twice, three times. Coats her in enough spit to be able to shove two fingers with little fuss, and scissors them apart. The little thing stretches to accommodate his ministrations immediately, clutch swallowing him up to the second knuckle and sucking around him when he spreads her hole for his leering eye. It's cute – so fucking cute how she clenches and keens and cries. Neck arched up above him. Apple of eden, blank canvas. His fingers leave her cunt as he rises to bite into it.

(Truthfully, she could've down with more prep. She wasn't lying when she said she doesn't do this often, whatever this is. But the way silver pebbles brim on her lash-line makes his chest twist, the dog rearing on its haunches, ready to pounce – and he thinks he'd like to see her babble in pain as he splits her open on his cock.)

"Gonna take you home after this, y'hear? Fuck you well 'n' good, all proper like. Fold ya over a mattress and print my cock on your guts, birdie. Never let you forget it. "

"S-Si! Simon, please. I n-need..."

Ichor beads in the shape of his teeth, streaking oxygenated red down her throat. He makes a mess of it, smearing it across the marred patch of skin, and brings the fluid up to her face to rub it into her cheek. The type of marking he'd reserve for his third or fourth going with someone – if anyone ever lasts that long – but absolutely necessary right now. Here, with her. Technically their hundredth something time together, if he were deranged enough to count the various times he'd spent himself over her spreads.

But nothing can supersede the truth of the matter. He streaks blood along her face and licks it off in a show of merciless possession. Pretty things like her get plucked off streets and ruined everyday, despite her cynicism on her value, and he can point to at least three other men by name who would slaughter to be in his place. Best to stake his claim now, clamp a collar on the exotic fowl he pulled down from the sky.

"Need wha', hm?" His tongue laps at her cheek, laving over the contour of her nose and swiping right under her eye to catch the tears that freely fall. She winces when he gets too close, hands faltering along his waistband.

"Your... d-dick. Please, please. Just wanna be fucked, Simon."

He plants a rough kiss onto her mouth, all teeth and tongue, and finally ladles himself free of his jeans.

Just wanna be fucked.

Daft, silly girl.

She should've chosen anyone else.

It takes a bit of pressure to feed himself into her cunt, pinning either leg to the sides of his hips as he guides his cock toward the opening. If she was putty before, she's positively liquid now, boneless rag doll slumped onto him. Dead weight. Letting him take control of this fight. Content to do nothing, slack-jawed and empty eyed as her hot walls come to embrace him completely. Her breath halts, the air recalibrating to just the sound of his ragged grunts, and he considers it an invitation to wrap a fist around her neck.

"I'll do more than jus' fuck you, pretty thing. Won' ever let you out of my sight."

And he means it.

It's impossible to withdraw completely from her – vacuum sealed too tight, too good, around him. So he fucks in short thrusts instead, snapping his pelvis back, only to shove forward once her legs begin to flail about. It's brutal even by his standards, rough in a way that supplants pleasure with pain. A small pity surfaces when her lip trembles, discomfort wringing her darling face up like a dish towel. Wet and pathetic, but he sneaks his free hand down to knead at her swollen clit anyway.

Like oil, it slips and hardens, tense enough that he knows she won't last long if he keeps it up.

Simon feels his own release encroaching. Unfurling at the base of his spine to form something cruel and primal. His vision tunnels to fixate on her – not the filthy bathroom or the lewd squelch of her pussy taking him in. Not the banging on the door by a customer desperately needing to piss, or otherwise, her bodyguard concerned at the choked screams carved from her lungs. Just her. Little bird.

The howling in his head doesn't stop, but it sure as hell quiets down when she soaks the course hairs at the base of his cock. Squirts, off-white fluid gushing from her and trickling onto the tiled floor. His movements grow stilted, off-rhythm, at the sight. His want grows claws and scales, grows wants that have wants. Beastly. He sees red.

"N-noghonbirfcontraahl." She gasps, suffocated still by the fingers pressing crescent-shaped scars beneath her jaw.

"Don' give a shit." He growls, then cums.

(Really, he doesn't. To see her swell up with his child is just one more added temptation, carrot on a stick. He bucks like a rabid animal and bookmarks that thought away for later.)

His seed doesn't stay put when he pumps her full of it. It gathers and drips out of her, undeterred by the barrage of his softening cock. When he pulls out, it draws milky treks down her legs. There's the instinct to shovel it back into her, tape her lips shut until the spend takes; but as he pockets her panties and helps her readjust her dress (after polishing himself clean on the expensive fabric), he finds he quite likes the thought of parading her around like this.

"C'mon," He nips her earlobe. "let's walk you home."

Simon does end up making good on his promise. They hardly get any sleep that night, sweating on every available surface her flat affords. By the end of it, she's so tuckered out that he has to lift her to bed. Hardly cognisant as he strips to his boxers and sidles up right next to her.

What doesn't escape her notice, however, is when he pulls his phone out to snap a picture of her like this. Fucked to oblivion, puffy pussy oozing about three loads worth of cum.

"W-what are you–" Stuttered. Panicked, like a pet that at last has realised it's been caged.

"Shhhh, birdie. You're my model, ain't you? Let me show you off, yeah? Won' let it get into the wrong hands."

"Promise?" She whimpers, tucking into his broad chest. She isn't in the condition to give her proper assent, but he takes it anyway, kissing both eyes and carding his fingers across her scalp.

"Promise." He mutters, then sends the portrait off. "Jus' to men like me."

Sgt. Garrick: ?! Is that Capt. Price: Christ, Simon. Someone ought to muzzle you. Johnny: I don't believe you. Johnny: Pick up my calls. Johnny: SIMON.

#JESUS TAKE THE WALL #simon 'filthy pervert' riley you will always be famous #cod

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perfinn · 8 days

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perfinn · 8 days

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Consequences | Series Masterlist

COMPLETED

Summary: Only nine and ten, she does not know much about the world and when she acquires a job at the Red Keep as a maidservant, she catches the dark and ominous attention of the One-Eyed Prince. Unsure if she even wants it, she may realise that the realm is not so kind to lowborn women, regardless of the situation they find themselves in.

Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, dark, medieval-canon sexism, noncon, dub-con, mean Aemond, manipulation, gore, blood, violence, major angst

Consequences Playlist | A03 Link

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six (End)

Epilogue

TikTok edit by @hisvaleryan

Artwork

dividers by @saradika

#this was one of the best fics i ever read honestly #cannot put myself through it again but i highly recommend others do!#aemond

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perfinn · 8 days

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the heat that drives the light

aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc - part iii

wc: 3.1k

summary: a tourney is held to celebrate aemond and cecily's wedding, and aemond finds himself participating despite his outspoken disdain for tourneys.

cw: period typical ableism, jousting inaccuracies, brief sexual fantasies and sexual references

masterlist, read on ao3, divider by saradika

The day following Aemond and Cecily’s wedding boasts a grand tourney. It boasts the attendance of many of the realm’s noble houses, much of them coming from the Reach given their fondness for tourney, and given too that the union celebrated is that of their future wardeness.

Aemond rises in his bedchambers long before Cecily awakes, lifting the blanket and nodding in satisfaction at the specks of blood that stain the sheets. They have done their duty, and with any luck it will take right away and he will not need to put either of them through this again. He glances to Cecily’s sleeping face. Her hair – still half-braided as it was for the wedding – is a mess around her, and she sleeps with her mouth open ever so slightly. Still, she is beautiful. Even now. He cannot deny that, not a man alive could deny that.

He looks away, huffing softly to himself and standing. While he cannot deny she’s a work of art to look upon, he also cannot let himself be fooled by it. Weaker men are slaves to their desire. Aemond is not.

He dresses and leaves before she has even stirred, making his way from the Red Keep and toward the tourney grounds. He denies the offer of a litter, but accepts the escort of a gold cloak, knowing his mother will worry if he doesn't. It is not as though he could not protect himself from smallfolk if provoked, but he is not so arrogant as to think he will notice every little pickpocket that scurries the streets.

He reaches the tourney grounds with no issue, seeing a number of tents pitched bearing the sigils of many great houses. He pauses outside of one tent, gazing up at the insignia of a white tower for a moment. He clenches his jaw, glancing away before moving on and ducking into the tent emblazoned with the Three-Headed Dragon.

It is empty, of course. He is the only Targaryen to fight today, though he does not wish it so. Someone must. Aegon is no doubt being dragged from some pleasure house, Daeron is too young. And his uncle, along with Rhaenyra and her bastards have not even bothered to come. Aemond does not know if they were even invited, though he cannot say he blames them if they were. He would not go were he offered an invite to any of their weddings.

Aemond is left to represent his house, represent his half of the marriage. He huffs as a squire ducks into the tent, wide brown eyes meeting the prince. He wears a green and gold shirt, and Aemond clenches his jaw to hold back a sigh.

Another Tyrell. No doubt another of Cecily's cousins. Another benefit afforded to the Tyrells through this union, he’s sure. What else have they been given in this? How heavily they benefit from this marriage, and what does Aemond get? Perhaps the Greens have gotten security, have gotten Cecily's dowry and the likely promise of support when the issue of succession inevitably arises. But Aemond? What has he gotten? He has gotten nothing from this, nothing but humiliation and shame.

He glares at the boy as he approaches, flexing his hand before holding it up. He does not need to be dressed in his armour yet, he’s not going to waste his time. “Fetch my grandsire. I wish to speak to him.”

The boy pauses in his footsteps, mouth dropping open. Aemond supposes he’s frightened of him. Or just a fool.

“The Hand of the King, boy,” he snaps. “Lord Otto Hightower. Go.”

The boy nods, bowing clumsily before rushing out of the tent and leaving Aemond alone once again. He takes a seat by the table, fingers flexing as he awaits his grandsire’s presence. He respects him, of course, but he cannot help but want to chew the man out for organising this, and all but forcing him to participate.

(Though in truth Otto did not force him, but it’s his own wedding tourney, what kind of man would not participate in his own celebration? To let other men fight for his own wife would be all but declaring himself a weakling and a cuckold.)

Otto arrives soon after, and Aemond stands to greet him with a scowl, an all too comfortable expression. “Grandsire,” he says before the man can say anything. “This tourney is a farce.”

“I am glad you think so,” says Lord Otto, amusement on his face. “And yet you participate?”

“Well, I must, mustn’t I? But I should not have to, this should not be happening. She is blind, grandsire. She cannot even watch the proceedings.”

“No, but she is from the Reach. Her house and their banners would not be pleased if we stole from them an opportunity to show their support for her by way of their favourite tradition.”

Aemond’s jaw clenches for he knows his words are true. “Was her opinion on the matter considered?”

“We did not ask her. Her father agreed.”

Aemond laughs bitterly. At least they are equal in that regard. It is a sobering reminder that this marriage is not theirs but rather their parents’. Their names are joined but not their souls.

Otto tilts his head at his grandson. “There was no obligation for you to participate,” he reminds him. “I am well aware of your disdain for tourney. I would not have asked this of you.”

“That is not what this is about. It is a humiliation, like this marriage is.”

Otto sighs, approaching the tense prince. “This is what must be done to secure the safety of our house, Aemond. We must all make sacrifices, and this is yours. Marrying a comely, clever young woman is not exactly the heaviest of sacrifices.”

Comely, he knows. She is beautiful, and for prayers to the old gods and the new he cannot get her smiling face out of his head. Clever, he doubts. She has not spoken anything particularly shrewd or insightful to him yet.

(He ignores the voice that tells him he has not given her the chance to. If she were truly clever, she would have shown it without needing to be asked.)

“Do you wish to withdraw from the joust?”

“No!” Aemond snaps, not even making the Hand flinch. “I will not add to my growing pile of humiliations. I will fight today. And I will win.”

Otto chuckles dryly. “Do so with honour,” he reminds. “The Reach likes chivalry. They will like you better if you show it.”

Aemond says no more, watching Otto duck out of the tent and considering his words a moment. He is right, of course. He does need the Reach to like him, whether he wishes it or not. Aemond was not planning to fight without honour, but he decides then that he will be chivalrous. Whatever that fucking means.

Some hours later Aemonds rides out onto the tourney ground on a horse the colour of Arbour gold, thankful for his helmet so that the crowds cannot see his frown. He turns his eyes to the king’s box, urging the horse toward it. He has but little care for the horse beneath him as anything more than a vessel, though he knows men of the Reach treat their horses like an extension of themselves.

He cannot imagine troubling himself with such a fickle beast when he has a dragon. This farce would certainly be over faster were he able to ride in on Vhagar.

He spots Cecily easily in the box, seated between his mother and Flora. She wears a structured blue gown draped and lined with pearls, and her dark hair is pulled back and similarly secured with a winding string of pearls.

When Aemond approaches and lifts the visor of his helmet, Flora gently coaxes her to stand, and Aemond can see the upset and concern on Cecily’s face as she approaches the balcony with a ring of white flowers clutched in her hands. “Lord husband?” She calls over the balcony, leaning forward as though she might be able to see him.

“Yes, my lady,” he calls back, trying to force the annoyance out of his voice. Why else would Flora have guided her to him? “I hoped I might be so lucky as to earn my wife’s favour.”

He wonders if the words sound as ridiculous to Cecily as they do to him. He lifts his lance to rest against the balcony, sparing Cecily of the need of trying to throw it. She gently grabs the end of it, carefully lacing the ring of flowers over it and letting it fall down toward Aemond.

“Fight well,” she calls to him, offering him a smile. “Be careful.”

He hums, though he knows she can’t hear it at this distance. His gaze shifts to Flora, who grants him an apologetic smile.

“Many apologies, my prince!” She calls. “I have promised my favour to my brother, Ser Leo. You understand, of course.”

Aemond supposes he does. He would not accept her favour regardless. Flora is not his wife, as much as he might prefer it.

Flora offers him a big smile, leaning forward. “He is set to join the Kingsguard! Is that not exciting?”

She certainly seems excited enough, though Aemond cannot much see why. He glances back to Cecily, who is smiling more now and seems at ease with the idea. Ah, he realises. Flora is naive not to notice what he and, evidently, Cecily have. Promising Ser Leo to the Kingsguard removes him from the line of succession to Highgarden. He is a threat to Cecily’s ascension, but swearing the white will have him neutralised. A fine enough idea on Lord Martyn’s part–

“‘Twas Cecily’s idea!” Flora declares proudly.

Aemond fails to hide the surprise on his face when he turns his eyes to Cecily. Despite himself, he finds himself inching closer to the willingness to admit she is clever indeed.

“Good luck, lord husband,” Cecily says, all but dismissing him.

Aemond nods, lowering his visor and riding off. He hopes this is over with soon. Were he weaker, he’d throw it and knock himself out of the running in the first round, but this is his wedding. And they’re already underestimating him, he knows it. They think because of his halved vision he will be weak, incapable of the joust. They are wrong.

He will prove them wrong and crown his wife the queen of love and beauty in the process.

And prove them wrong he does, reaching the final joist with little trouble. His last opponent is Leo Tyrell himself, with Flora’s favour still settled on his lance. His face is uncovered so that he might shoot his handsome smiles toward the crowd, and Aemond rolls his eye. There is not yet a Tyrell he’s met that he can stand. Even Flora has begun to bother him. Weak, naive, narcissists that he is now bound to by marriage.

At least he can knock one from his horse now.

He spares a glance toward the stands to see his wife, who has Flora whispering into her ear and a worried expression on her face. No doubt Flora is commentating the entire event for her, though she does not seem to be enjoying the proceedings. Does she worry for him, or for her cousin?

He huffs, putting her out of his mind and instead waiting for the bell to ring so he might knock Leo off his horse, and hopefully knock some sense into him in the process.

The bell rings, and Aemond urges his horse forward, lance poised for Leo’s shield. He grits his teeth as he goes forward, but instead of knocking his opponent from his mount, Leo’s lance hits his shield. He feels every bone in his body rattle upon impact, but he manages to keep his seat, riding past Leo and taking a deep breath in to settle the rattling in his skull.

They’re doubting you, Aemond, he says to himself. Prove them wrong.

When he surges forward again, he refuses to be humiliated. This time the lance strikes Leo, sending the young knight toppling off the back of his speckled mare. Aemond lets out a shout, allowing himself to smile since he knows no one can see it.

But by the time he returns to Leo and lifts his visor his face is trained back into his practised neutrality. Leo stands to meet him, smiling jovially as he bows his head to Aemond.

“Well done, good-cousin!” says Leo, offering a hand to Aemond. Aemond hesitates, but joins his hand with Leo’s in his best attempt at chivalry. Good-cousin. Gods, he despises that. Still, Leo does not seem the least bit bothered by his loss. Aemond cannot find it in himself to understand how that is– but perhaps when one has not been doubted all his life he does not fear the threat of second place.

“You were a worthy opponent, Ser Leo,” Aemond says. It sounds wrong on his tongue, but he hears his grandsire’s voice echo in his head. The Reach will like him better if he’s chivalrous. This is as good as they’ll get.

He leads his horse away and takes a crown of yellow and white roses from his squire. He turns it over in his hand slowly before he rides toward the box. There is no other choice in his mind, and he does not quite realise he never even considered another woman.

Though he will tell himself he wishes he were wed to Flora, his gaze finds only Cecily. He calls out to her, “Lady Cecily!”

She rises, and Flora gently guides her to the small stairway that leads down to the grounds so that she might be face to face with him. He does not quite realise it, but he is smiling as she greets him.

“My lady,” he greets, reaching out to her with the crown in his hands. “Hold up your hands?”

She does so with some hesitation, a conflicted smile on her face. He places the crown in her hands and gently guides it onto her head. “The realm may never see a queen of love and beauty more deserving of the title.”

“Thank you, lord husband,” she says, gently adjusting the crown so it sits securely over her dark hair. “It is an honour.”

“The honour is mine,” he tells her, and though he can scarcely believe this, he means it.

Once Aemond is back in his tent and freed of his armour, he is about ready to dismiss his new squire for the day when a familiar voice calls inside the tent.

“May I come in?” says Lady Cecily, her silhouette illuminated against the closed flap of the entryway.

Aemond nods to the squire and he rushes to the entrance, opening it for Cecily. The boy greets her politely and gently leads her in by the arm. She looks radiant this close, this intimate. Before, the eyes of the realm shrouded them in their shadow, now it is just them and the squire that Cecily is speaking gently to.

“Thank you, sweet cousin,” she says to the boy, giving him a warm smile. “You did very well today. I am most proud. Leave us for a moment?”

The squire rushes from the tent, and Aemond and Cecily are alone again, as they had been last night. Suddenly Aemond feels the thorny vines of insecurity wrap around his ribcage. No one is expecting them to lie together, not here so close to other ears. But part of Aemond fears that is why she is here.

Cecily stands before him in silence for a moment, hands clasped together as she picks at her nails.

“You need not have fought today,” she says after a long bout of silence. “I know this is not an opinion shared by any of my peers but I find tourney to be a dangerous and ridiculous pastime. Perhaps it is because I cannot see it, but I–”

She stops, taking a steadying breath and lifting her head, as though to look right at him. “It is a brazen display of pride, but it goeth before the fall.” Aemond fails to hide the surprise on his face. She would quote the Seven-pointed star at him? “You do not need to prove your bravery to me, lord husband.”

Aemond steps forward, placing one hand over both of hers, putting a stop to her fidgeting. “I did not fight today to prove anything to you or myself. This is your wedding tourney as much as it is mine. I could not let it pass with some other woman named the queen of love and beauty. Nor could I allow another man to give you the title.” He glances down at her hands and guides one of them to the lace on the cuff of her sleeve. He trails a gloved thumb over her nail beds, wanting to tell her off but instead only speaking gently to her. “Wear your embroidery. Fidgeting with it is not ladylike but it suits you far better than harming yourself.”

Cecily’s lips part in surprise as she takes in Aemond’s words, a soft ‘oh’ escaping her. “I see,” she says, beginning to play with the lace on her sleeve. “Well… that is very kind of you. Thank you.”

Aemond nods, hand still touching hers. He longs once more for the intoxicating heat of her bare skin touching his, cheeks heating at the memory of last night. He glances down at her lips, never more thankful that she cannot see it. Though he cannot delude himself into thinking she has not heard the rattling breath that escapes him.

I am not a slave to my desire, he reminds himself. But in doing so, he can no longer deny that he desires her. He cannot help it, to desire a woman so beautiful and smart so carnally. But he will not fall victim to his urges. That will make him no better than his brother. He clears his throat, dropping his hand and settling it behind his back, clasped with the other.

“If that is all, Lady Cecily,” he says, seeming to break her from her own reverie. “I will see you tonight.”

Cecily steps back and nods, smoothing her hands over her dress. “Yes, of course,” she says, voice softer than usual. She calls gently for her cousin, and Aemond watches as the boy leads her out. A traitorous image forces its way into Aemond’s head, of Cecily on her knees taking him from behind. He inhales sharply, looking away and clenching his fists.

Damn it.

#icymi #just a late morning reblog hi

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perfinn · 9 days