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moris-auri · 3 months

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A Sermon on Desire

Aemond x Abeni of the Summer Isles (oc)

Summary: Vexed and nearly at his wit's end, Aemond Targaryen, in a rare moment of weakness, seeks refuge in the Sept. Will a chance encounter give him the divine answers he seeks?

Warnings; NSFW 18+, oral (m receiving), smut, alluded praise kink, overstim, teasing, edging, sexual tension, religious guilt, p in v sex

A/N; a collab w/ the lovely @bottlesandbarricades 💕💕💕, the sheer fun I had brainstorming and writing this in DM's with you is indescribable and I adore you 💕💕🥰

Word count: 6.4k

Torn.

That was the best way to describe it, the feeling of being pulled in so many different directions. Of being stretched so thin that it wore at the very threads of him until he had one choice left but to let the weight of the tension, the expectation and ultimately the guilt swallow him whole.

It was an amusing thought really, for a man, a prince to boot, one who prided himself on presenting a front of perfection to the world, to be in such a state of disarray behind closed doors. That his internal identity would be so fractured and contradictory with a crack running through his core that was as deep and jagged like the scar on his face, splitting and dividing his very soul until he strained under the weight of duty and loyalty that would always be his burden to carry.

He would never truly be able to balance the scales or quell and silence the whispers that he was not Targaryen enough; not Hightower enough that dogged his every move no matter how hard he tried. It was like trying to combine oil and water, a seemingly futile effort.

An endless cycle where one would always outbalance the other like an elixir that would forever be just out of his reach. After all, there are no chartered courses for second sons, no preset destinations but to be adrift, left to rot and rust and bob aimlessly in the harbour.

For as long as he could remember, he could always feel it, the restless pull of the tide that clung to him like an iron lock with no key fastened around his ankle, leaving him with no set route as the moorings suffocated and closed in on him, all but dooming him to drown in doubt as uncertainty began to gnaw at him, eating away at his insides like wildfire as he blindly grasped for some form of conviction and purpose.

True faith was still a mystery to him, the worship of the gods, both old and new. It had never quite come easily to him, not in the same way it did for others, like it did for his mother for example, who never seemed to doubt her unwavering belief in the Seven for even a moment, wearing her piety like it was her shield, her armour. He remembered, before he’d lost his eye, obediently trailing behind her as a child every time she had visited the Sept, kneeling beside her for hours till his knees ached, never saying a word. Never questioning, always obeying.

Then came the conflict.

As he grew and his studies progressed, his youthful past ignorance gave way to newer thoughts. With the more he learned, the more knowledge he gained and acquired, the more he struggled to reconcile the queer customs of his ancestors, whose Gods seemed far more liberal in regards to the strict doctrine of the Seven and what which was regarded as sin by the several aspects expressed within the pages of his seven-pointed star.

So he did as he'd always done, turning to books and using them as a means to escape. He’d tried to read his way out of his emotions and doubts, searching for the divine within the pages and the walls lined with books, rather than at the foot of an altar.

He studied them all. From the Old Gods of the North and the Drowned God of the Iron Islands to R’hllor of Essos and beyond, translating the writings of the Moonsingers of Braavos and the Ghiscari Graces of Slaver’s Bay and deciphering the stories of the Great Stallion of the Dothraki and the lesser-known beliefs of the Summer Isles.

He found parallels and contrasts within them all, common threads and other little details that bound them together and highlighted the differences so distinct that showed how they were truly worlds apart.

But what was the truth of it? Who had the truth of it?

He persisted nevertheless, soldiering on as he poured over volume after volume after volume of various religious texts, hunched over at of the many tables in the Keep’s library night after night, tracing the scrawled words with both eye and finger, his only source of light being the candles he had burning late into the night, blinking as he felt the exhaustion slowly set in, the words and ideas began to blur together, the lingering thought that there had to be answers, and that one way or another, he would find them.

The lingering knowledge that he knew there was a possibility that he would never truly understand remained, for there seemed to be no closure to be found, and his faith stayed unaffirmed, and instead of the enlightenment he sought, it felt like the exposure had infected his mind as the questions only seemed to multiply.

Aemond sought distraction after distraction as he chanced on books of a more sinful nature and rife with temptation. Something to take his mind off the thoughts of lost faith that swirled and uncertain guilt which lurked in the pit of his stomach. He knew he would marry one day, that he would be tied to a girl of some noble House that in the end, would bolster Aegon’s claim when he was placed on the Iron Throne. After all, that wasn't always the plan?

He knew that no matter what the other Lords loyal to his elder half-sister wanted to believe. What his father refused to see. That as harsh as it was, the truth would never change, and it was both by precedent and by his right as the firstborn son, the Iron Throne would always be his brother’s. Aemond would do his duty, as he always had, shouldering the weight of his duty with a stiff lip and an even stiffer spine, letting his reservations and his bitterness fester on his tongue like spoiled sour wine.

He had been in the Sept for hours, having slipped past the great doors after the sun had set the night before, one thought on his mind. His knees had long since grown numb and stiff from the cold as he knelt with his hands joined before him in the silence, suffering the pain with a quiet stoic dignity, alone save for the incense swirling around him in opaque wisps, silently repeating the many prayers that had been ingrained in his core by his mother and the Septons as soon as he was old enough.

For what was pain in a place like this? A place where his Mother’s gods were watching and judging his every move? That’s what he hoped anyway, what he so desperately wished to believe. Then again, if these were the true Gods, then surely they would see through this facade of false piety he performed for the sake of appearances, that they would see him play out this false mummery of deceptive devotion daily. Part of him wondered if this was his punishment, that maybe the Gods remained silent to torment him further. After all, did he, of all the people in this city, deserve absolution?

There was a feeling now as he knelt, seeing his face reflected in the polished marble. A strange, out-of-body feeling washing over him that he, with his silver hair and violet eye, had no place here.

His musings were cut off when a small noise pulled him from his thoughts, a signal that he was no longer alone. His head jerked as the faint sound of bells broke the stagnant quiet, body twisting around to see a woman standing in the centre of the Sept with her head tilted backwards. At first glance, he supposed she must hail from the Summer Isles, judging from the feathers so sought after by the ladies of the court upon her garb.

Her hair was long, swept behind her and braided and adorned with a hundred little gold beads woven throughout that chimed as she moved. Her dark eyes drifted curiously over everything, from the statues of each godhead, from the pale stone and hints of brushed brass to the votive offerings and low burning candles to the vaulted ceilings and high windows, which cast streaks of light onto the polished slabs.

Aemond groaned as he stood, the cold of the Sept’s floor little help to his aching limbs, the sound faint yet loud enough for her to hear over the distance. Her sandalled feet were almost silent, save for the low sound of her heel clicking softly on the cool stone floor as she turned around, catching his eye upon her, flashing a set of pearly teeth as she sauntered closer towards him.

“I’ve never seen a Sept before,” she explained in a hushed voice so as to not disturb the tranquillity. “It is very… dark.” Her accent was unusual to his ears, yet her common tongue was excellently spoken. “And cold,” she added, rubbing her bare upper arms as gooseflesh prickled across the skin. It was then that he noticed the other bits of gold that adorned her, the delicate bangles enclosing her wrists and the intricate bands of gold in her ears and at her throat.

Aemond noted that her dress was more suited to a warmer climate, brightly coloured and richly embroidered, it stood out vibrantly against her skin, making the Sept itself look almost plain, commonplace and colourless around her. Sleeveless and cut away at the waist, it revealed more flesh than anything he'd seen worn by even the most daring Westerosi women of high fashion. It was very much the sort of thing that his Mother would turn her nose up at in silent judgement as a moral failing and default of character, yet Aemond could not find fault in her appearance.

Whoever this stranger was, there was no doubt that she was a woman of means.

“I cannot feel the Gods here I fear.” The stranger sighed, running her ringed fingers along the smooth surface of the altar. “This place is beautiful, yet it feels closer to a crypt than it does a place of worship. So still, so silent and lacking life.”

A crypt. Aemond had never considered how truly alike they were, remembering all the times when he had wondered if he was talking to the dead, rather than the Gods his mother so cherished as he knelt at the altar with his hands joined.

"It is more open where I am from," she said, and he could hear the fondness she had for her home. "We are a freer people, ones not so restricted as you are."

Aemond realised now that he had not yet spoken a word, though that did not seem to bother the young woman, who seemed content to continue her observations without his input. As if he were one amongst the statues of the Seven, himself. A silent observer constructed of carved marble.

The opportunity to take his leave came when she turned away from him to admire the figure of the Stranger, allowing him to slip away like a ghost and leave the Lady to continue her explorations in peace.

The blistering sun, already high in the sky, beat down on the city when he stepped out from the gloom of the Sept, hit almost instantly by the dazzling sunlight and the dry air of the city. It took a moment for his eye to adjust, the pupil expanding and contracting as it grew accustomed to the brightness, his relief disturbed only by the twinge of pain behind his eyepatch.

"You are Prince Aemond Targaryen, are you not?" He stopped at the sound of his name, not having noticed her following him. His pause gave her the chance to catch up several steps behind him. "I've heard of you."

I’ve heard of you.

They were words Aemond was not fond of hearing, knowing that his reputation left much to be desired. He remained silent as a muscle ticked in his jaw, only letting out a hum of affirmation in response, squinting through the bright sunlight. Amusement danced across her face as her lips twitched, her gaze sharp as she studied him from where he stood before her. "You are the rider of the largest dragon in the realm. Or so I heard."

“Yes,” he answered stiffly, his throat feeling as dry as the dirt under his boots. He’d never been the best at small talk, for it was an art he had no natural skill in and even attempting to converse when the topic surrounded himself was a task of even greater difficulty, as well as one he fervently disliked.

"Dragons are almost all things of myth, where I come from, beasts of legend and lore," she said lightly, excitement written plainly across her fine features as she talked. “What a blessing it must be to be bonded with such a creature such as yours.”

Aemond turned to face her, grateful for the change in conversation. “I don’t believe I have caught your name?” he asked, breaking the silence.

"Abeni of the Summer Isles, my Prince."

Bold and self-assured, she offered a small bow. It was graceful, yet unsteady enough Aemond could sense it was unpracticed. “I apologize if this is incorrect. I am not quite as familiar with Westerosi greeting practices,” she laughed, causing Aemond’s mouth to twitch upward at the sound.

“You are far from home then, my Lady,” Aemond replied, clasping his hands behind him. Encased in his leathers as he was, the sun on his back was uncomfortable, beads of sweat forming at his temple and under his collar before sliding down his spine.

She let out another laugh at that, richer than the last. “I am, indeed. Though the world seems not so vast when you have a fast ship," she said as she glanced his way, "Or a dragon, I suppose.”

“Pray, what brings you to King’s Landing?” He enquired politely, courteous as always.

“A little business, a little pleasure.” Abeni smiled playfully, streams of light catching in her dark hair, as black as a raven’s wing. A breeze wafted in off the bay ruffled against her skirts, sending perfume wafting towards him, a rich scent that carried undertones of something floral that he could not name. “Alas, for now I must return to my ship,” she murmured apologetically, “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, my Prince.”

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek as he struggled to find words, hampered once again by a stilted awkwardness.

“I could show it to you sometime,” she offered, sensing his discomfort. Her ability to read him was rather unsettling, if not intriguing. “If you wish, that is? I would never seek to presume-”

Aemond flushed, color flooding his face when she smiled, eyes alighting with delight. “Of course,” he agreed hastily, the warmth of her natural charm and charisma putting him slightly more at ease. He cleared his throat, “My Lady.”

She'd been in the city for several turns of the moon when restlessness began to set in, the itch for adventure and return to the sea growing day by day, and had taken to spending most of her time on the docks, where the stink of the city was lessened slightly by the sea air, and Aemond, more than desperate to escape the stench of death as the King grew weaker and weaker, had grasped the opportunity for what it was with both hands, taking her up on the offer.

The first time he had seen her ship, he had been more than a little in awe of it, listening with one ear as she spoke. The name, she had murmured, was a rough translation from Summer Tongue as The Wanderer in Common Tongue. He knew little of that particular ship, but had read bits of how swan ships could sail faster than galleys, but without wind to steer them, were useless, not that Aemond was well versed in the usefulness of ships and their qualities.

It was truly a marvel to behold the longer he had looked at it, the curving, swooped lines adding an elegance to its design. The red-stained varnish that coated that exterior of the vessel was constructed from set it apart from the other, duller ships, the shade of it not too dissimilar to the stones of the Red Keep itself, and it seemed more of a work of art than a functioning ship, befitted with large white sails and finely carved figureheads of various birds.

“I hear the skull of the Black Dread resides in your Keep, my Prince.”

Her voice came from his blind side, and he startled, half turning towards her when he felt her hand slide to rest in the crook of his elbow. He tilted his head down to meet her gaze, looking down his nose at her. "Abeni."

The strength of her grip on his arm was unexpected, but not surprising from someone who spent most of their time, if not all of it, at sea. “I would like to see it,” she added, looking at him expectantly. “If you would indulge me?”

The reds and oranges and yellows candles lit before the massive dragon skull are reflected in her eyes, adding more warmth to the rich hue. Aemond wondered what she was thinking, whether she was envisioning what the Conqueror’s dragon had been like before age claimed him, and Meraxes decades before, leaving Vhagar as the last living remnant of the Conquest.

His eye widened when she muttered something under her breath, the all too familiar tones of High Valyrian falling from her lips. “You speak Valyrian.” Aemond commented, failing to hide his surprise. A new light dawned in his eye as he looked at her, one that was an equal combination of enthrallment and carefully concealed curiosity.

“I speak a few languages,” she shrugged, not tearing her gaze from the skull before her. “During my studies, I found many errors in the translations by the ones you call Maesters.” Abeni explained, running her hand along the side of the skull. “It was then that I realised that if I truly wished to understand a text, it was best to do so in its original tongue.” She said, moving her fingers higher, edging closer to the rows of jagged teeth.

A kindred spirit? Aemond’s blood burned with excitement at this newly revealed common ground. Written word after all was one of his favourite pastimes. Devouring philosophies and histories in the same manner most men consumed meat and ale. “The attitude of a true scholar.” Aemond smiled subconsciously as he moved closer. “I have come across some truly shameful translations in my time. Ones that were pitiful, to say the least.”

"Oh?" This seemed to have caught her attention as she pulled her eyes from the skull to focus on him. The low glow of the candles illuminated her curious brown eyes. "What was this mistranslation?"

"It was one of the more depraved texts," Aemond responded, "Something about Valyrian Dragonlords entering sexual congress with dragons to achieve their bond.”

“Blood of the dragon, indeed,” she laughed. Her face shone with excitement at this new matter of conversation. “I, myself, am inclined to believe the bond was forged as the result of blood magic - spells and such.”

“Tis a ridiculous notion. There is no evidence for copulation with dragons,” he huffed indignantly. “After all, the people of Old Valyria would not have engaged in such…sexual immorality. They were a five thousand year old civilization who were…” he fell silent when something flashed across her face. Whatever it was, Aemond could not tell.

“When it comes to texts that have been translated by someone within a religious sect,” she kisses her teeth, “I am always suspicious of a suppression of truth to serve an agenda, my Prince.”

“I think it is always unwise to pass judgement on sexual behaviour between those willing and able. Who gets to determine what is moral and correct, but the Gods themselves?” Abeni continued, her words sharp.

“The Faith is very clear on sin. On wanton depravity and mindless fornication like we are naught but beasts,” Aemond replied, and for a moment he had surprised himself, it felt as if his mouth had moved of its own accord and his Mother’s words had come tumbling out.

Like a red rag to a bull, it only seemed to infuriate her more. The scalding realisation washed over him then, the implications of his careless words. She stiffened, crossing her arms across her chest as she raised her chin defensively. “In the Summer Isles, The arts of love are a holy skill,” she said hotly, eyes bright. “Tis not something to be ashamed of,” she snapped, too angered by what he had said to remember who she was speaking to.

“I.. I was not suggesting anything-” he babbled, fumbling for words. “I only meant that-”

"Is this not what the gods have fashioned us for? To love and be loved?" she challenged, her accent growing more with each word she spoke. "They've fashioned us in their image," she continued vehemently. "Gave us our hands to build and our voices to sing.”

“I-” struck speechless for once, the words he’d wanted to say would not come, as if they were trapped, locked within his throat by some higher being. “The faith-” he said finally, albeit weakly. “I believe that-”

“I don’t believe you,” she bit out. “I watched you in the Sept," she admitted, her vehemence fading slightly, her shoulders slumping. “You were there out of duty, not to show devotion to your Gods.”

He blinked as she raised a brow, studying him before she crooked her finger in his direction, beckoning him closer. “I want you,” she murmured quietly when he was within reach, one hand gripping his shoulder as she stretched up on her toes to brazenly brush a kiss along the ridge of his cheek. “Tonight, before I depart,” she clarified. “Let me show you what your Gods of cold marble deny you. What you deny yourself in worshipping them.”

His hands curled and flexed at his sides, brow furrowing as apprehension settled over him. “Not here." he said, feeling his skin begin to prickle uncomfortably, for though the dragon was nothing more than a time-darkened skull, Aemond still felt the weight of it behind him, heavy and oppressive as he wrapped his fingers around hers, tugging her from the room.

Within the privacy of his chambers, they were a tangle of limbs as her hands moved over him, her fingers nimbly undoing the clasps of his tunic one by one before moving onto his breeches, and lastly, his boots.

Her gaze trailed over him from head to toe when he finally stood bare before her. The expression on her face was carefully set, yet he could see the slow stirrings of something in her dark eyes. Before he could even utter a word, she had stepped even closer, her breath puffs of air against his cheeks. She trailed the tips of her fingers up his face, stopping on the raised skin just below the not so innocuous square of leather of his eyepatch. His last shield; his last defense to hide the cavity where the sapphire stone sat in the ruin of his eye.

Her eyes flicked up to his when he curled his hand around her wrist, stilling her movement. “Don’t.” He murmured, swallowing his relief when she didn’t push. He let his hand fall back to his side as he watched her, his eye following the path of her fingers as they moved over the line of his shoulders and the planes of his abdomen, each touch of her hands on some part of him cool on his scorching skin.

She stepped away suddenly, her hands reaching for the strings that held her dress together, twirling them around her finger slowly until the garment pooled at her feet. His eye stayed on her as she turned around, glancing once over her shoulder at him, one hand on the edge of his bed.

“I quite like you like this,” she murmured after he had scrambled behind her. He flushed, large patches of red dusting across the fair skin of his cheekbones and across the base of his throat, an almost unnoticeable tremor in his hands as his long fingers flexed at his sides.

“Like what?” he swallowed, feeling the shame that welled inside him at her words, potent and as rich as summer wine.

“Debauched,” she briefly settled back on her haunches to survey him, trailing her fingers over his stomach teasingly, watching with rapture as the muscles shifted under his skin. “Beautiful,” she added after a pause. She shifted suddenly, the bed dipping under her weight as she leaned forward, brushing a loose strand of his hair back.

Aemond shuddered, the sensation of her fingertips ghosting across his skin sending sparks shooting through him at her praise. “What are you doing?” he stammered the words, panting and wide-eyed. His heart began to beat a rhythm against his ribs, skin glistening in the low light of the candles from the fine sheen of sweat that coated his skin and pooled at the base of his throat.

"You are too tense," she demurred, hovering over him as she pressed him backwards, threading her fingers with his. His breath hitched as the ends of her hair brushed across his stomach, the sensation raising a wave of gooseflesh across his skin. “Relax,” she clucked her tongue, pressing a kiss to his hip.

His mind spun, any and all thoughts that had been in his head disappeared as she retreated, going lower with a singular focus. Her movements were lazy and unhurried, each slow and tormenting swipe of her tongue along the underside of his cock driving him mad.

He tried to think of something, anything, to distract himself from the sight of her between his thighs, but failed, squeezing his eye closed so tightly tears leaked from the corners, the feeling of her mouth on his cock ripping a strangled, ragged moan from his chest as his muscles spasmed, going rigid as he stiffened.

Too much. Too much.

And yet he wanted more.

For how could depravity be so beautiful? This was not like the base and corrupt like that in which Aegon indulged. Not immoral or degrading. It was exquisite pleasure as natural as breathing. A sublime thrill. Pleasure for pleasure's sake. Not born of duty, but of something else.

Something else that could not be found in any holy text.

The exchange of heat. The exchange of energy. Finding balance at last. Giving and taking. Back and forth. Achieving an elevated state of being for but a brief moment, to make you thank the Gods you were alive. A blessing in more ways than one. For what was worship if it was not warm and soft and loud and joyful? It was not meant to be cold and hard like marble beneath his knees, nor made of silence and sorrowfully murmured scripture.

Aemond jolted, squirming as she nipped at the skin over his ribs, and again when she licked a stripe down his stomach before blowing air over it. "Please," his voice cracked as a fist tightened at the base of his spine, the veins in his hands growing more pronounced as his hand slapped against the bedding, bunching the sheets in his fist. His head fell back, a silent plea building on the tip of his tongue as the warmth of the room seemed to close in on him, suffocating and unbearable.

She retreated, stretching like a cat as her fingers trailed a path over his shoulders as she leaned down to brush her mouth against his, the friction of her body sliding against his too much, yet not enough. “You are temptation in the flesh, come to torment me,” he exhaled raggedly against her skin as his hair spilled behind him, sliding over his shoulders in silver waves, so locked within a haze of lust and pleasure, he didn't know where his body ended and hers began.

“There is no shame in it," her legs tightened around his waist as she grasped at his jaw, pulling his face away from the side of her throat. "Let them hear you.” Her words slipped into a tongue foreign to him then, and though their meaning was lost to him, their sentiment transcended spoken word. It felt like flying. Like he was weightless. Like he was floating on water and untethered from all mortal bonds without a care in the world.

He mumbled her name, once, twice, three times, a desperate cry clawing at his throat at the high that swept over him with a force so violent it knocked the breath from his chest before he fell boneless and limp on his back beside her, panting as he fought to regain control of his breathing, reduced to nothing but a patchwork of trembling limbs and frayed, ragged edges.

“It’s futile asking you to stay, isn’t it?” Aemond murmured quietly. He felt her as she moved in the dark, from where the length of his arm pressed flush against hers. He could hear the small ornaments in her hair chime as she moved, the delicately worked gold warm against his skin. The bed shifted as she turned onto her side to face him, propping one arm underneath her.

She inhaled deeply, running the end of her tongue over her teeth as she mulled over her words. “Tis futile as asking you to come with me, I imagine. You have a duty here, my Prince. One that binds you to your family." She smiled sadly at him, brushing the pads of her fingers over the sharp angles of his face, tracing them down from the top of his head all the way to his jaw and back again in a soothing motion that brought forth a deep sigh as his eye fluttered closed. Aemond could hear the sorrow that she could not quite hide, an undercurrent woven just under the surface.

He did not push, instead returning his gaze back to the hangings over his bed as a fresh wave of conflict began to form inside his chest, twisting and writhing inside him. He’d always been so careful, so precise in everything that he did. He was the blood of the dragon, and yet Abeni, with her foreign gods and her foreign ways, had single handedly unwound and unravelled everything he thought he knew.

She was a maelstrom, tearing through him as she obliterated and shattered his beliefs into nothing more than jagged, broken shards. And yet in a small way she had given him a miniscule taste of the freedom that she lived and breathed with nothing to hold her back.

She was right, though. The chains of duty and familial loyalty would always be constricting, too tight and too heavy for him to shake completely, and though she had loosened their pinch, he would never truly be able to escape them. It seemed their paths were only destined to cross for the briefest moment. She must go, and he must stay. Able to coexist, but unmixable. A case of oil and water once again. Time was luck and Aemond desperately wished theirs overlapped more.

Or for longer.

Afterall, what could he truly offer Abeni? His love? Possibly, one day, maybe. But nothing more than that. He was not free to marry whomever he wished. Not free to live however he wished. He knew that if he asked her to stay, her life would be constricted to a gilded cage, a prison of red brick walls filled with secrecy, the conditions in which she would wither and fade into naught but a shell of herself.

Aemond could never, would never, do that to her, not even if she was willing. He could never watch her clip her wings in such a fashion just for the sake of his desire to possess her. Like the birds engraved upon her ship, wild and untamed like a dragon, she wasn’t something to be chained as he was, free in more ways than one, free to go wherever she wished and to do whatever she pleased, unburdened by both duty and the expectations of others.

"Let me return the favour," he rasped, pulling his hand away from her hip.

She stared up at him, desire sparking again in her dark eyes. “Oh?”

"Yes." She squirmed as his hot breath fanned over her already sensitive skin as his hands drifted higher, the backs of his knuckles brushing across the swell of her breasts. He grinned at her reaction, running his nose along her throat.

"You learn fast," she observed, her arms looping around his neck as he moved, lightly running his fingers along her ribs, squeezing at her waist. As his lips grazed over her navel, he shifted off the edge of the bed, bare knees meeting the plush softness of the rug.

“Feels oddly familiar," he smirked, nipping at the inside of her thigh just above her knee. "Though I must confess the view from the foot of the altar is rarely as remarkable as this is.”

Even in the dim candlelight, he could see the wetness glistening between her legs. He teasingly dragged his fingers through the slick that had gathered, the evidence of their earlier tryst mixed with fresh arousal. Grasping the meat of her thighs to pull her closer and grant him better access, he gently spread them, admiring the way she clenched around nothing. The sight was enough to make his cock ache with renewed want where it rested against his thigh.

His eye trained upon her face with burning intensity as his arm curled around the curve of her waist, lifting her slightly to angle her hips, responding to her gasps, guided by her low moans as he slid his finger deep within her, experimentally searching until he found the spot he sought, the one that made her back arch so nicely. He revelled in her scent and in the rise and fall of her chest as she gripped the edge of the bed.

A sight worthy of worship, of reverence.

Filled with deep satisfaction at her response, he pressed forward with new confidence, running his nose between her folds, allowing his tongue to explore with tentative licks. Aemond fought the urge to smirk as he wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked.

Trial and error. Toying with pressure and the movements of his tongue. Technique evolving with the intoxicating sighs and moans he coaxed from her mouth, watching her grind her hips, craving more pressure, more friction, bowing upwards as her moans grew louder.

Urged on by the shake of her thighs, Aemond doubled his efforts. He hissed when she tugged at his hair, encouraging him further to bolder action. Delighting in the feeling of her groans and rewarded with the juices which coated his lips and chin. “Look at me,” he panted, gently grasping Abeni’s chin between his thumb and finger. Her eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze, the dark of her pupils blown wide and hazy, unfocused with pleasure.

Gods, she was a vision. A breathless beauty in a twist of sheets.

Unable to resist, Aemond softly swiped his thumb across her bottom lip before capturing her mouth with his own again, little more than a messy meeting of teeth and tongue, his lack of skill made up tenfold by a feral, ardent hunger. He was in his element as he committed every second of this to memory, swearing he would never forget this as he gripped the swell of her hips, pleased by the way she met his thrusts.

Chasing the feeling building in his gut, Aemond pressed his forehead to hers as he leaned heavily against her as his pace began to falter, only faintly feeling the pain where her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders. His eyepatch caught in her hair as he did, slipping free from his head before falling to the side, and his breath froze in his chest. He pulled away, the lust and desire that had been there but a moment before fading. He turned his face away, tensing further at the feel of her fingers tracing over his scar.

“Why do you hide?” The feeling of her fingers drawing circles on his arm pulled him from his thoughts as she observed his face with an expression of interest, as if she was trying to read his mind. He didn't answer, keeping the marred side in shadow. Abeni slid her hand under his chin, tightening her grasp slightly as a means to make him look at her. "Why?"

Aemond searched her face, seeing no disgust or revulsion at the sight of his wound. He swallowed and fisted the sheet, throat bobbing with the movement, his sapphire glinting as it caught the candle flame, sending spots of blue tinted light over the sheets. "I-"

He licked his lip, hand flexing atop the bedding. It was as if a stone lodged in his throat, the words he wanted to say echoing around in his head, but refusing to come out.

“I need you to make me a promise, my prince.” Aemond's eye fixed on her again, watching as she bit her lip, fighting the urge to shiver when she set her hand over his. “Promise me that you will remember to live while you’re diligently toiling away for them,” Abeni smiled, a trace of sadness lingering in it. “Life is hard enough without restricting yourself from simple pleasures. Don’t forget to indulge. Please.”

He stayed quiet, pulling her to him with one hand on her back. His breath mingled with hers as he kissed her again, softer this time, as if to pour everything he could not say into it.

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ladystarksneedle · 3 months

Text

Darkly, delicately

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Character

Warnings: Minor character death, mentions of period typical crimes and their punishments, prostitution, implied smut.

Word count: 4.7k

Summary: All her life Meynara has struggled to belong. Captured and taken to a land far away she's made her place in the world of Westeros with allies she can count on one hand. With the siege of Duskendale by the army of King Aegon II, she finds herself facing odds that change the course of her life once again, weaving her fate to the tune of the dragon in a dance hidden through time, as the war between the blacks and the greens rages on.

Link to read on ao3: here

She hears the bell ring twice as the castle erupts in chaos. “Noom, Narrah, Nyel” she chants to herself as the third dong reverberates through the wind drowning the screams around her before she's shoved hastily to the safety of the dingy cellars below. The scent of sweat fills her nostrils as she navigates the musty cramped quarters, filled to the brim with anxious ladies clasping their hands in prayer as they kneel together trying to stifle their whimpers. Lady Meredyth wrings her hands nervously as she stares into the distance, somber in demeanor. A moment of recognition seems to pass through her eyes as she spots her near the hastily barred door, before she turns abruptly to question her ladies maids’ who bow their heads in response. She finds her place near one of the walls, turning away from the woman reprimanding those around her to assess the scene in silence. Ever since the war began she knew the siege was inevitable. The family of the dragon had torn themselves in two embroiling most of the realm in their chaos and it was about time they too were hit with the consequences of their support. One of the dragons would soon grace their skies, she only hoped it wasn't their queen. Rumors of the kinslayer had wafted through Duskendale these past few moons. Round the winding harbor and the cobbled streets, onto the market square threatened over a bargain gone wrong, passed around taverns along with a drink in hand all up to the Dun Fort and it's gates in hushed whispers carrying over inwards to the pale walls enclosing winding threads weaved together for their lady, his name had evoked fear, disgust and surprising wonder alike. As the clashes of metal drew nearer to them she wondered how long it would take for him to finally reach his mark.

Seven blows was all it took to bring down the giant gate of the Dun Fort. The irony of the number isn't lost on her as they are rounded up in the central courtyard by noon. Captives surround her in haphazard lines along the posts and below the outer gate manned by armed men in green, their banner of the three headed dragon glinting maliciously in the sun. Some of the women struggle to stifle their sobs as they watch their husbands and sons being rounded up for slaughter before being hushed with a shove and a sharp word. She cranes her neck to see an older man at the head flanked by two heads of silver around a familiar face kneeling in chains.

“People of Duskendale, you face the price of your betrayal! Lord Darklyn has condemned you all but the King is just and merciful. Whoever wishes to make good on their vows again and pledge allegiance to the true heir to the Iron throne need only speak it now and his grace shall consider their folly pardoned” booms the older man, his tanned skin streaked with the blood of the burning ports. She hears a few whispers of indignation and fear before a handful of knights step forward to pledge their allegiance. It is a meager number which she realizes dissatisfies them deeply.

“Very well then” murmurs the King before they hear a shrill roar near the top of the castle. There in all his glory, perched atop the highest parapet, she sees a beast so beautiful, unworthy of the carnage it has wreaked, yet as it growls and makes its way towards them with its scales of shimmering gold she feels the true power that the men before her yielded. More of the folk around her now rush to bend the knee, hastily murmuring their pleas and apologies as the men in green smile haughtily. A lone eye, stern in its gaze, catches her unmoving. She suppresses the shiver that runs through her as she curtsies in response. The urge to live has long outlasted whatever moral code runs through the heart of the realm and it does not fail her today. Somewhere to the side she hears a familiar scoff of distaste. “It won't be my head on a spike when they're done with us” she thinks as she stares at her rival in defiance. Lady Meredyth scorns her in response as she's dragged off to witness the event of the day. Lord Gunthor kneels a few paces before her, locking eyes with their captors before turning to face her with hurt and disdain. She sees him gaze at her for a moment before offering a few words of comfort to his wife along with affirming his allegiance to the Queen with pride. She feels a quiver of fear pass through him, a cry of anguish a few feet away and an unrelenting stare on her as he's beheaded. A hush falls over the courtyard as the deed is done and the guffaws resume their way to the main hall shoving all in their path. Somewhere in the distance her heart leaps, far away across the fishing villages dotting the skyline towards the ruins of Hollard castle near the fork of the Crownlands. Duskendale would face a similar fate tonight.

She wastes no time in making herself scarce. She trains her ear on the whispers clinging to the walls as she makes her way downwards. They have been sacked by a little under three thousand men amassed during their journey through Rosby and Stokeworth that are to stay on till further word from the King. The lower kitchens and the halls are filled to the brim and are easy to blend into as she hurries towards her destination. She finds herself taking the familiar flight of stairs past the makeshift bakery to wind down to a hidden door below. Exactly three knocks later it opens to reveal a harsh face staring right at her.

“You are late”

“Forgive me for trying to stay alive” she huffs in return.

“Did they hear you?”

“Not yet”

“Let us keep it that way then.”

She knows he means to assess the threat before them both before feeding her to it. That is how it has always been, her body for the price of their safety. For all her bravado she hasn't been able to escape the clutches of home and the thread that ties her to it remains the one that cuts her the most.

“I know what I have to do”

“You move on my command Meynara, not before, nor after. We've made a decent life for ourselves here, do not go ruining it now.”

“I suppose the head of the lord staring at us as we walk through the hallways is enough of a hurdle in our path” she retorts shakily.

“As if you were ever fond of him”

“No, perhaps I wasn't. Doesn't mean I wanted him dead either”

“Life and Death are right around your corner”

“Faith shines the ability to prevail in both” she finishes turning away from him. Those were his father's words, ones that he'd told her on the boat to Westeros as they lay together shackled and starved. She remembers his eyes shining with a promise in the dark, willing her to forgo her fear. It seems a lifetime ago yet the man before her stares at her just the same. It is her gaze now which is filled with apprehension rather than the faith she's long left behind and no feelings of ardor can bring back the naive trust she has lost.

There is a feast to be held in honor of the King as Duskendale had yielded with ease, unprepared and caught off guard. Perhaps if Gunthor had insisted on better fortifications and riders rather than her religiously mounting him each night, his head wouldn't be hollow and unattached at the moment. She finds herself slinking into the shadows, with that thought, trying to keep an eye on the party at hand. The ale flows freely in the lower halls with the men getting handsy with the serving girls despite their indignation. Her only option is to reach the upper halls unnoticed hoping the stronger wine would dull them long enough to be done with her faster. She spots him in the distance as she makes her way up. He stands still near a burly man, eyes as empty as the dead hanging outside. A brief flicker of warning passes through to her before he's consumed to his farcity. Faith shall have to suffice for both of them tonight.

The main hall is decorated with banners of gold yet much sparse compared to the mess below. Anyone with a title should occupy the benches ahead of her, some newly appointed lords and generals, who all sit jesting and drinking below the dias as the men of the hour watch on. She watches the King engrossed with the head cook’s daughter fully partaking in the merriment. She sees her blush and smile coquettishly turning a lock of her hair as she entertains him and wonders how much persuasion it took for her to be offered up on a platter. Freshly plucked and naive, innocence was always coveted first at the altar, of worship and sacrifice alike.

Next to him sat two men with equally stern faces. She recognised the first with the booming voice, still in his armor refusing woman and drink alike, surveying the crowd for an imminent threat yet the man flanking the King's left drew her attention the most. To see him in person after their loss at noon made her skin tingle and the rumors had not done him justice. He sat poised, with his hair still braided for battle, eye lazily surveying the crowd like the elder man next to him, sipping from his chalice at ease. His gaze seemed unfocussed, unwilling to seek out anything in particular yet she saw through the haze. A predator responds only when it spots a worthy threat.

“What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone” she hears someone say before being grabbed by pudgy hands. The man near her reeks of nauseating sweetness. Arbor red she discerns as he leers close to her.

“Apologies my lord, I was on my way to serve the King” she lies promptly.

“Perhaps you might serve me first then. His grace would not refuse his loyal subjects tonight” he spoke earning a few jeers.

“Wait” she hears a crisp voice break through the crowd. “That one is mine”

There is no room for argument as she's pulled by two armed knights towards the dias, under the eye of the dragon.

“My my brother, you've caught a pretty one. A shame she's too old to be plucked” smirks the King playfully biting the girl on his lap.

She sees the prince ahead of her regard her with interest before beckoning her forwards with his finger. It isn't long after his appraisal that he takes her by the arm retreating to the sounds of muffled cheers. She feels him make his way around the castle assuredly, neither in haste nor at leisure, before he pulls her into the nearest chambers he can find.

“What can you do for me?” he asks abruptly, leaning against the door as he surveys her again.

“Whatever you desire my prince” she responds, as demurely as she can muster.

“I do not wish for pleasantries”

She balks at his refusal as she stands before him, tilting her head to observe him closely.

“I meant what I said”

“Are you a whore?”

“I am what you want me to be”

“If I wanted a whore I'd find one more willing, you may quit your farce”

“And what if this isn't one” she finds herself saying.

“Then I have wasted my time and I do not wish to be proven wrong”

She stares at him in bewilderment and defiance meeting his gaze as he turns to pour himself another cup of wine.

“I can entertain you to your heart's content”

“I am not a man who revels in the pleasures you seek to offer”

“You are hard to please, as any prince should be, yet I am not one to yield. Allow me to show you instead” she says confidently walking towards him. He looks at her skeptically, before his eye widens slightly upon hearing the clinks that follow her. He lets her lead him to the chaise nearby, raising an eyebrow at the sound that clings to her while she smiles at his astonishment, ready to finally play her part.

She keeps her gaze on him as she begins her routine, serpentine and sinuous, twisting her arms above her head with precision entrenched in her bones. She feels his eye take in her form, the flow of her wrists twisting like waves to the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each turn, moving in tandem with her hips all while the room jingles with the ring of threes; Noom, Narrah, Nyel. He continues his trail along her frame trying to match her pace and she sees him relax through her lids, taking in his enraptured face.

“Is this to your liking, my prince” she smirks as the ringing comes to a halt, the chanting of her soul, awake at the appraisal in his gaze. She finds her answer soon in the nights to come.

“You move to the sound of the gods” he says as they lie together, sweat clinging to them as the wind wafts through the open windows. It is the second night under the new command of Duskendale and all seems to be at rest, lying in wait for the bells to strike.

“Do you believe in them?” she whispers back, turning to regard him with mirth “I thought the Targaryens fashioned themselves as gods”

“The blood of Old Valyria leaves little to imagination.”

“But Valyria is gone and all you have left in this strange land is the power you wield through the skies” she continues stroking his bare arm.

“Which strange land should I thank for gracing me with such beauty tonight” he whispers, turning a lock of her hair between his fingers as he gazes into her eyes.

“Norvos, across the narrow sea”

“Norvos” he repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue regarding her with awe. “Are all Norvoshi so,”

“So?”

“Quiet”

“I thought you found my chatter incessant”

“I never heard you” he stops her, “Not once as you crept around the castle all the way into my bed”

“You wish to know my secret?” she asks him playfully “Perhaps my blood is as special as yours”

He scoffs in turn earning a crease to her eyebrows which does not go unnoticed. “We are not so different, you and I. We both seek to soar far beyond what fate plans for us”

“Your riddles can exhaust a man far more than your movements” he huffs petulantly.

“You are only displeased because you cannot decipher this one” she hums thoughtfully earning her a pinch to her hip which she swats away promptly.

“Careful, I am not fond of that wayword tongue of yours” he warns her with a smirk.

“Why when it has given you such pleasure? What is the use of depriving yourself of such an investment” she finds herself giggling in return to the bashful pout of his lips.

It has been long since she's been so enamored with a man. There have been a few, young and beautiful, not immune to the charm she summons at will but none so rigid yet tender that makes her heart want more.

“Dance for me” she hears him say as he lies back, hair splayed around the pillows like a halo.

“As you wish your grace” she responds devilishly, slinking away from his embrace to twinkle under his eye.

Their nights continue with well practiced rhythm as their days stretch on. She finds herself at the precipice of good fortune, confined mostly to his chambers as his prize, content to stay hidden till she's displayed with pride. The King she learns takes offense to her growing presence in his brother’s life yet is dissuaded to take action by his elder hand, his disapproval making itself known in its own way.

“My lady, the prince is betrothed to Lady Baratheon of Storm's End and is to be married in a few moons”

“With the tide of the war changing ever so often I feel it best to practice restraint Lord Hand. I'm playing my part just as everyone, as a loyal servant to the crown won't you agree?”

“As I am certain you are” he responds with distaste.

“The prince seems quite sated does he not? What then I wonder, merits such growing concern. As long as your plans come to fruition I am sure a woman such as me should hardly pose a worthy obstacle” she bites back eager to send him away from her new chambers. Victory in the face of adversity tastes almost as sweet as the dreaded wine she brings to her lips, sipping at it with mock delight as she watches the commotion enfold out her door. As he walks to give way to someone, she hears a familiar scream of anger grace the threshold. Lady Meredyth barges in, red faced and fuming. She finds her predicament almost hilarious were it not for the state she's in. Dressed in mourning for a neglectful husband who managed to give her a daughter too young to give away for the dwindling power she now tries to hoard, she tries to muster whatever pity she can find for the woman, before she opens her rotten mouth.

“You seem mighty pleased with your situation, finally living up to your true potential as the whore you are”

“Widowhood suits you my lady. The black brings out your eyes” she responds back sarcastically.

She sees her spit at her feet before she's escorted away, spewing curses through the halls. There is no greater joy in watching the old crone claim her late husband's chambers where she rode him to death while she lounges on her very own bed waiting to be taken in the arms of pleasure at night.

“What did I tell you about that tongue of yours” he retorts as he pulls her into an alcove at midday.

“To use it more often” she whispers, running her lips along his jaw. The walk she'd managed to take away from her confines had proved to be a welcome change after that harrowing ordeal in the morn.

“You wanton thing. Do not vex me outside of these walls”

“You have my word” she says flightily resuming her course along his neck.

“And much more” he breathes, palms burning through the blue she's clad in. She finds herself smiling as she pulls him closer, enjoying his proximity during the quiet of the day. Perhaps nights are not the only thing to look forward to anymore.

She feels his presence in the hallways later, long before she turns the corner, trying to rid herself of the evidence of her dalliance.

“You've lost your faith” he remarks somewhere behind her.

“I've simply found it around another corner” she replies, turning to face the judgment in his dark eyes. There are bags underneath them, weary with doubt and the wisdom he seems to wield like a weapon.

“He is a dangerous man to be around. Someone who kills his own is not one to be trifled with”

“And yet we've faced far worse”

“Worse than treason?”

“Tell me you don't mean to support yet another foreign queen”

“You've grown slow” he states glaring at her. She finds herself at a loss of words. Her old self would have caught on to what was spoken almost instantly with an equally sharp retort in tow. Shame creeps up on her at being caught off guard, vulnerable and at his mercy.

“I will not fail you” she says, turning to avoid his eyes, tears glistening amongst her own. “I am only doing what I think best”

“And therein lies the problem”

“Lady Meynara” a voice cuts through the silence suffocating her as she turns to face the source of her shame. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back regarding her companion with distrust only for her to turn around to find him gone.

“Do all of you possess such talents of evasiveness” he questions her as she sighs and makes her way towards him.

“It has served us well”

“On the contrary, it makes you noticeable. The very thing you are ever so keen to avoid”

“I think you happen to have a keener eye than most, my prince. Do not fault the entire realm with the same flaw you possess.”

“I would hardly call it that”

“A flaw?”

“More of skill honed and fortune bestowed” he smirks leaning towards her.

“Something that earned you your birthright” she questions back impudently. “I've heard the rumors”

“I didn't think you'd put much stock in them”

“One tends to learn a lot through tales, true and false alike. Besides aren't rumors as such keeping your plan afoot”

“You know far too much to be jesting as such. Do you not fear for your life?” he asks her, eye glinting in the light.

“You'd have me hanging near the gate by now if I was such a threat”

“By your feet” he replies, watching her face darken. “You needn't worry as long as you serve me.”

“That is a threat my prince, far worse than what I'm accustomed to”

“Good, my intentions must be made clear then.”

“And what exactly might they entail”

“Your faith for a price” he says regarding her in earnest. The promise of more lingers on her lips as he leaves her wondering what it is she plans to do about it all.

“You mean to leave” she asks him on the third night they're together, with the moon at its height bathing them both in its embrace. He's reclined on the bed, one arm resting behind his head as he listens to her, eye closed in sequestered bliss.

“Rumors can only serve their purpose with cause to back them”

“You are to leave at dawn then?”

He hums in response as she fidgets with the sheets around her.

“Do not fret, I shall ensure your safety for your word”

“That is a hefty promise”

“And one I intend to keep”

“You will tire of me soon enough.”

“Perhaps,” he says, opening his eye to look at her. “Yet I'm certain it won't be so soon”

She feels the sheets pool at her feet as she rises to sate him for the night, eyes trained on him as she watches him cock his head in piqued interest. There is an unspoken understanding between them as she glides by the bed, running her fingers over the wood to stand in the center of the room, the light from the candles illuminating everything she wishes for him to see.

“Not tonight” she murmurs, running her hands over her hips.

“You'd deny the man who holds your fortune” he asks incredulously.

“I'd offer him something far sweeter”

“And what is sweeter than your company my lady”

“Joining me in ways a man would take his woman”

She sees the bed dip with his weight as he rises, moving with agility to stand before her. She cranes her neck to see him peer down at her, eyebrow raised at the game she wishes for him to play.

“In Norvos, we move like this to show our feelings. For emotion sometimes is best expressed through something tangible” she says reaching forward to steady his arms.

She feels him follow her movements with ease, twisting and turning with surprising accuracy never letting her out of his sight.

“You are a trained warrior”

“So are you, it seems. This is much like swordsmanship”

“All art is said to be inspired”

“What inspires you tonight little soldier” he rasps as he spins her around, arms enclosing her as she stares ahead. She feels his breath against her neck, her back pressed against the ridges of his body leading her to exhale before she writhes in his embrace.

“I do not wish to be a piece in the war you play at”

“We are all pieces to be moved about, each for a different purpose”

“It seems you've mastered my tongue in these past few days”

“I've only claimed what's mine” he says running his hands along her waist.

“Your plan will only work on trust, something the people here lack in abundance. Faith, which you scorn me for holding on to, is only meaningful if adhered to in earnest”

“I don't begrudge your faith” he whispers, turning her around to face him. “Just who it's tied to”

She finds herself mesmerized by the blue of his eye, so still yet violent, unrelenting yet open to the words that spill from her lips. “He is what connects me to who I am”

“To cherish something so deeply is a suffering in itself that I've come to accept. I think you understand that very well, Aemond.”

She feels him stiffen at the mention of his name, fingers clasping her arms tighter before he turns her around in a pirrouette, bowing before her as he ends their performance.

“Always your way, yes” she responds breathlessly.

“I do not wish to mold you Meynara, only to make you realize how well you belong. I can offer you something far more than the life you wish to subject yourself to”

“Wealth and power?”

“Purpose” he says with finality.

“Then I ask one thing of you. Bare yourself to me, in good faith” she whispers, watching him carefully “and I shall do the same.”

“Haven't I seen all of you?” he questions, removing the barrier across his face.

“Not without adornment” she says, reaching down to remove her restraints. “They are as much a part of me as this is of you” she finishes reaching up to cup his face. The sapphire glistens brilliantly as she stares at the angry scar accompanying it, intensifying his beauty.

“Is this what you've heard of” he remarks, gritting his teeth at her request.

“Indeed” she replies, reaching up to stroke his face. “We wear our shame and pride on our sleeve. It is time to embrace it together for the purpose you so wish to achieve”

“It will require much more than I've since asked from you”

“I think it is time I left the chains that bind me my prince, yours will have to suffice for now”

They wake again at the crack of dawn to the domestic bliss of togetherness. There in his chambers she experiences what it means to be a wife at last. The euphoria of nurture, she'd long dreamed of since she was a girl, envelops her in a sense of longing and nostalgia. As she bathes and readies him for battle, she finds herself gazing at him wistfully.

“I shall return soon”

“I am aware. I did not forgo my bindings for a lie”

“You wished to soar did you not.”

“You know, the Norvoshi do not trust a man without a beard. They say one as such lacks the honor to defend and the foresight to lead” she responds by running his blade across his face as he turns away from her.“You have your own honor though”

“Many would disagree. I am said to be cursed ”

“One man's curse is another's blessing. You shall return a King”

“Because I've given you the freedom you desire?” he jests “Your faith is truly boundless”

“As is your routine. Hold still while I finish or they'll have to wait the whole morn for you to ride out with glory”

It is an hour later after she meticulously braids his hair and secures his armor, over his eye and body that she finds herself truly bogged down with the weight of his departure. He kisses her temple as he leaves, the act too chaste for her to protest before he's gone. As she sits ruminating on her time spent with him, she hears the flap of the great wings of Vhagar, leathery and forceful as she rushes to spot her out of her window. A shadow falls over the Dun fort as she flies past, giving way to three rings of the great bell of Duskendale, thrice for the sound of freedom that soars through her heart.

Taglist: @arcielee @succnfuccubus @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @paprikaquinn @witheredoffherwitch

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x fem!oc #aemond targaryen x ofc #fyeahhotdocs #aemond x oc #aemond x fem!oc #hotd fics #zae's fics #aemond fics #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x original character #aemond targaryen x original female character #hotd fic #fyeahgotocs

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selfproclaimedunicorn · 6 months

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I commissioned the lovely @murmel-malt to draw the Royce siblings from my HOTD OC fic: Sins Of The Father

I'm so incredibly jazzed with how my kids turned out, they are beautiful & I will be returning for more at some point. 💕

#the arrangement from biggest to smallest that wound up having yorick flanked by his mentally unwell attack dogs #Ella's green gems on her belt!#aemon's rbf!#Yorick staring into my soul!#its beautiful. I've stared at this for five hours now #ocs #oc: ella royce #oc: yorick royce #oc: aemon royce #fic: sins of the father #sotf art #asoiaf oc #fyeahhotdocs

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sugarbarbie-ocs · 1 month

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Born in 110 AC, Shiera Lannister was the eldest and loveliest of lord Jason Lannister and his wife lady Johanna Westerling's daughters.

Lord Jason had initially held high hopes of wedding his daughter to the eldest son of the King, and Queen, Prince Aegon targaryen, but it was not to be: instead, Queen Alicent proposed for a match between her second son, prince aemond targaryen, and lady shiera, an offer that was accepted by the reluctant Lord Jason.

Together Aemond and Shiera had three children, their son Aurion was a killed as act of revenge by Blood and Cheese. their daughter Vaella, was wed to King Aegon III, and her twin sister Raella to King Viserys II Targaryan.

"MY DEAR HUSBAND YOU KNOW BETTER THAN I THAT AMBITION RULES OUR FAMILIES. MY FATHER AND UNCLE'S, ALONG WITH YOUR MOTHER AND GRANDSIRE'S"

- Shiera to Aemond

"PERHAPS IN ANOTHER LIFE, ONE WITHOUT, ROARING LIONS, HOWLING WOLVES, AND FIRE-BREATHING DRAGONS, YOU AND I COULD'VE BEEN HAPPY TOGETHER, AEGON"

- Shiera to Aegon II

"I HEARD THE STARKS TO BE HONOURABLE MEN, IT APPEARS I WAS WRONG, AND YOU, MY LORD, ARE SIMPLY HERE TO SHED INNOGENT BLOOD. FOR I AM INNOCENT, AS ARE MY DAUGHTERS"

- Shiera to Cregan

In honour of season 2 trailer I give you all my baby Shiera of House Lannister. She serves cunt and does all of team greens PR 😊

tagging : @lemonhemlock for hose lannister supremacy also i had talked about my Lannister oc in their asks ( tho now I did some rebranding with names, fc and life plot )

Inspo: @hiddenqveendom

OG GIF CREDITS : @useyourtelescope @lady-arryn @georgeplantagenet

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murmel-malt · 5 months

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what can I say, I love sad redheads

(A little thank you for @emilykaldwen of her Strong!OC Abrogail)

#my art #others' ocs #believe it or not the background actually took the longest. so many ways to merge aegon's and the strongs' sigils #another early christmas present #hotd #hotd oc #fyeahhotdocs #house of the dragon #house strong

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humanpurposes · 7 months

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It Will Come Back, Series Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Jaya Velaryon (OFC)

Read on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Two sides of a family fight for their own claims to the Targaryen inheritance. Amongst the endless infighting, forced pleasantries and PR scandals, Jaya Velaryon finds herself face to face with a demon of her past, namely Aemond Targaryen. Love and hate are not emotions easily unlearned - modern!AU

General Warnings (will update as I go along): 18+, angst, smut, graphic violence, blood/gore, incest/Targcest (uncle/niece paring), toxic family dynamics, recreational drug use, questionable relationship dynamics, manipulation

Prologue Chapter 1, You Know Better Chapter 2, Superficial Chapter 3, Broken Bonds Chapter 4, ...

Moodboards and whatnot

Aemond moodboard Jaya moodboard

#my fics #it will come back #series masterlist #moodboard #fyeahhotdocs

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emilykaldwen · 1 month

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy

Rating: Explicit Chapters: 15/25, part 1 of 3 (maybe 25, might be less) Word Count: 136,872 Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong, Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Chapter Fifteen - Your Love Is Like Sunlight Pride is taken and love is given.

“My lady!” he called, his voice nearly lost to the noise of the arena. “The joy on your face could outshine the sun itself!” Abby heard Wylla scoff behind her, but paid her little mind, teeth nibbling along her lower lip. “Are you truly so happy this day?” “I am, my prince,” she called down to him, feeling Wylla slide the braided ring of flowers into her hand. Abby toyed with the favor. She wanted to call down to him that she was so happy because he told her he’d loved her. He had said those words to her, confessed them to her first and she was drunk with it, giddy and incandescent. She wanted to kiss him again, to taste the promises on his pouty mouth, but all she could do now was toss the favor down to him. “And if you wish to keep me so happy, you will come back to me safe and victorious!” Aegon’s smile took a mischievous edge, a rakish glint in his eye. “I do wish it, my lady. All you must do is command me.” He tucked the favor onto his armor, turning his gaze to meet his father’s. He crossed his arm across his chest in a sign of fealty and bowed before giving her a wink and going to stand by Daeron who held his swords in hand. Further down the pitch, Abby could see Aemond and Alyn Hull standing safely out of the way. Aemond looked serious, face pinched in concern as Alyn hollered his cheers of encouragement.

ON HIATUS THROUGH END OF APRIL because life! And Chapters needing to be written!

@fyeahhotdocs, @ocappreciation, @stannisfactions, @fragilestorm, @starcrossedjedis, @darkwolf76, @arrthurpendragon, @dopedaegus, @hiddenqveendom, @mantillon, @lightofthearrow, @songsonacliffside, @acrossthesestars, @insabecs, @moireia, @dragonsbone, @corporalicent, @selfproclaimedunicorn, @gwenllian-in-the-abbey, @notbloodraven, @impales, @arcielee, @thesunfyre4446, @duxbelisarius, @dream-beyond-the-fantasy, @godswood-girl, @mimikoflamemaker, @murmel-malt, @rainwingmarvel7, @aegonx, @tremendouswolfsaladranch, @theothermaidoftarth, @lullaebies, @julyzaa, @jotterjots, @zae5, @persesnickety

#hotd fic #hotd fanfic #hotd oc #house of the dragon oc #fyeahhotdocs #fyeahgotocs #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen fanfic #my fics #fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #This is a monster fucking chapter good lord #but I'm so pleased with it #anyway if this is your thing: enjoy!#and if not that's cool too!

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

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As The Gods Intended

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Aela Targaryen) Warnings: DD;DNE, twincest/incest/Targcest, explicit smut, dubcon/noncon, angst. 18+ Word count: ~4k

Summary: In the wake of Lucerys' Velaryon's death, Aemond panics and makes some life altering choices that will have catastrophic consequences for his twin sister, Aela. Based on this request.

Thanks and spanks to my emotional support grotbag @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for enduring my snippets, beta'ing this into something readable and her unparalleled knowledge of High Valyrian. Love you forever.

The head and neck of Lucerys Velaryon’s dragon, Arrax, washed up beneath the cliffs below Storm’s End three days ago. Lucerys’s body has yet to be found.

It has been almost a week, six agonisingly long days, since Aela Targaryen last saw or heard from her twin brother, Aemond. He is presumed dead, along with his beloved Vhagar.

Aemond had been sent to Storm’s End to acquire Lord Borros Baratheon’s allegiance to their brother King Aegon II in exchange for agreeing to marry one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters. It had transpired that Lucerys had also been sent, acting as a messenger for his mother, Rhaenyra, to acquire Lord Baratheon’s allegiance to her own claim to the Iron Throne. When neither prince had been heard from following their arrival, further messengers were dispatched. Lord Baratheon had revealed that Lucerys had arrived in the Round Hall while Aemond was present and had received a frosty reception from his uncle. An altercation between the two had caused Borros to ask them both to leave. The two had not been seen since and neither had their dragons.

Aela had wept upon hearing the news of the discovery of Arrax’s remains. It was not difficult to imagine what had happened and it had clearly ended in tragedy. She’d lost her nephew and her beloved twin brother. The colour went out of Aela’s world that day. While a funeral for Lucerys had been held, one for Aemond had yet to occur. Their mother, Alicent, could not bring herself to say goodbye. For this Aela was grateful; she was not ready to let him go either.

It is long past midnight as Aela sits by her window, staring out over King’s Landing. Sleep has evaded her since Aemond went missing. Whose bed will she climb into when she has a nightmare now? Her twin flame has been snuffed out and she is lost.

A shadow in the candlelight of her peripheral vision causes her to turn her head toward the door and she freezes. Aemond. There he stands, a serene look in his uncovered blue eye, staring at her from the doorway. Her heart leaps into her throat at the sight, quickly replaced by a feeling of overwhelming joy as he closes the gap between them and pulls her into a tight embrace.

“Hāedus, it is so good to see you,” he murmurs, stroking her long white hair. Sister.

Aela feels tears of happiness prickle her eyes. She pulls back to study his face, still unable to quite comprehend that the man in front of her is really her twin brother. “Aemond… I thought you weren’t coming back… You are alive!” He gives her a gentle reassuring smile. “I am alive, but for how long is up to you, dōnus mēres. Will you help your brother?” Sweet one.

She nods her head without hesitation. “Anything for you, lēkys. But first, we need to tell mother you are safe. She will be so pleased!” Brother.

“No!”

Aela flinches at the harshness of Aemond’s tone. He has never spoken to her with such a lack of care before.

His face softens and he cups her cheeks. “Forgive me, Aela; I do not mean to be so cruel. But you must understand that my life depends on your discretion.”

She looks up at him with wide, imploring eyes. “Why can no one know that you are back?” He takes a step back from his twin sister, grasping her hands in his. He inhales a deep breath before he speaks. “There has been a terrible tragedy… one that I will surely get the blame for.” A sense of unease creeps over her. “You mean - what happened to Luke?”

He pauses for a moment, his thumbs rub circles on the backs of his sister’s hands. “So you have heard? You must understand that it was an accident. Would you really allow your brother to be punished for something that is not his fault?”

“Of course not!” She is horrified by the very idea. “Then you must come with me, hāedus. Only you can save me. Get dressed.” The urgency of Aemond’s voice is enough for her to know there is no more room for questions or arguments. She hurries behind her modesty screen, strips out of her nightgown and begins to redress in the clothes she had discarded earlier that evening.

Her eyes go wide with surprise as she sees him reach for her nightgown as it hits the floor. She wonders what he is doing, but her train of thought is cut short when he throws a hooded cloak over the screen at her. It is the same one she has worn many times to sneak around Flea Bottom unrecognised.

“Put that on. Hurry,” he commands.

Aela does as she is told and wraps the cloak around her body, coming out from behind the privacy screen.

He steps towards her, pulling the hood over her head and stroking her cheek. “Good girl,” he praises, taking her hand and leading her through the same passage they have used to sneak away from the Red Keep many times before.

Aela notices her nightgown is still bunched up in Aemond’s free hand. He is walking at too quick of a pace for her to be able to ask about it, despite her burning curiosity. Her legs struggle to keep up with his long strides as he hurries them down Aegon’s High Hill, along Shadowblack Lane and out towards the Blackwater Rush.

She gasps as she watches him discard her nightgown onto the muddy bank.

“Aemond - what are you doing?”

He turns to her, his face eerily calm as he speaks matter-of-factly. “They will say you were so stricken by grief over the death of your twin that you drowned yourself. Don’t you see? It is the perfect plan. We can disappear forever.”

She feels a chill run down her spine. She stares at him with abject horror. “You want… people to think we’re dead?” The negative intonation of her response seems to go unheeded by him. He simply nods. “It is the only way. I cannot face what I have done. I will be branded a kinslayer.”

“But you said it was an accident…”

She feels like she is experiencing a nightmare from which she is desperate to wake up. Her heart races as she stares at her twin brother’s face, searching for any sign of regret or remorse for his actions. Waves of nausea pulsate through her stomach.

“It was an accident,” Aemond insists. “I only meant to scare him…”

She feels her heart constrict, and a sob bubbles in her throat. “Gods, Aemond… What did you do to Luke?”

“I didn’t do anything!” he snaps, his nostrils flaring with annoyance as he stares down at his sister. “If that stupid bitch Maris Baratheon hadn't taunted me, I would never have gone after him. Had Vhagar heeded my commands, he would not be dead. So, you see, none of this is my fault.”

Aela reels at the revelation. Hot tears roll down her cheeks. She shakes her head, backing away from Aemond. “You are a murderer-”

He grabs her by her upper arms, his grip so tight it will surely leave bruises.

“I am your brother! He was a bastard, he took my eye! How can you be so cruel?” He shakes her slightly, continuing. “Have I not suffered enough? Would you prefer to see me dead? Do you not love me?”

A pang of guilt blooms heavy in Aela’s chest as she looks tearfully at his frantic face. “Of course I do-”

“Then you must come with me. Do this for me. There is no one that will ever love you like I love you, Aela. We are twins.”

He takes her hand once more and leads her along the banks of the Blackwater Rush and away from King’s Landing as he speaks. She is too overcome by grief and shock to fight it.

“It will be a bit of a walk, I’m afraid,” he informs her. “I could not land Vhagar too close to the city without drawing attention.”

At the mention of his dragon, her pace falters a little, remembering her own. “What of Myrmex? I cannot simply leave him.”

When Aela and Aemond had been born, they’d each had a dragon’s egg placed in their cradle. While his had never hatched, and he’d later claimed Vhagar, her own had. A beautiful emerald green dragon, named Myrmex who she’d grown and bonded with over the years. The thought of leaving him behind in the Dragonpit was simply too much for Aela’s heart to bear.

He does not look back at her, leading her along the riverbank. “A necessary sacrifice, I’m afraid, dōnus mēres. Taking him is too much of a risk. You’d be seen.” She sniffles, allowing herself to be pulled along by her twin brother. “But he is my dragon… I love him…”

He stares coldly down at her. “I am your brother. Myrmax may have hatched in your cradle, but you and I shared the same womb. How can you be so selfish?”

His voice softens, and she looks away guiltily. “He will be well cared for in the Dragonpit. And who knows? Perhaps he will find you again one day. Your bond with him is strong. Almost as strong as ours.”

Aela’s heart aches for her dragon. She and Aemond walk the rest of the way in silence until the gargantuan frame of Vhagar looms ahead.

“Where will we go?” she asks meekly.

“I have found us a place. You need not worry. I have spent the last few days preparing for your arrival.”

“You - you planned this?” She knows she doesn’t even need to ask this. Of course he has. Aemond had always been too clever, too calculating for his own good. It was a quality she had once admired. Now, it frightened her.

“I knew as soon as I saw Luke fall from the sky that there was no coming back from this. And I could not just leave you,” he says, helping to lift her into Vhagar’s saddle, climbing on behind her. “Worry not, hāedus, lēkia will take care of you now.”

Her mind goes blank as soon as Vhagar takes to the sky. The rush of cold air and the weightless roiling of her stomach with every movement supersedes all other thoughts and feelings. Though she has ridden on dragonback many times with Aemond before, she imagines she feels his chest pressed tighter to her back than usual. His arms seem to wrap more firmly around her waist. Surely it is just that, though; her imagination.

Eventually, as dawn breaks, Vhagar lands in the foothills of the Red Mountains, close to the stormlands' border with the Reach, east of the Cockleswhent and southeast of the Blueburn. She looks out over the ruins of Summerhall Castle, once used as a place for members of House Targaryen to spend their summers. It had been almost destroyed in a fire and never restored to its former glory.

“Here, Aemond? You can’t be serious,” she says as her brother helps her down from Vhagar.

“I know it’s not much to look at, jorrāelītsos, but I think you’ll find it rather comfortable. And no one will come looking for us here.” She hopes that he is wrong. There is nothing she wants more than for them to be found and an end to this madness. As though he senses her trepidation, Aemond’s eye makes contact with hers, her feet finally reaching the ground. “And you’d better hope no one finds us - you are implicated in this, after all.” Little love.

She is too trusting of her twin brother to pick up on the subtle threat in his voice. Anguished, she protests. “But I haven’t done anything!”

“It would not seem that way to anyone from the outside looking in.” He cocks his head at her. “You are my twin sister. You have faked your own death and come away with me after I killed our nephew. Some might say you’d had the whole thing planned all along… I would simply hate for that to happen to you, hāedus. My heart could not take it.”

She wails piteously at this. She dreads to think what people will say about her. Her heart breaks at the idea that she could ever be considered a co-conspirator to murder.

“Do not worry, dōnus mēres,” he soothes, pulling her tight to his chest. “Lēkia will protect you.” He holds her a few moments longer, until her tears finally subside. “Let’s get you inside and show you around your new home, hm?”

Aemond places a hand on the small of his twin sister’s back, ushering her inside. Large portions of the castle are without a roof and in complete ruin.

“We will repair all of this eventually, restore it to its former glory,” he says airily, guiding her through.

The few rooms that are habitable have had the remaining furniture pushed into them to create a makeshift solar, sleeping quarters and a space for them to eat. It does not quite live up to the lavish surroundings of the Red Keep, but is certainly not the squalor that she had been expecting.

“This is… nice,” she says, a slight hint of surprise to her tone.

He smiles warmly. “It will be the perfect place for us to start our family.”

“Start a family?” she asks. Dread is beginning to gnaw its way through her insides. She is almost afraid to hear Aemond’s answer.

“Yes, hāedus. We will marry and create heirs. We will start our own faction of House Targaryen.”

“Aemond, we cannot! You are to be betrothed to a Baratheon and me to a Lannister. You are my brother. My twin!”

Her heart races as she looks at him with pleading eyes. He remains utterly unaffected by her resistance.

“Those betrothals are null and void. They are a part of old lives. We are forging a new one. And so what if we are siblings? Helaena and Aegon are married, and the Conqueror married both of his sisters. Why should we be any different?”

She is panicked. She does not know what to say. “Because… because… I don’t…”

“You don’t love me!” he accuses, cutting her off, his brow furrowed, his blue eye alight with outrage.

“I do love you, lēkys, I do!” she attempts to argue back, tears welling in her eyes.

“Then you will obey me,” he states coolly.

She gasps as Aemond’s mouth descends upon hers, the sound cuts off as an “mmmph” as he presses his lips to hers. He tangles his fingers into her hair, holding her head in place as he kisses her. It feels wrong and yet she kisses him back, ignoring the pit that is opening in the depths of her guts, eager not to anger him further.

She has kissed her brother on the lips before, but they have been chaste kisses between siblings. What he is bestowing upon her now is a passionate kiss, filled with lust, the type reserved for lovers. She has never experienced a kiss like this before. She never anticipated that the first time would be with her twin brother. She feels nauseated.

When he finally pulls away, he scoops her into his arms, carrying her towards the bed. “We shall create an heir today, jorrāelītsos.”

Her blood runs cold at the suggestion. “Aemond, we can’t - I can’t - I’ve never… My virtue is still intact!”

She attempts to squirm out of his arms, but he is too strong for her.

His voice is saccharinely sweet as he smiles down at her. “As it should be, hāedus. You have waited for your brother like a good girl.”

She shakes her head, panic rooting itself deep inside of her as he lays her on the bed. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words will not come.

“You see, Aela, we are two halves of the same whole. You and I were created for each other. Isn’t that beautiful? No one else can have you but me.”

He cards his fingers through her long, white hair and strokes her cheek, before pulling at the lacings on the front of her bodice.

Aela finally finds her voice, feebly attempting to push Aemond’s hands away. “Lēkys, no, please!”

Aemond shushes her, swatting at her hands and continuing to undress her. “You love your lēkia, don’t you? I have waited many years to see you all grown up. You will not deny your beloved brother his prize, will you?”

She whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut and trying not to think about the fact that her twin brother is now stripping her naked.

The cold air causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh as Aemond finally pulls away her small clothes.

“Open your eyes for me, dōnus mēres,” he whispers.

As her lilac eyes open slowly, she is met by the sight of him sitting above her, drinking in the sight of her with appreciation shining brightly in his gaze.

“Gevie,” he states simply. Beautiful.

It is then she realises that he has also removed his clothing. She stares at him wide eyed. She has not seen her brother naked since they were children. They had shared a bed up until they were thirteen years old, until one morning she’d awoken to find the hardness of his arousal pressed against her buttocks. She’d been unsure of what it was and after speaking to her mother and seeing her horrified reaction, she’d understood it was something wrong. Aela and Aemond had been made to sleep apart ever since.

“Feel what you do to me,” he murmurs, taking her hand and wrapping it around his hardened cock.

She whines, attempting to pull her hand away, but he keeps it there. He is firm and warm to the touch.

“You - you cannot put that inside of me,” she squeaks. “It will not fit.”

“Silly girl,” he chuckles. “You were made specifically to take me inside of you. No one else. But I will prepare you first.”

Tears well up in her eyes as he passes his digits through the delicate silver curls of her mound, swiping his fingers through her folds. He roughly inserts his middle finger inside of her, curling it upwards and dragging it in and out. She has never even touched herself so intimately, so to have the intrusion of her brother between her legs is surreal and makes her want to curl in on herself to hide her shame.

“So tight,” he comments, almost as if he is speaking to himself. “And becoming so wet.”

“Aemond, I don’t like this!” she whines, covering her face with her hands.

“Oh, but your body tells another story entirely,” he says, his tone mocking as he inserts a second finger.

She cries out at the sensation. “That’s too much! You’re putting too much inside of me!”

He chuckles dryly. “You’ll need to take much more than two fingers if I’m to fuck you. How else will you bear my children, idañītsos?” Little twin.

She shakes her head against the pillows, attempting to close her legs around Aemond’s wrist and halt his movements. “I don’t - I don’t-”

Never slowing the movement of his fingers inside of her, he cuts her off. “You don’t… love your twin brother? You’d refuse me and break my heart? Are you really so cruel?” She sobs, her own guilt outweighing the disgust and shame she feels at the unwilling invasion of her body. “No, no, no. I love you, Aemond, I swear I do!”

“Mmm,” he concurs. “Then this is how you show me you love me. Do you understand?”

She freezes as he withdraws his fingers from her, replacing them with the tip of his cock. She screws her eyes shut, screaming out at the pain as he pushes inside. It feels like she is being torn in half.

“Gods…you are so tight,” he grits out. “You have to relax, or I will never get inside.”

Her body is wracked with sobs. She feels like the intrusion is unending. The pain is unlike anything she has ever experienced. White hot flames of agony lick their way between her legs and up her spine.

“Allow me to put you out of your misery,” he says softly.

For a moment, she dares to hope he will have mercy on her and stop, until she feels him clamp a hand over her mouth. In one rough shove, he pushes himself into her to the hilt. Her agonised shriek is muffled by his palm.

His eye flutters closed in satisfaction. “Finally, we are one. As the gods intended.”

Her mind reels. Surely the gods would never intend for something that feels so vile and so painful?

Beginning to thrust in and out of her, barely giving her body time to adjust to him, he grunts. “Does this feel good, hāedus? Is lēkia making you feel good?”

She is mortified by the question. Why would anything so vulgar ever feel good?

“No,” she answers honestly, “You are hurting me.”

“It doesn’t feel pleasurable because you don’t love me the way that I love you,” he states, continuing to thrust inside of her. “This feels good for me, because I love you with all my heart. Lēkia will help you to love him. Don’t worry.”

Aemond presses a finger to the pearl at the apex of her sex, rubbing tight circles as he continues to rut into her.

Her hips jolt at the new sensation, unsure of what’s happening to her body. Her hands fly to his shoulders, clutching at them desperately. “What - what - are you doing to me?”

His face is smug as he moves above her. “You’ve never touched yourself have you, idañītsos? So innocent and all mine. I will bring you pleasure like you have never felt before. Only I can give you that.”

He speeds up both his ministrations to her bud alongside his thrusts, and Aela can begin to feel the inside of herself clench around him. It is completely involuntary, but it’s apparent that he feels it too.

“Oh, you like that?” he mocks. “Good girl.”

The moan that escapes her mouth sounds alien to her. The slow burning ache between her legs that builds towards a heated pressure is unfamiliar to her. Her eyes go wide and she feels like she needs to push towards something, but she is unsure how. She whines, clawing at his shoulders, desperate to ground herself.

“You are about to peak, hāedus,” he tells her. “Let go for lēkia.”

He gives her nipple a harsh tweak and increases the pressure he is exerting between her legs.

Aela’s back arches off of the mattress with the force of her pleasure, jerking her body against his. He places a hand against the rear of her pelvis, holding her against him as he fucks her through her orgasm. White hot sparks shoot their way through her body, a loud cry of pleasure releasing from her mouth. Her body goes limp in Aemond’s gasp. Her eyes are heavy lidded and pleasure drunk.

He uses her body, seeking his own end. A few more thrusts and he spills deep inside of her with a low groan. She barely registers the feeling of him filling her up.

When he pulls out, her cunny is a mess of blood from her maidenhead being broken and his seed leaking out of her. He hums appreciatively, mixing it together and pushing it back inside with his fingers.

She hisses, a mixture of pain and oversensitivity causing her to jerk her hips away from his touch.

“Forgive me, hāedus. We do not want this to go to waste if you are to be with my child.”

Aela knows she should protest, but what’s done is done. It is too late.

She is pliant, allowing him to pull her to his chest and hold her close.

“Avy jorrāelan, idañītsos”, he murmurs, kissing her temple. I love you, little twin.

Too tired to fight him any longer, Aela finally gives in. “Avy jorrāelan, lēkys.” I love you, brother.

Aemond smiles as his twin sister drifts off to sleep on his chest.

“I know you do, jorrāelītsos. We will make such a happy family.”

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