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queers-gambit · 8 months

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Daddy Takes Care

prompt: ( requested ) in comparison, your first pregnancy was a cakewalk. this time around? not so much. good thing Daemon's there to help where he can.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader no specified House or race

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 6.4k+

warnings: cursing, daughter named Visenya, angst 'cause pregnancy isn't all sunshine and glow and rainbows, hurt and comfort 'cause happy (but abrupt) ending, author has never been pregnant so please forgive inaccuracies, not edited.

"My Prince! My Prince! Prince Daemon!"

Daemon purposefully ignored the errand-boy, hoisting his daughter higher on his hip. "Easy, little dragon," he spoke in High Valyrian, "Caraxes is not known for his patience."

Visenya giggled, "Caraxes likes me, Daddy."

The dragon rumbled as if in agreement, blinking his eye as Visenya laid her head on his snout; half-way out of Daemon's arms, but still maintaining a vice grip. "My Prince, please," the servant pleaded, "i-it is your wife."

Daemon whipped around, Visenya being rightened in his arms when her father glared at the young man who panted from his sprinting. "What?" Daemon demanded.

"Sh-She is with the Maesters now, my Prince, and your brother, His Grace, and the Queen Alicent, too, The baby started - "

But the lad gasped when Caraxes gave a harrowing growl as Daemon charged forward; Visenya in his arms as his dragon's breath seemingly propelled his stride forward. Visenya whimpered when Caraxes stalked out of the Dragon Pit with Daemon, only stopping when he could go no further; but he thundered his displeasure and suspicion in a grumble that made the little girl wince into Daemon's chest. "It's okay, love," Daemon told her gently in their Mothers Tongue, approaching the Royal wheelhouse they used when traveling with Visenya. He spoke softly, "We're going to see Mummy, Caraxes is just worried."

"What's wrong with Mummy?" Visenya asked in the Common Speech when they boarded.

"Go! Do not stop until we get to the Keep!" Daemon barked at the coachmen before settling his daughter down. He saw the big tears swelling in his daughter's eyes and sighed, telling her softly, "I am sorry, my sweet dragon. Daddy doesn't know what's wrong with Mummy, that scares Daddy sometimes, and when Daddy's scared, he gets a little mean."

"That's okay, Daddy," she nodded at him, looking sheepish. "I get scared, too."

"It's okay to be afraid, fear is natural," Daemon told her softly, "but it's important we do not let it define us."

Her little legs swung, "Like Lord Larys."

Daemon snickered, "Oh, you naughty girl, I told you not to repeat that."

She grinned, looking far too innocent to be Daemon's spawn. "Mummy says we should be nice to Lord Larys."

"She does?"

"Mhm," Visenya nodded, "she said 'cause he knows too much."

His head cocked, "Little Dragon, has Lord Larys ever approached Mummy? Spoken to her?"

"He tries," Visenya nodded, "but Mummy walks away, she doesn't like him." The little girl lowered her voice, telling Daemon a secret, "Mummy said his breath smells like poo."

Daemon smirked, whispering back, "I know."

When they arrived at the Red Keep, the wheelhouse was barely slowed before Daemon was scooping Visenya into his arms and getting ready to disembark. When they stopped, he didn't wait for anyone to open his doors, announce his name; he just surged out, charging for where he knew the Maester's chambers were.

However, Otto Hightower was waiting for him in the foyer, greeting, "Prince Daemon, Princess Visenya."

"Hi," Visenya waved, holding onto her father's neck shyly.

"Where is she? Where's my wife?" Daemon demanded.

"Resting in your chambers, my Prince," Otto answered, not being offended when Daemon turned heel to change direction and left him in the dust.

Nobody intercepted Daemon, but it wasn't like any tried. He didn't look at anyone, they never met his eyes; but most took note of the way he all but galloped to get to his chambers. When the shoulder that wasn't holding his daughter barged through the door, he didn't slow, just demanded, "What is this? What has happened?"

"Daemon," Viserys sighed in reprimand.

"What is the matter?" He charged forward to reach the bed. "Give Daddy a second with Mummy," he told his daughter in Valyrian as he set the little girl down and took the spot beside you instantly. You had a knowing smirk on your lips, hand taken by both of his, not even blinking when he barked, "Well? What has happened!?"

"When you take a breath, we will tell you," You told him softly, squeezing his hand and smiling with closed lips. "The Maester's have only just left, you did not miss much."

He shook his head, "I should've been here none the less."

"And deprive our little dragon rider the opportunity to bond with her favorite mate?" You teased, looking to Visenya and opening your arm (after pulling yours from Daemon's clutches), "C'mere, little one. Come to Mummy."

She was careful and slow in her movements, curling up beside you; shimmying under the covers to cuddle into your side. She pet your belly, "Does it hurt?"

"No, not right now," you answered honestly, never wanting to lie to her. It would do no good in the long run, being truthful and honest were traits you can teach (not always) and you and Daemon took it very seriously.

This was a cruel world, why sugarcoat it? So your daughter would depend on some man - some man like Larys Strong? Nope. Not on your watches. She'd be the belle of the ball with the meanest right hook in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Daemon," Viserys spoke with a calm tone, earning the attention of the room, "you must know, these sort of things can happen at anytime."

"Is it The Curse? I-Is it The Curse? Does it prevail?" He asked in desperation, looking distraught.

"No," you assured, taking your only free hand to lay one of his on your swollen belly.

"No...? No?" He repeated, then scoffed, "So, why is it I was - "

"False labor," Alicent cut him off, making his jaw steel as he glared at her. "It can occur, the mind tricks the body into thinking and reacting that it's time to deliver the babe."

"But it's too soon," he pointed out, "she's still, what? Two, maybe three months left?"

"It can happen," Alicent nodded.

He frowned, glancing at his brother, then to you. "I was with the Queen when I got this terrible pain," you explained to Daemon. "There was fluid and some blood under my skirt, we thought it couldn't be right, so, she brought me to the Maesters and sent for you."

Daemon looked vaguely surprised, leaning down to press his lips to your belly. With a sigh, his forehead rested on your bump, lifting to peck another kiss, then righten his spine, asking, "And now?"

"All was clear, I was brought back here, and your brother did not wish to leave me alone - but nothing else was able to be said before you arrived," you chuckled, caressing his cheek.

"Thank you," he told Viserys, sniffling as his eyes lifted to Alicent, "both of you, truly, thank you."

"We are family," Viserys assured, "we would not want to be elsewhere."

"There's a whole Realm to - "

"Sometimes, politics can wait and family cannot," the King spoke wisely. "We are simply relieved the Lady is feeling better and all is well. The babe will stay in her womb until the end, should she remain in bed."

"Oh, Gods, Viserys," you groaned, "we agreed not to tell him that!"

"You agreed, I did not," he shot back at you.

"What do you mean, brother?"

The King answered, "She is to remain in bed until the end of her term - with natural limitations."

"Which means?"

"She may move around the room, but not much farther; she may use the privy, keep her blood circulating, but she is to remain down for most of the time as it will help keep the babe in place."

He nodded rapidly, "Of course."

"We'll let you rest," Alicent told you both softly. "I'm sure you want time with your family."

"Actually," you sighed, "might I ask for one more favor?"

"Anything, name it," Viserys agreed.

"Take Visenya for an hour? Daemon and I need to speak privately."

"Of course," Alicent nodded, stepping up to the bed. She waited as you and Daemon promised Visenya you'd be with her soon, that you needed an adult conversation, and after giving you both a kiss on the cheek, she marched off the bed to take Alicent's hand. Viserys hobbled out after them, and when the doors shut, Daemon deflated.

"Oh, Seven fucking Hells," he muttered in a muffle against your belly. He let your hands rake into his long strands of hair, pulling any knots, just soothing him with the scrape of your nails. "I was so worried," he admitted quietly, "I just - I did not think. I have feared this possibility so much, I think I tricked myself into thinking it was reality."

"What's that, my love?"

"The Curse... The Targaryen Curse."

"Daemon - "

"We were so lucky with Visenya," his tearful eyes lifted to meet yours, "and half of the pregnancy was wasted on our worry that something would go wrong. I might've created this reality."

"You did nothing," you promised. "Neither of us caused this, it's just what happens."

"But you've suffered for months," he whispered, eyes reddening by the second. "You had endless nausea, you threw up daily, my love, you developed night terrors, and you cannot say it was anything but ideal."

"Perhaps not ideal, but so perfectly us," you answered, watching him stand with a frown. "Daemon - where are you - "

"I only mean to change," he promised, already shedding his clothing and boots and weapons belt. When he joined you in bed again, he laid off your legs but beside them, head on your belly to hold and letting your hands rake through his platinum white locks again. It was quiet for minutes longer, just enjoying the other, but he whispered, "I should've been here."

"We did not know."

"Still," he frowned, kissing your bump tenderly, whispering, "I'm so sorry, I wasn't here, but do not take it out on Mummy. She's so brave," another kiss, "so very brave to take the time and give you the most perfect place to live for now. We can't take it out on her. Not Mummy, anyone else, but not Mummy."

You felt yourself dozing off, humming in contentment when Daemon took note and started a conversation with the babe - just simply detailing his day. He said there was soon to be another clutch of dragon eggs and their sister would choose the most perfect egg for them; being all Visenya's spoken of for weeks. He told the babe how excited they all were to meet them, but when he noticed you were asleep, he hated himself for getting out of bed.

It was only to pull a dressing robe on and locate his daughter; being easy as she was in Alicent's arms two halls over - both admiring the tapestries. "Daddy said this was a big fight," Visenya was heard, pointing at the drape.

"He's right," Alicent nodded, "this depicts Aegon's Conquest."

"Big dragons," she sighed dreamily, looking at the stitching. "That's Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes. Cousin Laena rides Vhagar now."

"Very good, sweetheart," Alicent praised.

"My Queen," Daemon called, approaching almost stiffly.

"Daddy!"

"C'mere," he grunted, accepting his daughter as she lunged for his embrace. "Thank you," he told Alicent.

"Is everything all right?"

"She's resting," Daemon nodded, trying to hide his fear from his voice but Alicent saw it in his eyes.

"The Maester's know how to help, my Prince," she assured softly. "She might fight against the limitations, but it's for everyone's health. She'll be okay, Daemon," her hand reached out to gently touch his forearm, "her body just needs time to adjust."

With her words thrumming in his mind, Daemon spent the next several weeks at your bedside. He was everything and more: he got you water, tea, anything to eat; always making sure you ate even a little SOMETHING three times a day. He made sure you took your medicine, wiped your flushed skin with cold cloths, braided your hair to keep it off your flesh. He read to you, rubbed your ankles and feet to help any circulation of clots, held your trembling form when you threw up. Daemon remained strong where you felt weak, doing whatever he could to assure you that your predicament wasn't a burden to him.

"You're not listening!"

"All I do is listen!"

"Daemon!" You snapped, "For weeks now, you've been at my every beck and call - catering to my whims. You are not canceling flying with Visenya, she'll be crushed."

"But you're closer to your birthing," He pointed out sharply.

"And I have not moved from this bed in days," you snapped back. "I will endure another day of this if it means you go take Caraxes out, I hear he's been a right menace."

Daemon shook his head, but something in his posture fell from defense. It made you sit up a little and beckon to him, his hand reaching for yours as he dropped to the place beside you; leaning against your mountain of pillows. "I do not know how to do this," he whispered, leaning his head to the crook of your neck in a vulnerable show of emotion. "And I know we are learning together, but I feel pulled apart - that I will disappoint one of you while catering to the other."

"My sweet husband," you whispered against the crown of his head. "You worry for nought."

"I worry for all," he whispered. "Visenya needs me, Viserys needs me, Caraxes needs me, the bloody White Cloaks need me, you need me - "

"Do not stress yourself further about this," you insisted. "Viserys has other advisors. Visenya has her aunts, uncles, cousins, anyone she could play with. Caraxes does need you, yes," you chuckled, "but he's also violently independent so I would not worry about him. And I am under the care of the Maesters, so I'd argue only the White Cloaks need you - you are their Lord Commander, after all."

"No," he refused, "I am a husband and father first, brother second, Prince of the City third, and Lord Commander fourth. I will be where I am needed, I just do not have enough hours in the day to do it all."

"You do not need to do it all," you whispered.

"You all need me."

"Visenya and I, yes," you agreed, "your job is important, too... Fuck the rest. 'S just noise."

He chuckled, you felt the pull of his lips on your neck. He hummed into your flesh, licking gently before pulling back to mutter, "I wish you could come with us."

"I do, too," you smiled softly. "But I'll be right here for you both to come back to - tell me all about it."

Daemon chuckled, "Surely."

Speak of the Devil, and He will appear.

"MUMMY!"

"Vizzy!" You half-scolded, laughing when the door burst open to reveal your daughter in her dragon-riding gear. Not a moment later, your usual handmaid, Carlee, appeared out of breath, sighing with relief when she located Visenya. "I'm so sorry, Carlee, she's just like her father and avoids all authority," you laughed when the little girl climbed onto her father's lap.

"No, I apologize, Lady," Carlee panted, "I-I tried - but she - she's very fast."

"I've got her," Daemon dismissed stiffly, your glare doing nothing to him.

"Thank you, Carlee, we've got it from here," you amended to the kind, portly woman with greying red hair. She bowed out as you reached over to tickle Visenya, "And you, my little monster! Didn't I tell you to stop giving the nice ladies a hard time. Hmm? Yes?"

She laughed happily, squirming in Daemon's arms. He 'saved' her by snuggling his nose in her neck; the squealing continuing as she shouted, "He's tickling me, Mummy! Mummy! Mummy! Help me, Mummy!"

"Mummy can't help you," Daemon playfully growl, gnawing into her neck as she flailed in his grip.

"Daddy! Stop it!"

He sighed dramatically, "Oh, I suppose I could... If a certain princess promises to behave from now on."

"Of course, Daddy, it's riding day!" She exclaimed, settling more in his lap now that he stopped tickling her. Because it wasn't often that Daemon took her riding, she was usually always on her best behavior to ensure her favorite day actually occurred - but that didn't mean it was an exact science.

"Visenya, be good for Daddy, yes?" You directed, puckering your lips for her. She pecked them quickly, promising to be good, and then rushing away when Daemon told her to go get her gloves and boots. When alone again, he looked at you almost sadly.

"One day, we'll fly as a family," he promised, forehead to your own. "Do you need anything, love?"

"I'm good, thank you, though," you whispered. Then, your hands caressed your belly, sighing, "Not long now, huh?"

"It's both the longest and shortest time of my life," he laughed lightly. "But soon, we'll pray for the quiet of your womb again."

You laughed, bringing him in for a kiss. He reciprocated before you pulled back, insisting, "Go, before she burns the Keep down. You know Caraxes would do it, too, that beastie would do anything she says."

"So would we," he winced.

"We might wanna work on that..."

"In time," he teased, kissing you again. "Stay put."

"Yes, sir." He gave you a look, making you amend, "Yes, Daddy."

He chuckled, kissed you a final time, and then rose. Just as he was exiting the door, you heard him yelp your daughters name before a small bang - making you think Visenya had run full sprint at him and knocked him back a step or two.

Another few days dragged by. You were agitated, you were stir crazy, you were on the shortest fuse known to man. Visenya liked reading to you, working on her writing skills with you in bed; she even got to practice her hair braiding skills. When you snapped at servants and maids, Visenya was always chiding, "Mummy, that's mean."

She kept you level-headed.

Daemon was a wreck, however.

He was only one person and the fact that he needed to be several was far too stressful than he was ever willing to admit. "Daemon, my love," you called sternly, "stop your pacing and come here. Lay with me, please."

"I do not get that luxury - "

"It is not a luxury to nurture your seed in my body," you deflected. "Now, come here. Now."

Daemon glared, "Do not think you command me, woman."

"The vows we took certainly think I do. Armor off, boots off, hair down, get the fuck over here - now, Daemon."

He sighed and grumbled, grunting as he did what you told but made it known he wasn't happy about it. When he was dressed in nothing but linen trousers, he laid beside you. "Now what?" He snapped.

"Now hold your wife and child and just fucking breathe," you shot back, readjusting so you cuddled into him. "You reek tonight."

"Your list of demands did not include bathing, excuse me, Princess," he sneered in a condescending tone.

"Daemon, I just want you to take a pause," you bit. "You've been runnin' 'round with your head chopped off since finding out about this... This complication."

"I have much to do."

"I know, and that is why it's important to just slow down and simply breathe. Please, just breathe with me, Daemon, I need us both to be as okay as we can be for when this babe finally comes."

"There's no time - "

"We make our time,' you insisted. "Please, just pause."

He did, Daemon actually paused to just take a deep breath. After one, he took another... Then another, and another until he was doing it with ease and confidence. "I'm sorry," he whispered against your forehead, bringing you in closer. "I do not mean to take it out on you, pet, I am just... Well, you know."

"I know you're worried," you sighed. "Which is why we need this. Tell me of your day, today?"

Daemon didn't want to at first, but then relented and started on a snowball tangent that explained his foul mood. You listened, ear pressed to his pectoral; hands tracing absent patterns on the contours of his abdomen. Daemon usually tried his best to restrain himself with you, but you actively encouraged him and the more he talked, the more words that spewed from his mouth in a messy jumble. One arm remained wrapped around you, keeping you close, and his free one moved about in exaggeration.

"And to top the day off, you know what the bloody Septa told me? The one Alicent insisted was worth utilizing?"

"Septa Amelia?"

"Whatever," he huffed.

"What'd she say to you, my Prince?"

He sighed at the endearing tone you used for his title, knowing it wasn't a reference to his real station but instead, a pet name you had for him. Daemon sighed, "That Visenya might need shipped off to Dorne to attend that grueling, military school."

"She's only just turned five - "

"I am aware," Daemon cut you off. "I cursed at her before taking Visenya."

"Good, then I shall know who to yell at, too," your voice hardened. "Why do they complain about her so? 'S all I bloody hear, how our daughter's wild and untamed - saying we are unfit parents by the looks of her."

"She's fire in her blood because she is the Dragon's Seed, just as this one is, too," His hand laid over your belly. "And yet, I cannot understand why others voice their opinions on our family, which they are not entitled to an opinion on. Visenya grows within the Red Keep, she is not some wild animal, but perhaps, she lacks stimuli."

"How could we remedy that?"

"A tutor... Or a few, perhaps. From across the Narrow Sea," he told you, already sounding like he wasn't as angry as before. "Find us proper tutors who will take her on as a student to guide her where we cannot - and where others give up. What kind of a man would I be to ignore what someone blatantly needs that I can easily provide?"

You offered a small smirk, taking a fond note, "This isn't just 'someone', Daemon, you speak of our daughter. You're so good at this, you know... Taking care of us. Daddy takes care."

He tightened his hold, "I always will, my sweet."

It was quiet again, your stomach churning with discomfort; questioning, "Though I am wondering what she did today to prompt such a comment?"

He scoffed, "So, she set fire to some curtains, who bloody cares - "

You gasped shrilly as you sat bolt upright, "Visenya did what!?"

"No, hey, no," he reached for you, "no stress, no - "

But you were hobbling out of the bed before he could stop you, grumbling the entire time; yet the moment your feet hit the floor, you paused to heave for breath, stood, and felt the trickle of fluids from between your legs. "What?" You gasped, realizing what just happened, begging, "What? No, no, no, no, not now, little one, please, stay in there!"

Daemon vaulted himself over the bed and was at your side in an instant, guiding you to sit once more and promising, "I will get the Maesters. Just ease yourself, no stress, no worries, I'll get help - I'll get the Maester's." He meant to move away.

"No," you insisted, reaching for his tunic's collar to grip, yank, and hold him close, "I need you with me. We all do, please, do not leave me to do this life alone. D-Daemon, please, I'm so scared, do not leave me, I can't do this without you."

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised, taking your hand to hold, "but I need to get you help. Please, my love, you need the help."

You whimpered and got back on the bed by yourself as Daemon raced for the chamber door. He only took half a step, then shouted, "YOU! HEY, YOU! GET THE BLOODY MAESTERS! NOW! YOUR PRINCE DEMANDS IT!"

Ignoring whatever else he shouted, you got comfortable as the cramps began to twist in your lower gut - shooting pains down your legs, up your back, even tingling into your fingers. Sweat took hold of you like a bad fever, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew something couldn't be completely right. This sensation was strange, it wasn't at all a feeling you had when pregnant with Visenya.

Hours drug by as if sap dripping from a tree.

Your pain increased; sweating, grunting, moaning, groaning with displeasure. Daemon was stoic and quiet, just watching you writhe in pain as his heart cemented in his chest to sink into his feet and anchor him there. Visenya wasn't anything like this; he'd been present for that birth, too, and remember thinking how easy it appeared since the baby practically fell out of you.

This was much different.

"My Prince," the Maester approached him with a deep frown, "a word?"

"What?" He snapped, watching the Maester step to the side. Daemon sighed and followed, glaring, arms crossing as he demanded, "What is it?"

"My Prince, the babe will not come. I do not wish to beat around this bush, so I will tell you plainly. Sometimes, when the fetus is in a compromising position, a decision must be made: either the babe is cut from the womb and it survives or they both die or only the babe dies - there was a way to remove the baby surgically if that's the case. But you need to choose."

"Why do I have to choose? It's her decision - her body, her life, her choice."

"She is delirious with pain," the Maester deflected, "and if the babe is a boy, wouldn't you rather know and have him?"

"And lose my wife?" Daemon growled. "I think the fuck not. You will not put this decision on me, it is for her to decide."

He pushed past everyone to take the spot beside you and instantly pick up your hand. "Daemon," you sobbed, "for fuck's sake, please, please, just let this be over. Get the babe out."

"You're almost there, sweetheart."

But one of the Septas assisting the Maesters squeaked in mild alarm, and when Daemon looked, there was a significant amount of blood blooming under you. "She's bleeding, could be a hemorrhage," the Maester rushed, lifting your thin gown to judge the birthing canal.

"What's wrong?" You asked in a half-slur.

"Nothing, you're okay," Daemon assured softly, kissing your hand.

Your screams through labor echoed through empty stone halls. Your pain was tangible, your fear paramount. "What's wrong!?" You begged the room, "Why aren't they coming? Why won't our baby come?"

"We're trying, Princess," A Septa spoke softly.

You only cried until your exhaustion outweighed your consciousness; your mind going blank, eyes rolling back, and slipping into the weighted darkness from the blood loss. Daemon frantically shook your shoulder, begging, "My love, please! Wake up! Wake up now! What's going on!?"

"There's too much blood!"

"I told you to choose!" The Maester snapped at Daemon. "Now they will both lose their lives!"

Daemon felt his chest hallow - figuring the words were true enough. He couldn't decide, he refused to, and now you suffered and the possibility of losing your child was larger than before. "My Prince," a Septa approached, "you need to wait outside."

"No - "

"They need to operate, you cannot linger here," she insisted. "You will be called for."

He steeled his jaw, pointing a warning finger at the Maester, "Don't make the cut else your loved ones will only see you on a spike around the Red Keep."

Prince Daemon waited outside for another few hours. He paced, he refused food and drink, he simply wanted to be in there with you but had to begrudgingly put faith into the medical team working on you. He smirked when he saw his daughter, Visenya, round the distant corner and sprint up to him - Carlee chasing her.

"Are you skipping lessons, again, Little Dragon?" Daemon grunted as he caught his daughter - swinging her onto his hip by using the momentum from catching her.

"Where's Mummy and the baby?" She demanded.

Daemon sighed, "The baby doesn't want to come out, yet, love, so we can't see them yet."

"But it's been a day, Daddy!" She whined.

"I know, pet," he sighed with a frown, glancing at the closed door. "It's all right," he told the maid, "she can remain here with us."

"My Prince, she'd miss - "

"Lessons? You dare try to say lessons are more important?" He snapped.

"Daemon," Viserys frowned from his wheelchair. "Your anger is misplaced."

He hummed, readjusting his daughter on his hip as Alicent dismissed Carlee; letting Daemon begin to pace again. When the door opened, he whipped around, but only an in-training Maester slipped out of the room - giving no time to peer inside. "Well?" Daemon demanded.

"We are still working, My Prince, but I am to fetch more material," he answered, nodding once, then dashing away. It did nothing to settle his nerves, in fact, they tripled when the lad returned with a procession of aids - all carrying different material. They reentered the room, and Daemon felt his heart snap.

"Stay with Uncle, Little Dragon," Daemon told his daughter, approaching Viserys, offering him the child to which he accepted. "Stay here, do not move, Daddy has to check on Mummy. Yes?"

"Is she sick?" Visenya frowned.

"I'll check, my love."

"I can go, too, Daddy."

Daemon sighed through his nose, his daughter making him melt into a pile of nothingness - but reminded himself to stay firm. "No, love, you just stay here and Daddy will check," he assured softly as Viserys lifted his hands to keep hold of the young girl and ensuring she did not follow Daemon when he nodded, turned, and shoved through the door into the birthing chamber.

"My Prince!"

But Daemon couldn't move.

There was blood everywhere. Soiled linens, a drenched nightgown, scattered puddles of splattered life source across the floor. You looked delirious, confused; not fully present in your mind, and when he noted the Milk of the Poppy, he understood your pain was trying to be managed. Blood painted up and down your thighs; blood pooling under your cunt, but there was a baby's head visible.

Startled, he rushed for your side and knelt to take your hand. "My love," he breathed, "can you hear me? Are you with me? Please. Please, sweet wife, open your eyes and look at me."

When you did, he could tell you were unfocused and unsure who he was before realization dawned over your facial expression. "Daemon," you whispered, squeezing his hand slightly.

"I'm here, love," he promised. "Right here - I'm with you."

"The baby?"

"Almost," he promised, watching your eyes flutter.

"She needs to push, my Prince," the birthing maester instructed. "C'mon, c'mon, now's the time - push! Push, Princess, push!"

"C'mon, love!" Daemon encouraged, watching sweat glisten over every exposed surface of skin; jaw clenching, bearing down and pushing with might.

The screams echoed through the Keep, only drowned out when a storm rolled in that evening. The thunder masked the profanities shouted, lightning accompanied by each scream of pain as birth split you in half. Daemon did not leave your side, encouraging you through the entire ordeal, his trousers saturating with your blood as more dripped to the floor as you pushed, pushed, pushed, and pushed with all the strength you had.

"You gotta keep goin', love," Daemon would tell you, "gotta keep fightin' for this - don't stop now. I need you with us, our children will need us, this is not something I can do alone. Please," he begged, "do not make me say goodbye. Not until we're fat and old, remember? Huh? My precious love, you're almost done, but you have to keep fighting. It'll be worth it, soon. Just keep going!"

By the following morning, a babe was being pulled from your cunt with a gushing wave of fluid and blood - reminding the Maester very briefly of cattle birth. However, while relief colored your system, the medical attendants felt panic flood theirs - muttering, hushing, consulting the baby to the side as the Maester saw you through the afterbirth. "W-Wait," you slurred, "wh-where are they? Where? Daemon, wh-what is it? Girl or boy?"

He frowned, Septas, Silent Sisters, and other maids all huddled together without your child in sight. "I-I do not know, yet, sweetheart, but remain calm. The worst is over..." But when he looked down at you, he noticed how still you laid and felt his panic skyrocket. He begged your name several times, demanding you wake up, but you remained silent and still - skin even turning clammy as sweat dried. Daemon was actually pulled out of the way, two Maesters attending to your side, and he felt impossibly in the middle.

To his left, his child. To his right, his wife. Both of whom appear in distress, both of whom hold his worry. "She's clots again," he heard from the Maesters. "Not breathing," he heard from the Septas.

So, this is what Hell was like...

A shrill cry pierced the air, adrenaline draining from Daemon's blood as he realized this only meant the babe was okay. When he was approached with the bundle, he worried, "She should be the first to hold them."

"It's all right, my Prince," the Septa spoke softly, "you may hold her now, and later, you can lay her on your wife's chest."

Daemon nodded, taking the baby. He blinked, "Did you say, 'she'?"

"A girl, my Prince, healthy, strong, full-term."

"What's wrong with her?" He demanded. "Why does my wife not wake?"

"The blood loss," a Maester muttered, "'s gotta be the blood loss."

He couldn't move or breathe. His daughter screamed, still, but he was terrified by the sight of the Maesters flocking over your still-body. Daemon protested, but once more, he was asked to leave the chamber and had to be escorted - but he wanted to remain. He wanted to linger, to watch you, to ensure you were taken care of... Yet the bundle in his arms wriggled and sobbed, reminding him that he had a responsibility to his daughter that needed his attention.

"Daemon," Alicent perked up when the door opened, eyes widening at the sight of the Targaryen swaddle.

"Brother?" Viserys worried, eyes glistening as he assumed the worst.

"She's... She's not waking up," He spoke without emotion, "the Maesters are still working."

Viserys nodded, holding a sleeping Visenya on his lap still. "You need rest," he recommended.

"No, I think I will stay," Daemon refused.

"You can't function this way," Alicent tacked on. "The Maesters will still be at work, and even after, she will not be awake for hours. Milk of the Poppy is potent, and with her exhaustion, it's sure to be an intense combination."

He nodded slowly, "I want to be here."

So, Daemon remained.

He let Visenya sit with him on the stone bench outside the birthing chamber; his brother remaining to offer moral support alongside his wife until royal obligation can calling. He remained stoic, holding his daughter and only passing her off to the wet nurse when a feeding or cleaning needed attended to. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but when the doors opened, Daemon shot to his feet; leaving his infant daughter in Visenya's lap.

"She's asking for you," the Maester told Daemon, smirking slightly when the Prince charged for the room. He looked around at the disarray and how dwarfed you appeared in the bed; sheets still saturated with blood.

Never before had he felt such relief, dropping to his knees as if in prayer at your bedside; tearfully picking up your hand to kiss the back of it. "You're alive," he whispered in shock, "oh, bless the Seven, you're alive - you're still here with me. With us."

You could only manage a tired, half-smile, "Can't be rid of me that easy."

He snorted his amusement, "Thought I lost you for a moment there..."

"Sorry to scare you," you whispered, "but 's not easy pushing a baby from your cunt, huh?"

"No, definitely not. Especially a Targaryen, born of Fire and Blood," he looked close to tears, "they are known for their harsh entrance into this world."

"I'd endure all of it for our children," you mumbled, taking a long breath. "I'm tired, Daemon."

He looked to a lingering Maester, the one in training, asking, "Can she move back to our chambers?"

"She might not want to walk, yet," the lad advised, "but yes. Perhaps a familiar environment will help the healing process."

Daemon had a Maester carrying his infant daughter and escort Visenya to your living quarters while he brought you. He laid you in bed, ensuring your comfort before taking his daughter back in his arms, dismissing the staff, and telling Visenya to change into her loungewear. They were going to take a nap with Mummy...

"Daemon?" You mumbled.

"I'm here, love," he rushed to your side, "you all right? What do you need?"

"It's hurting," you frowned.

Daemon laid your daughter beside you in bed, furthest into the mattress, so he could prepare your next dose of Milk of the Poppy. Visenya, changed for the lazy day, jumped into bed with you, smiling at her new sister as Daemon changed himself. When he joined you in bed, he kept the baby between the two of you as Visenya deflated on Daemon's chest. She all but instantly fell asleep, both parents allowing for several long minutes to pass; ensuring their slumbering state.

"Did you pick a name?" You asked, tracing your fingertip along your baby's belly in soft, ticklish motions.

"Not yet," he answered. "Thought that should be a decision we agree on."

"I have no preference," you told him softly, "I'm just relieved she's here."

"You and me both," he whispered, leaning over to kiss your forehead. "You did such a good job, sweetheart, to endure this Targaryen Curse for our family - such a good job."

You smiled at him, catching his lips in a full kiss as the poppy released into your bloodstream. "I love you," you promised him.

"I love you," he echoed; the serenity surrounding you both in a warm embrace. Unable to help himself, Daemon teased, "So, when do you want our third child?"

You both had to suppress your humor to protect your sleeping daughters from being rudely woken.

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ladythornofrivia · 2 months

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Lady with Teal Eyes || Aemond x Aunt!Hightower Reader (Part One)

word count: 2,733

author’s note: i’m sorry that i didn’t post much stories, as I’ve been reblogging and changing themes in my profile. i’m trying my best, but I’ll make up for it.

warnings: incest, cockwarming, teasing, sucking, p in v, rough play, flirting, wholesome moment, jealous aemond, possessive, roughness, mild manhandling, mild degradation, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex, second hand embarrassment, dark content, mentions of su*cide, Aemond being too touchy with his aunt, degradation, humiliation.

summary: Aemond meets his aunt for the first time, and there’s more than meets the eye. (there will be three parts).

There hasn’t been a day that you never left your homeland. All in prosperity. All in solitude, all in mindful thoughts that even the castle walls were unable to perceive. Oldtown is known for the oldest kingdom within Westeros.

We light the way, those are the words from House Hightower, a tall, silver tower with a green light of flames atop. Members of the Hightower court are known to be proud and resilience. Perhaps too greedy to your taste. Less fickle to their needs, their desires, their secrets, their ambition.

All minds think alike, as they said. But your mind is unalike from theirs.

There hasn’t been a single day where your life change—steady as it goes. But when your older sister, Alicent, sent a letter to you from a raven fled from miles, you instantly ripped the seal and unveiled her letters, written in neat cursive. In the days where you can recall that Alicent taught you to read and write, before accompanying your father, Otto Hightower, to aid the ailing king and his throne.

In King’s Landing, where Aegon has set and had trees felled after his conquest in Westeros. The stories of dragonlords and ladies has caught you into a slighted dot of peculiarity. But with your father, you knew that your father wanted more than being as the Hand of the King. Like any folk in Oldtown, he’s all in the same cloak of mind and heart as the rest. The only difference is he has resided in King’s Landing with the Targaryens, warming the throne with Alicent’s political stead.

With you, as Alicent’s half-sister, one thing you adored about her is her resilience, no matter how the power struggle may have been, Alicent held her head high, it inspired you to do the same cause, not for the greater good, but for you to steady your heart. With Alicent’s brown eyes, anyone would be easily swayed at her beauty. With your eyes like glowing water, the subjects were to assume that you’re either a sea creature in the ocean, or have been reincarnated as a woman. Common folks assumed that you’re a goddess sent by Maiden herself. But others theorized you’re born in the sacred pond within the forest.

Despite the nonsensical rumors, you carried out your duties dulled within life, but with your brother, Gwayne Hightower, entered in your chambers without a warning.

“Sister!”

“Good heavens, you gave me a fright,” you screeched, hand clutching over your chest.

“A word from the raven,” he resumed, pulling out the letter. “It’s from our dear sister.”

She hasn’t written you a letter for months. Understanding of her high authoritative position, thankfully enough you aren’t the queen. You couldn’t bear to think about gifting children into the world from your maidenhood.

“Alicent!” Departing from the chair, you snatched the letter from Gwayne’s hand and ripped the letter open, straightening the scrolled paper.

My dearest sister,

I regret to inform you that I cannot visit in the Oldtown due to personal circumstances that our father has been trifled with the matters in King’s Landing. As queen, I must fully prioritize my duties and smite the inconsiderate undutiful thought of others. My dear husband, King Viserys, has been unwell as of late, growing slower day by day, but still the same man who loves his histories and shed upon endless favoritism on his daughter and her plain-featured sons, as well his miniatures he rarely finished. As of this moment, we are preparing the feast for the upcoming celebration. Misery and dread and politics has been my company, and I’d be happy if you come to King’s Landing and stay here for more than a month. I also send Gwayne and his men to escort you back. I hope you still have the new dresses and jewels the seamstress sorted to your taste; I always know that you hated attire that itched your flesh or suffocating. Words cannot expressed about how I miss the sweetness of your smile and laughter. We shall meet soon.

Signed,

Alicent Hightower

Jumping with joy, your body lunged at Gwayne, locking him into a tight hug, slightly hopping in place with a big grin stretched onto your lips.

“Have my things ready, brother,” you said, hasting, forgetting about the silks and fabrics in your hands.

“But you need more time. You’ll stay in King’s Landing as our queenly sister instructed.”

“Send the maids, then. I can’t do this alone.”

“You mustn’t make haste!” Gwayne shouted as you ran off, never minding the silks on the ground only for him to pick up.

“The sooner the better,” you shouted back.

~~~

The trailed ship took no more than three days to reach King’s Landing. Alicent hasn’t mentioned anything particular to the celebration. But you have come to acknowledge that Alicent lessened the details.

By the time the ships rested at the shore, you rushed down to the clear path and greeted your father, who was rather cold and emotionless. Nevertheless, you gave the courtesy of shallow inclination of your neck bent down. Though your heart shattered at the motionless greeting; a chilled wind spiraled on your thickened sleeves.

“Father,” you said, grinning ear to ear.

“Queen Alicent awaits,” is all he said, then left without abiding on you.

“But—”

“Ser Gwayne, escort this lady in the Red Keep,” he wasn’t saying it with care.

This lady.

Months without communication and souvenirs, you’d ought it’ll soften your father’s resolve regarding onto the estrangement.

Another clash of heartbreak has struck again. But it comes as no surprise.

Both of you hadn’t spoke since of his second wife—your mother’s—passing.

As numb as it may be, the small pang in your heart resolved again as Gwayne Hightower escorted you to the high steeps close, reaching the royal grounds of Red Keep.

~~~

Infiltrating from climbing the steps until reaching the indoors, the green queen appeared.

Your sister.

“Alicent,” you rushed and clung her to embrace.

“Sister, how good of you to come,” Alicent replied.

The halls greeted you in cold and dreaded air clinging onto your sleeves, goosebumps flooded over your skin, the thick air of candles and torches has impaled your stomach. You didn’t like this feeling. These halls, darkened in heralds of statues and stars that your pupils recognizant.

Faith of the Seven.

Hightowers held their religion in the highest regard, while you, don’t cherish the ideologies of the religion, filled with fanaticism and hypocrisy. Even Targaryens have the queerest customs, of marrying brother to sister, relative to relative since Aegon I. It dire consequences of genetics and birth, and the fruition of a child birth into an unshakable world of politics and desires. According to the Citadel, in secret debate, those who are born of incest are nothing but sort of monsters lurking, a defect to a bloodline.

The Targaryens disagree—couldn’t care less, of course. As you often heard of keeping the bloodline pure.

Bloodline pure. People speculated that the Targaryens are closer to gods than men. Thus their words ‘Fire and Blood’ is in order. In Valyria, their source is magic and dragons, long before volcanic eruptions swept the lands and dragons into ashes. The last Targaryens resided in Westeros, and thus, their last kind is dwindling, hence creating pure bloodline. As theatrically hysterical as it is, you trudged along the halls.

“It has been so long since I saw you last,” Alicent began.

“It has, but we rarely sent letters as of late.”

“Being a queen is no simple task. Our father’s ambition has gotten stronger.”

“Your father,” you said bitterly.

“My dear sister,” Alicent resumed, her voice soothed. “Father is doing his best to stabilize the realm.”

“Cold, cruel and calculated,” you answered. “Your strength and dutiful as queen is one of the things I admire about you. But, sister, it feels as if my existence is no longer needed. I feel as if I’m useless. My mother received no love from your father.”

The doe-eyed look in Alicent’s eyes protruding. “Sister, I—“”

“Half-sisters,” you reminded. “Everyone thought I was some sort of creature that shouldn’t belong in the realm. I’m no fool; I could hear everyone whisper, even closed doors.”

“Creature or not, you’re still a Hightower. We share the same blood. Nothing will ever change between you and I.”

“But your father will never accept me,” you replied.

Alicent clasped her hands onto yours. “The next time we see each other, I’ll be visiting the Oldtown.”

“You said that the last time on our previous letters,” you chimed. “Let him stabilize the realm alone.”

“That is why you’re here. I needed time apart from the council and subjects,” Alicent reasoned. “Men are often ambitious with their politics and trifling over gold than their wives.”

“It appears so,” you agreed, huffing.

Ironically, Alicent served men, and still is. First Jahaerys, then Otto, then Viserys. Though you wouldn’t so recklessly give your personal opinion away to Alicent.

“We have yet to explore the grounds. We must rest at the gardens. I know how much you love staying in the gardens.”

Your cheeky smile was showing. “I do.”

Alicent squeezed your hand. “Let us be off. It’s considered bad luck if we let our food grow cold.”

“Never knew that it involves bad luck.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

Not once, Alicent answered.

~~~

“Make yourself comfortable,” Alicent said, indicating the spare chair, and watched you sat with ease, eyeing the lavish outdoors where the Weirwood stood as main view.

“Quite nice out,” you complimented.

This was Alicent meant when she said gardens.

“I chose this spot for a reason,” Alicent said as the servants settled the meal over the table—bowed and left. And the last servant entered, placing a stacked candied almonds and candied plums on a gold platter, alongside of Dornish wine.

Alicent watched your eyes lit up.

“I took the liberty of having the kitchen staff ready for your sweet-tooth,” she clarified.

“You know me well, sister.” You grinned.

“My lady,” a soothing masculine voice said behind you.

“Ser Criston,” Alicent addressed, glancing. “I’m occupied as of this moment.”

“There has been urgent matters regarding to your son.”

Puzzled, Alicent spoke with, “Which son?”

Appalled, your eyes darted at her. On the other hand, you never retain information from Alicent.

“Aegon,” Criston answered, eyes turning away. “I’m afraid his excursions have rather been…” Then his dark brown eyes flicked to yours, his mouth opened, choosing his words carefully.

“We’ll speak no more of it,” Alicent pleaded. “I’m under the liberty of entertaining my sister at the moment. Do ignore Aegon’s excursions for now.”

Somewhere in between the lines, you knew Alicent’s calm demeanor struck hard when the excursions take place, wrath kept within, as you read between Alicent’s lines furrowed on her forehead. Ser Criston glimpsed at you and bowed before withdrawing from the outdoors.

“My apologies,” Alicent said to you in a dreaded voice. “The excursions in the daylight hour upon King’s Landing hasn’t ended.”

“I never knew you had a son,” you said, munching on the candied almonds.

Alicent swallowed the contents of the food. “I mentioned it once before in the letter. That I was having a babe in my belly.”

You pondered for a moment. It was back when Alicent married Viserys and carried a child in her.

“But you never mentioned that it’s a son,” you commented.

“But I’m sure you heard Aegon’s name the moment he arrived into the world.”

Your teeth clenched. “I can assure you I did.” The Oldtown spoke of Aegon in high regards, but as you grew older, you never hear much of Aegon’s doings, hoping to meet your nephew, you waited, but as usual, you sister never once sent letters to offer you an invite.

“Things have been hectic for the past years, and I doubt that’ll cease. With the Iron Throne empty and with all that it stands, we’re keeping the place intact with politics and debate,” Alicent reasoned.

You stayed in silence.

“If you would like,” Alicent continued, “I would be happy to take you to the gallery. The Red Keep has been nothing but a dread. I shall escort you and give you a tour to the Red Keep unless you want someone else to—”

“No, I’d be thrilled if you were to accompany me,” you paused, then said, “sister.”

Alicent gently beamed at that.

~~~

When you and Alicent both went inside the Red Keep, the royal subjects and guards bowed before the green queen as their eyes lingered onto yours, and an incoherent of whispers were passed to your ears.

The sister of the green queen.

And as you ascended the staircases, from there, you saw the shaded eyes of violet and curled hair—a young girl, a few years younger than you.

“Mother, have you seen my—” The girl’s youthful stare darted to yours, backing away gradually.

“This is my sister, (y/n), your aunt,” Alicent introduced. “This is Princess Helaena, my daughter,” Alicent said to you.

“A pleasure.” As you made an inclination to your neck, smiling to the princess as you hadn’t realized that the others accompanied none other by two young men behind Helaena, both with Targaryen features.

Your heart stopped—leapt with warmth—when you first glanced at the tall prince with gold, lithe hair as his other eye covered with eyepatch.

“These are my other sons…” Alicent said, searching for the third son with a slight frown on her features. “Where is Aegon?”

“Drunk as usual,” Daeron rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

“That blasted fool…” Alicent hissed, then smiled merrily in a way to appease herself. “I hope you and Lady (y/n) would get along.”

“Yes, I remember now! You’re that boy—that cupbearer in the council!” you said to Daeron.

Daeron beamed. “I am proud to serve my mother’s family in Oldtown. Ashamed we never met circumstances in the Reach, yet here we are!” he chuckled. “For my dear father’s name day contained in private ceremony, I’m glad you came.”

You sensed the sarcasm in the word “father”, but shrugged it off.

The dread of unwanted unwelcome washed away with glee. “Indeed. I shall look forward to the festivities.”

Aemond lifted and placed his kiss upon the back of your hand. A kiss placed with gentle fire ignited your dulled soul, envision with flames of blush blaring your dewy cheeks. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

Breath caught in your throat, eyeing on his hand still lingering his intertwine fingers to your skin. “Likewise, my prince…”

For the first time in your life, the gentleness of a dragon has captured your heart and soul.

As for Aemond, with the slighted news of your presence, there’s nothing more than mere maiden who needs to be soiled with his perversions trapped and coiled and enflamed in between his legs. When he first laid his gaze on you, he pictured your flushed skin wrapped with his own, his lips captured yours as his presence trapped into your mind for eternity. But alas, with a wandering thought just now, it wasn’t like him. He mustn’t be capricious and avarice on the spot.

With your grand arrival, Aemond had already decided you’ll become his.

One day at the time, he reminded himself.

“It’s unusual for you to be courteous to someone,” Alicent commented.

“I never wish to scare anyone with my presence, mother,” Aemond said. “It is my duty as a prince to make our special guest comfortable.”

A hot tingle between your legs stirred as you eyed on him—on his lips—how rolled off words with his tongue, finding yourself imagining at the thought of your nephew tasting your folds as you ride him, warming the bed—riding him whilst lace and corset of your precious dress torn apart by his own rugged and young hands.

“He’s only being courteous like Prince Daeron,” you noted, clearing your throat. “Everyone must fulfill their role to the realm. We mustn’t decay our customs to rudeness.”

Aemond’s eye gleamed at your flushing features whilst you looked at Alicent in the eye, you speak with assurance yet your body wavered, dying for your hungered coil in you—the scorch caged within your dress to be set free.

You cannot fool me, my princess, he thought.

In the end, nobody can fool a dragon like him.

Taglist: @daonenonlysandman @toodlesxcuddles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @marvelescvpe @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @herathedreamer @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @nananeptune @domithebomi @moonseye @faesspace @rxixo31 @tm-starr @xinthia19 @popsycles @naiaaramena @aleemendoza2425-blog @letmehavemyfictionalmen @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @thought--bubble @remuslupinwife1 @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216 @kimsubin05 @mylosz0 @blackgaladriel @valeskafics

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themotherofhorses · 1 year

Note

may I request some sfw headcanons about aemond with handmaid!reader? 🥺

TOTALLY i plan on eventually writing their first meeting + how they fall in love and begin their secret (not so secret) relationship but in the meantime:

some cute & fluffy headcanons of aemond targaryen with his handmaid!reader (who is basically his wife because fuck the westerosi social stratification)

his handmaid's tales | main masterlist

Okay, first, Siri pls play Woman by Doja Cat. Or, yknow, Waves of Blue by Majid Jordan.

His bed is your bed. Sure, you have your own tucked away in the servant’s quarters, in a room shared with two other maids, but you soon learn that Aemond prefers (demands) you remain by his side at all hours of the night. “What if I require my handmaid’s assistance at some random hour? No, you’ll stay with me where you belong.”

He loves for you to join him in his nighttime baths, not always with the intent to make love but for him to cradle your naked body close to his. Relaxing within the tub, soaking together in the scalding, scented waters, you and him are husband and wife.

"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you." "Yes, my prince, I'm very much aware." "Don't you dare ever leave my side. I will not forgive you nor this damned world if I ever lost you."

Sometimes Alicent will walk in on soft, domestic moments where he’s seated in his chair, reading to the twins while you’re folding his clothing or tidying up the bed or tending to the newest babe. It is sweet in her eyes. Her favorite child is finally happy with his little (unconventional) family.

She can’t find it in herself to send you away. You’re no highborn lady, of course, but you’re so kind and gentle, absolutely respectful- treating her son so well and mothering her precious grandchildren. Otto, on the other hand, disapproves of the relationship a great deal, but he’ll deal with it later when the family eventually plunges itself into war. Aemond will marry but not you, he decides. But, in the meantime, he’ll allow his grandson to play with you a little bit longer.

Just your mere presence brings Aemond peace. Comfort. Relaxation. He’s so besotted with you that he cannot imagine living the rest of his life without you.

You’re the most beautiful woman, he swears. He notices the way highborn lords openly fawn over you whenever you attend royal banquets, and how their lustful gazes follow your every movement. It grew worse during your first pregnancy, as you glowed with motherhood so well you might’ve as well been the Mother walking amongst her children.

The first pregnancy with the twins brought a level of excitement towards fatherhood that Aemond swore he thought he’d never experience. He remembers how Aegon acted when Helaena was heavy with their twins, always meeting her with a lack of interest in her health or needs or the babes. He could not understand it. Not a bit. With you, he’s desperate to keep his hold on you at every hour of the day.

If you’re tending to your duties, he’ll always remain nearby. #protectivedaddy. He’ll take the time to polish his sword, study the room, or admire the way your swelling baby bump is now beginning to poke out from underneath your servant's dress. “I did that.”

At night, when you’re fast asleep, he’ll crawl down to lay his head on your belly. Feeling his babes’ little faint kicks against his cheek and palms reminds him that life is now worth living for. He’ll talk to the babes too, mumbling about his day and how beautiful their mother is and how he’s thrilled to soon have them. Aemond takes to fatherhood as quickly and easily as you took to being his handmaid.

The second pregnancy brings constant midnight dreams of a pretty baby girl, carrying the same features as her mother- your twinkling eyes, the slope of your nose, the cute pout that tugs at the corner of your lips. He plans on naming her after your mother and already has the dragon egg ready to place in the cradle

His uncle, Daemon, nicknames you in his head his nephew’s duckling. You’re always following after him, two steps back (a healthy distance between a supposed royal and their servant), ready to serve him if needed, hands clasped together, and pretty head bowed. You remind him of Helaena in a way, much too pure for this world.

Helaena adores you. Duh, that’s a given. And if Helaena gives you her blessing, you might as well be part of the family.

In bed, Aemond likes to caress your cheeks and stroke your bottom lip with his thumb as you sleep. It is in these moments that he genuinely believes you were created for him to find and love and worship, that the gods fashioned your existence to mold into his. He was never fated to fall in love with a highborn lady but instead his sweet handmaid, who was sent to provide him with everything he was denied during boyhood.

divider by the loml @chainsawsangel

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond headcanons #handmaid!reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #house of the dragon #requests #vic writes 🧸

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asumofwords · 8 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash - EPILOGUE

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Mentions of grief, war, blood, loss.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, Cregan Stark X Reader

Note: Whelp... Here we are.... This is it. This is the end. The end of Smoke, Fire and Ash. We are ending with this Epilogue in a five year time jump. And oh boy.... I can't believe it. I really hope that you enjoy how I finish this era lmao, with over 370k words.... someone needs to take my computer away from me. Again, I can't even begin to express my love and gratitude to you all, I just hope that you have enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it! <3 So as always.... ENJOY!

EPILOGUE : His Song of Ice and Fire

Time jump: 5 years into the future.

There was a chill that had come early to Kings Landing that season, all those years ago. A chill that had swept across the stones of the Keep, cool air creeping into your bones through your gown.

But now, as you stood where you had many moons ago, there was no crisp breeze that sent goosebumps rising on your arms, nor was there a bite to it that came as a subtle and precursory warning for what was to come.

The courtyard of the Godswood was warmed by streams of glowing sunlight that blanketed over the cobblestones and grass.

A soft breeze rolled through as you walked forward towards the tree, having missed being in its presence over the years passed, mostly spent on Dragonstone.

It had been five years since your mother was seated upon the Iron Throne. Five years since you had been named her successor. Five years since Lords, Ladies and Heads of Houses pledged themselves to you and the Queen.

Five years since the death of Aegon and all those responsible for the usurpation.

Since you commanded dracarys and watched as Alicent was devoured by flames. Since Larys laid on the flagstones, blood seeping from his stomach.

Five years since your father had gone to Storms End and slayed Borros Baratheon for his play in it.

Five years since Baela and Rhaena flew to Oldtown and rounded up all the Hightower's who had shown support for Otto and his kin.

And five years since his death.

Five years ago, in these very walls of the Red Keep, you had plunged a dagger into your husbands neck. Your uncles neck. Your childhood companion. The man you had loved.

And not one day that had gone by did you not think of it. Did you not dream of it. Did you not see him in the corners of your eyes, or in the shadows of your chambers on Dragonstone.

Did you not see the blood that stained your hands when you would wake, or witness with bouts of anxiety.

In your hand, the old and worn cover of your favourite book, ‘Ten Thousand Ships'. A novel in which you had read under these very branches of the Godswood. On the grass your mother had sat with you, or your brothers, or your uncles and aunt.

You watched as a small head of silver raced ahead of you, shoulder length hair billowing behind him, with two tidy braids holding the sides behind his head.

“Careful, Lucerys.” You called out gently, watching as your son climbed atop the roots and settled right into your favourite spot. His black and red robes crinkling as he leant back against the root of the Weirwood tree.

The smile on your face stretched widely as you moved to sit beside him, the small boy crawling into your lap as you brushed his hair back behind his ears. Little hands reached out to play with the necklace at your neck.

Aemond’s sapphire.

Ever since Lucerys was born, he had always longed to touch or hold it, violet eyes always finding it with ease against your neck, fingers outstretched to play with it or caress it. He tapped it up and down upon his finger as he looked at it with content.

There was so much of Aemond in him, it was hard for all not to see. It was especially true with his eyes. Eyes that you had loved since you were a child, reflected on your own sons face.

His were, much like Aemond's, a way to read him almost immediately, showing so much emotion and character in them as he thought, or played, or argued. Long silver lashes blinked up at you, and you could not help the tug of your heart as you bent your head to kiss his forehead.

The young boy scrunched his nose at you in mock disgust before grabbing the book from your hand to hold it open in his lap, finding the page that you had been up to not just the day before.

The bridge of his nose was dusted with light freckles, and there was such a boyish charm to his rosy cheeks, whenever he smiled his teeth would show, bar the one he had recently just lost.

Little Lucerys was as Aemond had been as a young boy. Inquisitive, soft spoken, kind and daring. He had a longing for knowledge, and sought it out whenever he could in Dragonstone's library or by picking your brain with a continuous stream of questions and consciousness.

But then there was so much of you in him too. His nose, his sure fire temper when things did not go his way, and his utter refusal to back down, even when it brought him to tears.

You read to your son beneath the tree as you reminisced on your days before. On how you had sought solace beneath the branches many times. How your mother had read to you here. How your brothers and Helaena would sometimes join you or play. And how Aemond would sit behind the trunk and listen to you read aloud, your voice carrying enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to let him know that you knew he was there.

And as you read, you felt his presence, there on the other side of the Godswood, where he would sit as a boy, listening as you read to his son. Watching as he always did. There as he always was.

Always and forever more, would the ghost of Aemond haunt you.

You read louder, just so you could be confident that Aemond could hear, just as you had when you were young, even though you knew he was not truly there. But it felt right. It felt the way it should have been. What could have been.

Familiar.

That is where your mother found you, nestled where she used to, reading a book she had once read to you to your son, and loud as though you wished for your voice to carry to some unknown spectator.

You felt the eyes of the Queen and lifted your head, pausing your reading if only for a moment, and Lucerys, being as perceptive as he was, looked up and spotted his Grandmother, leaping from your lap all elbows and knees and ran towards her.

The Queen opened her arms widely as she chuckled, bending down slightly to catch the young boy who launched himself into her arms, crown unmoving from the top of her head.

“Grandmother Nyra!” He had cried as she lifted him into the air, sitting him atop her hip as you dusted your skirts down and made your way over.

“It feels right to see you there. I can remember how eager you used to be.” She smiled, turning her head to look at the boy in her arms, “Did you know your mother had me read to her there too?”

The boy nodded his head, silver hair bouncing atop his shoulders, “Uh huh. And father too!”

Rhaenyra’s smile softened as she looked at the boy and back to you, “She did. Your father loved her reading.”

A small smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in to kiss your mothers cheeks, son still in her arms as he played with the crown at her head.

“Are you ready for this evenings feast?” Rhaenyra asked, swaying the boy gently as she pressed another kiss to the top of his head, once, twice, three times, exaggerating the noise as she sucked air through her pursed lips.

“Of course,” You adjusted the necklace at your throat in nervous habit, “We flew all this way for this evening, didn’t we?”

“Vermithor is grumpy, Grandmother. But he lets me on his back!”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth and raised her brows, “Does he? Why, you must be the youngest rider ever!”

Lucerys beamed.

“Muña has been taking me to see Vhagar! She flies with us sometimes.” Mother.

The smile on Rhaenyra’s lips twitched, if only for a moment, before she regained her composure.

“Does she now? Vhagar must know that you’re your fathers son.”

Little Luc nodded his head, “I’m going to claim her. Muña said I shouldn’t because she is too old and grumpy and dangerous, but I know father wants me too.”

You cleared your throat, “That’s enough of that. Grandsire will have a new clutch soon, and you will have your own egg.”

“But I-“

“-Hush, my sweet.”

Turning back to you, Queen Rhaenyra lowered the boy back on to the ground, letting him run circles around the courtyard as you spoke, “Is he still having dreams?”

You bit your lip anxiously, before nodding, “He knows things he shouldn’t. He is much like Helaena in that respect.”

Your mother gave you a reassuring smile, “A gift from the Gods no doubt. A most precious one.”

You nodded in agreement, but in some ways you didn’t agree at all.

Was it really a gift if it aided in driving Helaena to madness?

Rhaenyra held one of your hands, brushing her thumb up and over your knuckles soothingly. You didn’t dare look down, knowing that they would be bloodied, “There will be allies from all the realm tonight. I cannot believe little Rhaegar is to have his first name day already.”

Rhaegar was a small boy of silver hair and tanned skin, one violet eye, and one brown. The third son of Jacaerys and Baela, with yet another on the way. Baela had told you in secret that she wished for a girl this time around, but had been surprised when the small boy had been born.

None were more surprised however, than when he had opened his eyes to peer up at your brother, besotted by his son already, staring down at the violet and brown eyes that looked back up at him.

Aelor, the eldest, was but a few moons older than your Lucerys, and the two got on more fiercely than even you and Aemond possessed. It was a beautiful bond the two boys had, full of love and loyalty.

The middle child of Jacaerys and Baela was a sweet and quiet boy named Rhaelor. He had the most beautiful of curls like his mother, who braided it closely to his scalp with clips of gold and silver dangling from each.

"I cannot believe it either.” You agreed, casting a quick glance at your son, “They grow so quickly.”

Rhaenyra took your other hand in hers and squeezed them, “You grew the fastest of all. You shot up far before your brothers. I feel like I blinked and then there you were, a woman grown.”

Chuckling, you squeezed her hand back, “Will Rhaena be joining us this evening?”

Rhaenyra turned to lead you away from the Godswood, Lucerys running up beside you to hold your other hand, “Rhaena sent word that she senses the babe to be with us any day now. It is too far to travel from the Vale to Kings Landing in her condition, but has told us we must all be ready to come see the babe once it is born.”

Rhaena, upon the death of Lucerys, had refused to wed for years. She had stayed loyal and adamant that she would not be betrothed to another, but then she had met Ser Corwyn Corbray, a knight of House Corbray one evening at a feast.

They had immediately connected, an older man with flowing black hair and deep brown eyes that almost looked black. Corwyn was a kind man, if not fierce and skilled as a swordsman, wielding an ancestral longsword of Valyrian steel named Lady Forlorn.

“A shame that I will not see my half-sister again, but I’m delighted to hear the babe should be born any day now. We shall be having many name day celebrations close together.” You smiled.

As you left the cobblestones of the courtyard, you turned your head back to gaze upon the ruby red leaves of the tree. They shimmered in the light of the sun and rustled softly with the breeze.

And there, sat beneath its branches, was Aemond.

His head was leant back against its trunk as he watched you, sapphire missing from the empty socket of his lost eye.

He had not left you.

He did not speak as Helaena and Lucerys had. Not in full sentences anyway. Not anything but the familiar name of endearment that he had called you.

Zaldrītsos.

It was whispered to you in the dead of night, or in the darkest of rooms when your hair would stand on end. Or at times, whispered to you when you were with Lucerys.

It was never malicious.

Or at least, thats what you liked to tell yourself. Though it never felt like he was there with bad intentions. It felt neutral. And you liked to tell yourself that he was there to watch and keep you safe. To keep you company. That a piece of your mind had made him up so that he could live a life with you, and watch your son grow.

There would always be a part of Aemond with you no matter where you went. Whether in your son, or in your visions, or upon your neck and scarred skin.

Your heart ached at the thought.

Rhaenyra walked you back to your chambers, entering as your four maids bowed and began to get preparations in order to ready you for the feast. The chamber doors opened as they left, held open as the tall and built body of your father entered.

“Grandsire!” Lucerys screeched, and you winced as the sound sent fear racing down you spine.

Your heart jolted, the echoes of screaming in your ears as you plastered a smile on your face, eyes twitching, watching as Daemon lifted him high into the air, throwing him up once and catching him to hold him tight against his chest.

Loud noises sometimes did that to you. Threw you back to your time in the Keep before your parents had arrived. Sparking fear into your very core, to the point where sometimes you could not breathe, as though your brain stopped functioning and you were gasping for air, clawing at your throat.

In those moments, Aemond would whisper to you.

It had been especially hard when Lucerys was first born. His cries would wake you and send you into a fit panic, racing to grab the dagger beside your bed as you would check the chamber for danger, wide eyed.

It took several months to learn to live with it, with his presence there, and you would be lying if you didn't say that looking down at Lucerys in his crib as a babe made you feel a guilt that you could not fight away with common sense. A melancholy that ate away at you viciously.

You had fallen into a state of depression, and in your confusion you had sent a letter to your mother and father via raven asking for star fruit. Your mind was so confused, so lost. You barely slept, or ate, and were in a perpetual state of fear.

Daemon came at once, and ended up spending almost an entire year on Dragonstone with you to help, before he finally convinced you to come back to Kings Landing with him so that your mother could help too.

It was months of screaming through the night, months of support, months of pacing your chambers, wondering if it was all worth it. Wondering if it was worth living, worth staying another day in such Hell.

The same thoughts had replayed in your mind over and over.

My son will hate me for what I have done.

I took his father from him.

He will never love me.

He will resent me for my sins.

The thought of climbing out the window as Helaena had done became an almost daily occurrence. And it was hard. Hard to not give in to it.

But you couldn't do it. Cowardice be damned, you could not leave you son alone. You would not abandon him. You would not do it.

So after months of the turmoil that chipped away at you day by day, you told them the truth of it, the whole truth of it, and by that time, after voicing such things aloud, little by little, you felt a bit more of yourself.

Lucerys had had his second name day when you were ready to go back to Dragonstone.

“Se skorkydoso iksis ñuha byka Dārilaros?” And how is my little Prince? Daemon grinned, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek as your son wriggled in his arms.

“Merbugon!” Hungry!

Daemon plastered mock shock upon his face, something that he would do often to you as a child, "Arlī? Yn ao sepār iprattan.” Again? But you just ate.

“Kesan ipradagon ao!” I’ll eat you! Lucerys growled, fake biting at his Grandsire’s arm.

The young boys High Valyrian was good, but nowhere near perfect.

Daemon and Rhaenyra spent ample time teaching him, as did his uncles Jacaerys and Joffrey when you'd come to visit, or them you. His other uncles, Little Viserys and Aegon the Younger were not too many years older, similar to the age gap you and your uncles had had. They often played with him and Aelor.

Daemon dropped the boy onto the floor, messing his hair with a rough hand before pushing him away to go play with his toys, Saria and Aella sitting with him on the floor. Your fathers lavender eyes landed on you and he smirked.

“Tala.” Daughter, He greeted you, voice almost playful, “Do you look forward to tonights feast?” He pried, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

“I look forward to spending time with all of you, of course.”

“Kostilus kessa ao ūndegon iā arlie valzȳrys.” Perhaps will you see a new husband, He smirked.

Rolling your eyes, you sighed, “Kepa.” Father, “Kostilus, daor bisa arlī." Please, not this again.

It was a conversation that had begun to come up more often than not. You knew the reasoning behind it. You were heir. And you would be expected to wed again, and soon. But all the Lords in Kings Landing you had met had not once sparked any sort of interest for you. And Rhaenyra had vowed to let you marry whom you wanted, when you wanted.

She had kept true to her word thus far.

Rhaenyra sighed, tilting her head up at her husband as she looked at him in exacerbation, “Henujagon zirȳla sagon.” Leave her be.

Daemon held his palms up in surrender, looking over you before he brushed your cheek with his knuckle quickly, “Ao jurnegon gevie hae va moriot. Hae aōha muña.” You look beautiful as always. Like your mother.

You smirked, “Don’t try and get in my good graces now.”

Rhaenyra grabbed Daemons hand, “We shall leave you to get ready, and see you at the feast.”

You watched as they left your chambers, Rhaenyra whispering to Daemon in your mother tongue.

You were readied by your maids, the two who had been in service for you for many years, and the two who had been your saving grace in the Keep for all those long and trying months. The four sworn to you, and almost never leaving your sight.

They dressed you in a style you were more familiar with, a style you had worn prior to the war. Tight bodice with dripping cleavage, short sleeves and dragons embroidered all over. Your hair was left in waves down your back, with braids nestled amongst them. Against your neck, the same necklace as you wore everyday.

Lucerys joined the feast for a time, eating with the other young children, Maelor and little Jaehaera included, before they were taken back to their chambers by maids.

The ale flowed heavily in the Hall, and all wore smiles on their faces, the frowns and wrinkles caused by the tension of war having been smoothed from their skin.

You sat beside your mother, Jacaerys and Baela to your other side.

Baela was glowing, stomach round with the new child and cheeks rosy from smiling. Jacaerys cheeks were rosy from ale, but parenthood suited him all the same. He had matured, that much was obvious, but his love and devotion to his family and wife had only gotten stronger.

“Little Aelor is growing so quickly.” You smiled, bringing your wine to your lips to sip as you felt nothing but joy to be where you were. To be where you always should had been. The room aglow with your mothers supporters and love. All around you joyous and bright.

“Little Aelor,” Baela leant towards you, “Is a little shit. Not once did I ever behave such a way. He bit Rhaelor this morning because he wouldn’t play with him.”

Jacaerys chuckled and Baela elbowed him in the arm.

“It's all Jacaerys, I’m afraid. He used to bite me too.” You grinned.

“I did not! Not once did I bite you.”

"You did too. I have scars to prove it. Even ask the Septa, she's the one who tore you from me like a rabid dog.”

Jacaerys turned to his wife for support, who only bit her lip to try and hide the smile that broke on her cheeks, “My sister condemns me with these lies. Do you hear her?”

Baela smirked, sipping her wine, “I believe her. You were terribly wild. I seem to recall you have bitten me on more than one occasion.”

Jacaerys blushed, tongue in cheek as he looked at his wife.

You made a teasing face of disgust, "Incorrigible, the both of you."

All three of you watched on as Lords and Ladies danced in the middle of the Hall, loud music bouncing off of the walls by the band that played in the corner, and all laughed and clapped with joy as they watched.

“It is good to be home.” Jacaerys grinned, watching the celebrations, “Driftmark, though close, feels miles away.”

“You’re both always welcome to visit me and Lucerys at Dragonstone again, perhaps a longer stay? I am sure he would love to have you and the boys more often.”

Jacaerys nodded, “We will come promptly then. If the heir beckons, we shall come.” He teased.

“You have been summoned then." You put on your most pious voice you could manage, bursting into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all.

As your eyes looked into the sea of people, a familiar face came into view.

Jacaerys and Baela, also noticing, turned to face you.

“You know,” Jacaerys began, leaning towards you, “He only comes to these things for you.” He whispered, watching the way a soft blush creeped on your cheeks.

“He comes for you, brother. You are friends after all.” You breathed, feeling your heart race in your throat as the man got closer.

“Kessa, yn ziry umbagon syt ao.” Yes, but he stays for you, Baela snickered.

“You are both as bad as each other.” You griped, finishing the rest of your wine quickly, hoping to distract yourself by pouring another.

As you reached for the goblet, the tall figure of Cregan Stark stood before you at the table, donned in brown and black leather robes, his long dark hair tied back away from his face, and stubble casting a shadow across his defined cheeks and chin.

His stormy grey eyes bored into yours, and the soft and yet polite smile of Cregan Stark greeted you.

“My Lady.” He bowed his head politely, “Jacaerys. Lady Baela.”

“Cregan.” They nodded.

Jacaerys and Baela turned their heads away, conversing with themselves in an attempt to give you mock privacy.

Though you knew they were listening.

“Cregan Stark. You have journeyed far for such an occasion.” You gazed up at him, watching as his eyes flicked downwards and then back to you.

“Of course, My Lady. It is not every day my good friend’s son has his first name day.”

“You could not have missed it, I would have never forgiven you.” Jacaerys chimed in, cheeky smirk on his lips.

Cregan chuckled, deep and heartily, “You’d burn me alive if I did not come. I think those were your words that you sent via raven.”

“Good memory, Stark.”

You smiled, loving the banter the two men had, “But to travel all the way from the North, it must be a tiresome journey, is it not?”

Cregan’s broad chest expanded as he pulled his shoulders back, hands held behind him, “Aye, a tiresome journey if on the backs of horses, and not dragons. Though I am gladdened to know I shall be well rested before my return. His Grace has offered for me to stay at the Red Keep for the month.”

You turned your head towards your father, who’s eyes were already on you, smirk on his face. Your gaze told him you would have a word with him later.

A stern word.

Turning back to Cregan you gave him a smile, "That is wonderful news that you will be here with us in Kings Landing for longer than expected. I had not imagined you to be here at all.”

“Apologies if my arrival has offended you, My lady.” Cregan jested, and you felt a blush creep across your chest.

“Please, Cregan, enough with the formalities. You may call me Y/n. I think we are well acquainted enough by now.”

Cregan smiled, showing a line of white teeth, “Y/n.” He tested the name on his tongue, as though it was the first time he had spoken it.

He stood for what felt like an eternity as you looked at him, neither of you sure of how to continue this conversation.

Jacaerys, being the meddlesome man that he was, decided that his false conversation about the weather with his wife had ended with perfect timing, looking up at his old friend with a shit eating grin.

“My sister here has been approached by many men this evening, all who call her the Beauty of the Realm. Do you find my sister to be beautiful?” He smirked.

Cregan blanched, but answered almost immediately after, “Aye. It would only be a fool who could not see it.”

You blushed, drinking half of your wine in one gulp.

“Then will you continue to do her the dishonour of not asking her to dance?” Jacaerys blinked at his friend from atop the rim of his cup, hiding his grin behind the silver.

Cregan looked as though he was ready to chastise the Prince, perhaps even hit him, but instead turned to you, bowing his head, “Might I ask for a dance, Your Grace?”

You looked at the tall man before you, dark hair that curled lightly in waves, with eyes as stormy as winter.

“If only you call me by my name, Lord Cregan.” You pushed from your seat, turning to give your brother and half-sister a furious glare that the Stark could not see as you turned away from the table, moving towards Cregan who waited diligently for you, hand held out, palm up.

Cregan was much taller than Aemond had been, broader, and when your hand slid into his, you felt your chest come alight. A rush that you had not felt in a long, long time. A sense of butterflies that fluttered about behind your ribs like a makeshift cage.

Cregan led you down to the sea of people, feeling the eyes of your family upon your back. When finally amongst the crowd you turned to face each other, dancing with the rest as your hands intermittently connected.

“I must apologise, Your Grace-”

“-Y/n.” You corrected him.

“Y/n.” He smiled, “It is not often that I dance in the North. I fear I may be a terrible partner.”

“You are yet to step on my toes. I think you are doing perfectly well, if not a little clunky.” You smirked at the tall man, watching as he looked away bashfully.

“There is still time for that I suppose.”

Each brush of his hands atop your body caused warmth to spread through you, tiny little tendrils winding their way up your flesh wherever his skin would make contact with yours. Your hands, arms, shoulders, waist. It was almost overwhelming, and the only time you had ever felt it before, was many years ago.

Five years ago, to be exact.

“Ao jurnegon gevie.” You look beautiful.

Your legs got tangled with themselves as you came to a halt, looking up at the grey eyed man who looked down at you wistfully.

“What did you say?” You breathed, uncertain if you had heard him right, or if it was your mind playing tricks upon you.

“I said you looked beautiful.” Cregan’s eyes roamed your face, brows beginning to furrow, “I apologise, Your-“

“-No.” You shook your head, “Ao ȳdragon Valyrio Eglie?” You speak High Valyrian?

A warm chuckle erupted from his chest, “No, My Lady. Just that and some other small things. Your brother has been a great teacher thus far.”

You tilted your head, trying to get your feet to unstick from the floor, blurs of people moving around you, but in that moment it felt as though they had all disappeared, and you were left alone with the man before you.

“He is a good teacher because I have taught him.”

“Then perhaps I must ask of you to teach me instead.” Cregan gazed at you hopefully.

You hummed, “Do you have need to learn it? I did not think the North had any speakers of my mother tongue.”

Cregan opened his arm towards the side, weaving you through the crowd to the edge of the table, grasping a goblet of ale and procuring a goblet of wine for yourself.

You sipped on the wine, eyed widening.

Dornish wine.

Of all the wine on the table from this realm, to the Redwyne's vineyards, from Essos, to Dorne. Cregan had given you the one wine you liked the most.

How did he...

“We do not." He replied, "The North has no need for tongues of fire, our breath is ice.”

“Indeed. I am not too fond of the cold, I am afraid.” You teased.

Cregan’s large hand moved to swipe at his chin with a thumb, stumble rubbing beneath it in thought as he looked at you, “And have you been to the North? It is far more than just ice. Winterfell has a garden that may rival the one in the Red Keep.”

The spiced Dornish wine was sharp on your tongue, “So I have heard. I have not had the Gods graces to witness it for myself. I have however, been gifted a Winter Rose.”

Dark brows pulled together as the Stark looked at you in confusion. Brown hair cascaded over his shoulder as he tilted his head at you, the earthy smell of oakmoss, ginger and pine surrounding you.

Oakmoss, ginger, pine.

Not at all, smoke, leather, and sandalwood.

It was earthy, warm despite his origins, and gentle. Like a breath of fresh air. Like a scent of safety and calm.

“Winter Roses do not grow in Kings Landing. How were you gifted one?”

You swallowed, looking away momentarily.

The energy around you shifted.

“My husband- late husband, had a knack for gifting me rare things in atonement for his temper.” The words came out sharp, crinkled on the edges, and tasted of iron.

Cregan nodded solemnly, “I am sorry for your loss.”

You blinked.

Not once, had a man or woman or any person who you had spoken to over the past five years, ever said they were sorry for Aemond. Not once had anyone offered condolences, except the silent stares of your family. In fact, most times, people congratulated you for your bravery, your strength, your ability to drive that dagger into his throat.

People congratulated you for killing the man you loved.

But not him.

Not Cregan.

And it intrigued you.

You finished the last of your wine, “I have not had the chance to thank you for supporting my mother after all these years.” You began, taking a glance to look up at her, as she gazed lovingly at your father in small conversation.

“Thank me not. A Stark never forgets their oath, and we made one to your mother.”

A smile wound its way on your lips, “And how cold does it get in the North, Lord Stark? How does one not freeze in the walls of Winterfell?”

Another warm chuckle floated from his chest, “There is much to be frozen in the North, but Winterfell was built atop hot springs. Brandon the Builder built it amongst giants. The hot water flows through the walls to keep us warm.”

“I thought I had read as much in a book once.” You smirked, feeling warm from the wine, “But I had never imagined such a thing to be true. Giants?” A cheeky laugh fell through your lips.

Cregan smirked down at you, goblet close to his mouth. It wasn’t a smirk that set you ablaze, nor did it create anger or contempt or suspicion. It wasn't a smirk to provoke you. Instead, it made warmth spread steadily through you, like the hot springs in Winterfell.

“Aye,” He laughed, “What is hard to believe about giants? Your blood rides upon dragons, do you not?”

“I suppose you are right. I do ride upon a dragon, a large one to be sure. I wonder if it would marvel at the size of your giants.”

“We shall never know. Perhaps you might ride upon the great beasts back to Winterfell?”

Your heart began to beat quickly in your chest, fingers tapping on the side of your cup, “My great beast would swallow you whole for calling him such a thing.” Jest on the tip of your tongue.

“It would be an honour to be devoured by a dragon.” Cregan shamelessly flirted.

Devoured.

I want to devour you, zaldrītsos.

You swallowed thickly, “And what would Lady Stark think of three dragons coming to Winterfell? My son has not seen snow or ice, I have little question if he would enjoy it.”

Cregan placed his ale upon the table, “There is no Lady Stark, unless you are referring to my Lady Mother. Winterfell would welcome you and your son with open arms, and furs to warm you.”

You felt heat in your cheeks, “Why would I need furs if Winterfell is as perfectly insulated by hot springs, as you say it is?”

Cregan Stark pushed his tongue into the side of his cheek as you gazed up at him, quick witted response ready to be fired back instantly.

“For all its warmth, there can be a biting chill that occasionally drifts through the cracks. Or if you are to be outside, say in the Godswood, you would need furs.”

“You have a Godswood?” Interest peaked.

“Aye. The Old Gods have not been replaced by the New in the North.”

“Good, I should hope so. The New Gods are an abomination in the eyes of the Old.” You paused, watching as grey eyes flitted down to your lips, if only for a moment, “And what of Dragonstone. Have the Kings of the North ventured as far?”

Cregan huffed a laugh through his nose, “No, I can say we have not.”

“Then perhaps you should see the great Dragonstone Keep. Its walls are the last of Old Valyrian stonemasonry. Fire and magic created it. Dragons live in the Dragonmont, and I am sure they would welcome the Wolf of Winterfell with open arms, and there would be no need for furs to warm you.”

“The Dragonmont sounds like the perfect place to be eaten by the dragons that live there. I may ask to be pardoned from venturing inside, a bite from a dragon would surely be the end of me.” Cregan’s eyebrows were raised, goblet to his lips again, smile peeking over the top.

There was something about this man. Something that drew you to him. Something that made you feel safe, wanted, unafraid. Like an invisible string was pulling you to him from the centre of your chest, the need to be closer to him, the want to be closer to him amplifying with each second spent in his presence.

In all your five years past, you had not wished to be in the presence of any man again, said for acquaintances and family.

But Cregan?

It was different.

It was the same pull you had felt in the throne room when he had sworn himself to you.

And that was why the next words that left your lips were playful, light, alluring. You wanted to draw him in. You wanted to taste him. You wanted to get to know the man who had helped to change the tide. The man who had stayed loyal to his oath. And a man who had travelled across the realm, just to kneel before you and swear his House to you, despite him not needing to do so.

“I will only bite if you ask me nicely.” You purred.

A blush crept across the mans face, and you felt your heart soar.

He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture, his eyes half lidded, “I will come to Dragonstone when you beckon. But I fear a wolfs bite may rival that of a dragons.”

Grinning you tilted your head, looking up to the table, to find all eyes on you both again, a large smirk on Jacaerys’ lips.

“I do not like to make commands, but I shall beckon you. If,” Your hand came to graze his arm gently, sliding down, before your finger traced along his that held the goblet of ale, “You show me these hot springs in Winterfell, and that you have furs for me and my son to be kept warm. I make no illusion to thinking there would be furs enough for Vermithor.”

Cregan’s finger twitched beneath yours as you dropped your hand back to your sides, sliding them together behind your back.

He bowed his head, “Of course, Your Grace. But there may not need to be a use of furs to keep you warm. Your blood is of fire, and I have a strange inclination that you would wish to be warmed in another manner.” Your cheeks grew hot, warmth sliding down to settle in your gut.

Cregan wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, “I will await your invitation, Princess.”

You smirked, “And I, yours. Though, you are to be here until the next turn of the moon. I am sure we will see each other more often than not in these walls.”

“I should hope that I would have the privilege of your company whenever you would wish for mine.”

“That you will, and that I do.”

With a nod of your head, you turned, walking back up to your table, spring in your step, and heart pounding against your ribs. You could feel the warmth of Cregan’s gaze on your back with each step you took to the table. Jacaerys, Daemon and Baela all watching you with knowing eyes as you moved to sit back down once again, cheeks ablaze.

You ignored them all, reaching to grasp your goblet and sipping the wine as your eyes instinctually found the pair of icy grey ones that watched you from across the room. He lifted his goblet to his own mouth, mimicking your action as you sipped in tandem.

The sound of laughter and chattering surrounded you, and it was hard to not get yourself lost in the excitement of it all.

How things had changed.

Jaehaera and Maelor, Helaena’s children, had been taken in by your mother immediately, and at first, had been terrified, and quiet, and reserved. But now they had now grown into beautiful, soft and sweet children who doted on their nephews with care and familial excitement.

Jaehaera was so much her mother, and often was woken in the night by terrors of her twin being slain before her eyes. But as time went on, the nightmares lessoned with age, but her visions grew stronger.

There was no denying that the little girl had the same gift as her mother, the same brilliance, the same intuition. And your Lucerys and Jaehaera often understood each other on level that others didn’t, an almost instant connection sparking between the two, and you watched as Jaehaera doted on your son with fierce devotion and loyalty.

Maelor, was very much like Aegon.

Loud, boisterous, terribly cheeky at times, but kind. Something that he was allowed to grow into with the nurturing of your family, the nurturing of your mother. Something that he would continue to be. Maelor was a whisper of what could have been for Aegon, if he had not been raised with the vile whisperings of the Hightower’s in his ear since birth.

He had the same round face as his father, the same round face that Alicent had. But there was no sadness in his lavender eyes, no hollowness that settled behind them. And for that, you were most thankful.

They both especially got along with Lucerys, and that gave you a greater joy like no other, and often stayed with the two of you on Dragonstone.

If you were to say that you had gotten used to being surrounded by so many people, you would be lying. But there was no doubt in your mind, that as the years went by, you would eventually find yourself again, or at least the fragments of her that had survived.

You had changed.

But so had they.

And there were some things that would never change.

Some things that would always stick.

And the visions of your brother, your aunt, and your uncle, would remain forever more.

Or at least, you hoped they would.

As a reminder.

As a punishment for your deeds.

As a comfort.

Whilst the Lords and Ladies in the court danced, and drank, and sang, and cheered, three familiar faces watched from within the crowd, unmoving, unblinking as they were.

Observing, watching, with two smiling softly.

The third face however, had not smiled in years, and would never smile again. He watched you, from across the room, hidden behind dancing bodies, long silver hair cascading down his back, an eye of violet, and a shadowed socket peering up at you.

He never left.

He was always there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Your hand came to play with the sapphire that sat heavily against your chest.

“What did you and Cregan speak about?” Jacaerys inquired, leaning towards you, breaking you from your stare at a man you missed most terribly.

“Hm?” You turned your head blinking at your brother.

“Cregan, what did he say?”

Baela leant an elbow on the table as she watched, a hand rubbing her swollen stomach in soft, gentle circles, soothing the babe inside.

“Merely asked how I have been, how I have been faring. Pleasantries is all.”

Jacaerys’ brown eyes danced with delight, “Pleasantries? Spoke of pleasures did you? You know, I wouldn’t let him speak to you if he was not a good man. He is a Stark. Dutiful, full of honour, kind, and a skilled swordsman.”

“And I have a dragon. Swordsmanship does little against fire.”

Baela snickered, “And why would he be near dragon flame? Have you promised him a ride upon Vermithor?”

A blush settled across your cheeks, “He wouldn’t.” You argued, feeling exacerbated by their prying, “I was just saying, swordsmanship does not warrant a marriage.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” Jacaerys smirked, and you felt your mouth go dry.

You gripped your goblet and tossed the rest of its contents greedily down your throat, shivering at the heat that settled in your bones, most of which not caused by the alcohol, but instead the memory of his warmth, eyes, and touch.

Sighing, you looked at the pair beside you, “You have been all but pushing us together for the past five years.”

Jacaerys snorted, “I have not. But there is no denying the pull you two have to each other. You’re allowed to be happy, sister.”

And Jacaerys was right.

There was a pull.

And no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, brush it off of you like water, close eye and look the other way, it was there, and it pulled at you.

“I am happy.” You argued, but it felt wrong. False.

Jacaerys had his chin on his fist as he gazed at you, curled brown hair looking a mess as many a hand had brushed through it. His cheeks were rosy, and pink lips plump from smiling or biting at them to keep his mouth shut. It was clear that the ale had gotten to him, but Jacaerys was never one to lie to you, especially about someone he considered a good friend.

And Cregan was his closest companion.

“It’s a perfect match,” He began, and you groaned loudly, rolling your eyes, “You being hot headed-“

“-I am not hot headed-“

“-And him being cool and patient. Blood of the North and Valyria. Perzys se Suvion.”

Fire and Ice.

A strum of recognition tickled in the back of your mind as Jacaerys continued.

“Opposites attract, even you out, and all the other nonsense some love sick fool would tell you. You would be good together, Y/n. He would calm you, and you would warm him.” Jacaerys teased.

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with Cregan, brother.” You teased back, watching as Jacaerys narrowed his eyes, “All this talk of opposites being perfect for each other, why do you not take him as your second wife? I am sure Baela would not mind sharing.”

Baela smirked, rubbing her stomach, “I wouldn’t mind a break. And Cregan looks good in-“

“-Keligon bona.” Stop that, Jacaerys chastised his wife, turning his attention back to you, “Think on it. He would be good for you.”

“I don’t need a man to make me whole or 'be good for me'. I will be Queen one day, and a husband will do naught but hold me back.”

“You will have to marry again someday, you know this as well as I do. And he would help you forward, if only you let him.”

You huffed, looking back out at the sea of people again, eyes immediately falling on him.

He was talking to a Lord, who’s gold and yellow robes shimmered in the light of the chambers. But as though he felt your gaze upon him, Cregan turned his head, and his eyes immediately met yours.

Instinct.

That pull.

“He invited me and Lucerys to Winterfell.” You told the two of them, seeing Jacaerys and Baela give each other excited looks in your periphery, as a soft smile found its way on Cregan’s as he looked at you, your own stretching your cheeks.

“Will you go?” Jacaerys’ voice hopeful.

As you watched Cregan, his gaze still on you, man beside him still talking, not having noticed his companions attention had been taken away, you felt the pull again. A sharp tug in your chest, the string having wrapped itself around a rib thrice, just below where your heart would sit.

It tugged again, and your hands curled into fists in your lap, desperate to keep yourself seated as you looked at him. Desperate to fight the urge that made you wish to go to him, stand by him, be close to him.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as you watched him, your brother and half-sister staring at you from your periphery as you feigned thought.

But you knew your answer already.

You knew it before he had even asked, before Cregan had even spoken to you.

Instinct.

“Yes.”

Hen ñuha ānogar māzigon Kivio Dārilaros, se zȳhon kessa sagon Vāedar Suvio Perzo.

From my blood come the Prince that was promised, and his will be the song of Ice and Fire.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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sayafics · 8 months

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Dragon of Dorne - Chapter I

A tale in which, during his marriage to Alicent, Viserys falls for a Dornish Lady of the Court and takes her as a second wife behind closed doors.

His relations were kept secret to all but his Hand and his Queen, at the behest of his young lady-wife.

Alicent is grateful for the reprieve, as although Viserys remains a dutiful husband, he has started to visit her chambers fewer times as his love for his newest wife grew.

This, of course, irked Otto Hightower. The man grew worrisome that if Viserys' third wife were to bear a boy, he would hold greater favour to be named as heir than his own daughter's children.

So when Viserys' third wife gasped her last breath in the midst of agonising and violent labours, leaving only a daughter in this world before passing into the next - well no one truly batted an eye, for a woman's labour and the task of birth, though an expected duty was a cruel and gruesome fate some failed to survive.

But Viserys' heart grew softened towards his surviving daughter, who somehow managed to resemble his first wife and last.

And thus, was born Viserys' youngest daughter - Alaynha Targaryen.

Next Chapter

Masterlist

Alaynha Targaryen was a bright-hearted and loving girl, growing up in the Keep alongside her half-siblings - Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena - she had never been left alone long enough to feel unwanted or unloved.

Over the years, it had been Aegon who had taken her flying on Sunfyre towards the horizon, over calm oceans and tumultuous seas when she cried in his arms about her dragon that did not hatch.

It had been Helaena who whispered to her the dragon dreams of a beast, quiet and grey, that hid between the clouds and skimmed across the ocean's surface.

It had been Aemond who sought out the dragon, Alyanha holding him tight as they rode on dragon-back upon Vhagar, so she could finally claim it as her own.

It was her three siblings who cherished her wholeheartedly, even if she was not wholly their blood but simply half. It was her three siblings, whom she admired so graciously and so lovingly, that encouraged her to claim a dragon so wild and free that she was able to be where she was at this moment in time.

***

Alaynha rode on dragon-back upon her mount, a shy and young dragon that spent his years hunting across the sea and hiding amongst the clouds.

Grey Ghost.

A most honourable partner, should a Targaryen seek such a quality in a dragon.

Having spent most of her years wandering the Keep, she revelled in the freedom of flying whenever she got the chance. Unfortunately, the chance of doing so was rarer than she would like - both her protective father and kind stepmother fearful they would lose the girl much like her father had lost her mother.

***

Alaynha was only a babe when her mother passed, barely a gasp of breath in this new world when her mother took her last.

There were no portraits in the Keep, but her father would say he had her mother's eyes - dark and warm, like a beautiful autumn evening where the ground, deep and muddy, is flourished in hues of every shade from falling leaves and sprouting flowers.

She also had her mother's complexion, a glowing bronze in the flamed torches at every corner of her home. But her hair, long and twisting curls, were what made her ancestry undeniable.

Lucious white tresses that fell in wild and messy waves lay freely down her back. Her father would say they resembled that of his first wife's, and sometimes when he would look at her it'd seem as though he was staring into the eyes of a ghost or the shadow of an echo.

Alaynha was never sure if he was seeing his first wife or last, but each time she saw his stare her heart burned with pity for the old and decaying man, who simply craved love and affection from the women who had died brutal and unkind deaths.

Her stepmother was a religious woman, so caring and compassionate, that although Alaynha was not her own blood she treated her as though she was.

Alicent raised her as her own, grew to love and cherish her, to see her as an extension of not only Viserys but her own children. They grew up together, loved each other, and held each other close.

Alaynha was a secret Alicent wanted to keep forever.

Rhaenyra had already taken her son's eye, had taken Alicent's dignity and any respect she may have once held in Court. Alicent would not let Rhaenyra take her youngest daughter too.

Not when they managed to keep her hidden for so long.

Viserys tried to convince Alicent he did not hide the girl from his eldest daughter out of shame, but she knew better. She knew questions would arise because of the colour of her eyes or her complexion - questions Viserys did not want to answer to.

So when she had been old enough, perhaps two namedays or three, Alaynha had been sent off to live with her late mother's family in a city in Dorne, being taught the duties of a Lady until she could return home and learn that of a Princess'.

When Rhaenyra had left for Dragonstone, Daemon at her side and her husband dead, Alicent let out a quiet sigh of relief. Her throat ached with gratitude at Rhaenyra's departure, as it meant her young child could return home from Dorne.

When Alaynha had returned to King's Landing, she cried for her brother who lost an eye, as he consoled her with the revelation he had gotten a dragon in return. Aemond made her promise to shed no more tears over a worthwhile sacrifice, assuring her that now he had the largest dragon in all the Seven Kingdoms, he would help her claim one of her own.

She still sniffled, latching onto her brother's side, inconsolable by the sheer violence he had endured, but accepted nonetheless.

It had only been a few years later when her siblings helped her find her life-long companion in her large and bashful dragon.

Alaynha had been taught the duties of a Princess from then on, kept close to Alicent's side if she was not at her brothers'.

Alicent couldn't explain her love for the girl, she had barely spoken to the girl's mother - her sister-wife - before the young lady had passed. But there was a fondness that grew so quickly, and soon it became as though she was simply staring at a child that was her own.

***

Alaynha reminisced over the small moments as she rode her dragon, her heart growing softer as she thought of all the affection she received from her family. She was only half Targaryen, but she was wholly their's.

Perhaps that was why time had slipped so quickly through her fingers, the sky darkening quickly before she realised that she had been cruising the sea for what must have been hours now upon her patient mount.

She sucked in a sharp breath, the darkening sky a reminder that she was to attend dinner with her family this evening - her Kepa would be there too. And, how dearly she had missed him. Father.

Her father had been kept dosed upon milk of the poppy, too far out of his mind to tell her apart from Aemma and her own mother, or Rhaenyra and herself.

***

There was a petition for Driftmark today between Vaemond and her nephew Lucerys. Her grandsire - simply in name - Otto Hightower had asked for her to stay away from the Keep until the matters had been dealt with, then she could return to the Keep when everyone had returned to their chambers and if all went their way, Rhaenyra would return with her family to Dragonstone the next morning and all would be set right.

Those plans had changed when Viserys denied his milk of the poppy, asking instead that a dinner party be held the same evening. He had summoned her at that moment, beckoning her closer before laying a gentle hand on the curve of her cheek - "my sweet child, I have done you wrong. Hiding you away from your blood. But no longer - today you shall meet your sister and nephews. Today you shall meet my brother - your uncle."

She had been nervous at his words, growing worrisome that her sister would dislike her because they did not share the same blood completely. Feared that her newphews would hurt her as they had done to Aemond.

There were restless whispers murmuring through her mind as she rested within her chambers, waiting for the petition for Driftmark to begin before she could sneak off to ride on her dragon. Aegon had come to see her before the petition began, and for all his faults - a drunken, petulant man who was never given the opportunity to be a child, simply a challenge to a throne he did not want - he was a great listener, offering comfort when he heard her speak of her fears aloud.

Aegon had to leave shortly after, though quite reluctantly. And Alaynha had taken that moment to sneak through the tunnels of the Keep to find her dragon whilst remaining undetected.

***

Alaynha was on her way back towards the Keep, her throat clogging up with a heavy weight as butterflies squirmed within the pit of her stomach. She didn't feel nauseous, but it was something close.

As the Keep grew closer, Alaynha began to wonder how this would all go. And even as she unmounted her majestic, pale beast, she did not let herself escape the confines of her mind - fearful she would turn away and return to the skies, too hesitant to take a step closer.

***

Alicent had not been happy with Viserys' decision to introduce Alaynha to Rhaenyra. The truth was no one was, and some part of Viserys was hesitant too. Fearful of the rejection his young girl may face, much like all his other children had.

Viserys was not blind to the favouritism he played, nor the feelings his children held towards each other. But remaining drunk upon the milk of poppy made it easier to ignore such notions, and act oblivious to the disharmony that existed in the blood of his dragons.

He had been growing worrisome, not having started the feast as he waited restlessly for his daughter to come, unbothered by the curious stares of Rhaenyra or Daemon. His mind began to wander as he imagined the sorts of horrors she could have experienced during her flight around the sea, blaming himself for allowing her to be out so late or at least not sending Aegon or Aemond as company.

"Is there a reason you wait, brother?"

Daemon's voice sounded placid, but there was a growing frustration as the table sat in a tense silence waiting for the King to make his move.

It seemed as though Viserys didn't hear him, and Dsemon rolled his eyes in annoyance. Instead, the man turned towards his wife, eyes glancing towards the empty chair that sat between Aegon and Aemond as he spoke - "where is my dearest daughter? I fear we cannot begin without her."

Alicent opened her mouth to reply, but a saddened voice spoke from behind Viserys, concern colouring her tone as Rhaenyra spoke - "I am right here, fath-

"I am sure she is on her way, my love."

Rhaenyra looked towards Alicent accusingly, and she truly wanted to laugh out of incredulity. For Rhaenyra to make such a bolstered claim, thinking her father spoke so sweetly of her instead of another was quite amusing, indeed. It made the possibility of Rhaenyra meeting her youngest sister slightly more tasteful.

"If it would ease you, Your Grace, I can go fetch the girl. She has likely forgotten about her promise to dine, distracted by her books and dragons."

Otto spoke precariously, knowing the girl was only out dragon-riding at his behest and though Viserys agreed at the time, reminding the man of such a thing when he was so wound with worry would do no one any good. And perhaps a reluctant part of Otto, the same part of him that cared and loved his sweet Helaena, had also grown fond of Alaynha.

Alicent spoke, fingers fiddling with each other as she pinched at the skin of her thumb. A blatant sign of her own anxiousness at her daughter's absence, "yes, that wou-"

The doors were opened, but no announcement was made. Instead, a frantic voice echoed across the hall as a young girl dressed haphazardly in a prim and proper light blue dress bound up the stairs - "Kepa! I am so sorry! I hadn't realised how late it had gotten."

Daemon Targaryen was a man of few words, preferring to show his anger out on the battlefield or his passion in the confines of his chambers. He had sat quietly so far, only a nodded greeting to his brother as he joined them was an indication that he was actually paying attention.

And now, eyes trained on the young girl who stood in front of him, cheeks heated from the cold wind brushing roughly against them, and eyes blazing and wild from the high of riding a dragon so freely. He felt a warmth begin to fill his blood, his face passive as his eyes burned at the sight of her.

Who was this girl? Was she his niece?

She had called Viserys father, but surely her mother could not be Alicent?

Was she a bastard, much like his own step-children?

Or an orphan they had pitied and taken in?

Daemon knew one thing for sure, the girl who stood in front of him - a timid smile and fumbling fingers - had captured his interest. Had ignited a flame he long believed to have been put out - tamed and tempered by Laena Valeryon. Extinguished by Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The Rhaenyra he had fallen for all those years ago had not been the same one he had married that day in Dragonstone, but she had Rhaenyra's eyes, her hair and her face, her voice and her touch.

Daemon had convinced himself he would need time to readjust, time to accept her as she was.

They had two children together, another on their way.

Daemon had accepted, he had conceded. And still, he felt like half the man he used to be, an ounce of the warrior that used to ignite his soul.

Now, violet hues clashing with glowing brown, he felt the dragon within him ignite and rise from the ashes of a man scorched and burned.

Taglist: @kelssssxd @esquivelbianca @chynagirl13 @luanasrta

#daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen smut #daemon x reader #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen #daemon x rhaenyra #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd fandom #hotd x reader #hotd x oc #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x targaryen!reader #daemon targaryenx targaryen!oc #dragon of dorne

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downtherabbitholewithlucy · 1 year

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Peep Stage-Mom Fred™ (once again) in the back capturing precious memories of his children bandmates

#Stage-Mom Fred is so so so proud of the babies he's raised from his womb in Jacksonville #His kiddos are fed and thriving and he is glowing with pride #Limp Bizkit #Fred Durst #John Otto #Wes Borland #Sam Rivers #nu-metal #down the rabbit hole

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themotherofblood · 1 year

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Hey dear! I saw that you are accepting requests and would like to know if I can get an imagine nsfw with Daemon x poc fem! reader (may be Dornish) who was a dancer before marrying him, but she still has the activity as a hobby and one night when she misses dinner, worried Daem goes after her and finds her dancing, please?( feel free to ignore and sorry for my english)

I absolutely love this ask, however there will only be a small implementation of culture.

ghugroo~ an anklet made of gold bells and a red cloth, worn to dance classical south Asian styles.

masterlist | Part 2

smut, softie daemon (oral f) voyuerism-ish, tw: mentions of prostitution, purity culture and Otto Hightower

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

The floor of the Mirrored Place was cold under your bare feet, the entire palace was dim; other than a few candles that reflected light from one mirror to the other. Leaving the barren hall with a warm glow. There used to be much light in this hall before; when your mother and you danced. The entire Dornish court would gather to enjoy in the art your had inherited from her.

She was a Lysenese courtesan, thought to please men with her dancing from a young age. Her will to dance was different, not because it earned her a coin but she found solace in the sound of the music playing for her body to move on her own terms.

You were raised within the group of these courtesans, a sister hood that protected you at all costs. The reason you learned to dance was for the sheer entertainment of the other sisters, and an unshaken will to mirror everything your mother did. However everyone of them knew your fate since the day you learned to walk, you too would inherit the title of court dancer at the ripe age of five and ten. They protected you still, keeping you hidden in the back of the numbers performed.

Then came along Qoren Martell, on his many ventured to Essos and a budding relationship with the Triarchy, he had found your mother dancing for the Lys court; he had eyes for her and only her after that. The deal may have not been affluential and yet he returned home with your mother and a sister for his daughter Aliandra.

The court at Sunspear was different, mother only danced for familial festivals and taught various girls at court to dance for her joy. No one quite picked it up like you did. Qoren had an entire place made for her, the interior made completely of mirrors for her to dance in.

She passed ten summers before.

You danced for her memory, not on familial events or as a courtesan, Qoren would have anyone’s head if they even mentioned the possibility to you, as far as he cared you were his daughter. Blood or not. You danced in the secrecy of this abandoned palace, alone where only the walls could hear the jangles of your mother’s given ghungroos

That brought you today, and what ails your troubles.

Your marriage to prince Daemon Targaryen wasn’t one of secret, Daemon was sent as envoy from King’s Landing, hoping to settle the issue in the Stepstones. Again, the deal wasn’t particularly affluential, yet the Targaryen prince gained a wife. You.

It was a quaint Valyrian traditional wedding, one with your approval.

You’d fallen for the prince, and what was Qoren to do? Tell his beloved flower no? No she couldn’t have the dragon prince that wanted her just as much.

A royal wedding without the approval of king or his court was a dangerous affair, hence both you and Daemon remained at Old Palce, awaiting news. Whether you’d be presented or court or if Daemon was to whisk you away on his dragon to Pentos.

Daemon only grunted and groaned when you asked who would oppose what the dragon prince wanted

“Otto Hightower.”

Daemon’s words came true like a dying wish, a raven did indeed arrive from king’s landing that Qoren showed you first.

Vile words were used against you, as the king’s hand gathered information of your parentage and the two years you had worked as a court dancer with your mother.

Not that they were lies; you were a bastard, not even a Sand. Yet Qoren had fought tooth and nail to title you and your mother as princesses. Moreover they questioned your purity and how it would muddle the pure Targaryen blood Daemon seems to possess, concerns of what influence I might impose on his daughter by his late lady wife Laena. You grimaced at the thought of even teaching those young girls what the court at king’s landing insinuated. They weren’t wrong in their concerns, and here you hadn’t even told him you danced let alone that you were a courtesan.

Qoren believed that if he could have wed your mother while begin the head of the Martell family, what is a mere second son who cannot accept the apple of Qoren’s eyes. You had left the matter at that, hoping to just let it drown behind your thoughts.

Daemon wouldn’t shun you for this…would he?

The family had gathered for supper, rather large sum of Sand sisters and Aliandra along with your husband and your step daughters. Qoren frowned at your empty seat though he knew exactly where you would have gone after reading that letter.

You’d bent down to ties the ribbons securely against your ankles, the gold ghungroos held weight to them, yet for you moving them was as fluid as a swan. You tapped your feet twice, feeling the tightness of them before exhaling a ragged breath. You tucked the loose end of your shawl on the waist line of your skirts.

Your imagination did the work for you, hearing the beat of the percussion and flute in your head as you hummed the melody under your breath, rhythmic jangles of the bells on your ankles began to echo through the hall. You closed you eyes, picturing your mother dancing next to you. The smile on her face, finally dancing for her love of the art and not the perversions of men.

Your skirt flared out as your twirled, glimmering in the light of the candles, you kept dancing. Following every count in your head as you hands remembered the signs to make. The hard your feet tapped against the marble floors the louder the jangles echoed.

Your life wouldn’t be different if Daemon left you for knowing the truth, but you wondered if anyone would want you because of what you were forced to be. You moved around the room efffortlessly, you hips swaying at the imaginary sound of the strings.

You hadn’t realized your eyes watered until you flinched in fear, watching your husband leaning against the grand posts of the mirrored hall. You stopped, the twirl of your skirts coming to stop and pool around your legs.

His palms crashed together in an applause, a smile of admiration of his face. You noticed the parchment in his hands and he noticed you eyeing the message.

“Do you truly think I care if you were a courtesan?” He shook his head, moving towards you “You were a child.” He scoffed.

You blinked the tears of concern away, you couldn't help from a few others falling free too

“My mother found her prince in Qoren, I believed so had I in you and then this.” You felt vulnerable, “I would never expose your daughters to such vulgarity, that's why I never danced for them and I was pure on our wedding night; I swear it. I wou-” You rambled on, Daemon’s eyes softened as he held you face, he held moved his thumb atop your lip to shush you

“My love isn't so fickle that bloodless sheets would diminish its fire. You are mine, and I yours. I sweared it by fire and blood sweet girl.” He reassured you “That ought to mean something?”

“You would forsake your family for me?” You shook your head, unwanting of such loyalty.

“That cunt of hand is not my family, these are his words; not my brother’s” He sounded irked at the parchment. “I will present you to the court as a good and honourable princess of Dorne, if anyone has objections they may rely on it to Dark Sister.”

You were left speechless, perhaps you had found the right prince after all. You tried to make words form at the tip of your tongue and yet nothing came through

“And as for you dancing,” His voice lowered “You ought dance for your lord husband more often.”

You swatted his shoulder before throwing yourself at him, you nuzzled your face at the crook of his neck. He moved her head, letting his lips capture yours, moulding them and taking charge; exploring your mouth with his tongue. He had been so heated about it you had to pull away to breathe

“Caught me a little dancer.” He whispered, bending down to lift your over his shoulder

“Daemon!” You shrieked “What are you doing!”

“Admiring the art.”

He plopped you down onto the viewing nest, a collection of heavy comforters a pillows that were laid at the edges of the halls for people to lounge.

“We can’t- what if somebody catches us?” You argued as he adamantly began to to strip you like a child pawing at his present.

“Then they will find a prince worshipping his princess.” He said in annoyance, huffing at all the ties on your blouse. He then reached for his inner pockets and threw a key your way.

You sighed in relief, the doors to the palace were locked.

“So fucking beautiful,” He groaned as you breasts spilt free of it entrapment, he immediately latched on the pebbled flesh, suckling on one as her tweaked the other. You chest heaved, feeling his warm mouth assault your breasts. He unlatched himself before paying attention the the other.

“My pretty little wife.” He breathed out, pushing your skirts up and yanking the cotton leggings underneath off your legs. He leaned back onto his legs admiring your cunt, he let a glob of spit dribble onto your folds as his fingers smeared them all over.

One hand working on the eager bundle of nerves and the others scissored at you insides, that familiar warmth of pleasure began to spread through your body as whimpered from your husband. You ghungroo’s jangling as you spread your legs further. Daemon latched himself onto your bud, frantically licking at the little things. You shrieked out his name, feeling him smirk as he took you apart on his mouth.

Just as you reached the precipice of your pleasure he pulled away. A shameless whine tore through you making Daemon chuckle, “All in sweet time princess, just getting you ready for me.” He idly rubbed circles on your rose bud

“Daemon just fuck me.” You groaned in frustration making your husband’s eyes.

“Such filthy words, sweet girl.” He taunted, nearly pushing your legs to your shoulders, even the little strums of the bells on your ankles were taunting you.

“Please, please Daemon,” you whined pleadingly as he ran the leaky tip of his cock through your folds. “I want you!”

“Good girl, begging for her husband’s cock.” He grunted as he bottomed out within you.

Barely allowing you a moment to adjusted before setting a determined pace in pounding you cunt.

You looked up at him as his long silver locks shielded your face, he leaned down to kiss your lips, biting at the bottom of your lip. The ghungroos on your ankle rhythmically jangled to the thrusting of your husband’s hips. He leaned back, throwing your legs on his shoulder as his pounding turned animalistic.

“My pretty little dancer, all mine.” He groaned

Drowning in your own pleasures your agreed in series of all yours- all yours pouring from your lips, nearly far too lost in the sensations radiating of your body. You reached your hands upwards, wanting him closer as your back arched off the ground. He wrapped his hands around you back, letting your legs hug around his lower back as he pounded you to your peak.

“Y/N- gods.” He breathed out in your ear as his cock spurted ropes of his seed in your cunt.

There was Moment of serene peace as Daemon pulled out of you and fell next to you, untill you felt his spend spilling down onto your skirts and you groaned.

“You ruined my skirt,” you pouted, grimacing at the stains

“I’ll buy you hundreds more.” He huffed out, yanking you on top of him.

Just as you helped each other straighten out, he spend a while tying the ties of your blouse, peppering kisses on your back as you undid the ghungroos, quite sure they would have bruises your ankles by now.

There was yet another topic lingering on Daemon’s tongue that he wasn’t sure how you would take

“Rhaena found out at supper that you dance, she could use a teacher…” He said hesitantly, you frowned.

“Just as you learned from your mother, our little dragons could use a lesson or two from their mother.”

You pondered and then looked to him using the word mother.

“Rhaena will make a gorgeous little dancer.”

2K notes · View notes

barbieaemond · 5 months

Text

Intrusion (part I)

moodboard by the queen herself @zae5

PAIRING: (modern) Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!reader

WARNINGS: angst, Aemond has no filter, drug use (very brief), mentions of overdose, suggestive themes, sexual tension (sadly nothing more but part II will be a helluva ride)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Sothoryos is a large continent in Martin’s universe. It is located below Essos.

WORD COUNT: 7k

Song for this fic:

taglist: @zae5 @chompchompluke @multyfangirl

“What’s up with the green light?”

Jason's voice came distantly, even though he was sitting right next to her. She looked up through her long eyelashes, scanning the mighty, green-lit Hightower from top to bottom, an emerald glow kissed her face.

“How dumb are you? It was a beacon once.” She said mindlessly, dragging her eyes away from the car window to watch her brother crouched on a little mirror with three lines of white powder on it.

“D’you want some?”

“I’m done with that shit.”

“I should hope so.” He chuckled, rolling a banknote between his fingers with the expertise of a magician ready to do his trick. “Dad is still paying the hospital to keep their mouth shut. Not to mention the papers…”

She heard him snort the substance, humming with delight as it reached his brain. She looked at him for a moment, green just like the glowing light on her face. It was so easy for Jason to surrender to the void. She struggled to do even that.

“Speaking of which” he said wiping his nose “he could’ve bothered to come.”

“And watch Otto Hightower gloat in his face? Dad would rather throw checks to the homeless.”

“Why are we here then?” he asked as the car stopped in front of the huge, tall building, the tallest in all the continent.

“Because he wants to remind everyone we are still the wealthiest in this wretched world.” She said she grabbed her little purse and got out of the fancy car as soon as the driver opened her door.

Blinding lights fell on her as photographers took note that the Lannister family had sent its scions to attend the annual Gala held by the Hightowers. A party that had always been held in the capital in the previous years, at least until what the newspapers had called the divorce of the century.

“I would not be so sure about that.” Jason said, squinting his eyes in front of the ruthless flashes. “Papers say Viserys is going to pay a fortune, for alimony and all that shit.”

“Miss Lannister! Here, please! On your right!”

She built a broad smile for the photographers, maneuvering her hair to let it slide down her shoulder, placing a hand on her hip. A well-thought-out act, repeated incessantly for as long as she could remember. A beautiful machine doll bathed in gold and diamonds.

“Do you still read papers?” she asked, not breaking her plastic smile.

“How else should I find out if I've done something illegal?”

“They’re a reliable source on that, less on others. They claim I had a thing with Cregan Stark when even walls know he’s gay.”

They claimed many other things. But she never confirmed or denied the rumors, because it was all part of the plan.

Any rumor of an alleged flirt or talk of an engagement with a scion from one of the old power families of the country only increased the height of the pedestal on which her father and mother had placed her. So that when rumors died, the vultures would come even more savage, raising the stakes to win the most coveted prize in their circle of starched shirts and centuries-old privileges that no longer had any value except in the small, greedy world inside their small, greedy heads.

She moved, swiftly but graciously, and stepped inside the building, followed by her brother and his giggles, and the photographers screaming at the top of their lungs, begging for another picture—just one more. The begging had started already.

The Hall of the Hightower Palace was a sight to behold. Adorned with green and dark tones, crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings and yellow cocktail music pushing all the fine-dressed people to chat and laugh more loudly as if they unconsciously tried to imitate the lively ups and downs of the notes.

The Lannisters lingered on the entrance, immediately catching many pairs of eyes, greedy and green as the decorations around them.

“Are they waiting for us to go greet them?” Jason asked, watching the Hightowers at the center of the Hall. “Gods, why do they always act as if they were royals and us merely subjects?”

"Apparently, it has been proven they have hints of blue in their blood.”

“Who’s the blondie?” he asked, taking his sister’s arm as they walked towards the hosts.

“Helaena Targaryen.”

“Oh! The freak?”

“She’s not a freak. She’s a renowned entomologist.”

“And my point stands.”

Miss Lannister knew all the four Hightowers waiting to be greeted. After all, who didn't?

Otto Hightower was the most influential man in the country, although he liked to hide and pull his strings behind the curtains. They said that family and strangers made no difference to him. His daughter Alicent would agree with a stiff lip.

She wore the most lavish dress of all, but that was not what caught the eye, but rather the determination in her gaze and the way she stood. A woman free from the chains of a marriage she had never wanted.

“It is a pleasure to have both of you here.” She said smiling at the two Lannisters. Her father Otto was towering just behind her, a curious look on his face as his eyes rapidly scanned Miss Lannister.

In fact, he stepped in, saying “Indeed, Alicent. Especially Miss Lannister. I’m relieved to see you well.”

After what happened in Pyke, was the part he deliberately omitted.

The young woman looked at him, unfazed, building another one of her plastic smiles and then directed her attention to the youngest son of Alicent and Viserys Targaryen. Daeron.

The boy was no more than twenty, but he had a way of standing and carrying himself, which gave him at least five more years. That was the price of being doomed to inherit a heavy family name and all within it. The young Lannister girl understood it all too well.

As for Helaena, she seemed the most out-of-place creature, like watching a dolphin swim along sharks. The Lannister girl didn’t know her that much; truthfully no one did. Helaena was always far away from the country for her studies, traveling to the edge of the world to discover wild and rare creatures. She had a way of avoiding eye contact, Miss Lannister noticed, if not for brief and furtive glances, as if she was afraid that if she looked too much, she would see too much.

“And you don’t call that a freak?” Jason asked once they moved away from the Hightowers.

“You are just sour because she barely looked at you.” his sister answered, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

“Hey. I’m nice to look at!” he said gesturing to his figure.

“You tell yourself that.” she sipped her bubbly like water, barely tasting it, as her eyes roamed around the lavish hall, watching the same old play unfold, with the same old puppets. And she was one of them, perhaps the main star, ready to follow the script and never stray from it. It was her purpose in life. A well-trained parrot with a melodic laugh and the stillness of a porcelain doll.

She looked around and saw the eagerness, the anticipation as they bided their time before flocking to her, begging for flesh and money and power, each one of them so eager to sell one piece of themselves to be on a golden plate, the very same on which everything was always freely given to her. Things, places, people. The Golden Girl, they called her. She was born in it, she reflected it. She never had to ask, she never had to beg for anything. While everyone around her seemed to be able to do nothing else.

"Miss Lannister, we would love to have you as our guest in High Garden. Please, consider our invitation."

"Miss Lannister, did your father receive the gift I sent him last week? Please, have him contact me as soon as possible, I have another proposal for a collaboration."

"Miss Lannister, please, convince your father not to cut off the funds, I wouldn't know what to do without the invaluable support of your bank.”

“Miss Lannister, please—"

Please. Please. Please. Please.

They all came muffled, the beggars and their begging, as if speaking from the surface while she was deep down underwater, floating. Then the puppet would take over, moving haughtily and mischievously, promising lies with empty smiles and stolen words. The same old power play, to tell the world the Lannisters were far above it.

But amid the muffled chatter and greedy eyes, there was one in particular, stripped of all reverence, blue and cold as the eye of the scientist dissecting something under a microscope.

He had placed her under the lens out of pure boredom.

He never attended these kinds of gatherings, at least not after Sothoryos, not after Floris. He was there only because his mother had insisted, almost pleaded with him. This was the first public event after the divorce. It was essential to appear close, united.

The word tasted rotten in Aemond's mouth.

He had made sure Aegon would not attend, and had come in through the back, creeping into the hall like a spectre.

Alicent had seen him at once, her eyes widening with surprise as if she were certain he would not come. And they had barely talked.

She had kissed him on the cheeks with that look in her eyes, the one that rose tenderness and contempt at once inside him, twin flames mirroring and dancing around each other. His mother's lips opened and closed repeatedly, like a record needle cutting the same groove on and on without making a sound. And he had no desire to fix that.

Once, maybe. He had nurtured so many unspoken words that they had ended up souring and festering the more he held them back, locked in a dark corner where no light filtered. So, his mouth stayed sealed and silent, like a tomb.

He had withdrawn to a corner of the hall, watching as the people lingered with their gazes on his dead eye, half curious, half scared. Something he was all too used to. He found himself cursing under his breath for wasting time in such a vapid and useless way. He could have been at home, studying, or working in the basement.

But then he had spotted her.

It was hard not to.

The moment she had entered the hall with her brother, it seemed she had drawn all attention to herself, absorbing all the light from the chandeliers. It seemed that her golden dress was truly made of gold.

Aemond had seen her once or twice in the past and each time, two distinct thoughts had rapidly crossed his mind.

First: that she was a pretty doll with more money in her pocket than cells in her brain.

Second: that he wouldn't mind taking her doll's clothes off.

No man with sense would have denied her beauty, but the more he looked at her, the more he saw how dry she was, how cold, like a sculpture doomed to live the same moment forever.

It was all scene, all pose. And Aemond understood it at once since he himself had enacted the same play in the years past. He knew what it meant to be an inanimate thing waiting to be moved by others, for duty or loyalty. Things that had lost all meaning to him once he’d found out that the more he latched on these things, the more hollow he felt.

He watched the Lannister girl build fake smiles at each turn and he found himself grimacing, feeling pity for her, almost contempt. Perhaps she was just a tool, an extension of his former self for him to loathe, like spitting into a mirror.

But he just couldn’t stop watching.

She had a way of making the place where she stood like some kind of holy shrine and everyone around her kept scrambling to fall at her feet. She had a way of moving, slowly, like a creature living underwater. She would lean forward as she listened to people, only to retreat when it was her turn to speak, and she did it quietly, making the privileged speaker unconsciously lean towards her.

A tactic—a working tactic, though. Because Aemond had found himself craning his neck forward more than he would’ve liked to admit, and he wasn't even close to her.

“Choosing your next victim?”

He turned on his blind side as Helaena stopped beside him, handing a flute of champagne.

“Hāedar.” he said, taking the glass “Don’t say that. With all the shit they say about me, tomorrow they might title I’m a serial killer.”

“Well, you do have a dank basement in your place. And with the way you keep looking at the Lannister girl, it would be hard to beat the allegations.”

He looked down at the sizzling bubbles and curled his lips. Helaena did the same as her blue eyes scanned his face. Of all her brothers, she had always had the closest bond with Aemond. Born only one year apart, they had grown up as close as twins. Helaena did not look down when she talked to Aemond; she did not stutter or struggle to voice her thoughts as she did with anyone else. And his lips, which struggled so much to voice his emotions, always curled up in the most spontaneous way when they spent time together.

“You won’t get away with a smile, though.” She pointed out after a sip of bubbly “You barely talked to me earlier.”

“I was afraid our mother would stir up a hornet’s nest seeing me here.”

“She was sure you wouldn’t come.”

“I shouldn’t have. This place smells of coffin.”

She watched him for a moment, trying to guess his mood and, therefore, whether it was a good time to speak. “Did you get my message last week?”

His eye remained fixed on the elated crowd, but Helaena didn’t miss the slight twitch in his lips. “I did.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“What was there to say?”

“Aemond, I know you have your grudges, but... he’s our father and he’s severely ill. He wants to see us, all of us, at Summerhall, next month. I want to believe he’s changing and—”

“Must I remind you what happened the last time we had a family heart to heart?”

She did nothing but cast a single, saddened glance to his dead eye and all her willingness to talk and try to make things better withered like a leaf in a frosted land.

“He’s changing because he already has one foot in the grave. Quit the fancy words, Hel, he’s not changing. He’s just trying to relieve his conscience. A bit late for that, no?” and he downed his champagne in one gulp.

“Aem—”

“I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t care.” He said, slipping his pack of smokes from his pocket and placing one cigarette between his lips. He glanced one last time at his sister and with the coldest distance he said “But do let me know when he dies. I'll toast to that.”

She had had three flutes of champagne while talking to a countless number of faceless beggars when she started to feel nauseated. She didn’t even know by what, whether it was the champagne, the people, or herself. Perhaps all of them.

The cold night air embraced her as she went out on the terrace, making the hairs on her arms stand and her half-covered spine shiver. She had not brought her coat with her, but she did not mind. The cold awoke her from her torpor, made her stop being a relic on a mantelpiece.

She slipped a cigarette between her lips and looked into her purse for the lighter. "No, no, no—" she said to no one, frantically feeling every nook and cranny of the purse. "Fuck!"

"Here."

She jumped, turning her head just in time to see a lighter flying towards her. She caught it, staring at the dark corner on her left. There was a man sitting there, wrapped by the shadows, except for a thin white hand laying on the table, long fingers, and half a cigarette resting between index and middle.

She squinted, trying to get a better look. “I can’t see you.”

“I do.”

It was just a simple statement, but his tone was strange, riddled with an edge of shrewdness.

She stared at the dark figure for a moment longer, then lit her cigarette and walked a few steps closer.

"I would like to know who I'm speaking to, stranger." She said, handing over the lighter.

A moment later the shadow stood up, and she had to lift her chin as she watched the glow of the lamps unraveling his face, sharp like a knife. The air hitched in her throat, her gaze inevitably caught by the blue of his eye, as well as the dead blue of the prosthetic. "Oh."

His arched mouth bent upwards. "Define your oh."

“It’s just a oh, you’re not a stranger after all.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, curiously tilting his head with a ghosting grin “What do you think you know about me? Aside from what you read on gossip papers.”

“I don’t read gossip papers.”

“Yes, you do. All the girls like you do that.”

“All the girls like me?”

“Dolls with a trust fund to squander before forty.”

She raised her eyebrows, quickly scanning the young man before her. He was clad in black, with a black turtleneck and a leather jacket, accentuating his sharp features and pale face framed by short hair, a bit curly but neatly styled. “You’re the one to talk, Mr. I have blue blood in my veins.”

“I don’t work for my family.” He said matter-of-factly “They don’t pay my rent and they don’t cover up my shit.”

“Mine neither.”

His eyebrow raising was enough to dismantle her lie right away. “Papers say otherwise.”

“Do you trust papers and their cheap rumors?”

“Hmm. Trust is a strong word. But true or false, rumors are often more revealing than facts.” he took a long drag on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes and she watched as the dead one remained unnaturally still. It was not disturbing, she thought. It gave him a sinister allure, catching her off guard.

“Then I should believe all the rumors about you and your...charming mystery.”

“They say I’m charming now?” he asked with a smirk.

“I believe they called you a sphinx” she deadpanned “before claiming you hit a journalist, a woman.”

“And which one do you think is more likely?”

She looked at him uncertainly. Well, he was charming. But he was a lot more mysterious. More than a sphinx, Aemond Targaryen was a living riddle.

Even before the accident in Sothoryos, from where he returned with an eye missing, the second-born son of Viserys Targaryen and Alicent Hightower was a foggy figure, often in the shadows, more than often in the shadows of someone else, his half-sister Rhaenyra, his older brother Aegon. And after Sothoryos, he seemed to have grown his own shadows, distancing himself from his family and dropping his academic career to do Gods-know-what in a small flat in the oldest quarter of Oldtown.

“Both?” she dared.

He clicked his tongue, looking away with disappointment, and flicked the cigarette. “Too easy. And now you’re boring me.”

“I shall take my leave, then.” she chirped with a tight smile.

“Don’t expect me to follow you. I am not one of those wankers inside who come in their pants as you bat your fake eyelashes.”

The smile left her face instantly, and she glared at him, throwing her half-cigarette on the ground. “It is true, then. Royals do act like the rudest jerks.”

Instead of looking offended, her words seemed to do nothing but tickle his pride—some kind of gratification that poured like poison from the angles of his mouth. “I don’t act. But if I wanted to, I'd know who to turn to.”

“Meaning?”

“And you keep boring me.” his eye went momentarily below her neck, and he tilted his chin “Are those pretty diamonds slowing blood to your brain?”

Miss Lannister looked stunned. No one, ever, dared to talk to her like that.

She was used to being praised and begged and praised. A beautiful portrait framed by gold and hung on a wall for all to see. She should have been outraged, she should have used her last name as shield and threat. But for once, she was breathing on her own, free of any strings.

“Are they real?” he asked suddenly, and she stilled as his hand ghosted on her necklace, feeling his cold fingertips hovering above her skin.

“Of course they are.”

“Hmm.” He mused, pulling his hand back as he continued to stare at the necklace and then down at her dress. “They serve their purpose I’d say.” he said dragging his eye back to her face.

“Slowing my brain?” she asked with a little vitriolic smile.

“Hiding all the fake beneath them.”

“Who are you, a fortune teller?” she spitefully asked. “Do you possess the Third Eye as well as the Fake One?”

“One eye is enough to see right through you, golden girl.”

“And why were you watching me if I am so blatantly obvious?”

He almost shrugged his shoulders. “These parties are dreadfully boring. I was in need of a distraction, and you were hard to miss.”

“I could say the same about you.” Her gaze flicked for an instant to his dead eye. “Except that I don’t hide in dark corners from my own family.”

Whether he was stung by her words or not, his composure remained utterly impassive. A sphinx through and through.

“No. You do it before them.” An amused smile, spiced up with poison, curled his lips. “At least I have the dignity to disappear instead of begging for attention like a pathetic creature.”

Her words did not sting, but his surely did. And they shouldn’t.

They had crossed paths once or twice in the years prior, but effectively, Aemond was but a stranger to her. She wasn’t even aware of him watching her inside the hall, maybe too absorbed in her puppet play, or maybe resigned to scream into a crowded room of deaf mannequins.

She swallowed heavily, not dropping her gaze, waiting for all the gold to shield her, hide her, serving its purpose once more. But Aemond had a strange look in his eye. He was staring at her, and what he saw thrilled him.

He was sure he would see harshness, contempt, but not that. Not…anguish. It was buried in her pretty eyes and yet it just lied there in full sight, the darker shade of abyss beneath the crystalline blue of the deceiving surface.

If only someone had bothered to look.

“You remind me of someone.” he said almost mindlessly.

“Do I dare asking or do you wish to offend me some more?”

He seemed to ponder for a while, looking at her as if he were measuring an opponent.

“Come with me. I’ll show you.”

He moved, leaving the terrace without waiting for her, sure enough she would follow him. And she did.

Not immediately, though. She stared at his tall figure as he went back inside and thought she should go back to the party, go back to the script. There was something uncanny, almost eerie about staying close to him, like walking on the thin thread of a cobweb while being dreadfully aware to be walking towards the spider’s bite.

But the dread made her feel alive, made her heart pounding in her throat. So, she followed him.

“I didn’t know your family had it.” She said with a tinge of amazement as they stopped before the painting gloriously exhibited along one of the lavish corridors upstairs. “I thought it got lost during some war.”

“It was.” He said, stopping beside her, eye roaming on the canvas.

“Did I remind you of a lost anonymous painting?”

“You reminded me of the Maiden.” And his eye flicked to the left of the painting. Then he dragged his gaze on her, turning his head, and watched her. “Do you know the story?”

“The myth?”

“You don’t believe it to be true?”

“I don’t believe in Gods. Or myths.”

“That is strange, coming from a girl who spent so much time building her own.”

She turned her head and looked at him. He was smiling subtly, but it was different this time. There was no poison dripping from the angles of his mouth, but the clearest intrigue.

It stopped her heart for a moment. A sudden cut in the canvas, a crack in the porcelain. And she felt that this stranger was peeking inside, or perhaps she was.

Aemond looked back at the painting and laced his arms behind his back, making the leather of his jacket creak. “They said once there was a land inhabited only by Gods and Monsters. The Maiden was the most beautiful Goddess in the Holy Garden. She grew flowers from her hands, trailing behind her as she walked. But she was unhappy. The Gods only sought her for her gift, used her as a piece of ornament. She was beautiful on the outside, but inside—”

“Lonely and hollow.” she filled in.

“Just like the Stranger.” he said, and they turned at the same time, locking their eyes.

Aemond glanced back at the ominous figure in the painting and said “He was not allowed to enter the Gods world. He lived underground, blowing his mortal winds to call the souls into his realm of death. But then he saw her. He dried her tears through his wind until one day—”

“He took her.” she filled in once more. “He used the wind to tie her hands with the flowery branches she grew and kidnapped her from the Holy Garden.”

“Are you sure kidnapped is the right word?”

“According to the myth? Yes. You might have been a great scholar, but I’m not a goat.”

He chuckled quietly, and the sound made her turn again to watch him.

He held her gaze as amusement left his marbled features, and without taking his eye off her, he tilted his chin towards the painting “Look at her. Look at her face and tell me what you see."

She did so, observing the anguish, the dark trepidation on the Maiden’s face.

“She is frightened.”

“Is she?” he asked, and suddenly he was almost behind her. His breath tickled her ear like the wind on a hot summer day, and her breath hitched once more. “Look into her eyes.” he whispered on her nape “Is it fear to be taken…or desire?”

She swallowed, keeping her eyes fixed on the painting, and dug her nails into the expensive fabric of her little purse. “Art is not math.” she said with confidence “There is not one undisputable interpretation.” And she turned to face him “So unless you painted that, and I have some doubts, you say she’s keen on being taken. I say she’s frightened.”

Aemond stared at her for a moment with a strange new look on his face, as if someone had just issued a challenge to him. His blue eye was wide, and the little smirk was peeking through his lips. “Do you ever choose a position, golden girl?”

“I think I just did.”

“Allow me to rephrase, then. A less boring position.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but he was faster. “Let me show you something a little less ambiguous.”

"Wow, these are beautiful," she said as they climbed the stairs to the floor above the one where the glorious anonymous painting stood. On the angled wall, a series of photographs were exhibited—portraits, precisely—all in black and white.

"Are we complimenting each other now?" he asked, halting on a step.

She looked at him doubtfully for a moment before slightly widening her eyes. "What, these are yours?"

He gave her a simple nod, and she looked back at the portraits.

"My mother put them here. Her way to prove she cares, I guess." He said absent-mindedly, as if conversing about the weather.

The Lannister girl watched him closely, in search of something that would betray such a cold statement, but there were no cracks, no cuts.

"The great mystery unraveled.” She said forcing a dramatic tone “Aemond Targaryen is a photographer."

"I am not. I don’t do it for a living.”

“Yes, because you don’t need a job to get by.”

“Look who’s talking.”

She glared at him, trying with poor success to stifle a smile.

“It's just an interest." He stated.

"A passion." she dared to suggest.

"I wouldn't call it that. Passion preludes emotion, ardor. Photography is nothing like."

She watched him fold his arms behind his back in a peculiar way, grabbing his forearms with his hands. He had done the same thing earlier, in front of the painting. The gesture caught her attention then, as it did now.

"What is it then?" she asked, trailing her eyes back to his face.

He stared at her for an impossible long time before answering. “Revelation.”

She looked back at the portraits and observed them thoroughly. There were some men caught behind the camera, but the majority were all women. Young and beautiful women.

The portraits were majestic, she considered. He had found a way to toy with light which made these people look like glimpses from an otherworldly dimension, flashes of dreams.

No, not dreams, she thought.

The light was cruel, exposing, cutting. And all the subjects seemed to have been caught in a moment of great distress, flowing almost into a grotesque despair.

Flashes of nightmares.

The sight made her lips part, her skin shiver with eeriness and something else, something she could not name. The same basic instinct that had pushed her to follow him. These people, made eternal by black and white, were dressed, but their souls utterly naked before the eye.

“I wouldn’t call it revelation…”

“And what would you call it?” he asked, stepping beside her to watch the portrait, not missing her little startle when his elbow brushed against hers.

She took a deep, silent breath and turned her head to look at him. "Intrusion.”

“Hmm.” He mused, slipping his pack of smokes from his pocket “Intrusion of which kind?”

He placed the cigarette between his lips only to see her hand snatching it away, but slowly, just like she was used to move, so much that her fingertip brushed his upper lip. “Any kind.” she answered and his eye fell on her rosy lips closing around the filter.

His mouth twitched, as if her light brushing had lit his skin aflame, and he moved unconsciously, bringing the lighter close but pausing, his thumb lingering on the little wheel, and he looked at her, just as she looked at him.

When he pushed his finger to light the flame, the short metallic sound came through with a strange finality, a curtain dropping after the first act.

She lit the cigarette and took a long drag, glancing at the portraits and then back at him. “Did you fuck these women?”

“No.” was all he said, hiding a little smirk as he slipped another smoke between his lips. He saw her raising her eyebrows with clear disbelief, so he clarified. “Not all of them.”

“I bet they revealed themselves thoroughly.”

“They were more than keen to do it.”

“And did you?” she countered, tilting her head, lowering her voice so that once again, he found himself leaning towards her, like a moth to a flame. “Did you reveal yourself as well? Did you let them intrude?”

“Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.”

She clicked her tongue and laughed—the very first genuine laugh she could conjure up in the span of hours, or even days. “Now you’re just trying to impress me.”

“Yes. And unfortunately for you, it is working.”

She gave him a bemused look at his brazen statement, but she felt strangely exposed under his unblinking stare, a hand ending her ceaseless floating to anchor her against the seabed.

“I want you to come to my place," he said suddenly, his voice kept quiet, almost soft, to the verge of whispering. It wrapped her senses like a soothing lullaby.

“I want to take your picture.”

“Why? To end up on this wall and in your bed like dozens of girls before me?”

“Dozens?” he raised an eyebrow “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.”

“Hmm” he crooned, cocking his head to one side, a contented expression stretching on his face, much like a cat licking its whiskers. “Envy doesn’t suit a Lannister.”

“Envy?” she repeated, laughing scornfully. “You’re an arrogant brat, has anyone ever told you?”

“Many in fact. So, shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

“Pity, I thought you had stopped boring me.” He said pocketing his lighter “Stay here playing the doll with those old fogeys, if you like. I’m leaving.”

She had only time to blink and he was gone, leaving her on those steps with the foreign, unsettling longing to follow. Her feet moved on their own, dragging her back to the party with an urgency shaking her bones, pushing her eyes to dart in every corner of the hall, moving amongst the people as if chasing the wind.

“Oh, there you are!” Jason pulled her to him, and she stilled, as she was used to, but everything inside her kept moving. “That Lonmouth smartass came at me screaming like a chicken.” Jason said with cocaine pupils, slurring words after words “as if it’s Dad’s fault that he’s an idiot. Put him in his place, would you? I’m too high, I might stick a fork between his eyes. D’you you want to hear something funny?”

“No, Jason. I don’t.” she replied absently, looking around once more “Listen, did you see Aemond Targaryen?”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” She said, wriggling herself from his hold, but he was fast to pull her back “Sis, why are you looking for that creep?”

“Let me go, Jason.”

“Listen to me. First the shit show in Pyke and now Aemond One Eye? Dad would not be happy to know you are—”

“Dad would not be happy to know fucking anything that he has not concocted and told us to do. And I’m tired of it, Jason.” She hastily broke free from his grip, alerting the well-dressed people around them, but she ignored them altogether. “Just this once, you’ll have to play the puppet. I’m done for tonight.” she tugged the pocket square from his jacket and threw it at him. “And wipe your nose, for Gods’ sake. There’s coke on it.”

She wandered inside the huge hall like walking through quicksand, sinking a little more any time another man or woman stopped her to chit chat, to ask her about her father and the bank and the next slot in her father's agenda.

As if she had any clue. As if her father had not dismissed any of her natural vocations like wrong bills to be fed to the shredder only to make her study economics, only to frame her degree, and then instruct her himself to specialize in the sacred act of parading herself around like a rare stuffed creature.

“Here you are.” A hand slipped around her waist, and she found herself enveloped by two familiar hands. “I’ve looked for you anywhere.”

“Quentin.” She said, looking into the dark glinting eyes of Quentin Martell, slightly wrinkling her nose for the heavy male perfume in which he had apparently dunked his suit.

His eyes scanned her slowly, looking like he wanted to peel her dress off like an orange. “Always outshining anyone else, are you?”

She looked away, stifling an exasperated sigh, all too used to Quentin’s redundant flatteries.

“This party is dead, isn’t it? And rather self-celebratory from the Hightowers. As if they don’t owe their current position to Viserys Targaryen.”

She glanced at him and saw her father talking. It was one of his favorite refrains at breakfast, lunch or dinner. It made no difference to him. Any time was a good time to incense themselves as the best, the wealthiest, the proudest, and hundreds of more superlatives that made the food instantly go rancid in her mouth.

Distractedly, her eyes roamed around, numbing her ears while Quentin kept talking. It was then that she saw him. He had not left.

Holding a glass of some liquor, he seemed to be in deep conversation, or rather on the receiving end of a soliloquy from his grandfather, who was leaning slightly over him, almost talking to his ear.

His eye was absently buried to the floor, one long finger tapped against the glass. A couple of words she could not make from that distance slipped from his mouth, resigned as his whole demeanor.

She thought she was looking into a mirror.

“Honey, are you listening to me?” Quentin asked at some point, tightening the hold on her waist. “Who are you looking at so rapt?”

“No one.” she hurried to say. But Quentin was quicker to follow her gaze before she dropped it. “Aemond One Eye?” he said on the verge of mockery. “Baby, he is so out of your league.”

She cocked her head and plastered a tight smile on her lips. “And precisely, what do you know about my league?”

“You know what I mean. How blind can you be not to notice that your brother has been screwing your girlfriend behind your back for months? Oops, sorry, wrong metaphor.”

“Both the Baratheons and the Targaryens have denied it.”

“Sure, sure. Then why the Baratheons were not invited tonight? And why did the one eyed come? He never does. Oh wait, look at that, Aegon’s missing. Not surprising though, didn’t they say Targaryens used to fuck amongst their own in the old times?”

She lowered her gaze, lost in thought, and then turned her head, instantly widening her eyes, shoulders tensing when she saw Aemond looking straight at her, sipping his drink, straightening the cobweb’s thread on which she had been tottering until that moment.

“Baby, are you high again?” Quentin asked her, with a genuine, inquisitive tone.

“What?”

“You’re shivering. Greyjoy told me everything about that night. Said you went batshit crazy on coke. Depraved as he is, it’s actually a good thing that you OD’ed. That creep would have fucked you even that stoned.”

She immediately grabbed his arms, trying to wriggle out of his hold. “Let me go.”

“Oh, come on.” He nothing but hold her more tightly. “I know you like to get a little freaky once in a while. I do, too. In fact, why don’t we take a tour upstairs? We could cheer up this drag.”

“No. Quentin, let me go.”

“Come on.” He insisted, pulling her to his chest.

She had to step on his foot to shake him off. “Let me cut straight to the point. I won’t fuck you, Quentin. Not tonight, not even if you were the last man left on this earth.”

He grimaced, spitefully twisting his mouth like any man who's been denied the chance to feel like a man for a few minutes. “I had warned Greyjoy about this. I told him you’re a spoiled cunt. You know what? You should get with that Stark fag. He may fuck your ass, so maybe you’d feel something 'cause I’m sure as hell your cunt is drier than the Red Waste.”

The insults were also part of the play.

After all, the act might not please everyone in the stalls. “Just shrug them off. They’re praises, actually, disguised bitterly for what they cannot have.” her mother said “Besided, a lion does not concern itself with the opinion of the sheep.”

When she was younger, each bitter word was a giant finger pointed at her, a gavel sealing the next judgement. Her mother had tried with all her carelessness to teach her how to be exactly that. Careless, a river flowing in its direction no matter the filth that would pollute the waters.

But she was draining, ever since Pyke, perhaps long before that.

She was tired of pretending to be gold while her fingertips seemed to leave behind nothing else but ash.

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like to be tagged when I post part II, leave a comment below 🫶

#intrusion #liv(in la vida loca)#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #ewan mitchell #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #Spotify

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months

Text

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 6: I Am Missing You To Death]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, a Wolfman update, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), dragons, murder, suicide, say hello to the Crab Fam! 🥰🦀

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy And All I Got Was This Stupid Song Written About Me” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 9k (she chonky!).

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

There��s fire on the table, ice in your blood. Alicent and Helaena are prisoners in their rooms, and tomorrow Otto will be beheaded in the Dragonpit, but you are here in the Great Hall surrounded by candles, cider and beer and wine, rare roast boar sweating blood like rubies, raucous celebration.

Your father and Clement are laughing with Medrick Manderly, Lorent Marbrand, Luthor Largent, other men of Rhaenyra’s council; when they toast their wine, it sloshes carelessly out of the glass goblets. Corlys Velaryon—whose navy helped secure the city—is pensive and withdrawn, saying very little. At the center of the high table, the woman who calls herself queen is manic: color in her cheeks, light in her eyes, but not a warm life-giving glow, a hollow glint like the flash of coins or swords or moonlight. She is receiving a litany of congratulations for her victory from the lords of loyal houses: Blackwood, Bar Emmon, Costayne, Tully, Frey, Dustin, Cerwyn, Grimm. Frequently and unmistakably, Rhaenyra glances across the hall to where Daemon is conspiring with her military commanders, his back to the wall and arms crossed and face daunting yet distracted somehow, reminding you very much of Aemond. He does not look at his wife. He looks elsewhere, into the future, into the past, into the northwest where Nettles and Baela are waiting for him to return to the cursed corridors of Harrenhal.

“Please eat something,” Everett says quietly. He is carving off the least-bloody pieces of roast boar and laying them on your plate, where they remain untouched. He doesn’t have much to talk about with the other men as long as the topic of conversation hinges on combat. He knows books, not blades. Everett can walk, though only slowly and with great difficulty; he does not ride horses, he does not fight, he does not have a wife and in all likelihood never will. He reads and he watches, sharp eyes like a hawk’s.

“I’m alright,” you reply with effort that feels like lifting iron, stones, the dead weight of a man.

“You’re not,” Everett says, pained.

“Cregan Stark is a good man!” your father is telling his compatriots. He has grey hair and a crafty grin and speaks with dramatic sweeps of his arms. “When he heard of my daughter’s tribulations, borne with such courage, such resilience, he assured me that his intentions to wed her were unchanged. He pledged to forgive her any transgressions suffered at the hands of the Usurper.”

“A better husband than any of us!” Clement trumpets, toasting his wine glass with anyone who will accommodate him. Clement does have a wife—and two sons so far, the infant heirs of House Celtigar—but he spends far more time writing to Lord Stark than his family back on Claw Isle. “Gallant! Merciful! The most clever and civilized Northerner to ever live!”

“Hear hear!” his audience answers spiritedly, though Everett only frowns.

“And soon Cregan will leave Winterfell,” your father continues. Rhaenyra is now listening attentively. “He will finish rallying and fortifying his men, and then march south to crush the last vestiges of this infernal, traitorous uprising!”

Resounding cheers, fists drummed against the table. Clement picks up where your father left off: “Already Roddy the Ruin and his Winter Wolves slaughtered 2,000 Lannister men at the Fishfeed. Can you imagine the carnage when Cregan arrives with his host of young, fresh, able-bodied warriors?! We will eviscerate the Kingmaker! We will avenge Rhaenys, Lucerys and Jacaerys! And when we find the Usurper, when we drag him out of whatever hovel he’s crawled into on his belly like a snake, we will cut him open to see if his guts are green as well!”

As men roar all around you—men who have killed, men who are starving to do it again—you stare down at the reflection in your wine, a vacant face that barely resembles yours. You cannot write to Aegon. He cannot write to you. Where and how he is will remain a mystery until you meet again…or until the Blacks uncover his fate. In your mind, he is both alive and dead; he is sick, he is well, he is suffering, he is finding solace in another woman’s bed, he is lying broken on the side of the road, he is sailing under the cover of darkness into Dragonstone on a borrowed ship, he is drunk, he is sober, he is burning up with fever, his is reunited with Sunfyre, he is in desperate need of you, he has forgotten you completely.

“I bet he’s at Storm’s End!” Medrick Manderly bellows, motioning with a turkey leg as if it’s a dagger. “We should send assassins to slay him!”

“No, no, the Reach!” Luthor Largent counters. “He’s probably on his way to meet his brother Daeron there!”

Theories are lobbed back and forth like the arrows of archers, none of them right. No one asks you. No one has asked about the abuse you supposedly endured either. It was taken for granted as truth; what else could anyone expect from a captor as notoriously depraved and insatiable as the Usurper? Your melancholic demeanor is proof enough. Inquiry beyond that would be impolite. And then Rhaenyra says, startling you: “Is there any chance he’s gone to Dragonstone?”

“He cannot be there, Your Grace,” your father assures her. “It is impossible to take Dragonstone without there being signs, ships in the sea and smoke from the kitchens and the like. We would have heard from the lords of the Crownlands who reside near the island.”

Unless they have silently abandoned Rhaenyra’s cause. Unless Aegon and Larys have won them over. You have to protect him. You have to distract the side you once called your own. You twist the dragon ring on your left hand, gold wings and jade eyes. No one asks about that either; sometimes you think they don’t really see you at all. You say softly: “He spoke often of Dorne.”

“Dorne?” your father muses, stroking his short beard.

“Of course he did,” Clement says. “Degenerates are quite at home there.”

Medrick Manderly is muttering: “We’ll never find him if he gets past the Marches…”

Rhaenyra gazes at her husband again, a hollow, vulnerable sort of desperation, a plea that echoes against stone walls. He knocks back the last of his wine, turns his back on her, and strides out of the Great Hall. Rhaenyra’s pale eyes—a treacherous, oceanic sort of blue like Aegon’s—are glossy with despair. You’ve crossed paths with her before, of course, usually from a distance; but you are fascinated by how much she has changed. With each person she loses—King Viserys, infant Visenya, Luke, Jace—another piece of her is cut away like a man being flayed. The so-called queen is more erratic, more cold. She has had her remaining children brought to King’s Landing: Joffrey, Aegon the Younger, Viserys who is a sickly and disengaged toddler, his eyes and nose always running. They are tucked safely away in their rooms currently. They are glorified prisoners, just like you; they have no role in shaping the world they will one day inherit.

“My lady?” Autumn says, tapping your shoulder. The Blacks know her only as a handmaiden who assisted you in escaping the clutches of the Usurper when he fled King’s Landing. They have no idea who might have fathered the child in her rounded belly. It would not be safe for them to know. Before her time comes to deliver, Autumn will have to go someplace where the Blacks will be unaware if her son or daughter has the silvery hair of a Targaryen. You promised her a new home, but you cannot give it to her yet; nothing you own is truly yours, and Aegon left too suddenly to gift her property on your behalf. Autumn, curiously, does not seem to be in any hurry to leave you.

“I’m alright,” you say again, another leaden lie. The men are now discussing how the Usurper should be executed once they’ve found him: beheaded, hanged drawn and quartered, fed to a dragon, burned alive, some combination thereof. Medrick Manderly is suggesting that they have him flayed alive. When Cregan Stark arrives at last, surely there will be Boltons in his retinue.

“You are exhausted,” Autumn announces, loudly enough for the others to overhear. “You have been through so much. Please, my lady. Allow me to escort you back to your rooms.”

“Will you, please?” Everett asks Autumn. His eyes flick to hers, his fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll check on her before I retire for the evening.”

Autumn offers you her hand. This is a kindness, an escape. You take it and rise from the table.

“My daughter!” Bartimos Celtigar laments, gesturing to you. His spectators, men rabid with bloodlust, nod and murmur sympathetically, like it is almost something too distasteful to speak of. Murder can be discussed openly, torture, weapons, war; but the violence women collect and carry in their bones? Those are details best left unsaid. Perhaps it strikes too near to their own deeds, if they dared to think hard on them. Your father approaches and kisses you twice, once on each cheek. Rhaenyra drinks her wine and stares blankly at the place where Daemon had stood. “So wronged, so mistreated, and yet she is still with us. She will rise again. She has a glorious future ahead of her. We all do. All of us who serve Rhaenyra, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. To the words of my house: Perpetual Resurrection!”

The men lift their cups and shout, none more deafeningly than Clement: “Perpetual Resurrection!” Everett mouths it quietly to himself. Corlys Velaryon says nothing. Rhaenyra holds her head high, sorrowful but defiant. You retreat from the Great Hall with Autumn, the hem of your gown flowing out behind you, black like the faction the Celtigars have aligned with, black like mourning.

“No,” you tell Autumn as she starts up the stairwell that leads to your bedchamber.

She is puzzled. “Where then?”

“Take me to the dungeons.”

“What? Why?” Then she understands. “Oh. Oh no. You don’t want to go down there. It’s awful, dark and grimy, dried blood on the walls, handprints and fingernails. Spiders and bones. Rats everywhere.”

“So you know the way.”

“Yes,” she admits cagily, tugging at a coiled lock of her coppery hair.

Your eyes narrow. “When were you in the dungeons?” You met Aegon there? He took women there? Before the war, before he was burned, before he met me?

“Don’t ask questions you wouldn’t want the answers to,” Autumn says primly. Then she ushers you through doorways and shadowy stairwells that lead down, down, down.

Grand Maester Orwyle is in the black cells. Jasper Wylde has already been executed; Tyland Lannister is being tortured until he reveals the location of the Greens’ stores of treasure. Otto Hightower, condemned to death, is housed on the floor of the dungeons reserved for prisoners of noble birth. There are torches burning in the corridor, rage-orange luminescence like dusk bleeding into the cells through gaps in the iron bars. Autumn does not leave you alone there, but she does wait at the end of the hall to give you—and the man who three times served as the Hand of the King and was twice removed from the same office, first by King Viserys and again by Aegon when Otto proved too cautious for his liking—some semblance of privacy.

Otto peers up at you from where he sits on the floor of his cell, strewn with dirty straw and glowing firelight. He appears old, impossibly old; the flesh has evaporated between his skull and his yellowed skin. He already looks like the skeleton he will be soon. He once counseled Aegon against flying into battle with Sunfyre, and Aegon hated him for it. But Otto was right, wasn’t he? “Did you tire of all the merriment upstairs? Or have they run out of roast boar? I could smell it cooking, you know. All day long as rats chewed at my ankles.”

“I imagine you now regret not running when you had the chance.”

Otto shrugs haggardly. “My odds would have been as good on the road as here. Out there, I might have been descended upon by a bear or a shadowcat or a band of thieves who left me gutted on the roadside. At least my death will be clean and swift.”

“Is there anything I can bring you?” you ask him, gently now. “Anything I can do for you? Before…tomorrow?” Before your life is ended. Before the Greens lose one of their greatest assets.

His gaunt face stretches into a slow, taunting grin. “You have chosen a side, Lady Celtigar.”

That’s true, isn’t it? By not spilling the Greens’ secrets. By falling in love with their king. “If Rhaenyra wins, I have to marry Cregan Stark and Aegon dies.”

“And you want him to live so he can marry you.”

It stuns you so much it takes a moment to find your words again. “Well, that’s not possible.” He already has a wife, no matter how insane she is now.

“I would not assume that any form of depravity is beyond his skill.” Otto sighs deeply. “Before that bitch took the city, I was corresponding with the Dragonseeds called Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer. They claim they will switch to our side for titles that Rhaenyra denies them. Ulf wanted Storm’s End—delusional, the drunk could not manage a fishing village, he spells half his words wrong—and Hugh asked the Blacks for Casterly Rock. Apparently Daemon was actually amenable, but Rhaenyra refused the notion entirely. How fortunate for us. If we offer these Dragonseeds the seats of lesser houses—Costayne and Merryweather, I’d suggest, both traitors to Aegon’s cause—I think they’ll declare for us. Alicent must write to them. With Aemond, Criston, and Daeron on the battlefield, and Aegon gods know where, she must be the one to negotiate for our side now. She is capable of it. I know she is.”

“She can’t get to the rookery.”

Otto smiles up at you cunningly. “I suspect her letters will somehow find their way there,” he says. “And you are now more knowledgeable of the would-be betrayers’ whereabouts than I am.”

You nod. This is true, for the Blacks speak openly around you. While Corlys’ alleged bastard Addam Velaryon—who accompanied the navy into King’s Landing—now patrols the skies above the city on Seasmoke, Ulf and Hugh are currently stationed at Maidenpool in a remote corner of the Riverlands and awaiting further instruction. Rhaenyra dislikes them, you can sense this already. She has heard tales of boasting, drinking, whoring, brawling, bottomless greed. She does not trust them. She does not understand how the gods allowed her sons to be killed and those scoundrels to live.

Otto says: “Can I ask you something?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“What is it that draws you to Aegon?” He speaks with profound, genuine confusion. “What is there to admire? To yearn for?”

You see him, playful crooked smile and dazed eyes, careful hands, tiny silver braid. Unaware that you’re doing it, you twist the dragon ring on your finger. “He’s brave. He’s kind. I don’t understand why none of you can see it.”

“Ah.” And now Otto at last comprehends. “I was in love once,” he says wistfully, very far away, gazing at the stone wall, gazing at nothing. “I don’t remember what it felt like. But I remember that it happened. I suppose I will see Alicent’s mother again tomorrow. I hope she still recognizes me.” His eyes return to you, reflecting torchlight that shifts and distorts. “These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder.”

You can hear Aegon’s voice in the silence of the dungeons: I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you. “I’ll help your side however I can.”

“Do not allow the Blacks to discover your treason. You are far more valuable to us as someone who can drift between worlds than as a professed ally, assuming you cannot turn the Celtigars.”

“I can’t.” You could convince Everett, perhaps. But he isn’t the heir to Claw Isle.

Then Otto smiles, and it is the softest, most tender thing you’ve ever seen him do. “Please tell Alicent that I love her.”

“I will.”

“Now go,” he says. “Before you are witnessed here. Before you endanger what you want most.”

To end the war. To stop this suffering. To be with Aegon again. You hesitate, not knowing how to say goodbye. What is there left to say when the man in front of you is already dead?

“Go,” Otto Hightower orders again; and this time you obey.

He dies at 9:00 the next morning. Sunlight streams fierce and blinding into the Dragonpit. The smallfolk applaud and cheer, though perhaps mostly because Syrax and Caraxes are perched atop the domed roof and waiting, fangs bared, to devour anyone who dissents. In the people’s eyes, you see less savagery than terror. You can read the thoughts that dart between them, infectious like fever: We do not trust Rhaenyra, this ruthless queen, this Maegor with teats. We do not trust her bloodthirsty uncle-husband. We do not want to burn if Aemond and Vhagar return to reclaim the city.

Daemon swings the blade himself. It takes three blows to sever Otto’s head. This must have been intentional; you know what an expert swordsman Daemon is.

~~~~~~~~~~

You sit compliantly with your family at meals, dances, executions. You stroll in the gardens. You bring Helaena flowers, lilies, irises, tulips, daisies, roses. You bring Alicent paper and quills and ink. You take the letter she writes to the rookery above the chambers where Grand Maester Orwyle once resided. As the raven departs for Maidenpool, black wings flapping in cerulean summer air, you stare through a window that looks out onto Blackwater Bay towards Essos, Driftmark, Dragonstone.

Is Aegon there now? Is he alive?

You have no way of knowing; while ravens pass between King’s Landing and the Riverlands frequently, you cannot risk someone noticing correspondence with Dragonstone. But you feel that Aegon is safe on that fearsome, windswept island. You feel that he might even be gazing out of his own window, back towards the mainland, back towards you.

When you return to your bedchamber, Everett is there. He is seated at the writing desk and pointing to pages in a book about animals of the Crownlands, bears and dragons and crabs. The book is for children; the words are large and accompanied by colorful illustrations. Autumn is sitting in Everett’s lap, giggling as she repeats the words that he croons through her firelight hair.

You pause in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Learning how to read!” Autumn replies brightly.

“I thought you weren’t interested in that.”

“I’ve been struck by sudden and forceful inspiration to shed my commoner ignorance.”

“Autumn, dear,” Everett prompts. She climbs out of his lap, sweeps him a teasing girlish courtesy, and sails out of the room. Everett looks to you. “Come. Sit.”

“Not in your lap, hopefully.”

He laughs. “Where on earth did you find her?”

You take a seat at the edge of your bed, toying with your ring. Your fingertips glide over the bumps of those gleaming jade eyes. “A brothel here in King’s Landing. I don’t know what sort of family she was born into.”

“Oh,” Everett sighs sympathetically. Your father and Clement would be viciously pejorative, would demand Autumn’s removal from your service immediately. But Everett is a different sort of man. He was even before he was burned, and he’s far more so now. “The poor thing.” Then his eyebrows leap up. “Wait. How did you end up visiting a brothel…?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You peer out the window that overlooks the beach. You’re always watching the sea now, as if it can tell you its secrets, as if it can whisper to you in a language made of gull cries, breaking waves, starlight and moonbeams reflected on indigo currents in the dead of night.

“It’s strange,” Everett says. There is a soft, sad smile on his face. “Your body is here with us, but your soul isn’t.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to explain everything that’s happened.

“The Usurper must have harmed you terribly.” Everett is not asking, but he is opening the door; you can tell him anything that is burdening you, and he will keep it to himself. You once sat with him as he lay dying, or at least when everyone believed he was; everyone but you and Maester Arthur back on Claw Isle. You once helped bring him back to life. That is a bond forged with something stronger than iron, something deeper than blood.

Aegon? Harm me? “He would never do that.”

Now Everett’s eyes are fixed intently on you. He is reading you like calculations of taxes, expenses, accounts, gains, losses. He realizes, hushed and alarmed: “You weren’t taken to King’s Landing by force.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

His jaw drops open, his eyes blink incredulously. “Do you…do you think he’s the rightful king?!”

“It’s not about that for me.”

“You are betrothed to another man.”

“Yes,” you agree.

“The Usurper is married.”

“Yes,” you say again. “And yet…”

“Seven hells,” Everett exhales. He shakes his head. “But…the Usurper…Aegon…he…he…he’s a monster, isn’t he? A rapist, a degenerate, a slothful and selfish wastrel?”

“No. He’s not. Just like Rhaenyra isn’t a sweet, serene mother to her kingdom.”

Everett smirks ruefully. He can’t argue with this.

“Aegon will pardon any Celtigar who rebelled against him. All they need to do is swear fealty upon being captured.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

“I know where he was planning to go. I don’t know if he made it there.”

“And you worry for him,” Everett says softly.

You nod, unable to speak. You can feel the threat of tears scorching in your throat, dark churning clouds that forecast lightning, cyclones, floods.

“His burns have healed?” Everett asks. “Everyone knows he was horribly wounded at Rook’s Rest.”

“They’ve scarred over. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be alright.”

Everett understands this, he remembers the discussions the two of you once had with Maester Arthur. Severe burns weaken the organs, even years after the flesh is no longer raw and weeping. Survivors are prone to failure of their kidneys, liver, heart. They must be careful to avoid further trauma. Aegon does not have that luxury. “I don’t know what remedy to offer you,” Everett says remorsefully. “Rhaenyra met with Alicent, and the dowager queen put forth a generous compromise. Alicent proposed that the realm be divided. Aegon’s seat would be at Oldtown, and his jurisdiction would include the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands. Rhaenyra would continue to rule from King’s Landing and preside over the Crownlands, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Iron Islands, and the North. Both branches of the family would survive.”

“Rhaenyra could have ended it.” You marvel at the simplicity, the doomed slighted possibilities. “Here and now. The bloodshed would be over. Aegon could return to me.”

“Rhaenyra rejected the notion of any concessions whatsoever. Our father and Clement encouraged her. I would advocate for a peaceful resolution, I would advance your interests, sister. I would, I swear I would. But it is futile. You know they don’t listen to me.”

No, not in the arena of warfare. Everett is the heir to your father’s skill with trade, but Clement is the future Lord of Claw Isle, and it is he who wields swords and shields and leads men into combat. Everett cannot fight. Other men will never regard him as their full equal. “You have listened to my treason and not condemned me. I cannot ask for more from you than that.”

Everett stands from his chair, a slow, laborious undertaking. He crosses the room gingerly, lifts your chin to break the trance as you stare down at your ring, beams like the sun. “You want him.”

“Yes,” you admit helplessly.

“You’ve never wanted any man.”

“Just him. It can’t be anyone but him.”

Everett nods, thoughtful, amused. “Then I will pray that Lord Cregan Stark takes a wrong turn on the Kingsroad and ends up in the Vale, or the Iron Islands, or Essos, or perhaps even walks right into the sea. He’d sink, I’m sure. All those furs must be heavy when wet.”

“If anyone asks, you believe Aegon to be in Dorne.”

“I certainly do.” Everett smiles, touches his lips to your forehead, shuffles off to find Autumn and tell her that she can come back now.

Some nights, if you can enter without being noticed, you steal into the bedchamber that was once Aegon’s, the place where you brought him back from the dead, the place where he made you crave things that had once only filled you with dread, fear, revulsion. No one else has claimed Aegon’s rooms. No one else wants them. They make jokes about the debaucheries his walls must have seen, the unholy stains that surely riddle his mattress, rugs, curtains. They don’t know him at all, and nothing can make them want to. Tonight, there are quarreling voices coming from outside. You go to the open window, your lungs expanding with cool indigo air, and look out.

“Where are you going? Daemon? Daemon!” Rhaenyra is raging after him, following him onto the wet sand of the beach. “Back to Harrenhal? Back to your whore?!”

He does not answer. He strides arrogantly, he storms away from her, this woman he once loved for her tenacity and pride. He has no appetite for weakness. He has no patience for pruning those creeping, thorny vines of madness that are growing into her mind, her veins. Already Caraxes is landing in the surf to take him back to his foothold in the Riverlands, to Baela, to Nettles.

“Then go!” Rhaenyra screams after Daemon. And if you can hear this, surely others can as well. “Just go! We don’t need you here! I don’t need you here!”

Lies, lies, lies. Desperate and transparent lies.

Daemon and Caraxes take flight and disappear into the nightscape darkness over the ocean. You climb into the bed that was once Aegon’s, curl up in a nest of his blood-flecked sheets, breathe in lingering wisps of rose oil and the echoes of his low, drowsy voice, thick with wine and milk of the poppy and forbidden desire for a woman who sheds and replaces her skin again and again and again.

~~~~~~~~~~

A week later, you go to the gardens and read under the heart tree about cures and poisons. When you return inside—clutching a glass jar containing sticks, leaves, grass, and a single wriggling caterpillar, a gift for Helaena—the Red Keep is in chaos. Servants and guards are gossiping feverishly. Upstairs, Alicent is howling with grief. You glimpse Autumn racing up a staircase towards the dowager queen’s rooms to comfort her. There are sounds of celebration in the Great Hall, cups being toasted and cheers loosed like dragonfire. You follow them, suffocating terror constricting your throat like a noose. Is it Aemond, Criston, Daeron? Is it Aegon? Have they found him, have they killed him?

At the center of the high table, Rhaenyra is wearing a gown of black and red on her body and a smile of soulless satisfaction on her face. She holds a glass of maroon wine high above her head. “To vengeance!” she calls, and the lords that fill the hall thunder the words back to her. “To victory!”

“Father…?” you say, rushing to Bartimos Celtigar’s side. Clement is shaking hands with Manderlys and Blackwoods and Costaynes, grinning radiantly. Everett and Corlys are peering around grimly, looking uneasy, looking ashamed.

What have they done now? Who have they murdered in cold blood?

“Father, what—?”

“He has no more heirs,” Bartimos Celtigar tell you, as if it is the most joyous of surprises, as if is a gift like a gemstone or a rare book.

“Who?”

“The Usurper. Both of his sons are now dead. Neither of his brothers have children. Aegon has no heirs!”

“Maelor,” you whisper, envisioning that defenseless white-haired child, giggling, affectionate, anxious, sobbing in the arms of Sir Rickard Thorne. The jar tumbles out of your grasp and shatters against the stone floor. “Maelor is…he’s…he’s been killed…?”

“By a mob of Black loyalists at Bitterbridge,” your father says. “The Greens were trying to smuggle the child to Oldtown. Our supporters attempted to seize the boy so he could be brought to us. Alas, they were too boisterous. He did not survive, and neither did his keeper Rickard Thorne.”

They tore Maelor apart? They clawed and yanked at that little boy until there was nothing left but shreds of muscle and moon-white bones? You gape up at your father, unable to recognize him, unable to keep the horror from your face. “You’re celebrating the murder of a child?”

“They did the same when Luke was killed.”

Because Aegon thought they had to. Because he wanted to protect his brother. “It was wrong then and it’s wrong now.”

“You are too compassionate, daughter,” your father says, smiling with a puddle-deep, patronizing fondness. Was he always this way? Has he changed so much, or have you? He touches your cheek, and you want to flinch away from him. “You lose sight of the scale of this war. Each child of the Usurper that dies spares thousands of others. Aegon now has no heirs left, not unless you count that little girl who’s hidden away somewhere, and don’t the Greens reject the right of a daughter to inherit the throne? Isn’t that what all of this havoc has been about, preventing Rhaenyra’s ascension? This is a resounding triumph for our side! This is something to commemorate!”

They tore Maelor apart??

Corlys gets up from the table and leaves the Great Hall. Everett is watching you with wide, fearful eyes. He is pleading silently: Don’t react. Don’t panic. Not where they can see you.

“Are you well?” your father asks you, concerned now.

“I feel ill,” you hear yourself answer. You grip the back of his chair so the floor can’t rip itself out from under you.

“Just a moment,” Everett says, rising in that labored way, the scar tissue straining painfully at his ankles and knees and hips. “I’ll accompany you back to your rooms…”

But you can’t wait for him. The tears are already flame-hot and misty in your eyes. You rip away from the Celtigars, away from all the Blacks, and escape upstairs. Breathless, sobbing, you go first to Helaena’s bedchamber. Aegon’s wife is standing in front of her window that overlooks the sandstone courtyard, cobblestones of muted earthy gold. You can hear courtiers chattering far below. You can hear the carousing reverberating from the Great Hall. Helaena does not turn when you arrive; she does not give any indication that she is aware of you.

“Helaena,” you gasp. “Your Grace, I…I’m so sorry…what has happened…it’s despicable, it’s soulless, I cannot stop Rhaenyra’s men from reveling in it but I would never defend their actions, I would never join them, I am horrified and heartsick and appalled—”

“It’s a travesty,” Autumn says from the doorway, and you glance over at her. When you look back to the queen, she has vanished.

“Helaena?!” you shout. You and Autumn bolt to the window. Down in the courtyard, courtiers are shrieking and fleeing from the mess. On the cobblestones, Helaena lies sprawled; her arms and legs are bent at impossible angles. A pool of blood spreads out from under her like a river swelling in a storm until it spills over. Guards are hurrying to the scene, their armor jangling. “Helaena!”

“She’s gone,” Autumn says, bundling you into her arms before you can make for the hall, the stairwell. Her belly presses unyieldingly into you. “There’s nothing you can do. Don’t go down there. You can’t help her now.”

You cover your face with both hands and scream: for Maelor, for Helaena, for Alicent, for Aegon, for the world full of people who can’t stop paying the debts others incurred.

“Don’t go down there.” Autumn’s voice is warm and hushed, her grasp strong. “You can’t help Helaena now. You can only hurt yourself. You don’t need to see it. You don’t need her blood on your hands.”

Everett appears, looks out the window to investigate the commotion in the courtyard, backs away with a hand covering his gaping mouth. “Oh, gods. All the gods, Old and New. What a goddamn fucking disaster.”

Autumn at last releases you, and you dash into the hallway with Everett following as quickly as he can and Autumn walking with him, one arm looped through his. You find Alicent in her rooms, standing motionless beside her bed in an emerald green gown. She is trembling and speechless, she is in shock. You embrace her. “I’m sorry,” you say, tears falling on the velvet of her dress. “I know that doesn’t make it any better, but I am.”

Everett and Autumn enter the bedchamber and shut the door behind them. “What—?” Everett begins.

“I have to go to him,” you say. You step away from the dowager queen and wipe your eyes with your sleeves, black like onyx, like obsidian, like death.

“Who...?”

“Aegon. The king,” you tell them. “He’s going to hear of this. He’s going to know what happened to Maelor and Helaena. I can’t let him face that alone. I can’t let him fall into despair.”

“But he…I mean…” Everett is trying to choose his words sensitively. The state of the royal marriage was no secret anywhere in the realm. “Was he even…involved with his wife and children? In any meaningful way?”

“It’s not about them, it’s about him thinking that he’s responsible, that he’s a curse to anyone he touches, that he ruins people, I…” You shake your head franticly. “I can’t stay here. I have to go. I have to be with him.”

“Go where?!” Everett exclaims.

“Dragonstone,” Autumn answers for you.

“Dragonstone,” he repeats numbly. “You can’t be serious! How will you get there?!”

“I’ll take a horse to Crackclaw Point and then pay a boat to ferry me across the water.”

“Alone?!” Everett says.

“I’ll have to be. You cannot travel by horse, only carriage. And your absence would be noticed too swiftly. Father would send soldiers after you if he feared you’d been captured.”

“You’ve never gone anywhere alone, now you’re going to travel a hundred miles over earth and ocean to Dragonstone?!”

“She won’t be alone,” Autumn says. You and Everett turn to her. She is grinning. “I mean no offense, my lady, but you know nothing of the world beyond your castles and gardens and books full of naked men drawings. You would not last a day on your own.”

“You can’t ride a horse either,” you object. “You’re with child. It could be dangerous.”

“I’ve done far more vigorous activities while pregnant, believe me.”

“You’re really going?” Everett says, quiet, mournful. It seems that you’ve only just reunited with him.

“I have to. Aegon thought I’d be safe with the Blacks, and I am, I suppose…but I’m not really a Black anymore. And I can’t let him suffer alone. I…I…”

“You love him,” Alicent says. She gazes at you with huge, glassy, void-dark eyes, like those of a doe felled by arrows. She is half-here and half-not, and thank the gods for that. Her loss is too great. She cannot bear it all at once. Part of her knows her only daughter is dead on the cobblestones outside, her last grandson was torn apart by a mob that were more beasts than men. And then part of her is only aware of this room. “Properly. Entirely. In a way he can understand.”

“I do,” you confess. I do, I do.

“I’m glad,” Alicent says dully. “Someone must.”

She staggers to her bed, lies down on it, curls up like a wounded animal, rips away her golden necklace of a seven-pointed star and throws it to the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night, you and Autumn leave King’s Landing on horses Everett procured. There is only a skeleton crew of guards left in the Red Keep; the rest are partaking in the festivities that pulse in the Great Hall like a heartbeat, candlelight and music and manic glee. Yet among the smallfolk, no one is celebrating. They are in mourning for their misfortunate, benign queen and her toddler son. They are hissing venomously about Rhaenyra, Daemon, Bartimos Celtigar.

The court will not notice Autumn’s absence, not for days at least, perhaps not ever. Everett will upend your bedchamber before he goes to sleep, knocking over chairs and tables, yanking sheets from the bed. In the morning, he will tell your father that he assumes you are still resting from your illness, from the insurmountable stress of the past months. Women are so fragile, after all; their lives are one tragedy after the next. When at last someone checks on you—hopefully not for a few days—it will appear that you have been taken after a struggle. You did not leave. You were kidnapped by fiends using the secret passageways. You are a prisoner of the Greens again, and likely spirited away to the Stormlands or the Reach or perhaps even the remote, golden sands of Dorne.

You and Autumn travel by night and sleep through the day, staying at roadside inns paid for by the heavy sack of coins Everett gifted you. It is not difficult to blend in among countless travelers and refugees displaced in the wake of the war. You have no distinguishing characteristics, no Valyrian-white hair or ragged burns or sapphires in place of eyes. In fact, Autumn attracts more attention than you do. She is beautiful, talkative, effortlessly flirtatious. Men trail after her at every inn. You receive exemplary service, the hottest soup and the cleanest rooms. She complains to you about how difficult it is becoming for her to rest as her belly grows: perhaps five months along, perhaps six, she isn’t certain, her cycle was already irregular from the lemonweed tea brewed at the brothel.

In a small town called Eagle Harbor at the base of Crackclaw Point, you need to hire a sailor to take you across the narrow strait to Dragonstone. You fumble through stilted inquiries at a tavern until Autumn takes charge, half-drags a bald, bearded man back into the pantry, emerges with him five minutes later, and orders a pint of ale that she sips with a lazy, arrogant smirk.

“May the Mother have mercy!” the sailor says unsteadily, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll go to Dragonstone and back ten times for this red-haired demon!”

You and Autumn board his humble vessel at the end of the town’s lone pier and set off through choppy, night-draped waters towards Dragonstone. On the way, the sailor informs you that he’s made this trip a handful of times in the past two weeks, delivering an assortment of workers to the island: servants, guards, maesters, cooks.

“Rumor has it,” the sailor says with a conspiratorial grin. “There is a very illustrious occupant currently holding Dragonstone. He is scarred, but he is growing stronger. Surely you know of whom I speak. He must have beckoned you to join him. Perhaps you are servants. Perhaps you are whores. He has a famed appetite for them.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Autumn offers casually.

“Many here in the Crownlands are aware,” the sailor continues. “But you will not catch anyone being too loose with their gossip. The Beggar King is no enemy to us. The Bitch Queen is an enemy. That money-grubbing Bartimos Celtigar is an enemy. But the Greens will end the taxes he put on us. The sooner the Beggar King is well again, the better. He and his dragon too.”

When the sailor docks at Dragonstone, Autumn helps you up onto the pier and then gets back in the boat. “You aren’t staying?” you ask her, baffled, troubled. You have grown terribly attached to her. Cold night rain falls onto the island, growing heavier by the minute. Lightning snaps through the darkness and strikes near the castle.

“No. I want to be with Everett.” Autumn smiles. “And I know the king would not wish for me to impose upon Dragonstone.”

She’s probably right. “Why is he so cold to you? So avoidant?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Autumn says. “He doesn’t want you thinking about him fucking anyone except you.” She grins, winks, gestures for the sailor to unmoor his boat again. “When the Greens come to retake the capital, please ask them not to incinerate me.”

“I’ll pass the message along.”

“Good luck,” she says, waving. “We’ll wait to set sail until you’ve started up the steps.”

Through the darkness, through the driving rain, you trudge up the beach and then ascend the stone steps carved precariously into the cliffside. The grey stone is slippery; for parts of the climb, you walk on your palms as well as your boots. Your ring clinks against rock. When the clouds momentarily blow away from the moon, the gold wings glimmer in the silver light. There are torches burning in the mouths of iron dragons as you near the entranceway of the castle, towering walls that disappear into storm clouds. There is candlelight flickering in the corridors and chambers within. You can see dots of miniature infernos in the windows.

Aegon is in one of those rooms.

Suddenly, a screech startles you so badly you nearly plunge off the steps. Fire blooms in the night air only yards from your face. He’s clutching the cliffside, glaring at you with molten gold eyes set in an angular skull, snarling, smoke drifting skyward from his nostrils. You scream before you can stop yourself.

Sunfyre!!

You crouch down on the steps, squeeze your eyes shut, and wait for him to burn you alive. Seconds pass, ten, twenty, thirty. When you look at Sunfyre again, scales shimmering in the moonlight, he is observing you not with hatred but with curiosity that is clever, almost catlike. You have never been this close to a dragon before. You’ve never wanted to be, and now is no exception. He smells like smoke and sulfur, earth and ash. Sunfyre clambers nearer to you, his muzzle outstretched. You flinch away, whimpering, but he is not deterred. The dragon sniffs and nudges at you, his breath hot, his snout bumping against your arm and shoulder.

“Stop!” you squeak, petrified. “Sunfyre, don’t!”

At last, he seems to realize he’s frightening you. The dragon retreats with a low grumble from deep in his chest. You scramble up the remainder of the steps before he can change his mind.

There is distant shouting, and someone cranks open the castle gate for you. You hurry into the courtyard, running now, as rain pours down on you and thunder booms. There is a figure in a hooded cloak trotting out of the castle entrance. At first you don’t believe he can be Aegon; he is standing too tall, moving too brisky. You have never seen him so well before. But then he calls to you, and there is no doubt.

“Angel?!” Aegon shouts in disbelief over the drumming of raindrops. He is rapidly closing the distance between you. The wind tears off his hood. Beneath it his hair is longer than you remember and wild except for a single small braid down the left side of his face. His cheeks are ruddy. Tears stream from his eyes. He has heard what happened to Maelor and Helaena; he has been weeping for them, for the impending ruin of anyone he’s ever touched. “What the hell are you doing here—?!”

And instead of waiting for an answer he kisses you, or you kiss him, or you both do it at once, an unspoken covenant written not in ink but in the blood that whispers to each other through the veils of vessel walls, muscle, scarred skin. His hands are cradling your jaw, his lips ravenous. He smells like rose oil; he tastes like wine and rain and the clean salt of tears, the ageless mineral blue of the ocean.

“It has to be you,” you tell Aegon, a ghost of a voice in the maelstrom of the storm. Your thumbprint skates across his full bottom lip before you kiss him again, more slowly now, entwining yourself with him, hipbones and ribcages and handprints that will never wash off. Do you see what I’m offering? Do you feel what I want? “You’re not ruining me. You’re saving me. And it can’t be anyone but you.”

Aegon studies your face, stunned eyes murky like the waves, and then hungry as well: depths that swallow ships, watery graveyards that feast on bones. Then he takes your hand and leads you into Dragonstone. Inside, Larys Strong is waiting under a cascade of torchlight. He blinks at you as if you might disappear. When you don’t, he tilts his head to the side, intrigued.

“Lord Larys,” Aegon says curtly. “Make yourself invisible for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Larys purrs with a bow. Then he vanishes into the shadows.

“This way,” Aegon says, and you follow him up a staircase and down a corridor to a bedchamber illuminated only by a few flickering candles and flashes of lightning. In the corner of the room, you glimpse swords and armor; on Aegon’s bedside table, there is a glass bottle of rose oil and the hollowed-out shell of a crab, boiled red like fresh blood. And then you are on the bed and Aegon is beside you and there is not a single thread of you, muscle or marrow or nerve, that is afraid. “Are you sure?” he’s asking between deep, insatiable kisses, his fingers working on the laces of your gown. “We don’t have to. We can stop.”

But does he want that? No, no, he’s starving just like I am. “I’m sure, Aegon.” And you uncover each other with hands that rip away cotton and silk like trees are stripped bare in the winter.

His clothes are gone, cloak and trousers crumpled on the floor, and he pauses with trepidation in his eyes. His scars riddle him with uneven swaths of white, pink, red, a burgundy so dark it’s almost the violet of a bruise. The macabre patchwork stops at the lowest part of his belly, where his skin becomes abruptly pristine, pale, velvet-soft. “I guess…” He swallows noisily. “I guess this isn’t what you imagined the man you’d sleep with would look like, huh?”

“No,” you agree, smiling, pulling him in close again. I never imagined enjoying this at all. “And I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Aegon helps you tug off your gown and loosen your hair; it spills freely over the bedsheets. He’s on top of you, his warm weight perfect and welcome and right. Too swiftly for you to be nervous, his hand has settled between your legs. He strokes you, only on the outside where there is no threat of pain, as his tongue darts into your mouth and wetness soon coats his fingers. Then his fingers venture lower, seeking to enter you, the first time anything ever has. And you feel it, though you wish you didn’t, involuntary and uninvited: your body tensing just as his finger attempts to glide inside, a biting pain that makes you wince.

“No,” you yelp softly, a betrayal of your own flesh.

“Okay,” Aegon murmurs reassuringly. “That’s okay. Not a problem. Here…” He sits upright, draws you to him, bites lightly at your throat as you settle in his lap. “You’re in charge. You decide if and when it happens. And if this time doesn’t work, that’s fine, that’s completely fine, we can try again later, I can wait—”

“Are you alright like this? Am I too heavy?”

He grabs your face with his left hand—fingers hooked around your jaw, his eyes locked with yours—and says roughly: “Don’t ask about me again.”

“Okay,” you moan into him as his right hand skims down to touch you, to coax the fear out of you, to draw powerful circles around the place where your pleasure is greatest.

“This is about you.”

“Okay,” you say again, only a whisper this time, obedient, desperate.

“Please let me have this,” Aegon begs, resting his forehead against yours, his silver hair grazing your cheeks. “Please let me take care of you this time.”

“Yes,” you sigh, breathing him in, roses and heat and wine and sharp, oceanic, mineral lust. You lay your palms against the gnarled scar tissue of his chest and Aegon chuckles bitterly.

“I can’t even feel it. I’m a monster.” Then you press your bare hips to his, gradually finding a rhythm, slipping his cock through slick, warm folds that are aching more ardently than you ever knew was possible. “Oh fuck,” he gasps. “I felt that.”

“I want you,” you plead. “I want you, I want you.”

“Not yet…”

You are aware that your tension unraveling, your muscles opening as Aegon massages you until his hand is soaked, until you’re so wet the friction is almost nonexistent. Outside waves crash and lighting flashes and thunder growls like a dragon. I can’t wait. I need him. You lift up and Aegon holds his cock steady, coating it in your wetness with a quick pump of his hand, so you can lower yourself onto him. Slowly, you can feel his cock sinking into you, an indescribably foreign sensation, fullness and stretching and dull, strange contentment that is more like the potential of pleasure than anything else. There is discomfort as well, yes, a burning and a stinging that swells as he fills you. You try to keep it from your face; still, Aegon can read the pain there like black ink on pages.

He shakes his head and murmurs: “Stop, stop, I’m hurting you.”

“I want it. I can take it.”

He’s kissing your lips, your cheek, the slope of your jaw. “Give yourself time to adjust. There’s no rush, Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You wait until the pain seems to have vanished, then—carefully, tentatively—you rise up and lower yourself again. Yes, there’s definite pleasure now, less sharp than where he touched you before but deeper, more total. You try this again, again, faster now. Aegon’s breath hitches. He’s trembling; sweat glistens on his forehead and dampens his hair.

“I’m going to show you something,” he pants. “But you have to help me out.”

“Help how…?”

“Tell me what I’m doing right.” His fingers are on you again, pressing, circling. And there’s something about this combination of two very different colors of pleasure—dull fullness inside, intense ecstasy dancing over the skin—that lights a spark in you like striking flint.

You cry out, your pace as you ride him quickening, any last remnants of pain banished to distant memory. You are conscious now that you are working towards a peak of some sort; you can feel it building in you like fire in the mouth of a dragon.

Aegon asks: “Faster? Slower?”

“Faster,” you reply, and his hand obeys. You moan, fingers knotted in his hair and lips against the scar tissue of his throat, grisly webs that you cherish for knitting him back together, for saving his life.

“Harder or softer?”

“Harder,” you beg him in a whisper. And all at once, the pleasure is overwhelming, unstoppable, incomparable to anything you’ve ever experienced or ever wanted to, anything you thought was possible, anything you believed you were worthy of. It wrenches everything out of you, desire as well as turmoil, every thought in your skull and fear in your bones. It passes, leaving your heart thumping violently and an involuntary throbbing that squeezes Aegon’s cock, releases it, squeezes it again.

Aegon lays you down on your back and thrusts into you, shallowly at first to make sure you’re alright, then deeper and more powerfully. There’s no pain at all, only a hazy calmness, a need to be near to him, to tangle up closer and closer until you share everything, veins and arteries and the capillary beds of lungs. He’s exhausted already; you notice a few needle-thin split seams in his scar tissue. There are faint stains of crimson blood on your belly, your chest. His fingers link through yours, his moans grow louder and more jagged. He comes so hard tears spring into his eyes, and you feel one more thing you hadn’t expected to: not vulnerability but power, pride, satisfaction.

“It’s like that every time?” you ask, drowsy and amazed as he rolls onto his side and pulls you against him. The rain is still falling outside. Lightning paints the windows; thunder quakes them.

“If it’s done well.” Aegon is pink-faced, breathing heavily, staggeringly beautiful. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

“No wonder you’ve fucked hundreds of women.”

He laughs. “Not that many.” He grins as he kisses you, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’ve rid me of them all. You’ve burned them away.”

“I love you,” you say without planning to.

Aegon replies, but not in words you can understand. He whispers something in High Valyrian, his eyes dip closed, he is asleep before you can ask him what it means.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader

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e1e4n0r5 · 4 months

Text

Twisted Love - Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Summary: You always expected to marry your twin brother, Daeron. However, when this does not come to be, you find comfort with your siblings. As only Targaryens could.

Okay, can't lie, I struggled with this chapter. I just wanted to bring Daeron back but logistically couldn't because of the necessary time jump. After all, it would have been very unlikely for Alicent & Otto to allow Daeron to come home the second Reader is no longer "available", so yes we have a time jump. Lovely family life for our foursome!

Warnings: oral sex, vaginal sex, pregnancy, descriptions of childbirth, lactation kink, talk of postpartum bodies

As it turned out, perhaps you were meant for Aemond all along. Over the two years previous, Aemond had proven himself to be an excellent lover, whilst still able to maintain the public façade of being simply a loving brother to his younger sister. But from the moment the two of you first walked arm-in-arm through the corridors of the Red Keep, he excelled as a husband. He thrived on it, basking in it. Born to fulfil that role. The validation and approval he felt when he saw the courtiers looking at your matching rings satisfied him immensely. He practically preened whenever someone addressed either of you as ‘husband’ or ‘wife’. Your husband was glowing with pride, and you loved that for him.

Growing up, the middle Targaryen-Hightower sibling often felt excluded from the five of you. There was Aegon and Helaena, and you and Daeron. Where did that leave Aemond, he wondered all his life. He didn’t know that you had never intended for your second brother to be excluded; you would have taken him as a second husband in the very same ceremony in which you would have married Daeron. The five of you would never have been separated. You would never have allowed that to happen. Never.

But now he felt secure in his place, with you officially by his side and he by yours. Before your marriage, the two of you would spend time together, of course, you were siblings after all. But now, it was like Aemond wanted you with him constantly. He could barely stand to be apart from you. He even moved his training time to the first thing in the morning, at the very crack of dawn, because he knew you slept until mid-morning, and he wanted to be there when you woke. He didn’t want to miss a second with you. After he broke fast with you, you bathed together – he had to clean after his training, and you weren’t about to pass up the opportunity to spend time with your handsome naked husband – then you would both spend time with family, typically Helaena and the children. You would ride your dragons together, walk through the gardens together, read in the library together. Every possible second he could spend by your side, Aemond did so.

But it didn’t madden you, because you understood the reason why: Aemond was happy.

At long last, Aemond Targaryen was finally happy.

After spending his entire childhood feeling isolated, being bullied by the Velaryon boys for not having a dragon, then having his eye carved out by Lucerys after claiming Vhagar, Aemond was finally happy with his life. He had a beautiful wife who loved him; two lovers in his other siblings; and finally approval from the courtiers – despite how much he might deny how important that last part was to him. You were well loved at court, and he was your husband; having an adored wife was always a bonus for a prince. After Rhaenyra’s long absences from court, her moniker had somehow been placed upon your head, and Aemond flourished in the knowledge that his wife was now the Realm’s Delight. It thrilled him.

So no-one was shocked when you announced your pregnancy within only a few months of being married. You lay with your husband almost every night and you never once drank Moon Tea. It was inevitable, and most welcome. Not entirely by your mother or grandsire. They both smiled for you and toasted your health, but you could tell they weren’t completely happy. Perhaps they had hoped that if no children occurred soon enough, that they could dissolve the marriage and use either you, Aemond, or both of you to secure alliances elsewhere in the Six Kingdoms. But your mother hugged you and wished you well, offering advice and support about pregnancy and what you could expect.

Helaena announced her pregnancy a fortnight after yours but told you when you were all together that night that she had conceived the same night as you – your wedding night. The four of you were all thrilled; you had everything you wanted. You were all together, and there were two babes on the way. Life was perfect.

But you did still miss Daeron. You were delightfully happy and content with your new life, but that didn't - couldn't – take away how much you still longed for your twin. When the midwife had confirmed your pregnancy and a kiss had been pressed to your cheek, a part of you had expected to turn your head and see Daeron beside you. You weren't disappointed that it was Aemond, but that part of you that had long desired to marry Daeron hadn't gone away.

And you knew Daeron felt the same. You wrote to your twin almost every day, even though ravens took almost a week to travel to Oldtown and another week to return. You and Daeron would just send your replies to each other paired with the original letter, that way you would always know which conversation you were replying to. But when you sent him your letter announcing your pregnancy, he didn't respond to it. He replied to others, with an undeniably stilted tone, but he never addressed your condition. He would ask if you were well and that he wished you good health, but he never directly acknowledged the babe in your belly. You knew it must have been hard for him, to hear of your marriage to another brother and know that you were carrying that other man's child, but it still hurt.

You could only hope that your mother and grandsire would finally allow Daeron to return home, now that they thought you weren't free to marry each other. Nothing to do, but wait for the final sibling to return home. It was just a question of how long that would take.

Aemond closed the door behind him as he returned from visiting Vhagar. He glanced around your rooms on his way inside.

“Abrazȳrys? (wife)” he called.

A sash suddenly came down over his head, pressing lightly against his throat. For a split second, Aemond panicked, but then he calmed as he assessed the situation. It was a silk sash, not a rope or chain. Whoever was behind him was significantly smaller than him, with breasts and a bumped stomach. An unlikely assassin. Then a familiar perfume filled his senses.

“You shouldn't play with fire, little one,” he purred. “We wouldn't want you getting burned,” he looked over his shoulder at you.

You smiled up at him, the ends of the sash in your hands. “I won't get burned, husband-”

“Then would you care to explain your actions? Sneaking up on a trained warrior, tying a rope around his neck... Something awful could have happened to you had I not recognised your delicious fragrance.” His voice was hard, reprimanding you.

You pouted. “I wanted to take charge tonight.”

That shocked Aemond. You had never once expressed a desire to be in charge in the bedroom, always so happy and willing to follow his lead in everything you did together. You didn’t even top with Aegon or Helaena – you were the most submissive sibling, always happy to submit to everyone. Aemond himself was the most dominant, never submitting to anyone. Aegon was mostly dominant, though he did enjoy certain submissive activities – he had even fully submitted to Aemond on several occasions. Helaena was flexible, though she was always dominant to you.

“What has provoked this new want of yours?”

You shrugged. “I don't know precisely. I just want to try it, see if I like it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I can fetch Aegon or Helaena-”

“No,” you protested. “I want it to be you.”

He turned slowly in your arms, the sash moving from his throat to the back of his neck. “I'm not suited to submission, Y/N.”

You frowned sadly. “You don't trust me.”

“I trust you with my very being, with all that I am.”

“…But?”

He pulled you close, pressing his hips to yours as best he could, given your lightly rounded pregnant belly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I take over, darling? You always receive such pleasure with me, do you not? You know I can give you anything you desire,” he ran the tip of his nose up your neck, pressing soft kisses as he went.

Your eyes fluttered closed, sighing softly. But you stopped. “No! No, I know what tricks you’re playing,” you protested.

Aemond sighed through his nose. “You won't be swayed?”

You shook your head.

“There is nothing I can offer, or promise, or provide you that will change your mind?”

Again, you shook your head.

“Very well then.” He stood up straight, clasping his arms behind his back. “Do you want to begin now?”

You grinned widely, nodding. “Yes!”

“Then I am yours.”

Hours later

You took control hours ago, and you had only climaxed once, Aemond not at all. You had started the two of you off slowly, asking Aemond for a long massage of your entire body. Your pregnancy was starting to send aches through your body as you grew to accommodate your baby, and you were getting sore most days. It was certainly no hardship for Aemond to lie you down, supporting your body with soft pillows atop your bed, and slowly, sensually, and thoroughly rub his hands across your body. He made a note to himself to do it for you more often; going by the sounds you made, your body definitely needed it.

He had soothed your body for an hour, leaving you floppy and relaxed on the bed. Afterwards, you took control back and had him get on his knees at the end of the bed. Again, not exactly a hardship for him. But it had been for you; your desire to be in control had made you direct him too much – ‘up a bit, harder, suck gently, faster’ – and rendered you unable to truly relax and enjoy your husband’s attention. When Aemond politely suggested that you relax and let him please you his way, given how he knew your body and knew precisely how to give the most pleasure, you had reprimanded him, thinking he was trying to take back control.

It was a long hour for the both of you before your legs had finally started to shake and your orgasm eventually arrived, not as satisfying as usual. You then ordered your husband onto his back on the bed, climbing over his hips and started to ride. Something you had done many times and that you both always enjoyed. But it wasn't going well.

Aemond looks up at you, pity rising inside him as he watches you grip the headboard over his head and try to maintain your rhythm. You’re tiring, quickly. He can read your face perfectly after years of experience; your head tilted forward indicates your fatigue from riding; the tiniest crease between your brows shows your frustration at not climaxing for so long; and the subtle tremor of your jaw tells him you’re close to tears.

He squeezes your hips softly. “Y/N,” he purrs your name, “stop, sweetheart-”

“No!” you snap. “I can-” you pause to pant, “I can keep going! I’m doing it! I’m in charge!”

He shakes his head. “Y/N, do you trust me?”

His random question makes you stop, your quivering thighs giving way and dropping your hips onto his. “What?”

“Do you trust me?” he repeats calmly, rubbing his hand over your tense thighs. He’ll need to massage them again later.

Your shaking arms drop down from the headboard, falling limply at your sides. “Yes,” you concede.

He knows you’ve given up, and that you’re upset about it. He knows you feel like a failure. “Come here, darling,” he urges you to lie down against his chest, holding you tightly. He gives you a minute to catch your breath, kissing your forehead every few seconds. When your breathing has slowed, he tightens his hold on you, slowly and carefully rolling the two of you over. With your body under his, you visibly relax, your drained body sinking into the soft mattress with a relieved sigh.

“You did so well, darling,” he praises, dotting kisses all over your cheeks and neck.

You’re too exhausted to shake your head. “It was awful! I could have done-”

“It was your first attempt at domination, Y/N. You can always try again.”

“With Aegon or Helaena,” you giggle.

He smiles down at you. “That would be best. I’d be happy to instruct you, if that was what you wanted?”

You shake your head. “I actually didn’t enjoy it that much. It made my mind too busy; I couldn’t focus on enjoying myself. How do you do it? How do you make it seem like you’re focusing on me completely, and still be able to find your own pleasure?”

He slips his fingers into your hair, rubbing your scalp gently. Your eyes close as you release a low moan. “Because for me, receiving your submission and giving you pleasure is what gives me pleasure. Having you suck my cock is pleasurable, but it’s your submission in the act that is most satisfying for me. Your cunt is a joy to fuck, but it’s the trust you place in me as I do that fulfils me. Do you understand, darling?”

You nod. “I think so?”

He kisses your lips. “Good. Do you want to continue, or should we let you rest?”

“I want you to finish,” you answer, surprising him.

“Not yourself as well?”

You shrug. “I think I’m too tired.”

He smirks. “Well, that is a challenge if ever I knew one. Let’s see what we can do for you, shall we?”

And he did not disappoint. He started slow, letting your body adjust to him again through your fatigue. It was the most pleasure you’d experienced all evening. He held you close, kissing you deeply, knowing just what rhythm to keep by how you moved under him, the sounds you made, the way you begged him for more. It was well into the night when you finally used your safe word, tapping his shoulder three times with a mumbled 'bantazma' (long night), indicating to Aemond that perhaps eight orgasms was sufficient for the evening.

He made you do fifteen the following night.

Your pregnancy went perfectly, everyone said you handled it wonderfully. Like a true Princess, many courtiers had complimented. Helaena gave birth only a few days before you, to a beautiful healthy son. They had yet to announce a name for their third child, and you suspected she and Aegon were waiting for you to give birth yourself. Your sister had mentioned a few times that she thought it would be nice for your children to have similar names, given that they were conceived on the same night. If the Maesters and midwives were to be believed, your labours would begin any day.

And it was. You started having pains in the late hours, Aemond staying up all night to rub your back and tummy for you as you tried to get some rest. By day break, your waters had broken and your pains increased. The Maesters tried to make Aemond leave the room, but he just stared them down.

"The birthing room is not a fit place for a man, your Highness."

"And how do you plan on removing me from my wife as she births our child?" he snapped coldly, even as he rubbed your hips whilst you clung to him during a contraction.

"He stays," you insisted through gritted teeth. “If you take him from me, our dragons will feed well tomorrow.”

Helaena and your mother came in from time to time, giving Aemond brief respites, but he was never gone long. Aegon stayed with the children and nannies, keeping himself occupied and out the way. Whilst he did want to see you, it wasn't permitted – after all, to everyone else, he was merely your brother, nothing more. To have him, a man who wasn’t your husband or a Maester, in the room would have caused scandal and rumour. Aemond assured him whenever he left the room that you were doing well and the Maesters had absolutely no concerns about you or the child. They anticipated an easy birth for you both.

And they were correct. It was agony, but all went well. You insisted on pushing completely naked, standing in front of the window, looking out over the city. The sun was high in the sky and bathed your skin with its heat. It soothed your Targaryen blood, and you felt peace as you pushed, despite the pain. Aemond stood by your side, holding you upright as the midwife guided your efforts. With a long and low groan, your child was born just after midday. A son was placed in your arms, crying his lungs out until he rested his ear against your chest. Aemond held you tightly as you wept with joy, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as a tear slipped down his own cheek.

The midwives cleaned you up and got you back into bed, your mother the Queen waiting patiently outside to be let in. She, Aegon, and Helaena carrying her new-born son, all entered when you called them in, large smiles all around.

“Well done, my darling,” your mother praised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “A healthy son?”

You smiled down at your sleeping babe. “He’s perfect.”

“Have you got a name?” Aegon asked, standing next to Aemond and giving him a congratulatory pat on the back.

Aemond looked at you, and you gave him a happy nod. He lifted his head proudly. “We've called him Maenor.”

Aegon raised his eyebrows. “There's never been a Maenor before.”

“First of His Name,” you agreed. You looked at Helaena and her baby. “Have you finally got a name for your son, sister?”

She came and sat next to you on the bed. “We waited for you. This is Maelor.”

Aemond looked at Aegon, “First of His Name?”

Aegon nodded proudly. “Great minds think alike, brother.”

“Maelor and Maenor?” Alicent blinked a few times but smiled at both her daughters. “They're both beautiful boys, with strong names. Though it may take some time to...Remember.”

You smiled at your obviously tense mother. “Just remember that both Helaena and Maelor have Ls in their names, and me and my son don't.”

She nodded. “Very helpful, daughter, thank you.”

Motherhood came naturally to you. Of course you had nannies and a wet nurse to care for your son during the nights, but you wouldn't be removed from him after you woke. You even followed in Helaena’s footsteps and shocked the court by feeding Maenor from your own breast. It was almost completely unheard of that a high-born lady would nurse their children – your own mother certainly hadn't – but you loved the bond it created between the two of you. It was hard at first, even painful at times, but it was worth it to you.

Your brothers and sister had no complaints either. After the Maester and midwife had cleared you and Helaena to resume ‘marital relations’, the four of you had almost fallen over each other to get back to Aegon’s and Helaena’s rooms. And the first thing the three of them did was strip you naked, lay you down and worship your breasts. You, Aegon, and Aemond had all sampled Helaena’s milk from having the twins; and now the three of them wanted to try yours.

Aemond had already had a taste when you nervously indulged his interest one night, so he settled his head between your legs whilst your siblings kissed and licked and sucked gently on your breasts. He had sorely missed this most intimate part of you since your birth, and he was aching to get reacquainted. He kissed and licked and sucked gently, bringing you to a soft and peaceful climax for your first time after having a baby, and you almost cried with your release.

Then it was Helaena’s turn, receiving the same treatment from the three of you; her husband between her legs and her siblings at her breasts. She had a few more lines on her tummy than you, and you made sure to kiss every single one.

Life had moved on with your growing family, now a family of four with a daughter following your son. Maenor was now four, and your beautiful, sweet Aena was nine moons. You didn’t know where the time had gone, life and time were odd concepts. Helaena hadn’t had another child after their son born only one week before Maenor, but she and Aegon had said she was going to stop taking Moon Tea soon. Knowing how easily she had fallen pregnant with the twins and their son Maelor, Helaena would be pregnant before her next moon’s blood.

The four of you were all passing an afternoon together, surrounded by your growing brood of children, when a page was let into the large sitting room. He headed for you as you were closest to the door, pouring yourself a cup of tea from the sideboard near the door. Helaena was sat on a sofa with Aena in her lap and her daughter Jaehaera at her side, showing the older child illustrations of insects from a book; Aena was asleep in her arms, still needing several naps a day. Aegon and Aemond were on the floor rough-housing with Jaehaerys, Maelor, and Maenor.

The page presented a scroll on a silver platter to you, a polite nod of his head with a quiet ‘princess’. You smiled and gave a thanks as you opened the scroll, your smile widening when you saw Daeron’s seal. You unfurled the scroll, your eyes moving left to right as you read the carefully penned words. Your eyes welled up.

Aemond saw you from his spot on the floor, even as he dangled Maenor over his shoulder whilst the little boy screeched with laughter. “What is it, issa jorrāelagon (my love)?”

You looked up at him, joyful tears trickling down your cheeks. “Daeron’s coming home.”

And Aemond’s heart sank.

@watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @aemondsdelight @thelittleswanao3 @misspascalpunk

#twisted love #aemond targaryen #reader #aemond x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #helaena targaryen #helaena x reader #helaena targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #daeron targaryen #daeron targaryen x reader

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leclercsfilm · 10 months

Text

pretty when I cry

summary: he said you are pretty when you cry. daemon targaryen x reader notes: well, let's say, daemon didn't have anything with rhaenyra. you are her younger sister. daemon and you had some sort of history.

He found you curled up on the floor. You didn't even make to the bed. He heard your sobs in a hallway so he carefully got closer to you.

"What made you cry"? he said as if he didn't know already what made you cry a river in your chambers. You looked up. You somehow expected him to show up.

"Uncle... What a lovely surprise..." you said as you tried to wipe your tears and make yourself decent. Your eyes hurt, your head is spinning.

"Oh my little dragon... You are such a delicate wonder." he helped you to get up.

"You heard what he said. My father wishes for me to marry. He wants to sell me off just so he can please Otto Hightower. He already made him marry Rhaenyra. I'm the only one that remains"

"As much as I dislike hand of the King, I don't think marriage is something you should cry for."

He nonchalantly moved your hair form face and rested his same hand on your cheek.

"Think of it as a way out." he continued.

He knows how to make you angry.His hand slowly left your cheek, when moved his head closer to your exposed neck.

"I thought about everything, my sweet niece. I'd like to help you." his mouth touched your warm skin of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses all over.

You started breathing quicker. You didn't like how tears burn you face. You hated the state you're in. Hair is messy, face is probably red and swollen. But his kiss made it all better.

"What if I told you I don't need any help?" you whispered.

Now he stops kissing your neck. He moved back.

"You are pretty when you cry. It makes you glow. But I hate seeing you upset." he moved to you, trying to hold your hands together. "It makes me feel something" you tried to move your hands. "What do you feel? You are just playing your stupid game. Trying to tease my father with me? I'm just a play thing?"

He stopped.

"I'm offering my help. Marry me. Let's leave this castle and go."

"It's easy for you." Everything is from duty. It's never from heart. Just a burden to everyone.

Always by force, not free will.

"Everything you say is just a story. You've been feeding me with them since I was born. Rhaenyra is gone. She's married to Laenor. I'm here. A good replacement, that's all I am."

"You are more than that. Rhaenyra and I never had anything. It was just a rumours. Why is it hard for you to believe that I want you?"

"I don't want you to marry some Lord! For you just to bear children and be a good wife! To never feel love. To feel desired. I want you to be my wife. I love you. I'll give you everything. Go with me..." you started to cry again.

"I want you to be my forever. To fly whenever we want. To be wed in our tradition." he softened.

"Please my little dragon, don't cry anymore. I won't give you to anyone. You are safe with me..."

#daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x you

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flowerandblood · 1 year

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A Winter Beauty (1)

[Aemond Targaryen x fem!Stark reader]

[warnings: kissing and fluff]

[description: Aemond and his family arrive at Winterfell for Rickon Stark's Name Day. There, Aemond meets his daughter, who arouses his desire. I changed some names and facts for the sake of the plot. Viserys is also slightly younger in this version.]

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

Previous and next parts: Masterlist

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Viserys and his family have come to Winterfell to celebrate the Name Day of Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell. It was a nod to the north, a sign of respect for their loyalty and devotion to the crown for generations. Viserys decided that this visit, although for trivial reasons, would be of great political importance and would positively affect their image in this sometimes forgotten part of the country.

Neither Alicent nor his children had ever been to Winterfell before. Although his children were reluctant to leave Kings Landing, in the end they all went on this long journey. During their absence, the state was to be administered by Otto.

Aegon, Aemond and Helaena flew on their dragons. Neither of them wanted to be crammed in for more than a week of traveling in a cramped carriage or on horseback.

The king and queen were forced to take the land route. Viserys' condition deteriorated with his age, but despite Alicent's pleas, they did not turn back. Viserys knew it would be a huge slander for Winterfell, they must have been preparing for this visit for months.

When they finally arrived, the dragons made a great impression on the inhabitants, causing some to panic. The biggest was Vhagar's, landing in the great snowy wasteland far from the castle, so she posed no threat. She was visible from many meters.

When they entered Winterfell, already on horseback, the entire welcoming committee was waiting for them, including Lord Rickon Stark and his wife, Lady Lyanna Arryn. Lord Stark knelt before Viserys, as did all his family, paying him homage.

"My king. It's an honor." He said in a serious, calm tone. Viserys smiled gracefully, doing his best to hide the fatigue of his journey, and stretched out his hands to him, wanting to hug him like a brother. Lord Stark seemed embarrassed for a moment, but he got up from his knees and embraced the king, the crowd around started cheering.

After a short rest and changing clothes, everyone gathered in the great hall of the castle. In its center stood a large wooden table, arranged perpendicularly to the 6 other tables below, intended for other lords and less important guests. Lord Stark has prepared a lavish feast for the king with music and dancing.

Aemond was one of the last to enter the room, sitting on the edge of the table next to his sister, Helaena. Next to her sat Aegon, then Alicent and the king, next to him Lord Stark, his wife and their eldest son, Cregan. The seat next to Cregan was empty.

Although Aemond was initially discouraged by the expedition itself and the change of environment, he found Winterfell a gray but interesting place. The fields and forests filled with snow in the sun looked beautiful and clean, almost fairy-tale, at least compared to some streets of Kings Landing, where sewage simply flowed.

After a while, a girl came in from the other end of the room. Aemond saw her long, slightly wavy black hair out of the corner of his eye.

They weren't combed in any hairstyle, they were just thrown over her shoulders, which were bare because her dress seemed to be made so that it barely held on, creating a boat neckline that showed nothing more than she wanted. The dress was a dull soft blue that rustled as she walked. It accentuated her bright, glowing eyes. She was grinning at Cregan Stark, and Aemond thought, seeing her eyes, that she was his wife.

Indeed, she took a seat next to him. Cregan took her hand and kissed it, she laughed heartily at something he said. Lady Lyanna bent over her, questioning her with a frown - she obviously resented her being late. The girl explained something to her quickly, Cregan just laughed under his breath, and Lady Stark stepped back, smiling slightly herself. Apparently, her explanation did something.

Aemond looked away, deciding that it wasn't right to look at someone's wife like that. He exchanged a few words with Helaena, but looking at her he couldn't stop his eye from darting back to the girl sitting next to Cregan Stark.

She was talking to him lively, didn't seem to notice them at all, and didn't seem to care that the king and queen were sitting next to her. Her face was bright, warm and happy, she looked like it was the happiest day of her life.

They seemed to get along perfectly well. Aemond thought about Helaena's soon to marry Aegon, and his throat tightened. He genuinely felt sorry for her, but he couldn't help her.

Suddenly the music started. Cregan immediately extended his hand to the girl he was talking to, who gladly accepted it. They both got up and wanted to head downstairs to the dance floor, but Lord Stark's voice stopped them.

"Merciful king, I haven't had time to introduce my daughter to you yet." He said, pointing to the girl, who looked surprised at her father and became ashamed as if she suddenly realized who she was facing. "Y/N Stark."

The young Lady Stark bowed with dignity, closing her eyes. Viserys and Alicent looked at her kindly.

"What a winter beauty." Alicent said, sincerity in her voice. "I congratulate you, Lord Stark, on such a reason to be happy."

The girl blushed at her remark, pursed her lips in embarrassment. Only now could Aemond hear the sound of her voice.

"Thank you for those kind words, my queen." She spoke warmly, her voice lively, gentle and calm, full of energy. Aemond shivered for some reason. He felt his heart pounding as he looked at her. She, to his frustration, didn't turn a single glance in their direction. She merely turned to her brother and followed him down the few steps to dance.

Aemond wasn't used to situations like this. Usually, ladies, even if they feared him, knowing that he was a prince, paid him a lot of attention - which most often bothered him and which he avoided. His father planned for him to marry one of Borros Baratheon's daughters.

He had visited Storms End several times with his father, and recalled it as an ordeal. Each of his daughters was vying for his attention, but they were trying to pretend they weren't. They accidentally bumped into him during training or on walks while he was reading, so he would retreat to his chamber, tired and discouraged.

Nothing was official yet, but he knew that sooner or later he would have to choose one of them. He was furious with himself that his attention was drawn to a woman who didn't even give him a single look. He couldn't help but watch her dance, his fingers tapping gently on the table. They were talking about something with Cregan, self-absorbed, laughing. There was a slenderness and grace in their movements that he lacked in dancing.

Suddenly Cregan leaned over her and whispered something in her ear, and she turned to look at Aemond with puzzled eyes. Aemond immediately looked away to the other side of the room, his heart pounding, feeling like a fool caught red-handed stealing. He wanted to burn himself with shame. He pursed his lips and decided not to look at her again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw various lords of the north come up to her, asking her to dance one by one, and she politely agreed. He tried not to look at her, but he saw that she spoke to everyone gently and with a smile, not exceeding the limits of decency. He was mad for some reason. He thought he had drunk too much wine.

Cregan Stark approached Helaena and asked her to dance. His sister accepted the offer with a smile. Aemond saw Aegon get to his feet and, encouraged, moved toward the young Lady Stark. She looked at him, surprised, and smiled when he offered her a dance. Aemond's jaw clenched at the sight.

To his surprise, in front of his father and mother, Aegon at least pretended to be able to behave. Aemond watched tensely to make sure his hand didn't go too low. He would whisper something in her ear sometimes, and she would turn her head away in embarrassment mixed with amusement, but she didn't seem discouraged and looked at him kindly. On one of the turns, he saw her look at him again, this time with curiosity, and he looked away again, burned. Compared to Aegon, he always felt deficient.

Although his mind was more receptive, full of knowledge, enthusiasm, humility, his body was more efficient in combat, he knew that first impressions count. Aegon, when he wasn't lying in his own vomit between the whore's legs, could pass for a very handsome, interesting man.

It was very easy for him to talk to the ladies, to make contact with them, to flirt with them, which Aemond couldn't. Even though he had a lot to say, he couldn't put it into words.

The dance ended and Y/N and Cregan returned to their seats. Out of the corner of his eye, Aemond saw her bare arms glistening with sweat and exertion, and felt the heat of his lower body. He felt remorse for thinking that way about a woman when his mother and sister were sitting next to him, and he only took a sip of wine, as if he wanted it to wash away all impure thoughts from him.

The rest of the feast passed peacefully, the guests slowly dispersed to their chambers. Y/N and Cregan soon said goodbye to everyone. Aemond's heart leaped as he saw that before she could get through the door, she turned toward him, her gaze bright and warm.

Aemond promised his mother that he would watch over Aegon. So he obediently stayed with him to the end, tearing him away from the kitchen wench and leading him to his chamber. He made him lie down on the bed, and after initially struggling, he gave in and fell asleep, snoring.

Aemond closed the door to his chamber and stepped out into the cloister, heading for his own room. He froze, seeing her figure slinking by with only a candle in his hand. She was already dressed in a long white nightgown, over it she had a white night robe tied at the waist. With her fair skin, dark hair and eyebrows and white robes, she looked like a ghost.

She looked around as she walked barefoot to see if anyone was seeing her, and when she saw him, her eyes widened in surprise. He wondered if she was on her way to see her lover. They stared at each other for a moment in silence. Aemond felt he had to speak to her, that if he didn't do it now, he never would.

"Should a lady go unattended alone at night in a castle?" He asked, there was an involuntary coldness and indifference in his voice, in which he tried to dress his words so as not to show how much his heart was pounding. To his surprise, Lady Stark smiled as if she was about to laugh.

"She's allowed if it's her castle." She said carefully. Aemond pursed his lips at her remark. She saw it and smiled even wider. "Will you accompany me, Prince Aemond?" She asked, a sudden shudder ran through his body. He felt the heat and tension in his lower body again, and he wondered what she was implying. She didn't let him think too long.

“I heard you love philosophy and history. You may be interested in the crypts of my ancestors. I was just on my way to pay my respects to my grandmother. Today is also her name day." She said embarrassed, as if she felt that what came out of her mouth earlier could sound very ambiguous.

Aemond swallowed softly, feeling relieved and disappointed at the same time. He just nodded his head, letting out only a quiet grunt of approval. He would went to see anything with her, as long as he could look at her up close.

Lady Stark led him down the stairs to the underworld. Her candle was the only source of light. He wondered if she was cold, but she didn't seem that way. She moved through the dark corridors with remarkable ease. They passed sculptures of her ancestors, staring at them solemnly and menacingly, the shadows on their faces disturbing.

Finally, they stopped in front of a statue of a pretty woman holding flowers in her hand. Y/N lit other candles from her candle, standing at the feet of the sculpture, the corridor slowly began to be flooded with their light. Aemond stared heart pounding at her profile.

He wondered how she could trust him so easily. Go underground with a strange man, where no one would hear her cries for help. If she had come down here with Aegon, she would have been lost by now. He himself was battling some wild, alien desire that now possessed his body.

He was completely bewildered, always able to control himself perfectly, also when it came to his sexuality. After an adventure at the age of 13 in a brothel served to him by his brother, such matters did not attract him much attention. Now, looking at her, he felt hunger.

"Is it wise to go down to the crypts with a strange man, at night?" He finally asked impassively, looking at her tensely. She looked at him surprised, as if she didn't even consider the possibility that anything could happen to her. She smiled calmly.

"I didn't come down here with your brother, so I guess I'll be fine, my prince." She spoke calmly, though her voice trembled slightly. Aemond's pupil dilated in shock. She had to watch Aegon at the banquet and see how closely he spoke to the servants.

Aemond swallows silently, looking away. They stood in silence for a moment. He could smell her scent in his nose. A mix of lavender, flowers and herbs. He felt like his head was spinning and that he should go back upstairs because the tension in his pants was unbearable.

"You never dance, my prince?" She asked suddenly, looking pensively at the figure of her grandmother. Aemond looked at her in surprise. His eye traveled down her body, he saw the faint outline of her breasts and thighs. He swallowed, feeling his heart pounding.

"Never." He said indifferently. He didn't know what else to add. "I can dance, but I don't enjoy it." He finally exhaled.

Y/N looked at him surprised and smiled understandingly. She nodded, looking down at her legs. Aemond pursed his lips. He thought he couldn't stand it.

His hand involuntarily reached for her soft cheek, grabbing it. She gasped at his touch, jumped in surprise, and looked at him with wide eyes. The words stuck in her throat as he turned her face towards him and stepped closer to her. He pressed her forehead against his, they could feel each other's breath on each other, breathing raggedly, loudly.

He didn't hold her roughly, he wanted to give her the feeling that she could pull away at any moment and run from him. She looked stunned for a moment, her eyes expressing terror, uncertainty and something he couldn't describe. They looked at each other in silence.

He felt a huge shiver run through his body as her hand touched his scarred cheek. They both took a deep breath. He wondered what they were even doing, what his mother would think if she saw him. But he couldn't think about it anymore. He had been frustrated throughout the feast, watching her dance and touch every man but him.

He leaned over her and pressed his lips greedily against hers, and she moaned softly in surprise. He kissed her lustfully, and after a moment, to his delight, she opened her mouth, allowing him to caress her. He moaned low as she started kissing back, her hand tangling in his hair.

He thought they must be crazy, that the wine had gone too far into their heads, but he couldn't tear himself away from her. He held her in an iron grip, the wet sounds of their mouths echoing down the hall, pausing sometimes for a moment to catch their breath, but neither of them could really stop, they continued kissing, moaning into each other's mouths. He held her close but kept his distance so she wouldn't feel what was going on in his pants. He didn't want her to think he was trying to take her by force now. He wouldn't be able to refuse her, if she offered it.

They finally broke apart, as if remembering who they were, where they were, and what they were doing. An expression of uncertainty and embarrassment crossed their faces, and they took a few steps away from each other, terrified. Aemond thought she could hear his heart pounding. He had never felt so much desire before. He prayed to the Seven to give him the strength to turn around, climb the stairs, and not touch her.

"Forgive me, my Lady. I didn't mean to scare or embarrass you. Let me go to my chambers." He said, and with the last of his willpower he turned away, heading for the stairs, leaving her in the candlelight.

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Between the first and second part of my regular series, I also started writing something else, in the subject of HOTD. I'm curious what you think and if you'd like a little mini-series out of this! If you want to be tagged in the next parts, let me know. ~

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