hi angels.. ik i've been a lil inactive lately and not posting as much as i used to. truthfully, i've grown a bit disconnected from this blog, and it hasn't been inspiring my writing the way it once did. because of that, i've decided to switch over to a new, fresh blog. i'll still be keeping this one up, of course, but i'll be moving and posting much more actively on my new space, with the same username and everything. if you'd like to keep up with me and my writing, i would love to have you there @aemnd ! i'm so sorry for any inconvenience or confusion this might cause, and i'm endlessly grateful for y'all. ilusm. ♡
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝓈﹒ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹒ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ﹒ ᴅᴜʙᴄᴏɴ﹒ ʙᴏᴏᴋ!ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ﹒ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ hi! ꒰𓏼 ྀིᥩ ﹒﹒i rmbr telling y'all that my works were gonna get a lot more darker & canonical ﹒﹒u have been warned ֯⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱ 𝑤𝑐﹒ 6﹒3k﹒
꒰ ⸜̑⸝͂ ᴍɪʟᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴛᴇᴇᴛʜ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱
⚔︎ ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎
the night air is thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, a cloying perfume that clings to your skin like a second layer of grime. you are a small, fragile thing, a wisp of a girl who looks as if a strong wind might blow her away into nothingness.
your hair glows from the moonlight, your eyes are huge, glassy, and vacant, filled with a dreamy innocence that has no place in a world that has long since turned to rust and iron. you are a relic, a ghost of a time when magic was real and the gods were kind.
you stand at the edge of the god's eye, the water lapping at the shores like a hungry, slithering tongue. the moon is full this night, a heavy, blinding eye in the sky that watches you with indifference. you dance, and it is a clumsy, desperate thing, your bare feet slapping against the sharp stones and slippery mud.
you spin and twirl until you are dizzy, almost delirious, your tattered shift flapping around your petite frame, exposing your bruised knees and the sharp ridges of your ribs. you are performing a ritual for a kin that no longer exists—fairies, nymphs, spirits of the trees.
you whisper to the blistering wind, asking it to bring him to you, your knight, your savior, your true love. in your mind, he is a vision of light and steel and strength. he is gentle, he is warm, but the gods do not hear the prayers of the forgotten; they listen only to the roar of fire.
you dance until your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, your chest heaving with the effort. you ignore the pain, the sharp sting as jagged rocks slice into the soft soles of your delicate little feet. you believe that the pain is a price you must pay, that blood must be spilled for the magic to happen and reveal your knight.
you look down at your bloodied feet, leaving behind crimson footprints on the grey stones, and you smile a broken, delusional smile. he will come, you tell yourself. he will see the blood and know that i am worthy of his love, you think, a buzzing mantra echoing inside your head.
then suddenly, startlingly, the sky tears open with a fierce roar. the sound is deafening, a thunder crack that shakes the earth beneath you. the wind changes direction, turning from a gentle breeze into a violent gale that whips your hair across your face. you look up, shielding your eyes against the soft, drizzling rain, and your heart seizes in your chest. it is not a knight on a white horse, it is a dragon.
vhagar descends from the gathering storm clouds like a falling mountain, her scales are the color of dried blood and old bruises, her wings vast enough to blot out the moon itself. she hits the shore with an impact that nearly knocks you off your feet, the shockwave sending ripples across the lake.
the heat rolling off her body is immense, a furnace blast that smells of sulfur, burnt meat, and ancient decay. she opens her mouth, rows of serrated teeth glinting in the dark, and lets out a sound that is half-growl, half-sigh. you scramble backward, your wounded feet screaming in protest with every step, and you huddle against the roots of a gnarled weirwood tree.
you are trembling violently, your dream-like mind struggling to process the living nightmare before you. this isn't right, this isn't how the story is supposed to go. and then, he slides down from the dragon's back. he lands with a predatory grace, his boots sinking into the mud. he is tall, too tall—taller than any man has a right to be—a towering pillar of black leather and long, windswept silver hair.
he wears a long coat that billows around him, and at his hip hangs a sword that looks longer than you are tall. his face is a mask of cruel beauty, sharp and angular like a blade forged in ice. his hair is pale, almost white, blowing slightly in the wind generated by his beast. but it is the eye that terrifies you—a single, piercing violet eye, set in a face that looks as if it has never known a real smile. the other eye is covered by a dark leather patch, stark and brutal against his marble-like, alabaster skin.
prince aemond targaryen.
he scans the shoreline, his gaze dismissive, bored, until it lands on you. he stops, his posture turning rigid. the silence stretches between you and him, heavy and suffocating. he stares at you, and you feel like a baby mouse caught in the gaze of a fearsome hawk. you press yourself deeper into the tree roots, trying to make yourself as small as possible, hoping he will look away, silently praying that he will mistake you for a pile of dirty rags.
"a little stray," he purrs, his voice is low, a rough rumble that vibrates in your chest. he begins to walk over toward you, each of his steps deliberate, heavy, crunching on the gravel. you can smell him now as he comes closer—so, so close—the scent of smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood. it is a raw, masculine smell that makes you want to gag, your stomach twisting with knots of nausea.
you don't run. you can't, your feet are too ruined, throbbing with every fluttering beat of your heart. still, you can only watch him come closer, closer, your eyes wide and shimmering with girlish tears. he stops right in front of you, blocking out the moon's ethereal glow. his shadow swallows you whole, consuming you entirely.
he looks down at you, his expression one of mild curiosity mixed with a distinct lack of empathy. he crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. the movement is sudden, yet graceful, like a large feline readying to pounce on its sweet smelling, vulnerable prey. "what are you doing out here, all alone, little one?" he asks. his tone is mean and mocking, the endearment sounding more like an insult than anything else.
you cannot help but tremble, clutching your stained shift that is caked with layers of grime. "dancing," you whisper, and you can't help but shrink into yourself even more, wincing softly from the way your voice sounds too thin and embarrassingly pathetic compared to his softly spoken, deep baritone. "i…i was dancing for the knight, m-my prince."
aemond huffs, a dark, dry sound of amusement. he reaches out, his large hand moving so fast that it causes you to flinch, but he doesn't strike you. instead, he grabs ahold of your chin, his gloved fingers digging into your sensitive skin. he forces your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. the leather of his glove is warm yet terribly rough, abrasive against your soft cheek. "there are no knights out here, little girl," he croons softly, his pale lips lifting into a small, cruel smirk. "there are only dragons."
"but…h-he… he was supposed t-to come," you stammer weakly, tears leaking from your eyes and tracking through the dirt on your anguished face. "the old stories say…." you trail off, your voice soft and meek. "the old stories are lies told to little girls so that they don't cry themselves to sleep at night," he interrupts. his thumb strokes across your lower lip, pressing down hard enough to bruise. "look at you… you're all filthy. you're bleeding."
his gaze drops to your bare feet, seemingly enchanted by what he finds. he lets go of your chin and grabs your dainty ankle, yanking your leg up without warning. you cry out as the movement jars your injuries, making your breath hitch. he inspects your foot with clinical detachment, his eye narrowing. the soles are shredded, the skin hanging in ribbons, blood dripping and mixing in with the wet earth.
"disgusting," he murmurs, but there is a strange fascination in his voice. he runs his thumb over the raw, wet wound, smearing the blood around as though he's finger painting. "you have danced your feet to ruin for a phantom," he tuts, looking unimpressed with your efforts. you sob, the sound raw and ugly. "it wasn't a phantom… it was hope, my prince!"
"hope is a disease," he sneers. he looks back up at you, a soft smirk twisting his lips. "and i am the cure." suddenly, he stands up to his full height, dragging you along with him. you are too weak to fight, your legs buckling underneath you as you try to walk, failing miserably. luckily for you, the prince catches you easily, one strong arm wrapping around your small waist, hauling you against his hard body.
you are pressed up against his chest, your face buried in the rough leather of his coat. you can feel his heart beating, slow and steady, while yours races like a trapped bird in a cage. "please," you beg, struggling weakly against his possessive grip. "l-let me go…!"
"no," he drawls, his voice a low, deep purr. he begins to walk once again, dragging you along because your feet cannot support your weight. you stumble, your toes scraping the ground, sending fresh jolts of pain shooting up your trembling legs. he doesn't care. he doesn't even bother to slow down, you are simply a burden he has decided to claim as his.
more quickly than you'd like, you approach his fearsome mount, vhagar. up close, the beast is terrifying beyond measure. her scales are like indestructible plates of armor, and her eyes are like pools of molten gold. she lowers her massive head, sniffing the air curiously, her nostrils flaring as she catches your scent. a low rumble vibrates through her chest, a sound of pure hunger. "she likes you," he hums, sounding amused by his dragon's interest in you.
effortlessly, he hoists you up, grabbing you by the back of your shift and the waist of your small-clothes, and practically throws you onto the dragon's shoulder. it is like climbing onto a moving mountain—the scales are hot to the touch, radiating a feverish heat that burns through your clothes. you scramble for purchase, your small hands slipping on the smooth, hard surface.
"climb," aemond commands from below. he watches as you struggle, his eye glinting with sadistic pleasure. "unless you want me to leave you here for the wolves." terrified, you dig your fingers into the gaps between the scales, pulling yourself up. your feet dangle over the abyss, your bloody soles leaving streaks of red on the side of the dragon's neck.
you reach the saddle, a small perch on the creature's back, and collapse there, gasping desperately for air. aemond climbs up behind you with an effortless ease, settling down into the sturdy saddle, his chest pressing against your back. he is a wall of muscle and tension and rage. he reaches around you, taking the reins, his arms boxing you in. you are trapped, completely and utterly at his mercy.
"hold on, little girl," he murmurs in your ear, his breath hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "or you will fall to your death."
"where are we going?" you cry out, your voice lost in the wind. "home," he proclaims. "to the red keep, to war." vhagar begins to move, preparing to launch herself into the open sky. her muscles shift beneath you, a terrifying sensation of endless power and might. she spreads her massive wings, and with a single, mighty thrust, she launches herself into the air.
the ground begins to fall away, and the lake becomes a mirror, then a simple puddle, then just a tiny speck of nothingness. the wind screams past you, tearing at your thin clothes, freezing your skin and making your teeth chatter. you squeeze your eyes shut, terror gripping your racing heart. you have never left the ground before, and you had never needed to.
you have never known the world was this big, this empty, this cold. you can feel aemond's chest vibrating against your back as he cackles into the night sky, a dark, joyless sound. he enjoys your fear, so much so that you believe he feeds on it. "open your eyes," he commands. "no!" you wail, your girlish voice full of stubbornness and terror. "fucking open them!" he snarls angrily, lacking patience, one of his hands leaves the reins and grabs ahold of your hair, yanking your head back.
you are forced to look at the world below—a vast, dark tapestry of dark forests and flowing rivers, lit only by the pale moonlight. it is beautiful and horrifying. "this is what true power looks like, little one," he smirks, his cold lips brushing against the delicate shell of your ear. "this is what you were dancing for, not some knight in shining armor, but a dragonrider who burns the world to nothing but ash."
you look down at your poor, aching feet, watching as they dangle in the open air. the blood is dried now, flaking off your skin in the wind. you think of the stories you used to tell yourself as a child, about the gentle knight who would take you away to a castle made of clouds. you realize now how stupidly foolish you were, how utterly naïve.
the man holding you is not a savior, he is a monster, a killer, and you are nothing more than a plaything he found in the dirt. as vhagar banks and turns toward the south, toward king's landing and the war waiting there, you feel a strange, heavy numbness settling over you. the hope is now gone, completely extinguished, burned away by the heat of the dragon's back and the coldness of the prince's blackened heart.
you are forever lost, you think to yourself. you are flying into the mouth of hell, and the worst part is, a small, shameful, twisted part of you is glad you are no longer alone, because the silence of the shore was so much louder than the scream of the wind. and the arms of the monster, for all their cruelty, are the only things holding you up. "you are mine now, little girl," aemond growls, his voice cutting through the roar of the restless wind. "do not forget it."
"i won't," you whisper tearfully to the grey clouds, and you realize it is the truth. you are most certainly lost in the wrong century, indeed. and as the ominous glow of harrenhal fades into the distance behind you, leaving only the dark, uncertain void ahead, you close your eyes and let the darkness steal you away. the dance is now over, and the nightmare has just begun.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
the descent into king's landing is a blur of grey stone and black water, the city below looking like an old, festering wound on the landscape. vhagar lands outside the city's gates with a bone-shaking thud, her claws gouging deep furrows into the scorched earth. the handlers scramble away, hiding their faces, terrified of the one-eyed prince and his trembling, wild-eyed cargo.
aemond pulls you from the saddle with a roughness that makes your teeth click together. you cannot stand; your feet are too ruined, swollen and throbbing, the dried blood cracking as you try to put weight on them. he doesn't wait, he growls in annoyance and simply hoists you over his shoulder, ignoring the gasps and horrified stares of the dragon-keepers. you bounce against his back, the smell of dragon musk and his own sharp, metallic scent filling your nose.
moments later, you arrive past the gates, and aemond stalks through the corridors of the red keep like a shadow brought to life. the torchlights flicker and dance against the stone walls, casting long, distorted shapes. the servants bow low, scattering like roaches, refusing to look at the small, bleeding creature he carries that is covered in layers of filth. you're an ugly stain on the pristine crimson of the castle, unworthy and burdensome.
without hesitation, he kicks open the heavy oak doors of his private chambers. the room is sparse, cold, and smells of old parchment and spiced wine. he strides to the bed and dumps you onto the warm furs. you land in a heap, your small body sinking into the pelts of wolves, stags, and bears. you whimper, curling into a tiny ball, trying to hide your face. "get up," he commands, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"i… i-i cannot," you sob, sniffling softly, holding your aching feet. "it h-hurts, my prince." aemond sighs, resisting the temptation to roll his eye. "then crawl," he says flatly, his tone full of boredom. he begins to unbuckle his sword belt, the heavy clink of metal sounding like a death knell in the quiet chamber. he tosses the weapon onto a table, then starts to work on the laces of his riding leathers.
you watch him with wide, frightened eyes. he is stripping away the layers of the prince, revealing the cruel, cold-hearted man beneath. the man who killed his own kin, the man who laughs at burning cities. his chest is pale and scarred, a map of violence etched into his skin. he is all hard lines and lean, corded muscle, stark and intimidating.
"you are my wife now," he purrs, pulling his simple cotton tunic over his head and tossing it aside. his hair is loose around his broad shoulders, a silver curtain. "bought and paid for with blood and dragonfire. now, you will learn to serve like a proper lady-wife." he walks over to the bed, towering over you. you look so small, so pathetic, lying there in your dirty, torn shift. the contrast between your fragile, bruised body and his towering, predatory form is sickening.
"turn over," he orders, sounding impatient. you hesitate, and he snarls, reaching down to grab your arm and flipping you onto your stomach. you cry out as your weight presses onto your injured feet, but he doesn't care. he climbs onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he mounts you from behind. "p-please, my prince," you mewl, burying your tear-stained face in the furs. "b-be gentle…"
aemond laughs, a low, nasty sound. "gentle is for the weak, gentle is for the dead, sweetheart." he mocks. suddenly, he reaches down and roughly grabs the hem of your thin shift, and with a violent jerk, he rips the fabric down your back. the cold air hits your skin instantly, making you shiver, your skin breaking out with gooseflesh. you can hear the fabric tearing, feel the cold air on your bare back, your legs, your buttocks. you feel terribly exposed, completely vulnerable.
"look at you," he murmurs, his hand trailing down your spine. his touch is hot, calloused, and rough. "skin like milk, soft as a babe." he squeezes your tender flesh, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. you squirm, trying to get away, but he pins you down with one hand on the back of your neck. his grip is pure iron, strong and possessive. you are paralyzed, facedown in the wolf pelts, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.
"i will break you, little girl," he whispers against your ear, his teeth nipping gently at the lobe. "and then i will put you back together as something useful." you hear the rustle of him discarding his trousers. the air shifts, and then you feel it.
he kicks your legs apart with his knees, rough and uncaring. you are lying there, bare and trembling, your bloodied feet forgotten in the face of this new, immediate horror. he spits into his hand, the sound wet and crude in the silence, and smears it between your legs. it is not for your pleasure, it is merely to facilitate the taking.
he lines himself up and pushes in, violent and deep. you scream, it is a raw, guttural sound that tears at your throat and comes from your very soul. he is huge, splitting you open, forcing his way inside a body that was never meant to take him. there is no preparation, no gentleness, only the brutal, searing intrusion of his cock. it feels like he is tearing you in half, like a hot blade being driven into your guts.
"take it," he hisses, not stopping until he is buried to the hilt. his hips are flush against your ass, his heavy balls resting against you. he holds himself there for a moment, savoring the tightness, the heat, the way your body spasms around him in shock. you are sobbing uncontrollably now, your fingers clawing desperately at the furs, trying to find purchase, trying to escape the pain, the torture.
"so fucking tight," he groans, his voice vibrating through your back as his face twists in pleasure. "you're gripping me… f-fuck." he whines, beginning to move. it is not a rhythm, it is a punishment. he pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hard enough to rock the bed and knock the breath out of your burning lungs. the sound of skin slapping against skin is loud, wet, and disgustingly primal.
slap, slap, slap, slap.
"please… s-stop," you choke out, but he only laughs. "stop? why would i stop? this is your duty, little wife, your purpose." he leans forward, covering your body with his. his chest presses against your back, trapping you. you can feel his sweat dripping onto your feverish skin, slick and hot. his breathing is heavy in your ear, harsh and ragged. he smells like iron and salt and musk, a sensory overload that makes your head spin.
he reaches around and grabs your throat, squeezing just enough to restrict your airflow. your vision spots, black and white dots dancing in front of your tearful eyes. the lack of air makes the pain sharper, more immediate. you are drowning in him. "do you feel that?" he growls, snapping his hips harder, faster. "that is a dragon claiming his prey."
the pain is blinding, it radiates from your core, shooting up your spine and down to your curling toes. you can feel yourself tearing, feel the wet slickness of blood mixing with his spit and your own reluctant arousal. it is a violation of the highest order, a desecration of everything you are. he grabs your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine painfully, beautifully. "look at the wall," he commands, gesturing to the tapestries of his family. "read the words of the valyrians, of my house—fire and blood."
you can't read, you can't see. all you can feel is him, filling you, ruining you, again and again with each brutal thrust. he shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes you squeal, a strange, unwanted jolt of electricity that cuts through the scorching pain. it is horrible and shameful, your body is betraying you, reacting to his brutality with a spark of pleasure that makes you sick to your stomach.
"see?" he mocks, feeling your involuntary clench around his shaft as he practically drills into you from behind. "your body knows its place even if your mind does not." he fucks you like an animal, with no regard for your comfort or your humanity. he uses you like a vessel, a thing to dump his rage into, his seed. the bed creaks and groans under the onslaught, the sound rhythmic and mocking to your fragile heart.
sweat drips from his nose onto your cheek. you can feel the tension coiling in him, the way his movements become more jerkier, more desperate and sloppy. he is close. "say my name," he demands, panting loudly, his hand tightening on your throat. you can barely breathe, let alone speak. "aem... ae-m….aemond," you wheeze. "again," he huffs, his voice cracking as your cunt continues to strangle his cock.
"ae-aemond…" you whimper, breathless. "husband," he corrects, slamming into you so hard you see stars. "h-h-husband," you hiccup softly, sobbing, feeling saliva dribbling down your chin as you stammer. with a final, guttural groan, he buries himself deep inside you and stills. you feel the pulse of his cock as he spills himself into you, the heat flooding your insides, marking you from the inside out. it is a dirty, wet feeling, unmistakable and humiliating.
he collapses on top of you, his full weight pinning you to the bed. you are crushed, unable to move, unable to properly breathe. his heart is hammering against your back, slowing down gradually as the minutes pass. for a long moment, the only sound in the room is your combined breathing. you are crying silently, tears soaking the furs beneath your flushed face. he is panting, recovering from the intensity of his orgasm.
finally, he slowly pulls out, savoring the feeling of your velvet walls clinging to him greedily. the sensation is obscene, a wet squelch as he leaves your body. you feel empty and aching, throbbing with a residual pain that echoes every beat of your heart. you feel fluids leaking out of you, running down your thighs, a sticky, gross reminder of what just happened.
he stands up, completely unashamed of his nudity. his body is gleaming with sweat, pale and powerful with defined, lean muscles. he looks down at you with a satisfied sneer, clicking his tongue in vague annoyance. you are a mess—torn shift, bruises blooming across your skin like spring flowers, blood and semen trickling down your legs.
"go and clean yourself up," he sighs, walking over to a basin of water. he splashes his face, not looking at you. "you look like a slaughtered pig." you lie there for a minute, unable to move. your body feels broken, your spirit fractured like a dog's bone. you think of the moonlit dance, the hope of a knight. it seems like a memory from a different life, a different person. and for just a short, quiet moment, you feel like the garden and the grave.
slowly, painfully, you drag yourself to the edge of the bed. your feet throb in protest, but that pain is distant now compared to the blistering fire between your legs. you reach for the torn remnants of your shift to cover yourself, shivering in the cold air. aemond turns back to you, a small towel in his hand. he watches as you struggle, his single eye cold and calculating. there is no remorse, no humanity, only the dangerous darkness of his possessiveness.
"you will stay here," he insisted, his voice flat. "you will not leave these chambers unless i command it. you are now the dragon's whore, and you will learn to embrace the fire... or you will be burned; the choice is yours." he picks up a flagon of wine on the table and drinks deeply, some of the red liquid spilling down his bare chest and stomach. he wipes it away with the back of his hand, staining his skin.
"and tomorrow," he announced, turning his back to you to look out the window at the city below. "tomorrow, we fly again." you curl up into a ball on the furs, pulling the shredded fabric around you. you close your eyes and try to summon the image of the moon, the dance, the knight. but the image is corrupted, burned away by the violet eye and the scent of dragon. you are no longer lost in the wrong century; you are trapped in the dragon's lair, and it has just begun to feed.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
the days bleed into weeks, a grey and crimson haze of pain and sweat. you exist in a state of perpetual twilight, shut away in the high tower of the red keep. the servants bring you food—roast meats, heavy stews, thick with grease and spice—but you eat very little. you are fading, your petite frame becoming even smaller, a fragile bird with clipped wings. your feet, once ruined, have begun to heal, scabbing over into ugly, twisted knots of scar tissue that ache with every step you take, but you don't run anymore. there is nowhere to run.
aemond comes to visit you every night. sometimes during the day, too. he is a storm that never ceases, a force of nature that consumes everything in its path. at first, it was just violence. he would take you with the same brutal efficiency he used to train in the courtyard with ser criston, grunting and sweating, using your body to slake his ravenous lusts. he would leave you trembling and bleeding, staring at the ceiling until he returned once more.
but slowly, as the weeks start passing, the texture of the nightmare begins to change and shift into something new. it begins with the gifts. one evening, he returns from the city not with blood on his hands, but with a small, velvet box. he throws it onto the bed where you are curled up, staring at the wall. inside, nestled in black velvet, is a necklace. it is heavy, made of interwoven silver chains, set with stones the color of fresh bruises—deep amethysts and black diamonds that sparkle and shine prettily.
"put it on," he commands. you fumble with the delicate clasp, your fingers shaking. it is cold against your throat, a weight that pulls you down. it is beautiful, but it feels like a collar. "you look like a princess," he muses, his voice lacking its usual bite. he is standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "my princess."
you look up at him, your fawn-like eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. you are so needy, so starved for affection that the simple compliment makes your heart flutter traitorously in your chest. you hate him, and you fear him, too, but you are desperate for him to look at you as something other than a piece of meat. "t-thank you, my prince," you whisper softly, your breath hitching slightly in the back of your throat.
he crosses the room in two long strides and grabs your face with his large, bare hands, only to lean down and kiss you. it is not like the brutal crushing of before—it is hungry, devouring, but strangely reverent, like a husband kissing his beloved wife. he bites your bottom lip, tasting the sweet, coppery tang of your blood, but then he licks it away, his tongue delving into your mouth as if he wants to consume your every breath. he pulls back, his thumb stroking your cheekbone softly, affectionately.
"i have killed many men, little one," he admits, his eye searching yours. "i have burned cities to ash, slaughtered innocents without an ounce of mercy…. but i have never possessed anything as soft as you." you lean into his gentle touch, your body betraying your mind. you hate yourself for it, but you can't help it. you are so, so lonely, and the silence of the tower is deafening to your heart, your soul. the touch of his hand, even the hand that chokes and bruise and kills, is the only thing that makes you feel real.
"i am yours," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. it is the truth, you have no choice otherwise. aemond's single eye narrows, seeming pleased by this admission of obedience, but also disturbed by it, as if your submission is a puzzle he cannot quite solve. slowly, over time, he begins to change the way he touches you. the sex changes, too.
it becomes grosser, wetter, more intimate. he spends hours between your thighs, his face buried in your cunt, licking and sucking until you are sobbing and thrashing and pleading, your body overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that feels like pain. he is obsessed with your taste, with the sweet scent of your arousal mixed with your fear. he calls it your "nectar" and drinks it down like it is the most delicious, most finest wine he's ever consumed.
he holds you afterward, too. this is the worst part, you think, the part that breaks down your defenses the most. he wraps his large body around your small one, tangling his legs with yours, burying his face in your hair. he talks to you in the dark, low, guttural whispers about his childhood, about his distant mother, about his unworthy brother. he tells you things you suspect no one else has ever heard from him.
"they look at me with pity," he mutters, his hand stroking your arm. "or hate. never... this. never want." you turn in his arms, facing him. you can barely see his face in the gloom, but you can feel his breath on your face. you reach up and trace the line of his jaw, your fingers brushing the leather patch as your fingers trail up. he flinches but doesn't pull away, allowing you to touch him.
"i do not hate you, aemond," you confess, your voice a soft, breathy whisper. and it's true, you don't. you are too broken to hate him now, too needy. "you should," he says, gripping your wrist hard. "i am a monster, sweet girl," he acknowledges, squeezing you tighter against him. "perhaps… but you're my monster," you say softly, the words feeling foreign and yet right.
he groans, a sound deep in his chest cavity, and rolls on top of you. he enters you slowly this time, filling you up inch by inch. you squeak, your body stretching to accommodate him. it still hurts, the stretch is too much, the pressure too intense, but there is a sick sort of comfort in it. he is heavy and hot inside you, a physical anchor in a world of blood and madness. "mine," he grunts, thrusting deep. "only mine."
"yours," you agree, your voice hitching with every hard snap of his hips. he moves with a slow, grinding rhythm, designed to drag out the sensation. he wants to feel every inch of you, he wants to memorize the texture of your insides. he kisses your neck, your shoulder, your breasts, marking you with his teeth and tongue. he leaves bites that will bruise, purple and black flowers blooming prettily across your soft, smooth skin.
"i will keep you forever," he whispers, his voice ragged with want. "i will never let you go, never let you leave me. even when the sun burns out and the moon ceases to shine, you will still be here in this bed with me." it should sound like a threat, it should terrify you. but as you look up at him, seeing the twisted, desperate love in his eye, you feel a strange, heavy warmth settle in your stomach. you are so needy, so fucking desperate to be loved, even if the love is ugly and warped by a cruel, lonely prince.
you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in even deeper. you kiss him back, your tongue sliding against his, tasting the blood and the wine. you moan into his mouth, a sound that is part pleasure, part surrender. "y-yes!" you keen, panting. "k-keep me… keep m-me, please, my prince!"
he breaks, his jaw slackening from your plea to be kept, to be his. then, his control snaps. he starts to fuck you in earnest, pounding into you with the force of a battering ram. the bed slams against the wall, the rhythmic thudding echoing through the room. it is gross and sweaty, the sound of skin slapping skin wet and loud and obscene. he is dripping sweat onto you, his hair plastered to his forehead, the silky strands curling slightly at the ends.
"look at me," he grunts, snarling and feral, grabbing your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. "see who owns you, who owns this tight, sweet little cunt." you look into his violet eye, seeing the fire burning there, the madness, the twisted love. you see the monster, the kinslayer, the dragon rider. and you see the man who worships the ground you walk on, in his own sick, contorted way. "aem-aemond," you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"say it again," he growls, grinding his pelvis down against you each time he thrusts back inside, making your swollen clit ache and twitch. "aemond…. husband… mine." he roars, a sound of triumph and utter possession, and buries himself to the hilt. you feel him pulse and explode inside you, filling your womb up with his seed, claiming you from the inside out. it is a sticky, wet heat that makes you shiver, your little toes curling.
he collapses on top of you, his breathing ragged and shallow. he doesn't bother to pull out; instead, he stays buried inside you—softening but still present—keeping you plugged up, keeping his mark inside you. sweetly, he nuzzles into your neck, licking the sweat from your warm skin. "my little wife," he hums, his voice thick with sleep and deep satisfaction. "my strange, little ghost."
soothingly, you begin to stroke his hair, your fingers tangling in the damp, silver strands. you feel safe—terrifyingly, sickeningly safe. you have lost yourself completely. the girl who had once danced under the moon is dead, burned away by the dragonfire. in her place is this new creature—a pet, a wife, a whore. you're now just a strange girl that is cherished by a dark prince, an obsessive monster.
you lie there in the dark of night, listening to the wind howling outside the castle walls. you are trapped in a never ending nightmare, but as aemond's breathing evens out and his arms tighten around you in his sleep, you realize with a jolt of shame and desire that you never want to wake up. you have fallen into the dragon's bloodied maw, and you have found the warmth you were always looking for.
it is ugly, it is wrong, but it is yours, forever. eventually, you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, dreaming of spilled blood and the ethereal glow of moonlight, and the feeling of being completely, utterly owned by your monstrous prince.
hi ﹒﹒ ૮ ﹒ ﹒ ྀི ೕ so i've been thinking about writing a story centered around brain cancer﹐ & i wanna know which would resonate more with y'all ﹒﹒ would u rather aemond be the one diagnosed﹐ or the reader? once u choose﹐ i'll begin shaping the story around that asap﹒﹒ so just lmk ⸜̑⸝͂
+ also﹐ the story will be one long oneshot so y'all can have it all at once instead of waiting for chapter updates﹒﹒ >﹒<
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝓈﹒ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹒ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ﹒ ᴅᴜʙᴄᴏɴ﹒ ʙᴏᴏᴋ!ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ﹒ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ hi! ꒰𓏼 ྀིᥩ ﹒﹒i rmbr telling y'all that my works were gonna get a lot more darker & canonical ﹒﹒u have been warned ֯⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱ 𝑤𝑐﹒ 6﹒3k﹒
꒰ ⸜̑⸝͂ ᴍɪʟᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴛᴇᴇᴛʜ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱
⚔︎ ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎
the night air is thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, a cloying perfume that clings to your skin like a second layer of grime. you are a small, fragile thing, a wisp of a girl who looks as if a strong wind might blow her away into nothingness.
your hair glows from the moonlight, your eyes are huge, glassy, and vacant, filled with a dreamy innocence that has no place in a world that has long since turned to rust and iron. you are a relic, a ghost of a time when magic was real and the gods were kind.
you stand at the edge of the god's eye, the water lapping at the shores like a hungry, slithering tongue. the moon is full this night, a heavy, blinding eye in the sky that watches you with indifference. you dance, and it is a clumsy, desperate thing, your bare feet slapping against the sharp stones and slippery mud.
you spin and twirl until you are dizzy, almost delirious, your tattered shift flapping around your petite frame, exposing your bruised knees and the sharp ridges of your ribs. you are performing a ritual for a kin that no longer exists—fairies, nymphs, spirits of the trees.
you whisper to the blistering wind, asking it to bring him to you, your knight, your savior, your true love. in your mind, he is a vision of light and steel and strength. he is gentle, he is warm, but the gods do not hear the prayers of the forgotten; they listen only to the roar of fire.
you dance until your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, your chest heaving with the effort. you ignore the pain, the sharp sting as jagged rocks slice into the soft soles of your delicate little feet. you believe that the pain is a price you must pay, that blood must be spilled for the magic to happen and reveal your knight.
you look down at your bloodied feet, leaving behind crimson footprints on the grey stones, and you smile a broken, delusional smile. he will come, you tell yourself. he will see the blood and know that i am worthy of his love, you think, a buzzing mantra echoing inside your head.
then suddenly, startlingly, the sky tears open with a fierce roar. the sound is deafening, a thunder crack that shakes the earth beneath you. the wind changes direction, turning from a gentle breeze into a violent gale that whips your hair across your face. you look up, shielding your eyes against the soft, drizzling rain, and your heart seizes in your chest. it is not a knight on a white horse, it is a dragon.
vhagar descends from the gathering storm clouds like a falling mountain, her scales are the color of dried blood and old bruises, her wings vast enough to blot out the moon itself. she hits the shore with an impact that nearly knocks you off your feet, the shockwave sending ripples across the lake.
the heat rolling off her body is immense, a furnace blast that smells of sulfur, burnt meat, and ancient decay. she opens her mouth, rows of serrated teeth glinting in the dark, and lets out a sound that is half-growl, half-sigh. you scramble backward, your wounded feet screaming in protest with every step, and you huddle against the roots of a gnarled weirwood tree.
you are trembling violently, your dream-like mind struggling to process the living nightmare before you. this isn't right, this isn't how the story is supposed to go. and then, he slides down from the dragon's back. he lands with a predatory grace, his boots sinking into the mud. he is tall, too tall—taller than any man has a right to be—a towering pillar of black leather and long, windswept silver hair.
he wears a long coat that billows around him, and at his hip hangs a sword that looks longer than you are tall. his face is a mask of cruel beauty, sharp and angular like a blade forged in ice. his hair is pale, almost white, blowing slightly in the wind generated by his beast. but it is the eye that terrifies you—a single, piercing violet eye, set in a face that looks as if it has never known a real smile. the other eye is covered by a dark leather patch, stark and brutal against his marble-like, alabaster skin.
prince aemond targaryen.
he scans the shoreline, his gaze dismissive, bored, until it lands on you. he stops, his posture turning rigid. the silence stretches between you and him, heavy and suffocating. he stares at you, and you feel like a baby mouse caught in the gaze of a fearsome hawk. you press yourself deeper into the tree roots, trying to make yourself as small as possible, hoping he will look away, silently praying that he will mistake you for a pile of dirty rags.
"a little stray," he purrs, his voice is low, a rough rumble that vibrates in your chest. he begins to walk over toward you, each of his steps deliberate, heavy, crunching on the gravel. you can smell him now as he comes closer—so, so close—the scent of smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood. it is a raw, masculine smell that makes you want to gag, your stomach twisting with knots of nausea.
you don't run. you can't, your feet are too ruined, throbbing with every fluttering beat of your heart. still, you can only watch him come closer, closer, your eyes wide and shimmering with girlish tears. he stops right in front of you, blocking out the moon's ethereal glow. his shadow swallows you whole, consuming you entirely.
he looks down at you, his expression one of mild curiosity mixed with a distinct lack of empathy. he crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. the movement is sudden, yet graceful, like a large feline readying to pounce on its sweet smelling, vulnerable prey. "what are you doing out here, all alone, little one?" he asks. his tone is mean and mocking, the endearment sounding more like an insult than anything else.
you cannot help but tremble, clutching your stained shift that is caked with layers of grime. "dancing," you whisper, and you can't help but shrink into yourself even more, wincing softly from the way your voice sounds too thin and embarrassingly pathetic compared to his softly spoken, deep baritone. "i…i was dancing for the knight, m-my prince."
aemond huffs, a dark, dry sound of amusement. he reaches out, his large hand moving so fast that it causes you to flinch, but he doesn't strike you. instead, he grabs ahold of your chin, his gloved fingers digging into your sensitive skin. he forces your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. the leather of his glove is warm yet terribly rough, abrasive against your soft cheek. "there are no knights out here, little girl," he croons softly, his pale lips lifting into a small, cruel smirk. "there are only dragons."
"but…h-he… he was supposed t-to come," you stammer weakly, tears leaking from your eyes and tracking through the dirt on your anguished face. "the old stories say…." you trail off, your voice soft and meek. "the old stories are lies told to little girls so that they don't cry themselves to sleep at night," he interrupts. his thumb strokes across your lower lip, pressing down hard enough to bruise. "look at you… you're all filthy. you're bleeding."
his gaze drops to your bare feet, seemingly enchanted by what he finds. he lets go of your chin and grabs your dainty ankle, yanking your leg up without warning. you cry out as the movement jars your injuries, making your breath hitch. he inspects your foot with clinical detachment, his eye narrowing. the soles are shredded, the skin hanging in ribbons, blood dripping and mixing in with the wet earth.
"disgusting," he murmurs, but there is a strange fascination in his voice. he runs his thumb over the raw, wet wound, smearing the blood around as though he's finger painting. "you have danced your feet to ruin for a phantom," he tuts, looking unimpressed with your efforts. you sob, the sound raw and ugly. "it wasn't a phantom… it was hope, my prince!"
"hope is a disease," he sneers. he looks back up at you, a soft smirk twisting his lips. "and i am the cure." suddenly, he stands up to his full height, dragging you along with him. you are too weak to fight, your legs buckling underneath you as you try to walk, failing miserably. luckily for you, the prince catches you easily, one strong arm wrapping around your small waist, hauling you against his hard body.
you are pressed up against his chest, your face buried in the rough leather of his coat. you can feel his heart beating, slow and steady, while yours races like a trapped bird in a cage. "please," you beg, struggling weakly against his possessive grip. "l-let me go…!"
"no," he drawls, his voice a low, deep purr. he begins to walk once again, dragging you along because your feet cannot support your weight. you stumble, your toes scraping the ground, sending fresh jolts of pain shooting up your trembling legs. he doesn't care. he doesn't even bother to slow down, you are simply a burden he has decided to claim as his.
more quickly than you'd like, you approach his fearsome mount, vhagar. up close, the beast is terrifying beyond measure. her scales are like indestructible plates of armor, and her eyes are like pools of molten gold. she lowers her massive head, sniffing the air curiously, her nostrils flaring as she catches your scent. a low rumble vibrates through her chest, a sound of pure hunger. "she likes you," he hums, sounding amused by his dragon's interest in you.
effortlessly, he hoists you up, grabbing you by the back of your shift and the waist of your small-clothes, and practically throws you onto the dragon's shoulder. it is like climbing onto a moving mountain—the scales are hot to the touch, radiating a feverish heat that burns through your clothes. you scramble for purchase, your small hands slipping on the smooth, hard surface.
"climb," aemond commands from below. he watches as you struggle, his eye glinting with sadistic pleasure. "unless you want me to leave you here for the wolves." terrified, you dig your fingers into the gaps between the scales, pulling yourself up. your feet dangle over the abyss, your bloody soles leaving streaks of red on the side of the dragon's neck.
you reach the saddle, a small perch on the creature's back, and collapse there, gasping desperately for air. aemond climbs up behind you with an effortless ease, settling down into the sturdy saddle, his chest pressing against your back. he is a wall of muscle and tension and rage. he reaches around you, taking the reins, his arms boxing you in. you are trapped, completely and utterly at his mercy.
"hold on, little girl," he murmurs in your ear, his breath hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "or you will fall to your death."
"where are we going?" you cry out, your voice lost in the wind. "home," he proclaims. "to the red keep, to war." vhagar begins to move, preparing to launch herself into the open sky. her muscles shift beneath you, a terrifying sensation of endless power and might. she spreads her massive wings, and with a single, mighty thrust, she launches herself into the air.
the ground begins to fall away, and the lake becomes a mirror, then a simple puddle, then just a tiny speck of nothingness. the wind screams past you, tearing at your thin clothes, freezing your skin and making your teeth chatter. you squeeze your eyes shut, terror gripping your racing heart. you have never left the ground before, and you had never needed to.
you have never known the world was this big, this empty, this cold. you can feel aemond's chest vibrating against your back as he cackles into the night sky, a dark, joyless sound. he enjoys your fear, so much so that you believe he feeds on it. "open your eyes," he commands. "no!" you wail, your girlish voice full of stubbornness and terror. "fucking open them!" he snarls angrily, lacking patience, one of his hands leaves the reins and grabs ahold of your hair, yanking your head back.
you are forced to look at the world below—a vast, dark tapestry of dark forests and flowing rivers, lit only by the pale moonlight. it is beautiful and horrifying. "this is what true power looks like, little one," he smirks, his cold lips brushing against the delicate shell of your ear. "this is what you were dancing for, not some knight in shining armor, but a dragonrider who burns the world to nothing but ash."
you look down at your poor, aching feet, watching as they dangle in the open air. the blood is dried now, flaking off your skin in the wind. you think of the stories you used to tell yourself as a child, about the gentle knight who would take you away to a castle made of clouds. you realize now how stupidly foolish you were, how utterly naïve.
the man holding you is not a savior, he is a monster, a killer, and you are nothing more than a plaything he found in the dirt. as vhagar banks and turns toward the south, toward king's landing and the war waiting there, you feel a strange, heavy numbness settling over you. the hope is now gone, completely extinguished, burned away by the heat of the dragon's back and the coldness of the prince's blackened heart.
you are forever lost, you think to yourself. you are flying into the mouth of hell, and the worst part is, a small, shameful, twisted part of you is glad you are no longer alone, because the silence of the shore was so much louder than the scream of the wind. and the arms of the monster, for all their cruelty, are the only things holding you up. "you are mine now, little girl," aemond growls, his voice cutting through the roar of the restless wind. "do not forget it."
"i won't," you whisper tearfully to the grey clouds, and you realize it is the truth. you are most certainly lost in the wrong century, indeed. and as the ominous glow of harrenhal fades into the distance behind you, leaving only the dark, uncertain void ahead, you close your eyes and let the darkness steal you away. the dance is now over, and the nightmare has just begun.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
the descent into king's landing is a blur of grey stone and black water, the city below looking like an old, festering wound on the landscape. vhagar lands outside the city's gates with a bone-shaking thud, her claws gouging deep furrows into the scorched earth. the handlers scramble away, hiding their faces, terrified of the one-eyed prince and his trembling, wild-eyed cargo.
aemond pulls you from the saddle with a roughness that makes your teeth click together. you cannot stand; your feet are too ruined, swollen and throbbing, the dried blood cracking as you try to put weight on them. he doesn't wait, he growls in annoyance and simply hoists you over his shoulder, ignoring the gasps and horrified stares of the dragon-keepers. you bounce against his back, the smell of dragon musk and his own sharp, metallic scent filling your nose.
moments later, you arrive past the gates, and aemond stalks through the corridors of the red keep like a shadow brought to life. the torchlights flicker and dance against the stone walls, casting long, distorted shapes. the servants bow low, scattering like roaches, refusing to look at the small, bleeding creature he carries that is covered in layers of filth. you're an ugly stain on the pristine crimson of the castle, unworthy and burdensome.
without hesitation, he kicks open the heavy oak doors of his private chambers. the room is sparse, cold, and smells of old parchment and spiced wine. he strides to the bed and dumps you onto the warm furs. you land in a heap, your small body sinking into the pelts of wolves, stags, and bears. you whimper, curling into a tiny ball, trying to hide your face. "get up," he commands, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"i… i-i cannot," you sob, sniffling softly, holding your aching feet. "it h-hurts, my prince." aemond sighs, resisting the temptation to roll his eye. "then crawl," he says flatly, his tone full of boredom. he begins to unbuckle his sword belt, the heavy clink of metal sounding like a death knell in the quiet chamber. he tosses the weapon onto a table, then starts to work on the laces of his riding leathers.
you watch him with wide, frightened eyes. he is stripping away the layers of the prince, revealing the cruel, cold-hearted man beneath. the man who killed his own kin, the man who laughs at burning cities. his chest is pale and scarred, a map of violence etched into his skin. he is all hard lines and lean, corded muscle, stark and intimidating.
"you are my wife now," he purrs, pulling his simple cotton tunic over his head and tossing it aside. his hair is loose around his broad shoulders, a silver curtain. "bought and paid for with blood and dragonfire. now, you will learn to serve like a proper lady-wife." he walks over to the bed, towering over you. you look so small, so pathetic, lying there in your dirty, torn shift. the contrast between your fragile, bruised body and his towering, predatory form is sickening.
"turn over," he orders, sounding impatient. you hesitate, and he snarls, reaching down to grab your arm and flipping you onto your stomach. you cry out as your weight presses onto your injured feet, but he doesn't care. he climbs onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he mounts you from behind. "p-please, my prince," you mewl, burying your tear-stained face in the furs. "b-be gentle…"
aemond laughs, a low, nasty sound. "gentle is for the weak, gentle is for the dead, sweetheart." he mocks. suddenly, he reaches down and roughly grabs the hem of your thin shift, and with a violent jerk, he rips the fabric down your back. the cold air hits your skin instantly, making you shiver, your skin breaking out with gooseflesh. you can hear the fabric tearing, feel the cold air on your bare back, your legs, your buttocks. you feel terribly exposed, completely vulnerable.
"look at you," he murmurs, his hand trailing down your spine. his touch is hot, calloused, and rough. "skin like milk, soft as a babe." he squeezes your tender flesh, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. you squirm, trying to get away, but he pins you down with one hand on the back of your neck. his grip is pure iron, strong and possessive. you are paralyzed, facedown in the wolf pelts, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.
"i will break you, little girl," he whispers against your ear, his teeth nipping gently at the lobe. "and then i will put you back together as something useful." you hear the rustle of him discarding his trousers. the air shifts, and then you feel it.
he kicks your legs apart with his knees, rough and uncaring. you are lying there, bare and trembling, your bloodied feet forgotten in the face of this new, immediate horror. he spits into his hand, the sound wet and crude in the silence, and smears it between your legs. it is not for your pleasure, it is merely to facilitate the taking.
he lines himself up and pushes in, violent and deep. you scream, it is a raw, guttural sound that tears at your throat and comes from your very soul. he is huge, splitting you open, forcing his way inside a body that was never meant to take him. there is no preparation, no gentleness, only the brutal, searing intrusion of his cock. it feels like he is tearing you in half, like a hot blade being driven into your guts.
"take it," he hisses, not stopping until he is buried to the hilt. his hips are flush against your ass, his heavy balls resting against you. he holds himself there for a moment, savoring the tightness, the heat, the way your body spasms around him in shock. you are sobbing uncontrollably now, your fingers clawing desperately at the furs, trying to find purchase, trying to escape the pain, the torture.
"so fucking tight," he groans, his voice vibrating through your back as his face twists in pleasure. "you're gripping me… f-fuck." he whines, beginning to move. it is not a rhythm, it is a punishment. he pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hard enough to rock the bed and knock the breath out of your burning lungs. the sound of skin slapping against skin is loud, wet, and disgustingly primal.
slap, slap, slap, slap.
"please… s-stop," you choke out, but he only laughs. "stop? why would i stop? this is your duty, little wife, your purpose." he leans forward, covering your body with his. his chest presses against your back, trapping you. you can feel his sweat dripping onto your feverish skin, slick and hot. his breathing is heavy in your ear, harsh and ragged. he smells like iron and salt and musk, a sensory overload that makes your head spin.
he reaches around and grabs your throat, squeezing just enough to restrict your airflow. your vision spots, black and white dots dancing in front of your tearful eyes. the lack of air makes the pain sharper, more immediate. you are drowning in him. "do you feel that?" he growls, snapping his hips harder, faster. "that is a dragon claiming his prey."
the pain is blinding, it radiates from your core, shooting up your spine and down to your curling toes. you can feel yourself tearing, feel the wet slickness of blood mixing with his spit and your own reluctant arousal. it is a violation of the highest order, a desecration of everything you are. he grabs your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine painfully, beautifully. "look at the wall," he commands, gesturing to the tapestries of his family. "read the words of the valyrians, of my house—fire and blood."
you can't read, you can't see. all you can feel is him, filling you, ruining you, again and again with each brutal thrust. he shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes you squeal, a strange, unwanted jolt of electricity that cuts through the scorching pain. it is horrible and shameful, your body is betraying you, reacting to his brutality with a spark of pleasure that makes you sick to your stomach.
"see?" he mocks, feeling your involuntary clench around his shaft as he practically drills into you from behind. "your body knows its place even if your mind does not." he fucks you like an animal, with no regard for your comfort or your humanity. he uses you like a vessel, a thing to dump his rage into, his seed. the bed creaks and groans under the onslaught, the sound rhythmic and mocking to your fragile heart.
sweat drips from his nose onto your cheek. you can feel the tension coiling in him, the way his movements become more jerkier, more desperate and sloppy. he is close. "say my name," he demands, panting loudly, his hand tightening on your throat. you can barely breathe, let alone speak. "aem... ae-m….aemond," you wheeze. "again," he huffs, his voice cracking as your cunt continues to strangle his cock.
"ae-aemond…" you whimper, breathless. "husband," he corrects, slamming into you so hard you see stars. "h-h-husband," you hiccup softly, sobbing, feeling saliva dribbling down your chin as you stammer. with a final, guttural groan, he buries himself deep inside you and stills. you feel the pulse of his cock as he spills himself into you, the heat flooding your insides, marking you from the inside out. it is a dirty, wet feeling, unmistakable and humiliating.
he collapses on top of you, his full weight pinning you to the bed. you are crushed, unable to move, unable to properly breathe. his heart is hammering against your back, slowing down gradually as the minutes pass. for a long moment, the only sound in the room is your combined breathing. you are crying silently, tears soaking the furs beneath your flushed face. he is panting, recovering from the intensity of his orgasm.
finally, he slowly pulls out, savoring the feeling of your velvet walls clinging to him greedily. the sensation is obscene, a wet squelch as he leaves your body. you feel empty and aching, throbbing with a residual pain that echoes every beat of your heart. you feel fluids leaking out of you, running down your thighs, a sticky, gross reminder of what just happened.
he stands up, completely unashamed of his nudity. his body is gleaming with sweat, pale and powerful with defined, lean muscles. he looks down at you with a satisfied sneer, clicking his tongue in vague annoyance. you are a mess—torn shift, bruises blooming across your skin like spring flowers, blood and semen trickling down your legs.
"go and clean yourself up," he sighs, walking over to a basin of water. he splashes his face, not looking at you. "you look like a slaughtered pig." you lie there for a minute, unable to move. your body feels broken, your spirit fractured like a dog's bone. you think of the moonlit dance, the hope of a knight. it seems like a memory from a different life, a different person. and for just a short, quiet moment, you feel like the garden and the grave.
slowly, painfully, you drag yourself to the edge of the bed. your feet throb in protest, but that pain is distant now compared to the blistering fire between your legs. you reach for the torn remnants of your shift to cover yourself, shivering in the cold air. aemond turns back to you, a small towel in his hand. he watches as you struggle, his single eye cold and calculating. there is no remorse, no humanity, only the dangerous darkness of his possessiveness.
"you will stay here," he insisted, his voice flat. "you will not leave these chambers unless i command it. you are now the dragon's whore, and you will learn to embrace the fire... or you will be burned; the choice is yours." he picks up a flagon of wine on the table and drinks deeply, some of the red liquid spilling down his bare chest and stomach. he wipes it away with the back of his hand, staining his skin.
"and tomorrow," he announced, turning his back to you to look out the window at the city below. "tomorrow, we fly again." you curl up into a ball on the furs, pulling the shredded fabric around you. you close your eyes and try to summon the image of the moon, the dance, the knight. but the image is corrupted, burned away by the violet eye and the scent of dragon. you are no longer lost in the wrong century; you are trapped in the dragon's lair, and it has just begun to feed.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
the days bleed into weeks, a grey and crimson haze of pain and sweat. you exist in a state of perpetual twilight, shut away in the high tower of the red keep. the servants bring you food—roast meats, heavy stews, thick with grease and spice—but you eat very little. you are fading, your petite frame becoming even smaller, a fragile bird with clipped wings. your feet, once ruined, have begun to heal, scabbing over into ugly, twisted knots of scar tissue that ache with every step you take, but you don't run anymore. there is nowhere to run.
aemond comes to visit you every night. sometimes during the day, too. he is a storm that never ceases, a force of nature that consumes everything in its path. at first, it was just violence. he would take you with the same brutal efficiency he used to train in the courtyard with ser criston, grunting and sweating, using your body to slake his ravenous lusts. he would leave you trembling and bleeding, staring at the ceiling until he returned once more.
but slowly, as the weeks start passing, the texture of the nightmare begins to change and shift into something new. it begins with the gifts. one evening, he returns from the city not with blood on his hands, but with a small, velvet box. he throws it onto the bed where you are curled up, staring at the wall. inside, nestled in black velvet, is a necklace. it is heavy, made of interwoven silver chains, set with stones the color of fresh bruises—deep amethysts and black diamonds that sparkle and shine prettily.
"put it on," he commands. you fumble with the delicate clasp, your fingers shaking. it is cold against your throat, a weight that pulls you down. it is beautiful, but it feels like a collar. "you look like a princess," he muses, his voice lacking its usual bite. he is standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "my princess."
you look up at him, your fawn-like eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. you are so needy, so starved for affection that the simple compliment makes your heart flutter traitorously in your chest. you hate him, and you fear him, too, but you are desperate for him to look at you as something other than a piece of meat. "t-thank you, my prince," you whisper softly, your breath hitching slightly in the back of your throat.
he crosses the room in two long strides and grabs your face with his large, bare hands, only to lean down and kiss you. it is not like the brutal crushing of before—it is hungry, devouring, but strangely reverent, like a husband kissing his beloved wife. he bites your bottom lip, tasting the sweet, coppery tang of your blood, but then he licks it away, his tongue delving into your mouth as if he wants to consume your every breath. he pulls back, his thumb stroking your cheekbone softly, affectionately.
"i have killed many men, little one," he admits, his eye searching yours. "i have burned cities to ash, slaughtered innocents without an ounce of mercy…. but i have never possessed anything as soft as you." you lean into his gentle touch, your body betraying your mind. you hate yourself for it, but you can't help it. you are so, so lonely, and the silence of the tower is deafening to your heart, your soul. the touch of his hand, even the hand that chokes and bruise and kills, is the only thing that makes you feel real.
"i am yours," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. it is the truth, you have no choice otherwise. aemond's single eye narrows, seeming pleased by this admission of obedience, but also disturbed by it, as if your submission is a puzzle he cannot quite solve. slowly, over time, he begins to change the way he touches you. the sex changes, too.
it becomes grosser, wetter, more intimate. he spends hours between your thighs, his face buried in your cunt, licking and sucking until you are sobbing and thrashing and pleading, your body overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that feels like pain. he is obsessed with your taste, with the sweet scent of your arousal mixed with your fear. he calls it your "nectar" and drinks it down like it is the most delicious, most finest wine he's ever consumed.
he holds you afterward, too. this is the worst part, you think, the part that breaks down your defenses the most. he wraps his large body around your small one, tangling his legs with yours, burying his face in your hair. he talks to you in the dark, low, guttural whispers about his childhood, about his distant mother, about his unworthy brother. he tells you things you suspect no one else has ever heard from him.
"they look at me with pity," he mutters, his hand stroking your arm. "or hate. never... this. never want." you turn in his arms, facing him. you can barely see his face in the gloom, but you can feel his breath on your face. you reach up and trace the line of his jaw, your fingers brushing the leather patch as your fingers trail up. he flinches but doesn't pull away, allowing you to touch him.
"i do not hate you, aemond," you confess, your voice a soft, breathy whisper. and it's true, you don't. you are too broken to hate him now, too needy. "you should," he says, gripping your wrist hard. "i am a monster, sweet girl," he acknowledges, squeezing you tighter against him. "perhaps… but you're my monster," you say softly, the words feeling foreign and yet right.
he groans, a sound deep in his chest cavity, and rolls on top of you. he enters you slowly this time, filling you up inch by inch. you squeak, your body stretching to accommodate him. it still hurts, the stretch is too much, the pressure too intense, but there is a sick sort of comfort in it. he is heavy and hot inside you, a physical anchor in a world of blood and madness. "mine," he grunts, thrusting deep. "only mine."
"yours," you agree, your voice hitching with every hard snap of his hips. he moves with a slow, grinding rhythm, designed to drag out the sensation. he wants to feel every inch of you, he wants to memorize the texture of your insides. he kisses your neck, your shoulder, your breasts, marking you with his teeth and tongue. he leaves bites that will bruise, purple and black flowers blooming prettily across your soft, smooth skin.
"i will keep you forever," he whispers, his voice ragged with want. "i will never let you go, never let you leave me. even when the sun burns out and the moon ceases to shine, you will still be here in this bed with me." it should sound like a threat, it should terrify you. but as you look up at him, seeing the twisted, desperate love in his eye, you feel a strange, heavy warmth settle in your stomach. you are so needy, so fucking desperate to be loved, even if the love is ugly and warped by a cruel, lonely prince.
you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in even deeper. you kiss him back, your tongue sliding against his, tasting the blood and the wine. you moan into his mouth, a sound that is part pleasure, part surrender. "y-yes!" you keen, panting. "k-keep me… keep m-me, please, my prince!"
he breaks, his jaw slackening from your plea to be kept, to be his. then, his control snaps. he starts to fuck you in earnest, pounding into you with the force of a battering ram. the bed slams against the wall, the rhythmic thudding echoing through the room. it is gross and sweaty, the sound of skin slapping skin wet and loud and obscene. he is dripping sweat onto you, his hair plastered to his forehead, the silky strands curling slightly at the ends.
"look at me," he grunts, snarling and feral, grabbing your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. "see who owns you, who owns this tight, sweet little cunt." you look into his violet eye, seeing the fire burning there, the madness, the twisted love. you see the monster, the kinslayer, the dragon rider. and you see the man who worships the ground you walk on, in his own sick, contorted way. "aem-aemond," you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"say it again," he growls, grinding his pelvis down against you each time he thrusts back inside, making your swollen clit ache and twitch. "aemond…. husband… mine." he roars, a sound of triumph and utter possession, and buries himself to the hilt. you feel him pulse and explode inside you, filling your womb up with his seed, claiming you from the inside out. it is a sticky, wet heat that makes you shiver, your little toes curling.
he collapses on top of you, his breathing ragged and shallow. he doesn't bother to pull out; instead, he stays buried inside you—softening but still present—keeping you plugged up, keeping his mark inside you. sweetly, he nuzzles into your neck, licking the sweat from your warm skin. "my little wife," he hums, his voice thick with sleep and deep satisfaction. "my strange, little ghost."
soothingly, you begin to stroke his hair, your fingers tangling in the damp, silver strands. you feel safe—terrifyingly, sickeningly safe. you have lost yourself completely. the girl who had once danced under the moon is dead, burned away by the dragonfire. in her place is this new creature—a pet, a wife, a whore. you're now just a strange girl that is cherished by a dark prince, an obsessive monster.
you lie there in the dark of night, listening to the wind howling outside the castle walls. you are trapped in a never ending nightmare, but as aemond's breathing evens out and his arms tighten around you in his sleep, you realize with a jolt of shame and desire that you never want to wake up. you have fallen into the dragon's bloodied maw, and you have found the warmth you were always looking for.
it is ugly, it is wrong, but it is yours, forever. eventually, you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, dreaming of spilled blood and the ethereal glow of moonlight, and the feeling of being completely, utterly owned by your monstrous prince.
Why do you think that so many people despise Aegon? Except from the whole rape thing.
People are just very very dumb. Seriously, that's my only argument. They look at what the show gives them and don't think beyond that. Because even if we're talking about this whole "rape and abuse of women" argument - it just doesn't work. Viserys, who is adored by the Blacks, forced Aemma to give birth to a son until she died - is this not rape? Their sweet baby Daemon constantly visited brothels, where women were often against their will - is this not rape? HE MURDERED HIS WIFE FFS. And so on and so forth. However, HOTD shows Aegon as "bad", they swallow it and don't analyze what's happening in any way.
