Synopsis: For years, Prince Aemond Targaryen wrestled with a question no maester, knight, nor king could answer for him: how does one court a lady like you?
Warnings: Miscommunication Trope, Fluff, Courtship, Soft Aemond, Down Bad Aemond
Word count: 4.5k
He met you on the last day of spring. You were a shy little thing, hiding behind your father's legs and clutching onto your mother’s skirts as they tried to introduce you to the queen. Aemond had stood beside his mother then, his eyebrow raised as you slowly stepped away behind your parents and curtsied low before them. Your eyes were steady on the ground, and Aemond almost laughed when you quickly hid yourself from their gazes.
You were an odd one, he thought for a while. He did not mean to spy on you, yet he often found himself hiding behind a pillar or bush just to observe the odd and overly quiet girl from Essos. You were born in YiTi. A land so distant and different from them, and Aemond had believed that your oddness was because of your land’s customs. However, as days and moons passed, he learned that you were truly just different from the other ladies of the court.
Aemond was no stranger to the peculiar. He had seen eccentricity before, his family being a prime example. His sister was overly interested in bugs and murmuring to herself. His eldest brother had a strange fascination with women twice his age. Even his father, the king, was hyperfixated on the miniature models, spending most of his time on them instead of caring for his children. Aemond was not in a state to question nor critique your demeanour, he was simply curious.
He was curious why you hid yourself in the desolate corners of the gardens, the shade of a weeping willow tree near a pond being your favourite. He was intrigued by why you barely spoke, and if you did, you spoke so softly, as if you were whispering a secret that was only meant for certain ears to hear. But most of all, he was eager to learn why he was so interested in you.
Perhaps it was your appearance. Admittedly, there were not many YiTish in court– there were only three, you and your kin. Perhaps it was that. Aemond was fascinated by your fox-like eyes, heart-shaped lips, and your silky onyx hair. And as you two grew older, your already striking appearance only furthered. It was a shame you hated attention, as you were always the center of it. Aemond could not recall a day when not a single knight, lord, or even prince did not look back at you as you passed them in the halls. He noted how their pupils would always dilate ever so slightly, and some would even let their mouths hang in astonishment.
Maybe it was because of your insistence on not being noticed– maybe that is what fueled his intrigue. An ironic turn of events, for even if you try to hide yourself behind crowds and shadowy corners, he still found you. Once, you were invited to play the hiding game with other ladies of the court. Where the other ladies hid themselves behind pillars and cramped broom closets, you opted to hide in the wine cellars in hopes they would not find you and simply leave you be. Aemond found that particular memory quite amusing. Especially as it was the first time he saw your fox-like eyes turn doe-like as he caught you by surprise.
“What are you doing here?” Aemond questioned as he saw you tilt your head to read the marking on the large, oak barrels. A surprise yelp left your lips, and it was the loudest sound Aemond had ever heard you make. He bit back his smile as you rested a hand on your chest, your other hand fisted your skirts as if to ground yourself.
You were twelve now. You had spent the last three years in the Red Keep, but only now did Aemond decide to speak with you. He must admit that he had gotten used to simply following you about the castle, that speaking to you barely crossed his mind. It was thought that only came in the dead, silence of the night. Where, instead of sleeping, he would think of an opening phrase to utter if and when he approached.
“My prince,” You curtised quickly, your eyes still planted on the ground, and did not even dare to look at his. “I was playing a game of hide and seek with the other ladies,”
Aemond hummed as he cautiously took a step forward. “You are quite competitive then. Not a single one of them has even ventured near your hiding place. I suppose you could be declared the winner.”
You gave a wry smile, eyes still planted on the ground, where you could see each cautious step the prince took to inch closer to you. Aemond observed you closely, as this was the closest he had been to you since the first day you two met.
“You are gifted in hiding.” The prince remarked, and he felt his heart skip a beat as a small yet true smile came to your lips. “And you are gifted at seeking.” You remarked, but the smile on your lips dissipated, and a questioning frown took its place.
“How did you even know I was here, my prince?” You asked in great confusion. Not even the ladies who invited you to their game found your hiding place. How then did the prince find you?
Aemond never answered your question. Even after moons passed, he never once explained how he would always find you; he would only appear by your side, and he was fortunate enough that once he discovered a concealed corner, you were kind enough not to leave or excuse yourself from his presence.
The following year, a decision was made: Prince Aemond made known his intention to court you.
You could still vividly remember the confusion that overcame you when your father informed you of his conversation with the prince.
“He was quite eager for my approval if I were to be honest. He would not leave my side the entire afternoon. Well, at least not until I gave him my blessing.” Your father hummed as he poured himself a cup of wine. The moon was high, and so was your bewilderment. You never thought that a prince would court you. A statement not at all brought forth by modesty, but genuine confusion. When he discovered you in your hiding places, you assumed he was merely searching for somewhere to conceal himself as well. It never crossed your mind that he had been searching for you all along. “But why would he wish to court me?”
“I believe that is a question we should be asking you, my child.” Your mother hummed, a small, almost teasing smile on her lips as she did her nightly embroidery. She hummed and exchanged glances with your father, who hid a smirk behind the cup of wine he raised to his lips. “I wouldn’t even know what to answer. I, too, am just as confused as you.”
“Well then, perhaps it is best that you ask the prince the question on all our minds.” Your mother suggested, as you mindlessly nodded, standing and kissing their cheeks as you returned to your chambers. However, as you neared the door to your room, you froze in shock as you saw the prince already waiting for you in the shadowy halls.
He had a small flower pot in his hands— a rather odd image of a royal prince holding a potted orchid in his hands when you had gotten used to seeing him holding his sword.
Aemond felt out of breath as he stared at you through the light of the moon. You looked radiant— ethereal— nymph-like.
“This is for you,” he nervously said. Aemond was a brave man. He was courageous when he claimed his dragon. He was courageous when his eye was taken. And he was courageous when he asked for your father’s blessing to court you. However, he felt the courage he always relied on falter when he came face to face with you.
He watched as your ever stoic gaze finally met his. In the years he had known you, he had gotten used to your overly composed state. You were reserved, like he, however, you were more consistent in your reservation. The only moments when he actually witnessed your reactions were moments when you were startled or confused.
“Why?” You asked plainly, and Aemond felt his heartbeat in his ears. “Why? Because I’ve noticed you are fond of flowers— and I do believe that your favoured ones are orchids.” He explained and held out the pot closer to you. A confused frown overcame your face.
“No… why had you decided to court me, your highness?” You asked, not wanting to be vexed by the question the entire night. Unfortunately, your question was left unanswered once more as the prince simply reached for your hand and placed the small bundle of flowers in it. A smile on his lips as he bid you good night and left the halls.
How do you court a lady? Aemond could not help but think. He had hoped that he would find the answer long before he asked for your father’s blessing, yet here he was, kept up at night trying of ways on how to court you.
In hindsight, courtship should have come naturally to him. However, he was a prince– a pawn for the crown. The custom was to bind him to a lady who came from a family that could be great allies to the crown; however, Aemond had taken it upon himself to find a match made by himself, not his grandsire or mother. He had seen the effects of marriages borne out of duty, and as dutiful as he was, he’d rather not subject himself to a loveless marriage filled with misery.
Do you win a lady through gifts? Aemond thought. Ladies of the court seemed to easily give their agreements to the lords who courted them when they were given gifts. Who was Aemond to question such traditions? Especially when he was entirely clueless about what to do.
It started with little gifts left by your door. Each morning, you would be stirred awake with a light knock on your door and a gift left unattended. The first morning, it was a jade pendant from your home, YiTi. The light green stone was remarkable and unmistakable under the early morning sun.
Aemond hid himself behind a pillar and watched your knitted brows as you held the necklace to your eye, a small smile on his lips as he could already foresee the image of you wearing his little gift. However, Aemond’s enthusiasm was left dim when he found you in the gardens, bare-necked, and mentioned naught about the necklace you found.
The prince was disheartened, but not so much to easily relent. It was the first days of your courtship. Of course, he could not be so vain and arrogant to think that you would lay yourself on his feet after offering you a simple pendant. He at least thought a small blush would come to your face when you met him that day; however, he supposed he asked for much for his little effort.
The second day, he sent a pair of pearl earrings. Pearls harvested from the mighty seas of the Orient. On the third, he sent a set of gold rings mined deep within Casterly Rock.
When the fourth day came, he sent various rolls of fabric for your dresses. Light blue silk from Lys. Delicate white laces from Myr. A serene cream velvet from Braavos. Crimson brocades from Volantis. Fine threads of various colors from the Reach.
Aemond almost revealed his hiding place in great concern when you opened the door, and the rolls of fabric that he set upright came toppling down. Almost crushing you if you were not agile enough to step to the side. You did not use a single fabric nor thread for any of your fine dresses.
By the fifth day, the prince already had the inkling to quit. It was clear that you were not easily impressed– he was foolish to think you otherwise, for if you were, he certainly would not be this eager in your courtship. Nevertheless, the prince was no quitter.
By the fifth day, he veered away from the usual gifts given to the court ladies. Instead of shiny things, the prince left a small wooden dragon that he had carved in childhood. It was imperfect– it was left dusted in some corner of his chambers for years until the moment the prince decided to offer it to you.
When you opened your chamber doors after hearing a soft knock, you almost expected a chest of gold left by your doorstep. However, a small, yet true smile came to your lips when you saw a simple carved dragon made from oak waiting for you. Aemond almost hollered in triumph as he saw the corners of your lips curl upwards ever so slightly. Inspecting the carving with more interest than the shiny jewels he had left days before.
He watched as your fingers delicately traced the carvings he made, a sense of giddiness at the thought that your fingers caressed the wood that bore his touch. A new sense of hope coursing in his bloodstream.
Aemond had foolishly hoped that it was enough for you to return his affections, or at least announce your favour towards him, so the other line of suitors who paid you tribute would dissipate. However, the prince would be a fool to think that simple carving would have you swooning.
Word got around about how you set the little carving on your bedside table, near you, even in sleep. That was enough to inspire your other suitors to send you tens of pieces of woodwork, turning your chambers into a woodcarver’s shop.
Aemond knew he must take a different approach, which led him to question once more: How do you court a lady?
Could Aemond win you through feats of strength?
As all know, Aemond had no care for tourneys. He found it pointless– superfluous– pathetic for a man of his station. Yet, he rode out into the grounds, adorned in his armour, hoping to seek the favour of the lady he courted.
Aemond struggled to find where you sat through the slats of his helm. His mount circled the grounds as he searched for you through the jeering crowds, when he spotted the familiar outline of your parents without you by your mother’s side. He frowned severely as he realized that you would not attend, and he could not seek your favour.
He felt foolish as he charged his horse, his lance unadorned by a flower garland but stained by blood. He knew you well. You hid from crowds. What then led him to believe that you would willingly attend a tourney? Aemond felt no satisfaction the entire day, even if he was named the victor. The only speck of satisfaction he found was when he spotted you by a bench in the quiet gardens as a celebratory feast commenced. You said not a word when the prince sat next to you. Yet, that was enough for Aemond.
However, not enough for him to learn how to capture your favour. Especially as Aemond heard cruel whispers of you leaving Westeros.
“You are leaving?” The prince asked in dread as he found you in your usual place, hidden inside the weeping branches of a willow tree. It had been a year after he announced his intent to court you, and it had been a year filled with gifts, flowers, and attention that you not once asked for, but Aemond was enthusiastic to give.
He stood behind you as you sat on the cool, soft grass. His body tense, his stomach pitted, and his heart aching even if he denied it as such.
You turned your head to glance at the prince, his eye steely– almost seething, and his hands clenched tightly by his side. Aemond swallowed thickly as the afternoon sun cast you aglow and formed an angelic halo. How could you look so beautiful even as you threatened to leave him?
“Only for a year, my prince.” You explained and watched as Prince Aemond fervently shook his head and took his place next to you. “You are to leave for a year.” He gritted out, his fists clenching tightly around the damp grass.
“Well, a year and two moons. It takes a month of sailing and traveling to reach YiTi.” You clarified as you set your eyes on the pond's calm waters, which reflected the afternoon light. Aemond breathed heavily at the thought of you leaving him for more than a year. What shall happen then? Would you garner new admirers in your homeland? Should you be forced to take a groom who resembles your own culture and customs? What should become Aemond then? Would he be a man who lost the only lady who consumed his thoughts for the past five years?
“What of our courtship then?” He could not help but ask, his hand that gripped the grass, loosening as it inched closer to yours. “What of it, your highness?”
Aemond pursed his lips. His eye was intently studying every possible expression that may come to your ever-composed face. He stayed silent, and he heard a sigh leave your lips before you turned your head to meet his gaze.
“Do you wish to cease courting me?” You asked quietly, heartbeat erratic, and you tried your best not to let it show.
“No.” The prince quickly answered, and you bit back a smile as you stood, watching as the prince followed each single one of your movements. “Then court me in YiTi, my prince.”
“Another letter, my lady,” a maid called as she approached with a rather thick scroll that was wrapped tightly and bore the Targaryen seal. It had been three moons since you had left Westeros, and it had been three moons filled with consistent letters from the prince.
You sat upright on your bed, your eyes glancing and admiring the simple wooden carving of a dragon that the prince gave you years before, placing a small smile on your lips as your maid exited your chambers and left you in your own company.
How long must I live in agony, my lady?
You breathed out a laugh as you read the first line of the prince’s letter. You sighed dreamily as a blush came to your cheeks, and your fingers caressed the bold letters of what he wrote.
Sometimes, at night, you feared the prince would leave you spurned. You feared that you were not enough for him to keep interested. That your overly composed and some would even say, stoic demeanor would run him off, and he’d find a lady who did not struggle in showing their affections.
In truth, the reason why you were completely perplexed when he decided to court you was because you had been completely infatuated with him ever since you arrived in the Red Keep. As children, many feared him and his lack of one eye, but if you were being honest, you quite liked him that way.
It was a tragedy, of course, but the silver lining was that even if he had only one eye, never once did the unique lilac orbs leave your thoughts.
You bit your lip as you drafted your letter of reply. The prince had sent a dozen letters, yet the one you wrote would only be your fifth letter sent. You stared long and hard at the blank parchment, torn as to what to write. Fear was a powerful emotion that often left their captives paralyzed. And so, you took a deep breath and simply wrote.
Wrote anything and everything you could think of. No direction. No aim. Simply a letter written in hopes the prince would be reminded of your existence and would wait until your return.
I believe your dragon would enjoy the East. There is a vast valley near my grandsire’s keep that your great Vhagar would find agreeable.
I also believe that you shall enjoy the East. I recall that you are fond of combat, and here, there are customs in which fighters do not rely on weapons but simply their bodies. Men fight with open palms, swift and fluid like water, while others strike with such force that one would think their fists forged from steel. I suspect that you shall excel in such a kind of combat, my prince.
Aemond bit his lip as he reread your letter for the tenth time in an hour. Gods, he wanted to feel foolish. There he was, in his grandsire’s study, being forced to listen to business dealings, all the while his only thought was of you. His heart that beat for no other than you, swelled at the thought that not only did you write to him, but you as well knew of his fondness for combat and were thinking of his dragon too.
Lord Otto eyed his grandson in curiosity and concern. For the past hour, Aemond read a letter repeatedly, would let out a yearning sigh, and stare at the wall with an odd softness in his eye that he could not believe was capable. “Are you listening, Aemond?”
Aemond breathed out another sigh. His mind recalling what you had written, imagining your voice that uttered what you wrote echoing in his head. Gods, he missed you. He did not even think he’d miss you as intensely as he did. You were a quiet little thing, you prefer to go unnoticed, and the prince foolishly thought that he could manipulate his mind to think that you were simply hiding away in your corner, but he felt your absence deeply, and he could not concentrate on his duties.
“This is pathetic, my prince.” He heard his grandsire sigh from his desk. The lord hand’s gaze steady on a parchment containing business while his grandson reread a letter over and over.
“I did not ask for your opinion.” Aemond gritted out. The elation he felt just moments earlier quickly disappeared at his grandsire’s words. Otto Hightower sighed.
“You are a prince of the realm. You have hundreds of ladies at your disposal, yet you obsess over a lady who cannot even name you as her favoured suitor. A lady who you had let distract you from your duties. Had you acting and sighing like a damsel as well.”
“She had made you weak. Turned you into a simpleton.”
Prince Aemond frowned deeply, his fists clenching around air. No word of reply nor defense on his tongue as his grandsire plainly said the doubts and thoughts he fought hard to repress. Aemond had grown distracted as to who he truly was. He acted like a love-sick pup when he was meant to be a dragon prince.
Aemond did not respond to your letter. Nor did he respond to the other two that followed. He simply let the year of your absence pass. His grandsire’s word aimed true to his heart. All his life, the only thing the prince knew was that he did not like being seen as weak. He had been weak as a child, as he let his brother and nephews constantly belittle him. He knew it could not happen once more, even if you were the reason.
For the following moons, the prince made no move to contact you. He sent no bi-weekly letters. He sent no greetings or regards. He even hindered himself in sending you a bundle of gifts on your name day. He exercised a great feat of restraint and control for an entire year, simply lying in wait until the dawn of your return came.
Prince Aemond stood by the docks, his veins fueled with adrenaline and his heart aching to see you once more. He did not know how he had been able to resist you for a year, yet it did not matter, for now his long suffering was to come to an end.
However, as he watched your parents disembarked the ship, it was painfully obvious that you were left in YiTi.
***
Prince Aemond broke your heart. Your great fears of being left spurned– of being forgotten turned true as the prince seemed to forget your existence. He ignored your letters, even if you sent three scrolls consecutively. You had spent your days staring longingly out the windows, hoping that the ravens that flew would come with a letter from a prince, but none did.
You tried your best to hide the grief you felt at the prince’s action. You tried to act your usual detached and unemotional self. But each time you would sit alone in either the great gardens of your home or at banquets and feasts, you feel your heart pit as you had gotten used to the prince finding his way to you and accompanying you even through silence.
The days that led to your return to Kingslanding, you made the decision to stay in YiTi. You could not subject yourself to return to Westeros with a broken heart. You could not fathom the thought of facing Prince Aemond once more. And so, you stayed. You did not return after a year and two moons. You stayed in YiTi under your grandsire’s care and hoped that the ache in your heart would dissipate soon enough.
“The Westerns are simple-minded– especially the Targaryens. They act as if they are gods among men when in truth, they’re mere ferrets who only rose to power because of their dragons.” You hear your grandfather remark as you join him for supper.
Your parents had sent word that they were already in Kingslanding, and they also mentioned that the courtiers had to ask why you did not return. They mentioned naught of the prince, and you did not know whether to feel grateful or not.
“They reside on stolen land. They trample over the cultures and customs of those before them and punish those who disagree with their views. They appear to be almost the same as us, but not quite, for they trample over others they believe beneath them.” Your grandsire continued as you picked on your food.
“They were kind hosts,” You defended quietly, but heard as your grandfather clicked his tongue and watched him shake his head.
“It’s a lure, my child. Kindness to those men is given for their amusement– once they tire, they discard what no longer entertains them.” Your fingers tightened around the porcelain cup in your hands, holding it tightly so that you feared the warm tea might spill the moment you cracked the delicate clay. “It’s a lesson you must learn soon enough.”
Across the narrow sea, a prince stewed in rage, anger, fear, and sadness, trying his best to figure out how to get his girl back.
Unforgiveable || Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Modern!AU)
Aemond Targaryen x Reader (she/her)
(Modern!AU)
Summary: Aemond doesn't lose control, every movement of his is studied and planned, that is until her.
Warnings: MDNI, smut, angst, unprotected p in v, talks of pregnancy and miscarriage, mentions of blood, medical procedures, ooc!aemond, aged up Aemond, let me know if I missed any.
WC: 22k+ (the whole fic)
Chapter 1
“Thank you, Aemond.” She mumbles quietly.
“Husband.” He corrects her, at this her eyebrows furrow. They had only been married for a few short hours and it is already too much information to handle, flooding her mind and invading her thoughts.
It’s quiet in their bedroom. Even his typing away on his laptop doesn’t offer much… amusement. She looks around, trying to find something to occupy her time. He’s working, on his wedding night, not quite what she expected.
What she did expect was he would not be touching her. Aemond doesn’t seem like the guy who does quick one night trysts but maybe her read on him isn’t accurate.
“I need my books.” She declares. “Please.”
“Never you mind.” Aemond is firm and puts his laptop away so methodically she huffs out a sigh.
“Sit.” He says plainly. It has been a whirlwind of a tiring day that she finds herself not able to relax, even in her new home. But resting legs after walking around all day in heels was a welcome invitation.
Reluctantly, she sits, on her side of the bed as he so strictly instructed.
“Touch yourself.” Aemond tells her cooly, not a minute change on his face.
If it was possible, her eyebrows knot closer, her heart racing almost as quick as her thoughts. What does he mean?
Certainly, she knows what he means but why? She reserves touching herself for her own comfort in only the utmost privacy she can get. Now that she’s married, on the very first year of their union, she could not fathom seeking comfort in solo ventures.
Of course, it is naïve to think she would never need to comfort herself once in a while but she just assured herself she wouldn’t need to… for now. Especially now in their first night as husband and wife.
“I uh, I-” She stalls.
Her mouth has gone dry and it seems all the blood in her body has rushed to her ears. She can hear it plainly.
“Do you know how?” Her gaze whips towards him, incredulous but Aemond just studies her face, no hint of judgement in his expression, at least nothing she can detect.
She couldn’t answer, or muster an answer that would be fitting in this situation. She almost flinches when the sheets ruffle as Aemond moves closer.
“It’s our duty.” He’s close enough that when he says this his breath fans at her cheeks and her hair. And the way he says it, almost like a prayer, confuses her even more.
She debates on closing her eyes shut but ultimately decides not to make herself more vulnerable in this position. Slowly her hand crept lower to her center, tentatively finding her warmest place.
“Hmm.” He hums, watching her. She lets her mind wander, eventually her eyelids fall close. What did she think of in those moments when she was alone, wanting and needing a release? She couldn’t think of them now, couldn’t rack her brain for anything.
Frustrated, her eyes fly open and cease her ministrations. Aemond has left the bed and has dimmed the lights.
“I’m sorr-” The words die on her lips when she sees him start to undress. He’s all sharp angles and hard lines; she couldn’t help but stare. Aemond feels her gaze tracing all over his body. The light was dim enough he thought but for some reason her curious gaze rendered him still, unable to move. He knows he looks good. He has enough discipline to eat clean and keep fit at the gym. For a man, an insanely wealthy man, being healthy and fit is the utmost important. He indulges sometimes but never too much. It might not look it but he is fit. Women often never stare because he never allows them to see him bare. This body, his, is now just for his wife.
“Don’t move.” He whispers into the air.
More instructions. She protests. She moves. Standing up from the bed closing the gap between them. Before she could think, she’s on her tippy toes, kissing him. She intended it to be a chaste kiss but he reciprocates and deepens their connection. His hands cradle her face, angling her the way he wants to. Goosebumps pepper her skin, at her arms, her belly and her legs. She feels her nightgown slipping off her shoulders and as soon as the night air kisses her breasts, her nipples harden in response.
“Where do you want me?” She sighs, shivering as his lips trail a few gentle kisses down her neck. She feels dumb for asking, she only wants to be taken to bed.
Aemond does carry her to bed, she could swoon. She feels a rush; of something she doesn’t know yet. All she knows is her heart is pounding and everywhere he touches on her body is light aflame.
“Aemond…” Gods, she feels pathetic as she clutches his shoulder closer to her.
“Husband.” He corrects. It’s so formal, she doesn’t want to say it. But her annoyance subsides when she feels his hands tracing small, firm circles on her center.
She leans up to kiss him but to no avail, his eye is trained on her, still no judgement but something else. Anger? Annoyance? She doesn’t know. At least he’s making her wet better than she would have done alone. Bare minimum.
Under his heated gaze, her face heats up even more. She reaches up to tuck his hair back but his hand leaves her center and grasps her wrist.
“Wha-?” It’s like cold water was dumped on her head. His hold on her is tight bordering on uncomfortable. It seems all the warmth has been sucked out of the room.
“I’m sorry.” She whispers, still feeling his grip on her wrist. A beat, or two happens. Aemond remains unblinking hovering over her. He guides her hand closer to him, to his heavy and warm erection. She gasps at first contact and he… doesn’t even react.
Does he really feel nothing? Even when they’re so close? Apparently, she’s been naïve in more ways than one. She looks curiously at his face, absorbing everything that’s happening.
Aemond guides her hand slowly but surely. It’s okay she consoles herself. Sex is about giving and receiving. She won’t be selfish, she reminds herself. Tentatively, she closes her hands tighter on him, pumping once then twice.
“Fuck this.” Aemond grits out and slaps her hand away, already too impatient.
“I’m sorry.” She is quick to correct her mistake and for the first time sees a change on his face. He’s definitely angry now. When she withdraws her hand, she realized she’s been shaking too much. It’s all so new to her, she’s never been this close to anyone else. Never touched another person in this way.
“Shut up.” If possible, his tone is even colder.
She curses herself. Had she known Aemond wanted a more experienced wife, she should have gone out there and gotten more… experience. Her eyes have glazed over, her mind transporting her to another place. Worse even, she knows when he eventually enters her it’s going to hurt. She feels so cold now, so insecure and also angry at him and at herself. His warmth before feels like eons ago even though he’s still right there, mere inches from her. Her arms instinctively cover her chest. Her walls are up, she’s distant. She won’t open up to him willingly. and he’s made it clear he’ll take from her whether she ready for him or not.
“Tsk.” Aemond reaches for his bedside table, she doesn’t look. But when the cold liquid touches her she admittedly feels a little bit of relief. Another mercy, lube. For the stupid woman who married a cold, wealthy man. She’s not even sure how her fool of a father secured this match. She sees him as incompetent, a manchild. All her life she has seen her mother’s servitude to this man, her father. She didn’t deserve him.
Shaking her head from these thoughts, she looks up at the ceiling, waiting for the pain to come. She tries so hard not to let this phase her but sadness swells in her and she feels the tears coming before she can blink them away.
“Just sleep here.” Aemond has retreated from her. He got dressed and leaves the room.
*
She wakes up with a start. She has almost forgotten she is in her new home now. Bleary eyed, she looks for her phone. 8 missed calls. She has made her mother worried.
“I’m fine.” She announces to her phone as she types out a response. Is she?
Aemond has not returned to their bedroom. She knows because she barely slept a wink. She feels a dull ache in her heart, a sadness. And she feels anxious too. Are his family the sort of family that takes traditions seriously? Can not consummating the marriage result her in being kicked out or worse?
“Good morning, my lady.” She startles, not even realizing she was not alone in this room. Mrs. Colson, only mentioned to her in passing. The older woman who has taken care of the house longer than Aemond has been alive.
“Or rather, good afternoon.” Mrs. Colson chuckles. Her knowing gaze is avoided. “Mr. Targaryen has specific instructions for us when you start your day.”
Great, more instructions. She hides behind the blankets in bed, nodding along said specific instructions. She was to have breakfast with him. Oops. She can take her lunch in the gardens and should not wait for him for dinner. All the other hours in the day, she is free to do what she wants. Aemond doesn’t require her to attend many events. He himself doesn’t attend many.
“Thank you, Mrs. Colson.” She replies kindly.
“Where would you want your lunch, my Lady?” Mrs. Colson asks even gentler than her tone. Is she being mocked?
“Just in the dining room, please.” She thinks. She really would prefer it in a cozy room but the only cozy room in this house she has seen so far is the bedroom she was in and she doesn’t think Aemond or Mrs. Colson would appreciate it if she took her lunch in here.
She quickly cleans herself up, and takes a light lunch. Her stomach is still in knots. Too anxious to hold more food than usual. She asks Mrs. Colson to take her to the library, taking note of where it is in this big old house. Maybe those are where her books went.
Having scoured the library and taking a few books back to her room, she has nothing else to do. It’s a realization that makes her anxious. She relaxes on the bed, opening up one book but she quickly abandons that and makes her way down to find Mrs. Colson.
Not knowing what else to do, she chooses to not let herself be idle. She would have to annoy Mrs. Colson once again and she dreads it. They meet at the stairs, Mrs. Colson carrying a pile of clothes.
“These are his clothes, recently laundered and pressed. We do them every other day.” She nods, taking them. They both enter the bedroom, Mrs. Colson showing her where to place his clean clothes.
“Forgive me for asking…” She starts. “Uhm, do you do the shopping, Mrs. Colson?” Mrs. Colson tilts her head towards her, a smile appearing on her lips.
“Yes. Do you need anything? Well, that reminds me you must tell me if you have any food allergies.” Her dirty clothes are collected. The whole time she was just two steps behind Mrs. Colson.
“No, no allergies. I wanted to ask if I can help with the shopping? Maybe I can help next time you go.” She cringes. She knows she’ll just be in the way but she won’t feel peace until she asks.
“Oh. I’ll let you know then.” Mrs. Colson smile gets bigger yet also somehow stiffer. She won’t let her know because she’s Aemond’s wife, not an employee. It simply is not how they do things.
She’ll just have to accept things, she tells herself. Endure. As if living in a huge mansion with people doing things for you and wanting for nothing is the definition of enduring. How do other wives do this? How do they bear all the idle time?
Books. She tells herself. Now she can buy all the books she wants without it feeling like a negotiation all the time. She would read because she has all the time in the world for it now.
Or she can be a typical wife in a loveless marriage and be wine drunk. If she starts drinking it maybe that’ll be where she ends up. Not to be morbid but she has these thoughts because she will always consider the possibility. She herself didn’t think she would end up in a loveless marriage but she is in one now.
“Dinner?” Aemond’s voice is calm, yet she startles anyway.
“You’re back.” She whispers, sitting up. In all the excitement of touring the house and finding all her books she almost fell asleep with one in her hand.
“Come down in five minutes.” He responds coldly.
She didn’t want to come down, she felt poorly. Her head is muddled and she feels dizzy. And her stomach hasn’t settled. But she followed his heed, she has no other choice.
“I trust Mrs. Colson has given you a more detailed tour?” Aemond sat across from her, it was only two of them at dinner, and the staff filling his cup with wine and probably Mrs. Colson back in the kitchen.
“Yes, she did.” She cuts her dinner with trepidation; it looks appetizing enough but she doesn’t feel like eating. Her eyes flit carefully to the glass of wine he’s nursing, then his lips.
“Wine, my lady?” Someone behind her asks. She almost chokes on her food. Wine, like what she’s been thinking about just a few hours ago.
“I shouldn’t…” She mumbles, tearing her eyes away from Aemond and giving the man behind her a short glance.
“I’m going away for 3 weeks, starting tomorrow.” His gaze pins her in place. She has barely eaten anything and yet feels a pang in her belly. Her gaze meets his eye, measuring her words carefully.
“Oh, uh…” Her head spins, the longer she sits in one place pretending to enjoy the dinner, the worse of the dizzy spell takes ahold of her.
“Mrs. Colson will be here. You won’t be alone.” His clear voice goes straight to her head. She nods in response, not capable of doing or saying more.
“Excuse me.” She bolts, running upstairs towards the only bathroom she was familiar with. The minute contents of her stomach threatening to spill from her lips with every step.
She doesn’t expect him to follow her and he doesn’t. but she jumps at the feeling of a gentle caress on her back as she’s throwing up the contents of her belly.
“There, there.” Mrs. Colson hand is gentle and unassuming.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Colson. It’s not the food. I just felt dizzy.” Her eyes were watery and try all she might she can’t blink away the tears flooding them.
“I’ll make some soup for you, it’ll help.”
“No, Mrs. Colson. It’s quite alright. I just need to lie down for a bit.” She rinses her mouth with water, gripping the sink tightly as she brushes her teeth.
Aemond is there when she exits the bathroom. She can barely glance at him. She waits for him to say something, anything but the cold stare he gives her is a dead giveaway. He’s angry.
“You’re doing this so I won’t leave.” The accusation hangs heavy.
“She is ju-” Even Mrs. Colson is shocked. Helping her on the bed.
“I’m not... I’m not…” She tries to look at him but she can only screw her eyes tighter as she tries to steady herself as another wave of dizziness muddles her head.
“Mrs. Colson, leave us.” Aemond’s voice sends a chill down her spine.
“I will not be participating in any games.” Aemond says as he kneels down at her eye level.
“Look at me.” His fingers find her jaw, massaging her there, obliging her to open her eyes.
“Why did you marry me?” She gulps, forcing her eyes open. “Why did you marry me if you’re gonna treat me this way?” Her response was a whisper but it weighed heavy as soon as the words left her lips.
He wrenches his hand away, as if poisoned by her. When she woke up the next morning, he was gone.
Summary: A simple servant from the Riverlands is forced into the world of King’s Landing when she must take the place of a noblewoman promised to Prince Aemond Targaryen.
The Riverlands were heavy with rain that night.
You had always loved the sound of rain, how it muffled the world into something soft and calm. But that night, the calm felt false. The house was too still.
The corridors too quiet.
You were preparing herbs for the kitchens when a young maid entered, breathless.
“The Lady wants you,” she said, wringing her hands. “In the great hall.”
You frowned. It was far too late for your mistress to summon you.
“Did she say why?”
The maid shook her head quickly.
“No, only that you come at once.”
You wiped your hands on your apron and followed her through the dim corridors. The torches burned low, their flames trembling in the draught. Your heart began to pound, though you could not say why. You were a servant, nothing more. Servants were called for many things.
But when you stepped into the hall, you realised this was not one of those things.
Your Lord and Lady stood side by side before the hearth. Their daughter sat behind them, hunched and pale in her chair, her fine gown dishevelled as though she had been crying for hours. You froze where you stood, clutching your hands before you.
“My lady,” you said quietly, bowing your head.
“Come closer,” she ordered.
You obeyed, each step echoing across the cold stone floor.
When you stopped before them, your Lady studied you with sharp, restless eyes. Her husband’s jaw was clenched tight, as if every word he had to say might shatter him.
“You have been in our service for many years,” the Lady began. “You are quiet, loyal, and no one outside this household knows your face well.”
You hesitated.
“Yes, my lady. I have always tried to serve faithfully.”
Her gaze drifted to her daughter, whose eyes filled with tears.
“You must swear what we discuss here will never leave this room.”
Your stomach turned.
“I swear it.”
The Lord cleared his throat, his voice rough.
“Our daughter has been promised to Prince Aemond Targaryen, the second son of the King. The betrothal was arranged months ago, and word of her journey to King’s Landing has already reached the court.”
Your eyes flickered to the young woman in the chair. Her hands were clasped tightly over her stomach.
“She… she cannot go,” the Lady said in a low, trembling voice. “She carries the child of another man. A knight in our service. If the Crown learns of this, we will be ruined.”
The words struck you like a blow.
“My lady, what will you do?”
The Lord’s expression hardened.
“We will send you in her place.”
You blinked, certain you had misheard.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” the Lady said sharply. “You are of similar build, and with the right clothes, the right manner, few would question it. You will go to King’s Landing as our daughter, marry Prince Aemond, and secure our house’s future.”
Your mouth went dry.
“But I am not noble. I have no titles, no learning, no-”
Her voice cut through yours.
“You will learn. You will speak only when spoken to, walk as you have seen her walk, and keep your eyes lowered. They need not know the truth.”
You shook your head in disbelief.
“My lady, please, they will see it at once. I cannot deceive the King, the Queen, the Prince-”
The Lord’s voice thundered across the hall.
“You will do as you are told!”
The sound silenced everything. The rain, the fire, even your breath. You stood frozen as he stepped closer, his anger twisting his features.
“If you refuse, your family will pay the price. Your father works my land, does he not? Your mother tends my orchards? Think carefully before you speak again.”
Your heart dropped. You thought of your parents, their small home by the river, the way your mother smiled whenever you returned with flowers from the meadow. They would not survive without this house’s favour.
Tears welled in your eyes, but you forced your voice steady.
“I understand, my lord.”
The Lady’s tone softened, though her face did not.
“You will be cared for. We will provide gowns, jewellery, and a new name. You are to call yourself by our daughter’s name in every breath you take. If anyone suspects you, deny it. Smile and lie, for all our sakes.”
You turned to the young woman who sat weeping beside the hearth. She could not even meet your gaze.
“My lady,” you whispered, “is this truly what you wish?”
Her sobs grew louder.
“I cannot marry him,” she cried. “He is a dragon, and I am already ruined. Please, forgive me.”
Forgive her. That was all she said, as if forgiveness could make you something you were not.
---
The next morning came quickly.
They bathed you in scented water, combed your hair, and draped you in silks that felt foreign on your skin.
Jewels were fastened around your neck, and rings slid onto your trembling fingers. You looked into the mirror and did not recognise yourself.
The Lady’s maid pressed a folded letter into your hand.
“For the Queen,” she said. “You will give it to her upon your arrival.”
You stepped outside to the waiting carriage. The air was cold, and the ground glistened with dew. The Lady and Lord watched as you climbed in, their faces unreadable.
“Remember who you are now,” the Lady said softly. “You are our daughter. You were born to wed a prince.”
The door shut before you could reply. The horses lurched forward, and the manor faded behind the mist and rain. You sat alone, the letter heavy in your lap, your heart hollow.
The road to King’s Landing took four days.
You passed villages and rivers, hills and distant keeps. The closer you came to the capital, the more uneasy you felt.
The Red Keep rose high above the city like a crown of bloodstone, sharp and proud against the pale sky.
When the gates opened, you stepped into a world that was not your own.
Gold cloaks lined the courtyard, their armour gleaming. Ladies in silk whispered from behind fans. You could feel their eyes on you, measuring, judging.
Inside, the Queen herself awaited you.
Alicent Hightower, poised and elegant, with eyes that seemed to see everything. You knelt before her, offering the letter with trembling hands.
“My lady,” she said gently, breaking the seal. “Rise, please. You are welcome in the Red Keep.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” you murmured.
Her smile was small but kind.
“You must be weary from your travels. The King wishes to bless your union soon, though he is frail and resting tonight. You will meet the royal family at dinner tomorrow.”
You curtsied again, heart pounding.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
A servant led you to your chambers, larger than any space you had ever seen.
The walls were draped in red, the bed carved with dragons, and the windows opened to the sea.
You stood there, trying to steady your breathing.
When you finally looked out the window, your gaze fell upon the training yard below. A group of knights sparred with wooden swords, the clatter of steel echoing faintly through the courtyard. Among them stood a man with long silver hair, his movements precise and powerful. When he turned, you caught the gleam of an eyepatch beneath the sun.
Prince Aemond Targaryen.
Even from afar, you could sense the chill that surrounded him.
His stance was proud, his expression unreadable, but there was something captivating about the way he moved, controlled, graceful, as if every strike were a piece of music only he could hear.
You did not know why your chest felt tight as you watched him.
Perhaps it was fear, perhaps awe.
Or perhaps, deep down, it was the first stirring of something far more dangerous.
That night, as you lay in the vast bed that did not feel like yours, you thought of home, the rain, the wildflowers, and your mother’s soft humming by the fire.
Now all of it felt distant, as though you had left not only the Riverlands but the person you once were.
Tomorrow you would dine with dragons.
Tomorrow, your lie would begin.
Morning came with the sound of gulls outside your window and the slow chime of bells from somewhere deep within the Keep.
You woke in a bed far too soft, with sunlight spilling through the curtains like molten gold. For a long moment, you forgot where you were. Then the memories rushed back, the rain-soaked manor, the carriage ride, the letter pressed into your trembling hands.
You were no longer yourself. You were a noblewoman promised to a dragon.
A soft knock came at the door. When you opened it, a young maid curtsied deeply.
“The Queen requests your presence for the midday meal, my lady,” she said, avoiding your gaze. “She asked that you join the royal family in the gardens.”
Your throat tightened.
“The gardens?”
“Yes, my lady. Prince Aemond will escort you.”
“Prince Aemond?”
She nodded, her tone respectful but curious.
“He asked for you himself.”
You could not remember how you dressed, only that your hands would not stop shaking.
When you caught your reflection, you hardly recognised the woman staring back, she looked too composed, too fine. But your eyes, uncertain and afraid, stayed your own.
When you walked to the courtyard, he was waiting.
Prince Aemond Targaryen stood under a stone archway, the morning light falling across his pale hair.
His posture was flawless, his hands clasped behind his back. The eyepatch gleamed black against his skin, sharp and stark, yet it did not mar his beauty. If anything, it made him seem carved from something ancient and unyielding.
He inclined his head when he saw you.
“My lady.”
“Your Grace,” you replied, your voice soft, unsure.
“Shall we?”
He offered his arm.
You hesitated only a second before taking it. His sleeve brushed yours, and though he wore gloves, you could still feel the strength beneath his stillness.
The gardens stretched wide and green beneath the castle walls. Roses climbed over trellises, jasmine spilled down marble columns, and the air was rich with the scent of lavender and warm earth.
You felt a strange sense of comfort here, among the flowers, you could almost forget the deceit woven around your every breath.
“You favour the gardens,” Aemond said as you walked along the gravel path.
“I do,” you admitted, glancing at a bed of peonies. “They remind me of home.”
“Your home in the Riverlands?”
You stiffened slightly. You had rehearsed this lie, but the words still caught.
“Yes, my prince. My mother kept a garden by the river. It was… smaller than this, but very dear to her.”
Aemond looked at you sidelong, his expression unreadable.
“Few of noble birth tend to their own gardens.”
You smiled faintly.
“Then perhaps I am simply unusual.”
His mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement.
“Unusual, perhaps. But not unpleasant.”
You felt warmth creep into your cheeks and turned quickly to the roses beside you. Their petals were the colour of blood, heavy with dew. You reached out to touch one, your fingers brushing the silk of the bloom.
“They are Targaryen roses,” you said softly, eager to fill the silence. “They only grow within the walls of the Red Keep. Their roots do not take in foreign soil.”
Aemond’s brow lifted slightly.
“You know much about flowers.”
You smiled, still facing the rose.
“I love them. They speak in colours and scent. They tell stories without words.”
He said nothing for a long moment, and you dared to look at him. He was watching you, his one visible eye steady, bright as amethyst in the sunlight.
“What story does this one tell?” he asked.
You hesitated, glancing back at the crimson petals.
“That it is proud and unyielding, but lonely. It grows where others cannot reach it.”
Something flickered across his face, surprise, perhaps even pain. Then it was gone. He looked away.
“You see much,” he said quietly. “More than most.”
You wanted to ask what he meant, but you sensed the walls closing around him again, and so you said nothing.
The Queen joined you later for the midday meal laid out beneath the shade of an oak tree. The table gleamed with silver dishes, though you could barely eat for the nerves coiling in your stomach.
Aegon arrived first, already half drunk, his grin wide and teasing.
“So this is the famed bride of my brother,” he said, dropping into a chair. “He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your arrival. You must have bewitched him.”
Aemond’s voice was calm but cold.
“Mind your tongue.”
Aegon only laughed.
“See? He even defends you. Perhaps you’ll tame the dragon after all.”
You flushed deeply, unsure where to look.
The Queen gave her eldest son a sharp glance, and he fell silent with a sigh.
Helaena was next, smiling dreamily as she sat beside you. Her eyes, pale and distant, flickered between the flowers arranged on the table.
“You smell like the meadows,” she said suddenly. “Do you like butterflies? They are better companions than men.”
You smiled softly.
“I like them very much.”
“I thought so,” she replied with a nod, and began tracing circles on the tablecloth.
The Queen gave you a kind, if weary, smile.
“I trust the journey was not too difficult?”
“It was long, Your Grace,” you said honestly, “but the welcome has been… generous.”
Aemond glanced at you from across the table. His expression softened just slightly, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if the lie might be bearable.
After the meal, Aemond offered to walk you back to your chambers. The corridors were quiet as your steps echoed through the stone halls.
“You endured my brother well,” he said after a moment.
You smiled faintly.
“He means no harm, I think.”
“He means only harm. But he is harmless regardless.”
That earned a small laugh from you before you could stop it. His head tilted slightly, as though surprised by the sound.
“You laugh easily,” he said.
“Not always,” you admitted, lowering your gaze. “But sometimes, it is all one can do.”
He stopped before your door, looking down at you with a gaze that made your heart twist.
“You are not what I expected.”
You looked up at him.
“And what did you expect, my prince?”
He studied you in silence for a moment.
“Someone vain, perhaps. Proud. Like all the others. But you are not like them.”
You felt his words settle deep in your chest, too heavy and too tender at once.
“Rest well, my lady,” he said finally, stepping back.
“Good night, my prince.”
When the door closed behind you, you leaned against it, breath unsteady. The scent of roses still lingered on your hands, and for the first time since you arrived at the Red Keep, the fear in your chest eased just a little.
You did not know it then, but that morning walk among the flowers had changed everything.
The days after your walk in the garden unfolded like a dream you feared would end too soon.
The memory of the prince’s voice lingered in your head, low and even, with words that revealed more than he meant to. You had seen something then and it had stayed with you.
The Keep’s servants now looked at you differently. Some bowed a little lower, some whispered a little more. You did not dare ask what they said, though you caught your name paired with Aemond’s often enough to know that your quiet existence was no longer unseen.
One morning, as you sat at the window of your chamber, the light spilling through the lattice in soft gold, a knock sounded on the door. When you opened it, Aemond stood there.
He was dressed in dark riding leathers, his hair pulled back neatly, his eye cool and clear.
“I am told you have not yet seen Vhagar,” he said. “That will not do. Come with me.”
You blinked, startled by his sudden presence, and nodded.
“Of course, my prince.”
He frowned slightly.
“Do not call me that when we are alone. Aemond will do.”
You followed him through the Red Keep, the corridors dim and cool. Servants bowed as you passed, their gazes curious.
The weight of his silence filled the air, though now it felt less distant, more thoughtful. When you reached the outer gates, the air was bright and sharp with the scent of sea and stone.
He led you down the slope beyond the walls, where the cliffs opened toward the dragonpit.
The sound of wings, distant and thunderous, rumbled in the air before you even saw her.
And then there she was.
Vhagar.
A creature of ancient majesty, her wings folded like mountains, her scales gleaming dull bronze in the light. She exhaled a breath that rippled the ground, her single eye, old and knowing, turning to her rider.
“She is older than the Conquest itself,” Aemond said quietly beside you. “Some say she remembers Valyria. She has outlived every rider but me.”
You could only stare, your heart beating fast.
“She is beautiful,” you whispered.
He looked at you then.
“Most say she is terrifying.”
You smiled faintly.
“Perhaps beauty and terror are not so different.”
Aemond’s lips curved, a shadow of amusement.
“You speak like someone born of dragon blood.”
You shook your head.
“I have no such fire in my veins. I am only a woman who sees wonder where others see fear.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind carried the scent of ash and salt, Vhagar’s breath a deep rhythm in the distance. Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, not with the sharpness he wore before, but with a kind of careful curiosity, as though you were another secret of the world he wished to study.
“You are not like the women of court,” he said after a pause. “They flatter and chatter, but you... You listen. Even when there is silence.”
“Silence often tells the truth that words cannot.”
Aemond turned his face to the sea, his expression unreadable.
“There is truth in that.” He took a step closer, his voice quieter. “Do you fear me?”
The question caught you off guard. You looked up and met his gaze, the pale light glinting off his sapphire eye.
“I do not,” you said softly. “Should I?”
His mouth twitched, a ghost of surprise.
“Most do. Even those who claim to love me.”
“Then they have never looked properly,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You are not cruel, Aemond. Only guarded.”
He inhaled, slow and steady, and for a heartbeat, you thought he might reach for you. But he did not. His hand fell to his side instead, his control returning like a tide.
“Come,” he said at last. “The light fades quickly here.”
You followed him back up the slope. The silence was no longer heavy, only filled with something unspoken, like a thread drawn between you both. When you reached the Keep again, he paused at the door.
“You said once that you liked the scent of lilacs,” he said. “They do not grow in King’s Landing, but I will have them brought for you.”
You blinked, caught between surprise and gratitude.
“That is not necessary.”
“I did not ask if it was,” he replied, though his tone was softer than his words. “Good night.”
And with that, he was gone.
That night, you lay awake, replaying his voice in your head, his nearness, the heat that had crept beneath your skin when he looked at you. Somewhere beyond the window, a dragon roared in the dark, and you wondered if your heart had begun to burn like theirs.
The lilacs arrived three days later.
You found them waiting in a silver vase on your writing table, their petals a pale, trembling violet that filled your chamber with scent.
You had not expected him to remember his promise, nor to keep it so soon. But there they were, fragrant and delicate, their colour a small rebellion against the Red Keep’s cold stone.
Aemond had not spoken to you since that morning by the dragon pit.
You thought perhaps he regretted the attention he had shown, that he had turned his mind elsewhere. Yet the lilacs told another story.
That evening, as you were pressing one of the blossoms between parchment pages, there was a knock upon your door.
You turned quickly, startled, and found him standing there again, the prince, without armour or cloak, dressed plainly in dark velvet.
“I thought you might like to walk,” he said.
There was no demand in his tone, only a quiet certainty that you would agree. You nodded, smoothing your gown.
“Of course.”
The corridors were mostly empty. Aemond’s stride was unhurried tonight, his hands clasped behind his back. You walked side by side through the torch-lit halls, down to the lower gardens where the air was cooler and the lanterns glowed like captured stars.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The silence felt different now, not distant, but shared.
He was the first to break it.
“You seem at peace among growing things,” he said. “Why?”
You smiled faintly.
“Because they ask for so little, yet give so much. They need only light, water, and time. People, on the other hand, are never content with simple things.”
He glanced down at you.
“You speak as if you have known much discontent.”
“I have known enough,” you said quietly. “But I find peace in small tasks. Cooking, tending to flowers... they are things that do not lie.”
Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, and his voice softened.
“Honesty is rare in this place. Perhaps that is why I find myself... drawn to it.”
You felt heat rise in your cheeks.
“You surprise me, Aemond.”
He gave a low, thoughtful hum.
“You are not the first to say so, though not always kindly.”
You walked on, and he guided you toward a small stone bench half-hidden beneath ivy. When you sat, you realised he was watching the night sky rather than you. The moonlight caught on the sharp lines of his face, turning his silver hair to white flame.
After a long pause, he spoke again.
“Do you ever wonder what people see when they look at you?”
You turned your head slightly.
“I suppose they see a woman who does not belong here.”
His mouth twitched.
“Perhaps. Yet I see a woman who looks at the world as if she could forgive it.”
You hesitated, unsure how to respond.
“And what do people see when they look at you?”
He was silent for a moment.
“A monster, perhaps. A prince to fear rather than love. The boy who lost an eye and gained a dragon.”
You swallowed, your heart tightening.
“Do you think yourself a monster?”
His jaw flexed.
“Sometimes. It is easier than thinking myself a man.”
Before you could stop yourself, you reached out, your fingers brushing the side of his face. He flinched, not from pain, but surprise. The rough line of the scar beneath his eye was warm under your touch.
“You are not a monster,” you said softly. “You are only what life has made you.”
His breath caught. For a moment, he did not move.
Then, very slowly, he turned his face into your palm, the gesture so fragile it almost undid you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
“You should not touch me so. It gives me thoughts I should not have.”
Your heart stuttered.
“And what thoughts are those?”
His eye lifted to meet yours, bright and searching.
“Ones that would make the gods frown.”
You withdrew your hand gently, afraid that any further boldness would shatter the moment. The air felt charged, heavy with something neither of you dared name.
After a time, Aemond rose.
“You should rest,” he said quietly. “It grows late.”
You nodded, unable to find words.
As he turned to leave, he paused.
“Keep the lilacs near your window,” he said. “Their scent suits you.”
When he was gone, you sat a long while on the bench, the moonlight silvering the petals that had fallen into your lap. You could still feel the warmth of his skin against your fingertips.
You were certain, then, that something within both of you had changed, quietly, like the first bloom of spring underneath the snow.
The Red Keep had a way of making even the smallest whisper feel like a shout.
Every footstep echoed, every glance seemed to carry scrutiny. You had grown used to it in a way, walking the corridors as the Lady’s daughter, answering questions with careful poise, smiling when required. Yet the longer you remained, the heavier the weight of deceit pressed against your chest.
It began quietly, almost imperceptibly. A servant in the kitchens paused a little too long as you passed, a flicker of recognition in her eyes before she turned away.
A page boy lingered near the stables, watching you with curiosity too sharp for innocence. And Aegon, the eldest prince, asked questions that pricked like needles, probing not only your mind but your past.
But none of these unsettled you as much as Aemond.
He had begun to watch you differently now. His glances lingered, sharp and precise, as though he were attempting to see beneath the careful facade you had been forced to construct. He did not accuse or confront, not yet. But every time your eyes met, you felt his scrutiny as a weight on your chest.
It was late one afternoon when the moment came. You were in the solar, arranging lilacs in the silver vase he had sent, the scent of the flowers filling the room. Aemond appeared in the doorway without knocking, silent as a shadow.
“You are meticulous,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of tension. “And careful with your hands. You take care as if everything depended upon it.”
You froze, startled by the intensity of his gaze.
“I… I like things to be ordered,” you said softly. “It makes the world easier to manage.”
He stepped closer, and for the first time, you noticed the subtle stiffness in his stance.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if you are always so careful, or if there is something you hide.”
Your stomach dropped.
“I… I do not understand, my prince.”
His eye narrowed slightly.
“Do not lie to me.”
You swallowed, your hands gripping the vase until the flowers trembled. “I have never lied to you.”
“Have you not?” His tone sharpened, though his eyes flickered with something softer beneath the suspicion. “You arrived as another, yet you are not her. You speak of your childhood, your home… yet it does not match what I have been told.”
Your heart pounded, and you realised there was no way to avoid this confrontation. The lie had lasted long enough. The warmth between you both, the slow bloom of trust and affection, hung precariously in the balance.
You took a deep breath, setting the vase aside.
“It is true,” you said quietly. “I am not your promised bride.”
Aemond’s violet eye widened slightly, then darkened with anger.
“Then who are you?”
You stepped forward, your hands open as though offering peace.
“I am a servant of the family you were promised. Their daughter… she cannot marry you. She is with child, and she loves another. I had no choice.”
His jaw flexed, tension radiating from his shoulders.
“You deceived the Crown. You deceived me. Do you know the danger you have brought upon yourself?”
“I know,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear threading through it. “I meant no harm. I only did as I was told. My name is…” You paused, then spoke it softly, the truth finally free. “…and I care for you more than I ever imagined I could. From the moment we walked in the gardens, from the day I saw Vhagar, I…”
He flinched, as if your words were a weapon.
“You speak of love,” he said, his tone harsh, almost incredulous. “Do you think that will absolve you?”
You stepped closer, despite the chill that had settled between you.
“I cannot take it back. I cannot undo what has been done. But you must know… I never meant to deceive you for my own gain. My heart is yours, whether you believe it or not.”
For a moment, he did not move.
The silence stretched long enough for your courage to falter, for fear to creep back in. You feared he would turn, leave, and let the weight of your lie be your end.
Then, suddenly, he left the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. You were left alone with the lilacs, their scent bittersweet, and your chest heaving with a mixture of relief and dread.
You did not sleep that night.
Every creak of the Keep made you flinch. Every shadow seemed to harbour judgement. You imagined the worst, that the prince would never forgive you, that the Queen would learn, that your life would crumble entirely.
Yet when morning came, the world had not ended.
The corridors were quiet, the servants unaware of the storm that had passed in your chamber. And when you made your way to the training yard, you saw him there, sword in hand, striking with precision and fury that made your heart ache in ways you could not name.
He paused when he saw you. His chest rose and fell, his expression unreadable.
You felt small, exposed, yet compelled to approach.
“My prince,” you said softly. “I… I would beg your forgiveness. I will leave, if you wish, and never return. I only wanted-”
“Do not,” he interrupted, the word sharp but not cruel. His sword lowered slowly, the tension in his shoulders giving way just enough for you to see the struggle beneath. “Do not speak of leaving. You have no choice, and… neither do I.”
He stepped closer, and for the first time, you saw the storm behind his eye. Not rage, not suspicion, but something darker, possessive, fierce, and undeniable.
“You are mine,” he said quietly, yet with force enough to make your heart skip. “And I will not let you go.”
Before you could speak, he closed the space between you, his lips pressing against yours.
It was harsh, demanding, yet tempered with the care he had shown in small ways before. You felt yourself yield, trembling, caught in the weight of his claim, the fire in his touch, and the quiet warmth that had grown between you both.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“We will face this,” he murmured, voice low and unsteady. “Together.”
And for the first time, the fear of the lie, the uncertainty of your place in his world, seemed bearable.
Sleep did not come that night, only the restless turning of thoughts that refused to still.
You laid under the soft linen sheets, staring at the ceiling while the faint sound of waves carried through the open window.
Every word he had spoken repeated in your mind, You are mine, and I will not let you go.
The taste of his kiss still lingered, a mixture of heat and fear, and you could not decide which part of it unsettled you more. He had left without another word after that, his expression unreadable, his steps heavy with something you could not name.
You rose with the dawn, hoping that the day would offer clarity, but instead, the Keep felt colder than before. The servants seemed quieter, the air heavier.
You could not shake the feeling that everything hung by a thread, your life, your secret, his mercy.
You found yourself in the gardens once again, where the lilacs had begun to fade. The petals trembled in the breeze, falling to the ground like the last remnants of a lie too heavy to bear. You touched one, your fingers tracing its fragile edge.
When you turned, Aemond was standing behind you.
You startled, your heart leaping to your throat. He wore his dark tunic, the one embroidered with subtle silver dragons. His sword belt hung at his hip, though his hand rested loosely on it.
“You should not walk alone,” he said. His voice was calm, but it carried an undertone of tension, as though he were restraining something.
You inclined your head slightly.
“I did not think you would come.”
“I considered not doing so,” he replied, stepping closer until you could see the faint bruise along his jaw, the mark of recent training. “Yet I found no peace without you in sight.”
You drew a breath, unsure how to meet his gaze.
“You should not have to see me again. You should tell the Queen the truth and-”
“I will not,” he interrupted sharply. “If you think I would hand you over to my mother’s judgment, you do not understand me at all.”
You hesitated.
“Then why have you come?”
He was silent for a long moment, the breeze shifting his hair, the sunlight catching the gleam of his sapphire.
“Because I do not know what to do with what I feel.”
You looked up at him, heart hammering.
“And what do you feel, my prince?”
He exhaled slowly, his voice low and rough.
“Anger, because you deceived me. Confusion, because I cannot hate you for it. And something far worse, because I know I could not bear to lose you, no matter the truth.”
You took a tentative step closer.
“You think it weakness.”
“It is weakness,” he said, though his tone had softened. “But one I would rather live with than the emptiness that came before.”
The confession was quiet, raw, and it stole your breath. You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing his sleeve, the warmth of him grounding you in the moment.
“I never wanted to deceive you,” you said softly. “I was told I had no choice. I thought I would come here, play the part, and fade into the background. I did not think you would ever notice me, let alone care.”
He turned his head toward you, his eye sharp but no longer cold.
“And yet you caught me unawares. No courtly woman could have done that.”
You gave a small, broken laugh.
“Because I do not know how to be one.”
“Perhaps that is why you are honest,” he murmured.
Silence fell again, but this time it was tender. The space between you was alive with everything unspoken, fear, longing, the ache of uncertainty that had become something more than either of you had intended.
“I will protect you,” he said suddenly, his hand lifting to touch your chin, tilting your face toward his. “Whatever the cost. But I will have your truth from now on. No more pretence.”
“You have it,” you whispered. “All of it.”
His gaze searched yours for a long time before he spoke again.
“Then say it,” he said quietly. “Say what you feel.”
You hesitated, your pulse racing. Then you breathed the words that had burned in you for weeks.
“I love you, Aemond. I love you, though I should not, though I do not deserve to. I love you still.”
He inhaled sharply, as though struck by the force of it. His hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until his forehead rested against yours.
“You should not,” he whispered. “But you do.”
You closed your eyes.
“And you?”
He was silent for a heartbeat, and then his lips brushed yours, softer this time, deliberate and certain. When he drew back, his voice was quiet but steady.
“I do.”
The words settled between you like a vow.
That evening, the Keep seemed quieter than usual. You ate alone, as you often did, but your heart was no longer burdened by fear. The lie was gone. What remained was fragile, uncertain, but real, a truth born of fire and forgiveness.
You sat by the window until the stars appeared, watching the flicker of the training yard torches below. Aemond would be there, you knew, working his blade against the dark.
You touched the lilac petals on your table and smiled faintly, knowing that from this moment onward, whatever the world said, you would not face it alone.
The Keep had begun to change around you. Where before every glance and whispered word had carried the weight of suspicion, now it carried a different tension, one of curiosity, some awe, and, you suspected, a little fear.
Aemond’s presence had become inescapable, whether in the training yard, the gardens, or the long halls of the Red Keep. And the way he looked at you, lingering and deliberate, left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he considered you his.
You discovered the extent of that claim one afternoon when he appeared at your chambers unannounced. You were arranging herbs in a copper bowl, the scent of rosemary and thyme heavy in the warm air.
“You should not be alone here,” he said quietly, stepping inside. His eyes caught yours, sharp and intense, and the air seemed to thrum with his presence.
“I am careful,” you replied, trying to sound calm, though your pulse had quickened.
“Not careful enough,” he said, closing the door behind him. His hand rested briefly on the edge of the table, near yours, and the heat of him made your fingers tremble. “You belong to me now. I will not have harm come to you.”
You looked up at him, startled by the intensity in his voice.
“I am yours?”
“Yes,” he said simply, firmly, his one eye burning with emotion. “Do you doubt it?”
“I…” Your words faltered. You had feared this declaration, yet now that it came, it made your chest ache with something sweet and terrifying. “No,” you whispered.
He stepped closer, closing the gap between you. The faintest brush of his fingers against yours made your heart stutter.
“You will be mine in every sense,” he said softly, “and the world will have to accept it.”
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself.
“I… I do not know what that means.”
“It means that I will guard you,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “I will fight anyone who dares to challenge you, and I will claim you before all the world. You will not walk this Keep as a shadow. You will walk as my equal, my companion, my-”
He faltered, his words choking slightly.
His hands hovered near yours, uncertain, though the tension in his body made it clear he was close to losing control.
“Your wife,” you breathed, almost before you had thought it.
His head lifted sharply, eyes widening, and then he laughed softly, a low, astonished sound.
“Yes,” he said, the word carrying a weight and promise that made your knees weak. “You will be my wife.”
Your lips curved in a smile, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the full warmth of hope.
“Then I am yours,” you said, steady despite the tremor in your heart. “As you are mine.”
He drew you into an embrace then, strong and possessive, but careful enough not to hurt you. You could feel the power beneath him, the fire of his Targaryen blood, yet it was tempered by tenderness.
His cheek pressed to yours, and his breath whispered against your ear.
“I will never let you go.”
The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation, both subtle and public.
Aemond began to appear at your side more openly, and though he spoke little, his hand brushed yours in the halls, and his eyes lingered on you in ways that left the courtiers murmuring.
Aegon, ever curious, asked pointed questions at meals, testing both your composure and your knowledge of courtly customs. You answered cautiously, aware of Aemond’s watchful gaze.
Helaena, with her strange, ethereal smiles, observed quietly.
“You are his,” she whispered once as you passed, eyes wide. “And he is yours.”
You nodded, unable to speak, your heart full.
One evening, as the sun dipped low over the Red Keep, Aemond led you to the outer balcony. The wind tugged at your gown, and the scent of the sea mixed with the roses below. He turned to you, his hand brushing yours, fingers intertwining.
“You are mine,” he said again, softer this time, yet with the same fiery certainty. “And I will not allow anyone to take you from me, not the court, not my family, not the world.”
You looked up at him, your chest tight with emotion.
“Then I will stand with you,” you said. “Whatever comes.”
His lips pressed to yours then, slow and sure, a kiss that promised protection, love, and ownership all at once. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“My dragon,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, “my heart, my wife.”
And for the first time, you believed it.
The court might whisper, the Queen might question, and the danger might always linger, but in that moment, Aemond Targaryen had chosen you, fiercely, irrevocably, and without hesitation.
The slow burn of your love, nurtured in gardens and libraries and stolen moments, was now a flame the world could no longer ignore.
The Red Keep was alive with whispers.
Servants paused mid-step to glance your way, noblewomen peered from behind fans, and even the guards seemed to notice the small shifts in the air. Yet through it all, you walked beside Aemond as though nothing had changed, the warmth of his hand resting lightly on your back.
He had chosen to make your presence known, subtle yet impossible to ignore. No longer did you move in shadows; no longer were you merely the substitute bride.
Now you were his. And the knowledge, heavy and sweet, filled your chest with a mixture of pride and fear.
The Queen watched you closely at dinner, her gaze sharp yet unreadable. She did not speak of your deception, nor of the girl you had replaced. Perhaps she knew that Aemond would not suffer interference.
Perhaps she simply wished to see what you were, tested under the eyes of court.
Aegon, as ever, was curious and talkative, leaning across the table to study you.
“You seem unafraid of the court,” he remarked, a smile teasing his lips. “I thought most would falter before my brother.”
You inclined your head, careful to meet his gaze evenly.
“Fear is wasted upon the inevitable,” you said softly, your voice carrying more confidence than you felt.
Aemond’s hand brushed yours under the table, and the simple contact sent warmth rippling through your fingers. He did not smile, only met your eye with a single raised brow that made your heart stutter.
After the meal, Aemond led you to the library, your sanctuary among the towering shelves and the scent of old parchment. He moved beside you as you traced your fingers over the spines of books, a hand occasionally brushing yours in passing, deliberate and possessive.
“You read too much,” he said quietly, almost a growl, though his tone carried a soft edge. “You study people and flowers and words, yet never the one who claims you.”
You looked up at him, startled.
“And what should I study?”
“Me,” he said simply, his voice low, intense. “All of me. You will need to know me completely, as I will know you.”
Your cheeks warmed.
“I am trying.”
“Trying is not enough,” he said, stepping closer. The heat of him brushed against your arm, and the library seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of you. “I will take what is mine, and I will claim it fully.”
You inhaled sharply, heart hammering, the tension between fear and longing nearly unbearable.
“And if the court disagrees?”
He smiled faintly, darkly.
“They will have to bow, or they will learn the cost of denying me.”
Later, as you walked the gardens, he paused beside a trellis of jasmine, brushing your hair back so that the scent enveloped your senses.
“Do you know,” he murmured, “that I have never allowed anyone this close?”
You shook your head.
“I could not guess.”
“Not because I could not,” he said, his eye softening, “but because I did not trust anyone enough. Yet you… you have drawn me out. And I am afraid that if I lose you, I will not survive it.”
Your fingers found his hand, gripping it lightly.
“You will not lose me. I am yours, Aemond. Even in the face of the world, I am yours.”
His lips met yours then, long and certain, the kiss claiming what had already been promised. When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Then we will face it together,” he said, his voice rough with unspoken emotion.
As the days passed, your bond deepened. You were no longer hidden, no longer quiet.
Aemond’s presence was fierce, protective, and constant. He walked beside you through the halls, ensured the guards watched closely, and allowed no hand to brush yours without his permission.
Possessive, yes, but gentle in ways that left your heart aching for more.
And through it all, the lilacs by your window reminded you of how far you had come from a frightened servant to a woman claimed by fire and shadow, loved fiercely by the dragon prince who would soon make you his bride.
For the first time, the thought of your wedding did not terrify you.
It promised not just love, but belonging, and the certainty that Aemond Targaryen would not let the world take you from him.
The Red Keep buzzed with a tension you had never known. The marriage between you and Aemond was no longer a secret, and the court’s whispers followed you like shadows.
Noblewomen watched with narrowed eyes, some curious, some jealous, while lords murmured speculation about the future of the Targaryen line. You had expected fear or disdain, but most offered only cautious courtesy, as if testing how far the dragon prince would go to claim you.
Aemond did not hesitate.
His presence was constant, a shadow at your side, and his hand brushed yours at every opportunity. The subtle claims he made, in gestures, glances, and touches, left no room for doubt: you were his.
One afternoon, he appeared in your chambers without announcement, his expression unreadable.
You had been arranging the roses from the gardens, their petals spilling like blood over the marble table.
“You are far too calm,” he said, his voice low and even, though the heat behind it made you shiver. “Do you understand what this court will demand?”
“I do,” you replied, trying to steady your voice. “But I am not afraid. I have you.”
His eye softened, the edge of anger and possessiveness blending with something warmer.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I will not allow them to test you. Not now, not ever.”
He stepped closer, the scent of jasmine clinging to his cloak. His hand found yours, fingers entwining.
“I will not share you,” he said quietly, pressing a thumb to the back of your hand. “And no one will question that without consequence.”
“I would not have it any other way,” you whispered.
He leaned down then, brushing his lips lightly against yours. The kiss was deliberate, possessive, yet tender, a promise sealed in softness and fire. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Together,” he said. “Always.”
The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation. Robes were fitted, jewels selected, and invitations sent across the kingdom. You moved through it all with quiet dignity, the court’s eyes upon you, yet you felt no fear. Aemond’s presence was a shield, his hand always brushing yours, a constant reassurance that you were not alone.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the distant hills, he took you to a private balcony overlooking the gardens. Lanterns flickered in the wind, casting shadows that danced across the stone.
“Do you see this?” he asked, his voice soft. “The world is waiting for us to take our place, yet all of this-” he gestured at the Keep, at the distant city beyond the walls “It means nothing if we do not stand together.”
You leaned into him, fingers brushing the edge of his cloak.
“I stand with you,” you whispered. “Whatever comes.”
His hands rested on your waist, steady and firm.
“And I with you,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Whatever storms may come, whatever whispers the court spreads, we face it as one.”
The moon rose over the gardens, silvering the petals of the roses at your feet. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his chest against yours, the strength of his hold, and the fire that had grown between you both. In that moment, you knew nothing in the world could take him from you, and nothing in the world could take you from him.
The court might watch, and the world might whisper, but Aemond Targaryen had made his choice, and it was clear, unyielding, and irrevocable.
You were his.
And in the quiet of that stolen evening, with the wind carrying the scent of jasmine and roses, you realised that nothing had ever felt more like home.
The Red Keep was alight with preparation. Lanterns hung along the corridors, tapestries were brushed and polished, and the scent of roses and lilacs filled every chamber. The court buzzed with anticipation, nobles moving about in a careful choreography, yet all their whispers seemed to fade whenever Aemond appeared at your side.
You had grown accustomed to the constant presence of the dragon prince, to the subtle touches and lingering glances that left your heart thrumming.
And now, as the day of your wedding approached, the air between you was thick with excitement, anxiety, and a quiet certainty that had grown stronger with every passing moment.
That morning, he came to your chambers before breakfast, as was his habit. You were seated by the window, arranging fresh lilacs in a silver vase, their scent mingling with the morning air.
“You are calm,” he said softly, stepping close, his hand brushing yours. “Too calm for a bride.”
“I have you,” you said quietly, looking up at him. “I am not afraid.”
His eyes softened, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Then let them whisper. Let the world watch. Today, you are mine, and I am yours.”
The ceremony was set in the Great Hall, where sunlight poured through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the tapestries of dragons and ancient kings.
The court gathered, all eyes upon you as you entered, your gown flowing like a river of silver and violet, the lilacs from your chamber woven into your hair.
Aemond awaited you at the dais, his armour polished to a faint gleam, his single eye sharp and bright, but there was a softness in his expression reserved only for you. As you approached, his hand reached for yours, and the world seemed to narrow to the space between you.
“You are breathtaking,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
“And you are terrifying,” you replied with a small laugh, though your heart fluttered wildly.
He leaned down slightly, resting his forehead against yours before the ceremony began.
“Soon, all of this will be ours,” he whispered. “You and I, no one to separate us.”
The vows were spoken softly, your words clear and true, his promises fierce and unwavering. When he took your hands in his, there was no pretence, no hesitation, only the certainty that had grown between you over countless stolen moments, quiet conversations, and shared silences in the gardens.
“I, Aemond Targaryen, take you to be my wife,” he said, his voice low but carrying across the hall. “To claim you, to guard you, to love you, and to be faithful, until the end of our days.”
“I, [Your Name], take you,” you replied, “to stand by your side, to love you, and to be yours, in all ways, forever.”
When he pressed his lips to yours, the applause of the court faded to nothing. There was only the warmth of his hands on your back, the fire of his gaze, and the quiet certainty that you belonged to each other fully, completely.
Afterwards, in the privacy of your chambers, Aemond pulled you close, his lips brushing yours again in a softer, more tender kiss.
“We have survived the whispers,” he murmured. “And now, nothing can touch us.”
You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.
“We are together,” you whispered. “Finally.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice low and possessive, yet full of warmth. “Together, always.”
The lilacs on your table were still fresh, their scent mingling with roses and candle smoke, a quiet reminder of how far you had come. From a frightened servant of a scheming family to the wife of a dragon prince, you had found your place, and it was here, in his arms, in the fire of his love, in the life you would share together.
And as the sun set over King’s Landing, casting gold across the Red Keep, you knew that this was only the beginning.
Your love would endure all things, and Aemond Targaryen would be yours, wholly, for all the days to come.
The Red Keep had grown still. Torches flickered in the corridors, casting long, soft shadows across the stone walls. The court had retired, leaving only the hush of night and the faint scent of lilacs lingering in the air.
You stood at the window of your chamber, the moonlight spilling across your gown. The lilacs you had brought from your rooms earlier were now scattered across the table and in small vases, their fragrance mingling with the warmth of the room.
Aemond entered quietly, his eyes scanning the space before settling on you. He removed his cloak, letting it fall to the floor, and stepped closer. There was no armour now, no demands, only the raw intensity of him, the man you had come to love, fierce and protective, yet tender in ways no one else had ever seen.
“You are here,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “And I may finally breathe.”
You turned to him, a smile soft and quiet on your lips.
“I am here,” you whispered. “And I am yours.”
He reached for you, his hands gentle as they lifted your face to his. His thumb brushed along your cheek, and then his lips found yours, slow, deliberate, claiming you again in a way that left no doubt. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the fire of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
“Together,” he said, his voice rough yet warm, “in every sense. Always.”
You nodded, resting your hands against his chest.
“Always,” you echoed, your heart swelling with love, relief, and the quiet joy of belonging.
He led you to the bed, where the moonlight pooled like silver silk over the covers.
There was no hurry, no need for words. He held you close, one arm around your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your face. The scent of lilacs filled the room, mingling with the warmth of his skin and the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths.
“You are mine,” he murmured, possessive yet gentle, his lips brushing against your temple. “And I will guard you. Always.”
“And you are mine,” you whispered back, your fingers threading through his hair, your heart steady in the fire of his claim. “And I will follow you wherever you go.”
They were not grand declarations, no words of court or crown. They were simple, intimate, and real, a promise of love forged in fire and shadow, in gardens and libraries, in stolen moments and whispered confessions.
The night stretched around you, quiet except for the steady rhythm of two hearts, fierce and intertwined.
And as you rested against him, the lilacs blooming by the window, the warmth of his arms around you, you knew that this was only the beginning, a life of love, devotion, and slow-burning passion with Aemond Targaryen.
For in him, you had found not only a prince, but a home.
Summary: You and Aemond Targaryen have been wed for months, bound by duty rather than love. The Queen’s growing insistence that you provide an heir drives you to distance yourself from your husband.
The Red Keep slept in silence, its torches burning low in the halls and the sea winds whispering against its walls.
You had grown used to the rhythm of life there, quiet and restrained, ever watched by the eyes of courtiers and servants.
Your marriage to Prince Aemond Targaryen had been one of politics and duty, not love.
Yet, in the months since your wedding, you had found yourself less a stranger and more a quiet companion to the prince everyone feared.
He was never cruel to you. If anything, Aemond treated you with a distant politeness that sometimes softened.
He had sharp wit, rare smiles, and a way of looking at you that made your chest flutter.
It was not love at first sight, but it was something steady, something safe. Until the day the Queen, with her gentle but firm voice, called for you both.
“You have been wed for months now,” Queen Alicent said, eyes fixed upon you. “It is time to think of the future. The realm needs heirs.”
You had lowered your head, your hands twisting in your lap.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
But the thought of a child, of bearing one so soon, of the weight of expectation and the gaze of the court, had filled you with dread.
After that, you had begun avoiding Aemond.
You made excuses at supper, lingered longer in the gardens, found comfort in the kitchens and the company of the maids.
Yet somehow, he always found you.
When you walked through the gardens, he appeared behind you, asking questions about the flowers you liked best.
When you hid in the library, he joined you under the pretext of reading. Once, when you tried to slip away from supper early, he followed you to the corridor and said quietly.
“Avoiding me will not make my mother’s words vanish.”
You had glared at him then, though your heart raced all the same.
“I am not avoiding you.”
He had only smiled, that rare, knowing curve of his lips.
“Then dine with me tomorrow evening, wife. No courtiers, no mother, no interruptions.”
It was not a request.
That night, your chambers were quiet, lit only by the glow of the fire. A tray of tea and honey biscuits sat between you and Aemond on the low table. You poured his cup first, careful not to meet his gaze for too long.
“You are restless tonight,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“I am not,” you murmured, though your fingers fidgeted against your skirt.
He tilted his head, eye glinting.
“You lie poorly.”
“I simply have much on my mind.”
“About my mother’s demands?”
“In part.”
He did not press further.
Instead, he reached for his cup, sipping the tea quietly, the faintest smirk touching his lips.
The silence between you was not cold, but it held something new, something unspoken. You could feel his gaze on you, studying every shift of your posture, every nervous glance.
Then, a faint sound broke the stillness.
Scratch.
You froze.
Aemond’s head turned sharply toward the corner of the room.
“A rat,” he said, rising to his feet.
“No!” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.
He turned to you, eyebrow raised.
“No?”
You bit your lip, realising your mistake.
“It… it is nothing. Truly.”
“Nothing,” he repeated slowly, crossing the floor with that calm, dangerous grace that always made your heart skip. “Then you will not mind if I look.”
Before you could protest, he knelt near the curtain, hand reaching behind it.
You darted forward and grabbed his wrist.
“Please, do not.”
His brow furrowed slightly, not in anger, but confusion.
“You are trembling,” he said softly. “What is it you are hiding?”
You swallowed hard.
“Promise you will not be angry.”
He blinked, then straightened.
“I promise.”
You sighed and lifted the curtain. From the shadows, a small kitten padded out, white and grey, with fur as soft as clouds and eyes as blue as the summer sky. The little creature mewed faintly before curling against your leg.
“I found him,” you said quickly, kneeling to scoop the kitten into your arms. “He was lost in the corridor three nights ago. Hungry and frightened. I gave him milk, and he would not leave, so I hid him here. I could not send him to the streets.”
Aemond stared at the tiny creature, utterly silent. The kitten blinked up at him and let out a quiet chirp, batting a paw at his sleeve.
“You hid a kitten from the entire castle?” he asked finally, his voice unreadable.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I did not want anyone to harm him.”
For a moment, he simply looked at you, eye softening in a way that startled you. Then, his lips twitched into something almost like laughter.
“You said you are not ready to be a mother,” he said quietly, stepping closer, “and yet here you are, saving kittens and hiding them from harm.”
Your breath caught. The words lingered between you, heavy with meaning.
“I…” you began, then stopped, unsure of how to answer.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was gentle, his fingers warm against your cheek.
“You have more heart than this place deserves,” he murmured.
You looked up at him, feeling something inside you shift, something deep and quiet and undeniable.
He smiled faintly.
“Keep him, if you wish. I will make sure no one says a word.”
“You would?”
“I would do anything that makes you smile like that,” he said softly.
Your cheeks warmed, and the kitten mewed again, pressing against your chest as if in approval.
Aemond chuckled under his breath.
“He already adores you. I cannot compete.”
You laughed quietly, lowering your gaze.
“You do not have to.”
For a long while, neither of you moved. The fire crackled softly, the kitten purred in your arms, and the distance that had once separated you no longer felt so wide.
Aemond’s hand brushed yours, lingering there, and for the first time since your wedding, you leaned into him without fear.
He looked down at you then, his expression unreadable, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You are my wife,” he said. “Not because duty bound us, but because fate wove us together. Perhaps it was waiting for this — for you to bring a little life into my world.”
You smiled, heart aching with quiet joy.
“And perhaps, you were waiting for me to stop hiding.”
He kissed you then, not out of obligation, not out of expectation, but out of something real.
The kitten purred between you, calm, as if it had known all along that love had been waiting quietly in the corners of your heart.
And when you finally broke apart, you knew there would be no more avoiding, no more walls.
warnings: academic-rivals-to-Iovers, +18 smut, NSFW, pet name, dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, hickeys, praise kink, creampies, pet names
word count: 4,2k
- Do you want to take control of my research?
- No... But if you want to be in control, you can be...
English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes
- But professor, I… I'm successfully handling all aspects of the project. Why would I need an assistant?
- Not an assistant, my dear, more like a mentor. - Kind old eyes peer at you through their glasses.
- That doesn't change the question, sir. - You fold your arms over your chest, trying to look as serious as possible.
- The conference I was talking about…
- I remember. But there's still a month, I'm almost done with the work.
- I understand, but only group studies of two or more people are allowed to participate. - The Professor pushes the papers aside, searching for a brochure. - A sudden change in conditions.
- Two or more? - You feel your palms sweating. You've put almost a year of your life into this research, visiting museums, archives, and digging. And now it's not your job, there will be two of you…
- And I thought that Aemond would be an ideal candidate for your partner. The young man will be able to practice curating, the experience will be useful to him after graduation. - You barely restrain yourself from rolling your eyes. - And we can become participants, everyone wins!
- And what about me? A personal large-scale project was supposed to help me, I want to get into the Historical Society, and what does your student want? To work in the archives?
- No need to get so excited, this is not the last conference on history, I will help you with everything, and believe me, the list of your scientific achievements will only grow…
A knock on the door interrupted your conversation. Clearing his throat, the professor invites the visitor in, the guest slips inside and suddenly takes up all the space. Not physically…
Aemond Targaryen is a senior student of the history department, the best polo player, a student-intern of your mutual curator, a rich aristocrat and your headache.
He acts like he'll die if he doesn't correct you at least once a day. He can smirk for any reason, and he speaks in such a cold and smug tone that you want to hide somewhere.
You're too loud. You're too quiet. Your lipstick could be brighter. You forgot your umbrella. You got sick and didn't stay home. And the list goes on and on…
- Aemond! Hello, as always on time. We were just discussing your joint work.
- Wonderful. - He runs his long fingers, decorated with silver rings, you feel that he's looking at you, but you don't look up.
- What else do we have planned? - The professor checks the notebook.
- All that's left is to summarize the statistics for the last two years, I was only given access to the necessary library sex yesterday. Design the slides and stitch the final version. - You suppress the words "I could have handled it myself", you understand that it is useless.
- Wonderful! Aemond will control everything and help if necessary.
You nod and head for the exit, still not looking at the man standing at the door. If you do not get rid of this problem, you will ignore it for as long as possible.
- Are you going to let me through or not? I need to work. - He is silent for a few seconds before letting you through.
You hurry down the corridor, burning with anger and shame. The uselessness of his presence nearby in the academic sense is obvious. And the very fact that he will be nearby confused and excited in you what you have successfully hidden for a long time, until recently.
You cared little about the rumors and whispers about him, but Aemond Targaryen cut a formidable figure, and his aura of mystery suited him perfectly. Tall and thin, with a set face, he always surveyed people with an unmistakable superiority in his gaze.
And as soon as he opened his mouth, you realized he sounded as he looked: arrogant and cold. He spoke without much emotion, never raising his voice; it was difficult to tell when he was showing genuine interest in his interlocutor.
The healed but obvious wound on his face was hidden under a thin leather bandage. And it was somewhat frightening. However, you would be lying if you said he was unattractive. Aemond had a chiseled face, with the ethereal features of the Targaryens. You once told a friend that Targaryen seemed to have more beautiful and longer hair than you.
This man was an enigma; it was impossible to decipher his raw emotions and pure intentions. Was he happy working with you? Was he satisfied with this arrangement?
Thoughts of Aemond haunted you for the next few days. Deciding not to cross paths with him, you took your "mentor'" email from the professor and merely reported to him on the progress of your work. You hadn't received anything in response yet…
Drowsy and irritated, you headed to the library; time was running out, best to finish everything early. Inside, it was quiet, except for a few diligent students who had arrived just before opening time and were now buried in their research papers.
Taking your favorite seat, you pulled out your planner and turned on your laptop. A couple of new messages from classmates, a file with edits from the professor, and… a message from Aemond.
"I need to see you, I have a couple of statistics questions. I'll find you."
You snorted, irritated by his tone; If he has questions about the numbers, he should consult official sources. At the same time, his promise to find you evoked a familiar thrill in you, as if it were some kind of game.
You don't answer him; he didn't ask any questions, so writing back isn't necessary.
You spend a couple of hours in the library, only checking the time when your thermos of coffee is completely empty. Somewhere in the distance, you smell coffee, fresh and hot.
At that moment, Aymond sits down next to you; it was his coffee that attracted you (American, sugar-free, of course). He's wearing a long coat, a large sweater, and black jeans adorned with metal jewelry/
- I told you I'd find you,. - He smiles, a cold, sarcastic smile. - Although, you're rather predictable…
- Really? - You return to work. You never greet each other. It's a small, shared habit of yours now.
- You're always in the same places. - Aemond began counting things off on his fingers. - The campus, the library, the coffee shop…
- Stop following me, it's weird.
- And you call me 'sir,' I'm higher than you…
- Only a couple of inches. - You shrug.
- Status. - He smirks, as if he appreciates your comment, but you can only interpret it as mockery.
- What do you need, sir?
Targaryen pulls a small book from his coat pocket and quickly finds a bookmark. You notice the notes in the margins. His handwriting is elegant, but the thought of him ruining library books makes your teeth grind.
- You wrote that you couldn't find any statistics for '82, but I found some, and these figures change the overall picture a bit. - The young man hands you the book, and you peer at the highlighted paragraph.
With every word, you realize he's right. Two columns of numbers that could truly affect the outcome of the research. As if afraid to look at Aemond, you glance at the book cover, the author's name, and see the small seal on the endpaper. Of course, a book from the Targaryen library.
- I'll redo it… - You hand the book back, your hands touching, your fingers both cold.
- I'll do it myself. You can work on the final part, we'll just change the conclusions later. - You're both silent for a few seconds, as if something else was about to happen.
- Do you want to take control of my research? - You look Aemond in the face, finally wanting a truthful answer.
- No… - He drawls, stretching his long legs forward and shoving his hands in his pockets. - But if you want to be in control, you can be…
And again, you're leaving first. Why are you leaving again? Is it because he's spotted a flaw in your work? Or because he embarrassed you and you couldn't find a good answer?
Or because you got excited like a schoolgirl receiving praise from a teacher?
You barely restrain yourself from making a startled sound when your back hits something warm and hard. Misjudging the distance from the shelf, you bumped into someone. There was no sound of books falling, so it wasn't that bad/
- Are you still going to the same places?
- Are you still following me? - The urge to apologize instantly vanishes. You proudly toss your hair and clutch the books tightly in your hands.
- Something like this… - Aemond doesn't move away from you; you can almost feel the warmth of his body. - It's for you.
A colorful piece of paper; you recognize the handwriting on the note without a problem. Helaena. Sweet, sweet Helaena. You were in sociology classes together, Helaena was already getting a second degree, and despite the age difference, you quickly hit it off and became friends.
- What is this? - Without waiting for an answer, you open the piece of paper, which turns out to be an invitation to an evening picnic on the Targaryen family property this saturday.
Helaena loved gatherings with friends and family outdoors; you'd already attended the morning picnic and the picnic by the lake. Helaena always prepared meticulously, and her efforts always paid off.
- Are you working as a messenger now, sir? - It was impossible to hide your smile.
- No. - He shrugs, as if that should explain everything. - Will you come?
- Yes. For Helaena. - Why did you add that? You wanted to curse, but then Aemond would see it and surely laugh at you.
- Good. - He leans a little closer, towering over you. - The color of the evening is red. Like sunset… I'm sure you'll do your best.
- Don't doubt it. - Struggling to sound confident and sharp, you clench your fists behind your back, afraid of your own emotions. Is it really that hard to figure out what exactly you want to do to someone: hit them or kiss them?
Aemond pulls several sheets of paper from his coat pocket and hands them to you. Notes, a pencil sketch, and columns of numbers fill the paper, creating a chaotic pattern of data.
- This is just a rough draft. I think I'll finish this section by saturday and we can discuss everything. - Aemond points to specific points.
- Yes, good. Very beautiful. - Aemond's heavy gaze brightens, and he stares at you intently, as if trying to decipher the meaning of your words. - If you don't mind, don't throw this away later; I'll take it back. If that's okay?
- Okay. - You hand the papers back to him. - It was nice to show you this.
- Thank you for doing this. It's just… This work is really important to me.
- Yes… Yes, I know. - Aemond lightly squeezes your hand, and you're ready to scream from the whirlwind of thoughts and desires in your head.
The fluffy dress you'd rented barely fit on a single chair, and there were so many puffy petticoats that you couldn't count them the first time. The only consolation was that everyone was dressed similarly.
This time, Helaena had thrown a picnic ball, and everyone had arrived in red ball gowns. It was hot in the tent, and for the last half hour, you've been sitting on a wicker chair, lazily waving your fan.
- Enjoying the evening? - Aemond pulled out a second chair.
- It would be a crime not to say… Red suits you. - You nodded to the man in greeting. - It's been such a hot day that evening doesn't make it any better."
- You're right." Aemond nodded back. - Red suits me.
You giggle, blaming it on the champagne; not expecting such heat, you'd downed at least four glasses. Aemond stares at you for so long that you start to think something's wrong.
- Is there something on my face? Or have I already turned as red as my dress?
- Not at all, everything's fine. The dress is very beautiful, it suits you.
- It wasn't that much. - In the relaxed atmosphere, you began to act more freely, driven by intoxication and joy. You stood up and twirled around in front of Aemond a few times. - Do you like it?
Aemond hums something and smiles at you, leaning back in his chair. You smile, but there's no mockery or reproach in your smile; you simply radiate relaxation and joy.
- You…? - You stop, suddenly embarrassed. - You wanted to discuss the final part of the projeck, right?
- If you want… My bedroom is on the third floor, we can talk there. - You nod and follow Aemond into the house. Helaena smiles, catching your eye along the way.
You need to hold your dress in place. Aemond opens the door for you, and you climb the wide wooden staircase. For a brief moment, you feel like a princess in a castle.
Aemond's room is located right under the roof of the house, and three large windows adorn the ceiling, letting in the rays of the sunset.
- Your room is beautiful. - You sit down in a large, soft chair and tuck your legs under you. The skirts of your dress fall around you like petals, the light playing on the crimson folds of the fabric.
Aemond hands you his laptop and sits back, letting you read what he's written. You were immersed in your reading, at first not even noticing the Targaryen's gaze boring into you. But with each passing second, it became more and more obvious.
- What's wrong? - You looked up. - Do you think I read slowly?
- I think you're very beautiful when you read. The way you wince so amusingly when you encounter a difficult passage, or giggle when you've understood it all before the author.
- You understood it in a minute?
- No, I've already been watching you. I know what you'll say… It's weird. But I like looking at you. You don't seem to like looking at me… That's why I look when you're not looking.
- What makes you think that? - Your palms are sweating, a bead of sweat even seems to have trickled down your back.
- What?
- What makes you think I don't like looking at you? It's just… - A deep breath, it seems like it's too early to tell the truth. - You're so annoying, Aemond. You act like a snob, you don't let anyone near you and you don't approach anyone, you walk around alone with the air of someone who already knows everything. Why should I admit that I'm looking at you? It seems like it would only push you away.
You leave your laptop on the nightstand and fold your hands in your lap, trying to collect your thoughts.
- If you only knew how often I thought about you. And not just in innocent ways. You're smart, handsome, rich, like you were assembled in a factory according to a checklist. But I was glad to see other sides of you, it's nice… It's nice to communicate with you without needles and defense mechanisms, it's nice to just spend time. Isn't it?
Aemond leaves his seat, standing next to you, falling on one knee. His gaze was fixed on you, searching for something beyond words, something in your eyes that would confirm or deny your words.
- The thought of you being here, in my room, in a dress like that… - This thought haunted me so often that it became a reality.
- What else were you thinking about?
- Kissing you. Keeping your mouth occupied until you couldn't make another taunt.
- Is that really what you want, sir? - You lean in closer, your lips almost touching.
Aemond makes a sound that will now be your favorite. A moan and a sigh at the same time, it sounded like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders; the sound meant only one thing. Surrender.
Your lips meet in a kiss: a gentle and tender touch, as if you were both afraid the other would disappear and you would wake up alone in your bed.
- What else were you thinking about, sir? - You continue to tease Aemond, pulling away first.
- About you calling me that. But most of all, about how you would call me by my name when you came.
You shift in your chair, moving closer and feeling his large, hot hands on your legs. Aemond strokes the soft, thin fabric of your dress, and you help him lift the skirt.
- How many layers are there, clever girl?
- More than ten, sir? - You kiss Aemond's forehead, your lips brushing his eyelids and cheeks, then leaving another light kiss on the Targaryen's lips.
At that moment, he abruptly leans forward and deepens the kiss, tipping you over in the chair. He wedges himself between your legs, touching your face and hair, playing with your tongue. You moan into the kiss, your small hands clasping his strong forearms, your fingers sliding over the delicate embroidery on his shirt.
- You're so beautiful… - Aemond looks down at you, his hand sliding over yours, playing with your fingers and squeezing them, bringing them to his lips. - I noticed it right away. But if only everyone knew how smart you are… Gods!
Aemond falls to his knees again and frantically begins lifting the layers of fabric. You giggle at his haste; he involuntarily tickles you, rushing to get to what he wants.
- I haven't told you everything, darling. - Aemond finally sees your cunt, covered by your lingerie. You're already wet; it would be impossible to hide it; the devilish smile on the blond's face makes your ears burn. - What do you think I thought of her?
A slender finger touches the damp fabric, gliding up and down, inflaming you even more. You squirm, lifting your hips, but Aemond's strong hand holds you in place.
- You're a scientist, aren't you, baby? - I think instead of telling you, I'll show you." The man leans lower, and the underwear leaves your body.
Because of the full skirts, you can't see him completely. Aemond disappears below, and you almost squeal when his hot mouth descends on your bare cunt. He spreads your precum, slips the tip of his tongue inside, feeling the tremors of your muscles.
His hand grasps his snow-white hair, and you pull him closer, hearing a quiet chuckle. Aemond didn't argue or taunt, but pressed himself harder against you, his tongue moving to your clit. He responds easily to the touch, and you bite your tongue in pleasure.
Aemond strokes you confidently and forcefully, you feel the precum running down your thigh, and you sense you're about to reach your peak. With your other hand, you try to free your breasts from the corset, wanting to give Aemond everything.
- So hungry, baby. - Aemond bites your thigh, the bite site reddening and tugging painfully, sure to bruise.
Your eyes roll back as you feel the penetration of his beautiful finger; first one, then two. They slide inside you, completely coated in your juices and stretching your aroused muscles.
- So tight… You've never been properly fucked, have you? - Targaryen lifts his face for a second. - All eyes on the books, right?
- Aemond, please! - You reach for a kiss, but the man leans over you again, and you grind against his face again, accepting three deliciously long fingers.
- Come on, darling, make a mess for me. - Targaryen sucks on your clit, and you feel a wave of orgasm wash over you.
Your muscles squeeze your lover's fingers, and you scream and thrust harder. Aemond's prominent nose rubs against you, and you lose control of yourself, spilling all over his handsome face.
- Are you okay? - You breathe heavily.
- More than enough, my dear. - Aemond licks his lips. - But I still want to hear my name in your orgasm. Didn't I try hard enough, sweetie?
Without waiting for your answer, he reaches for the laces of your corset under your breasts and releases you from your bonds, enveloping you in an embrace.
You were naked beneath the corset, and he wastes no time in showering your breasts with kisses. You throw your leg over his thigh when his teeth close on your nipple.
You're hand touches his pants; his cock clearly wants to be released. It's hard and hot, and you lick your lips in anticipation, eager for it to be inside you.
- Wait, not now. - Aemond squeezes your wrist. - We'll do this next time, I promise.
You're almost disappointed that you won't be able to taste the salty heaviness of his dick in your mouth now, but you're incredibly glad that next time isn't a dream, but a promise.
Targaryen stands to undress, and you can't look away, as if you were watching an ancient statue come to life. He bares himself before you without hesitation, without rushing or hiding. You toss the corset aside, accepting him into your arms.
- Please, please, take me, Aemond, I beg you… - A heavy whisper escapes your lips so quickly that Aemond barely catches the words.
The heavy head slides along your wet folds, and you buck your hips, wanting to finally feel him inside you. And when it happens, you feel like you're exploding.
You want to close your eyes, but it's impossible. They glaze over, and you see flashes of dark spots. His grip tightens, his fingers clinging to Aemond, who filled you with one smooth movement; you were so aroused…
- So perfectly lubricated, huh, clever girl? - Aemond kisses your nose. - Everything okay?
- More than okay, my dear. - As soon as you can say anything, you immediately return his words.
Aemond's lips are already circling your neck, and you feel him smile. Then he leaves a hickey on your shoulder, and another higher. And another…
- More! - You pull him closer, wrapping your legs around him, trying to take it all in, feeling so full you want to cry.
The last rays of sun fell beautifully on Aemond's long hair, the curls seeming to shield you from the world with a curtain of gold and light.
You carefully tuck a strand of Aemond's hair into your hair and prop yourself up on your elbows, wanting to be as close as possible. He wraps both arms around you as he picks up a rhythm, his narrow but strong hips knowing exactly where to hit to make you scream.
All you can do is hold on to the man who's literally fucking the wind out of you and watch his beautiful cock disappear inside your hot pussy again and again.
- God, it feels so good, I… - You stick your tongue out, licking the sweat off Aemond's hot skin. He didn't slow down, finding and pleasuring that sweet spot.
- Come on, you'll be good for me, right? - Aemond shifts his position, his right hand landing on your clit, squeezing it between his fingers. -I've thought about this every day, about how you'll cum beneath me, how you'll lose yourself with me. Be a good girl, cum for me.
- Would you like that… Sir? - You whine, your tone betraying helplessness; you're so desperately drunk on cock that it can't even bring a smile.
- That's what I want, baby. - The hand on your clit quickened, and you heard a wet squelch every time your bodies touched.
The orgasm built gradually, and you felt it. Something tickled the back of your head, your arms and legs tensed, your breath caught, and you seemed to try to break free from Aemond's arms.
- Aemond! I'm cumming, please, Aemond!
- No, my love, don't run away from me… - Aemond didn't let you break free, continuing to move inside you even through your orgasm. A spasm ran through you, and only then did you hear the loud sounds you were making. - Will you let me? Please, darling, let me mark you…
You nod desperately, and Aemond loses control, cumming inside you so long and hard that a shudder runs through your body. You both breathe heavily, but neither of you wants to be the first to pull away.
- You… - Was it an auditory hallucination, or did he say 'my love'? - It was…
- I really enjoyed it too. - Aemond kisses your cheek. - No need to be embarrassed.
- I like you. I really do.
- And I like you too. - It was serious, it was real.
- Will it help your academic work?
- Only if I'm your personal mentor. - Aemond's head falls onto your chest, and you can't think of anything more pleasant than that.
Warnings: MDNI, smut, oral, c*m, rough, p in v, breeding
Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen
Aemond hated being disobeyed. Control was something he craved and needed in his life. So when you spat out his seed instead of swallowing like he said, he wasn’t happy.
“You never listen, do you? As per usual, you disobey me.”
He pulled you to the bed by your arm and threw you onto it. He blew out the candles, painting the room dark with the only light coming from the silver moon through the window.
He knelt on the bed between your legs, unlacing his breeches with one hand as he pulled silk over your eyes. He took his eyepatch off and placed it aside before slamming into you with a grunt.
He made sure you’d remember to obey him next time, spilling his seed deep enough that it barely dripped out when he pulled away.
Aegon Targaryen
He pulled out off your mouth with a wet pop, grinning with satisfaction. He looked down and saw you spitting his seed out. His grin slowly faded and he crouched down to be eye level.
“You made a mess on my floors and of yourself. Did I allow you to spit? Hmm?”
He sighed and stood up again. He walked over to the small chest by his bed, unlocking it with a loud click. He didn’t turn back to you, just grabbed something.
“On the bed, lying on your stomach. I need to remind you where my seed belongs.”
He watched you obey and used a piece of silk to bind your hands behind your back. He knelt behind and within seconds he was buried deep.
Daemon Targaryen
He noticed the second you tried to spit his seed out, one hand still tangled in your hair. He tugged your head closer and covered your mouth with one hand, clicking his tongue mockingly as his hand tightened in your hair almost to the point of pain.
“Now that’s not what I told you to do, is it?”
He watched as you immediately swallowed what remained in your mouth, some on your chin and tits. He hummed before collecting it with two fingers, bringing it to your mouth expectantly. He knew you’d obey, just like every other time. You enjoyed it.
“Well go on, clean them.”
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jacaerys was never fully consumed by his own desires. Nothing mattered more to him than how you felt. He knew you never really liked to swallow often, the taste and texture being uncomfortable for you.
“It’s up to you. Spit or swallow, I do not mind.”
He cleaned everything up when you spat his seed out onto a cloth. He tosses it away and lifted you up from your spot kneeling on the ground before laying you on the bed.
“My turn to make you see stars My Love.”
He slowly pushed your dress skirts up and held eye contact as he slowly lowered his head between your legs, tongue instantly getting to work.
Cregan Stark
He always paid close attention to everything you did in the privacy of your shared bedchambers or during intimate moments like this. So when you went to spit, a cloth was handed to you so it wouldn’t be a mess.
“Easy Love, are you alright? You never usually spit.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes tracing over your face. He was concerned, but when you urged him to sit back and straddled him, a soft smirk grew on his lips.
“Okay, take the lead Love. I’m all yours.”
Everyone else in Winterfell made sure to stay clear of that room for the entire day.
Addam Velaryon
Addam was still processing that you even gave him oral, one hand stroking your hair. He looked down and noticed you spitting his seed out. He got nervous almost immediately.
“Are you okay? I should’ve asked if it was okay.”
He grabbed his discarded shirt and gently wiped your mouth before fetching a cup of water, having you drink slowly in case your throat was sore. He watched you carefully before cleaning up the mess on the door.
blakekathryn
tangentwithtanner
