[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › hades!aemond 𝑥 persephone!reader ꣑ৎ 𓏲 ݂ ˖ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi, lil bbs.. ꒰ ´͈ ᵕ `͈𓏼 ྀིᥩ꒱❀ i'm sry this took forever for me to post, but i hope it was worth the wait.. ∩⑅∩ happy reading, sweet angels! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⟢ 𝗰𝘄: smut. lots of fluff. drama. i tweaked the bit abt the reader's mother, demeter. based heavily on greek mythology. aemond is lowkey emotionally constipated. happy ending. ꒰ ♡ ꒱ 𝘄𝗰: 11.5k.

—𝒷𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝒷𝑦 𝓅𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 & 𝒷𝑜𝑛𝑒 ⏾ ₊ ݁ ⊹

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the earth trembled awake when you first felt him. every year, the same cycle—the soil yawns open, the first green unfurls, and you, the goddess they call kore, breathe life back into a world gone gray in your absence. your bountiful touch ripens blossoms, your girlish laughter coaxes rivers from ice, and your very footsteps scatter fields with color. you are the balm and the promise of renewal, the very essence of new life and growth.

and yet… beneath all that light, something gnaws at you. for every blossom that blooms from your gentle hands, every seed that unfurls, there is a shadow waiting. you feel it in the hollow of your chest, in the ache that no garland of flowers can soothe. you are worshiped, adored, crowned in daisies and peonies alike, but none of them see the fragile, lonely girl beneath the goddess of spring.

it is in that restless longing that he finds you. at first, he is only a weight at the edge of your awareness, a distant flicker in the corners of your eyes when you lean down to tend to the daffodils in your beloved field of blossoms. he is the eerie silence between birdcalls, the chill that clings to your skin when the sun is at its warmest, and then, he steps forward.

the world stills, holding its breath. he is remarkably tall, carved from shadow, his presence an eclipse against your brilliance. his hair, long and pale as moonlight, falls like a curtain, veiling the sharp planes of his angular face. his single eye gleams with a glacial fire, unrelenting and unwavering, fixed upon you as though you are not merely the goddess of spring, but prey, or worse, destiny.

you should fear him, the nymphs warn as they whisper among themselves, frightened of his dark presence. all mortals fear him, and all gods, too. hades; or rather, aemond, they whisper—the silent, merciless king below. he who rules the endless night, the warden of the dead, the judge whose heart beats colder than obsidian stone.

but you do not dare to tremble; instead, you tilt your head like a newborn fawn, your doe eyes sparkling with curiosity. the hem of your soft, blush-colored gown brushes over the dewy grass as blossoms lean toward him, eager to discover who brings such darkness into this place filled with light, as if they too wish to brush their delicate petals against his shadow.

"why do you watch me?" you ask, voice soft and full of childlike wonder, though your heart hammers as if to break through your ribcage. his pale lips curve into a soft smirk, barely, hauntingly. "because no one else has ever dared to look back."

that is how it begins; not with the earth splitting open, nor with screams, thunder, or chains. it begins with a piercing gaze full of longing, with the faintest of smiles curling upon lips that rarely get the chance to. it begins with you standing in the warm sunlight, while he stands beneath the shade of a willow tree, and the space between you trembles with an unnameable feeling that you sense deep in the marrow of your bones.

days pass, perhaps weeks. you return to your blooms, your rituals, and your endless offerings of joy to the mortal world. yet, the shadow lingers—he lingers. at the edge of crystal-clear rivers and at the boundary between lush groves, you speak more often now. your voice is soft, sweet like the scent of your precious blooms, filled with innocent curiosity as you share quiet words slipped between your duties.

he never dares to interrupt you, but he listens most eagerly, like a man who has never before been trusted with such gentleness in all his existence. as more time passes, you gradually uncover a horrifying truth: beneath all the iron, frost, and death, there is a man who is desperately yearning for more. he carries the weight of an empire built on bones, ash, and sin, yet he has never experienced warmth or kindness.

one evening, as the horizon bleeds gold and violet, you find yourself seated on a stone, exhaustion weighing heavily on your bones. he appears, silent as always, but for the first time, you do not stand up. instead, you reach out to him, your small hand daringly moving against the high collar of his cloak, fingers threading into his long, pale hair. his breath catches in the back of his throat, utterly bewitched by your tenderness. almost stunned, his posture becomes unnaturally rigid from the gentle touch of your fingertips.

you notice the tremor that runs through him, how his shoulders stiffen as if every instinct urges him to pull away, to resist the urge to be touched by such a divine creature such as yourself. yet, he doesn't. he endures your touch like a man braving fire; rather, he would prefer to burn alive than to live without your gentleness.

then, he exhales sharply, as if he's experiencing the worst kind of agony. his large, calloused hand finds your wrist, not to push you away, but to anchor himself against the threat of your tenderness. in that moment, he is not hades, the king of the damned, nor the terror that is whispered in mortal prayers. he is but a simple man, experiencing love from a woman for the very first time, unable to resist the temptation that is simply you.

later, much later, you will climb into his lap as if it were your own personal throne, unafraid of his crown of iron and unshaken by the hollowness of his halls. you will run your fingers through his silky, silvery-white hair while his court of shadows whisper in disbelief, in awe of your gentle presence in such a damned place such as tartarus. you will teach him warmth, tenderness, love, and he will surrender the steel in his soul to you alone.

but not yet; for now, you only sit together in the hush of twilight in your field of blossoms, his head lowered in submission, your touch gentle, so very gentle, your heart thundering as you whisper, "you are not as frightening as they whisper about, aemond." and his answer is little more than a low rasp, a vow hidden in the tremble of his deep, baritone voice, "for you, my beloved... i never will be."

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the world above still hums with life, but since that twilight moment, you feel it differently. every bloom you coax into being, every bud that unfurls beneath your fingers, it all pales in comparison to the memory of his voice. for you, my beloved... i never will be.

the words haunt you. not like a curse, but like a secret song that only you have heard. you repeat them in the dark when you are alone among the trees, when the nightingale sings and the wind brushes your hair like a lover's caress.

and always, he is there. not close enough to touch, not bold enough to intrude, but you feel his presence at the border of your light. shadows linger longer when he comes, and your blossoms bend toward the dark as though testing if they, too, might grow there.

sometimes you catch the faint gleam of his pale hair between the trees, or the ghost of his profile, carved sharp and stern, watching, always watching. it should frighten you, it should send you running. but instead, you begin to search for him.

one dusk, when the sun drips molten into the horizon, you speak into the still air, as though to the silence itself. "why do you not step closer?" the hush deepens, the birds still, the earth waits, and then, his voice, low and quiet, like a stone rolling across deep water, "because i do not wish to ruin you, little goddess."

you shiver, heart fluttering wildly inside your chest. the answer is both confession and wound. he thinks himself corruption incarnate, yet within you, the goddess of spring, something unfurls—not fear, not revulsion, but a quiet, aching longing.

you rise, skirts brushing the soft grass, and cross into the shadow where he lingers. he is taller than you remembered, his cloak a tide of black swallowing the last of the day's gold. his single eye glows faint in the twilight, sharp as the edge of a blade.

"you cannot ruin me," you whisper, though your voice trembles. he leans closer, and you feel the chill of his breath. his hand lifts—almost, almost—to touch your cheek, but he stops short, fingers curling into a tight fist, as though the barest contact might unravel the fabric of worlds. "i can," he admits, so low you nearly do not catch it. "i would."

your throat tightens. yet instead of stepping back, you tilt your face up toward him. it is reckless, unholy perhaps, the goddess of spring standing in the embrace of death's sovereign, but your heart beats louder than reason. "then let me decide if i wish to be ruined."

the silence that follows is unbearable, suffocatingly so. you swear the meadow holds its breath with you. his jaw tightens, that single eye burning into yours with a hunger he cannot disguise. and then, he withdraws, black cloak snapping as he turns, vanishing into the dark as though he had never been.

you are left alone. and yet, not truly. because the moment he flees, the earth itself seems changed. blossoms bloom richer, more wilder. the air tastes sharper, sweet and metallic at once, like cherry wine spilt upon stone. the undercurrent of him remains, coiled tight around your ribs.

you press a trembling hand to your chest, right over your pounding heart. what is happening to you? you are the goddess of renewal, of warmth, of life itself. and yet, with every passing night, your roots stretch not only toward the sun, but into the shadows where he waits.

it's only a few days later when the gifts begin. the first is small, so small you nearly mistake it for a fallen stone among the violets at dawn. but when your hand brushes it aside, you find a ring of onyx, carved with the faintest of patterns: flames coiled like vines, wrapping endlessly around themselves. it is cold in your palm, impossibly heavy for such a simple band, and you know instantly it is not of the world above.

you wear it that day, hidden on a thin chain beneath your gown. none of the nymphs take notice, but when night falls, when you stand at the meadow's edge with your heart hammering, you feel him there, watching silently. the ring warms faintly against your skin, and you understand, it is from him.

the next offering is stranger; a single pomegranate, resting delicately on a patch of moss where no tree could have dropped it. its skin glistens like spilled blood beneath the sun, each ruby seed whispering danger and sweet, succulent temptation. you dare not bite into it, yet you cradle it to your chest, unable to leave it behind. when you tuck it into your basket among wildflowers, it looks almost natural… almost.

after that, the gifts appear more often. a black feather longer than your arm, its sheen catching faint green and violet when struck by the light—surely a relic from some ancient bird of the deep. a silver comb, engraved with serpents twining in endless knots. a cluster of ghostly flowers you have never seen, their petals translucent as glass, smelling faintly of ash and honey. each gift you receive is unlike anything the sunlit world has ever yielded, and every gift is for you. you begin to wait for them, wondering to yourself what he would gift you next.

morning dew barely dries before you are out in the meadow, skirts damp with grass as you comb through blossoms for his touch. sometimes the offerings are bold, placed where your eye cannot miss them. other times, they are hidden, tucked between roots or beneath leaves, so you must seek them out like treasured secrets shared only between you and him. and every time, you cannot help but to smile. a goddess of spring, caught in the net of the underworld's king.

one dusk, unable to help yourself, you whisper into the empty air, "why do you hide if you wish to court me?" the shadows shift. you cannot see him, but you know he hears you. the meadow holds its breath, waiting. then, his voice, a low murmur, dark silk drawn over polished steel, "because flowers are delicate things… and if i ever were to step too close, little goddess, you may wither."

you shake your head, though your cheeks flush hot. "or bloom." a pause; a silence that stretches like a bowstring, pulled taut and waiting to break. then, faint, like the brush of night wind over your skin, he replies, lips twitching, soft and amused by your stubbornness, "perhaps."

the next morning, a crown of obsidian roses waits upon your favorite stone. their thorns glint like mini daggers, yet the petals are velvet, impossibly soft, delicate to the touch. when you lift it, a strange warmth spreads through your chest, as if his hand were still there, offering it to you.

you do not tell the others. you do not confess what you now crave; the thrill of each new token, the silent devotion of the king they call merciless. for the world sees him as ruined, but for you... he is beginning to look like true love.

and so, as the moons pass, the gifts do not cease; with each one, you find yourself drawn further beneath his dark and watchful presence. it is no longer enough to simply find them. you linger over them, cradle them, cherish them, as though each trinket carries a fragment of him; a whisper of his hand, his thought, his gaze.

and then, one morning, as you lift an obsidian rose to your cheek, you realize something, something that nearly startles you—you have not given him anything in return. the thought unsettles you instantly, making your chest ache with guilt, with longing. for though you are the goddess of spring, you have been selfish, basking in his devotion, in his dangerous patience, without ever answering it.

you know what it costs him, to approach the light, to lay himself bare, to court you as though you were some delicate bride instead of a deity whose touch births life itself. you cannot remain silent forever. so you begin small, almost shy.

one evening, when the moon is high and silver, you pluck a daisy from your meadow; a humble bloom, white and bright and pure. its petals feel warm against your fingers, alive in a way his black roses never could be. you kneel at the edge of the meadow, the place where you always feel him most, and lay it carefully upon the earth.

then, while your heart flutters with nerves, you wait. the shadows stir, drawing your attention. you do not see him, but you know he is there. his presence presses against your skin, cold and consuming, yet softened by a strange tremor, hesitation, perhaps disbelief.

your voice comes softer than you intend, but steady. "for you." the silence that follows is unbearable. you imagine him reaching for it, imagine his long, pale fingers brushing against the fragile stem. you imagine him holding it as though it were the most foreign thing in the world, yet the most precious.

at last, you hear it; a breath, sharp and shaken, as though torn from a man who has not known tenderness in centuries. "little goddess…" his voice is low, hoarse, reverent. "you wound me." your heart stutters, suddenly unsure. "why?" he sighs, voice wrecked with emotion. "because i never believed you would touch the dark with your light."

you swallow, throat tight, and press your hand to the grass as though you could reach him through the soil. "perhaps i am not as delicate as you think." the air quivers, the night creatures still. you feel him drawing closer, not close enough to see, but close enough that your breath catches, close enough that your skin prickles with the ache of almost being touched.

and then, softer than a hushed secret, he murmurs, "then you will be the death of me, sweet girl." when morning comes, the daisy is gone. in its place rests a chalice wrought of onyx and bone, filled to the brim with pomegranate seeds glistening like polished rubies. a silent vow, a temptation, a promise that he has accepted your gift, and will never stop answering it.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the chalice of pomegranate seeds is only the beginning. you had offered him a daisy, simple and unassuming, a child of sunlight and soil. he returned it with something eternal, an artifact heavy with meaning, impossible to ignore. his message was clear, he does not deal in trifles, for every act of his is a vow, and every gesture is permanence. and yet, it is not the last gift you find.

a week later, as you wander your meadow at dawn, your eyes catch upon a strange bundle resting at the roots of a willow. at first, you think it is another trinket of shadow, perhaps an engraved bone or some rare jewel, but when you draw closer, your breath halts.

it is parchment; folded, sealed with black wax pressed by the mark of a crown. a letter… for you. your hands tremble as you break the seal, breath hitching. the ink is dark, the script sharp and elegant, each letter carved onto the page with care. it is not long; he does not waste words, but the weight of them nearly drives you to your knees.

little goddess, i do not know why i write, words have never served me, for they are too weak, too clumsy to cage what stirs in me when i see you. i cannot stop. i find myself restless when you are not near, and when you are, i am more restless still. you are a torment i would gladly endure for eternity. do not ask me to step into your light, for i cannot, but if you leave me your flowers, i swear to carry them like armor into my endless dark.

your heart hammers, unnaturally so. you press the letter to your chest, dizzy with the ache of it. his words are not flowery, they are not gentle, but they are his. and in their rawness, you glimpse a man unraveling, thread by thread, before you.

after that, the letters come more often. each one hidden in a different place among your blooms; under a cluster of violets, tucked between stones, pinned to the stem of a rose he has left for you. his hand never wavers, always precise, always deliberate. and though he is the lord of silence, on parchment, he speaks more beautifully than he ever dared aloud.

he writes of the weight of his realm, of the endless tide of souls he must shepherd, of the solitude that even gods cannot escape. he writes of how the sound of your laughter lingers in his ears long after he has left, how the memory of your hand in his hair still haunts him like the sweetest torture. he writes of want, not crude, not careless, but aching, reverent, dangerous in its sincerity.

and one night, as you lie awake with his letters scattered across your lap, you realize something—you want to answer him back. and so, you begin to write. your hand is less steady than his, your script less precise, but your words are full of warmth, of color, of the tenderness he has never known.

you write of the feel of the lush grass beneath your bare feet, of the thrill of finding each of his tokens, of the strange, impossible longing that grows each day in your chest. you write of how he does not frighten you. of how, when you think of him, the world feels fuller, not darker. when you are done, you leave the letter tucked into the hollow of a tree where you know he will find it. and as you walk away, your heart races with a mixture of fear and delight.

that night, when the meadow falls silent, you hear it. a low chuckle, soft and hoarse, echoing faintly through the shadows. not cruel, not cold. a laugh unpracticed, startled into being. your letter had reached him. and perhaps, just perhaps, you had given the lord of the underworld something he had never held before. hope.

sooner than later, the letters begin to change. at first, they were hesitant, as though even his hand feared betraying too much. his words circled you like a wolf in tall grass, curious, reverent, unwilling to pounce. but as days turn to weeks, the restraint frays. each parchment you unfold now is heavier, the ink pressed deeper, the words themselves edged with a fierce kind of hunger. he writes longer, too, spilling more of himself than a king of shadows should ever dare to.

little goddess, i thought you sunlight incarnate, meant only to dazzle and then vanish. but you linger, your words linger. your laughter, your flowers, your touch; they root themselves in me like the sharpest of thorns. i cannot pry them out, and if i could, i would not. i think you do not understand what you have done to me, sweet maiden. i walk among the endless halls of the dead, and still i hear you. your voice threads through the silence, taunting me to madness. your name burns on my tongue when i speak none other. i should loathe you for this endless torment, but i am far too lost. i am already yours, my beloved, though you have not asked it of me.

another time, the letter is much shorter, more frantic, as if torn from him before reason could interfere.

my beloved kore, they whisper your name even in my realm; spring's child, flower-girl, light incarnate. but they do not know you as i do. they do not know the warmth of your hand, or how your gentle smile devours a man whole. you will be mine, there is no doubt. i do not know how much longer i can keep from taking what i already claim in my heart.

your fingers tremble as you read it, seated in your meadow with daisies bowing around you. a shiver coils low in your spine, fear and exhilaration tangled together. he does not threaten, not directly, but the longing is sharp, undeniable, edged like a blade pressed close to skin. and yet, you cannot stop reading, you cannot stop wanting.

his gifts grow bolder, too. a necklace wrought of obsidian, set with a single pearl that gleams faintly red in moonlight. a silken ribbon black as midnight, long enough to wind twice around your throat. a dagger, its hilt carved with glittering roses and thorns, its edge gleaming so bright it could cut through the dawn itself.

he leaves these offerings without note, but you feel the words in them; his desire, his claim, his vow that he will not remain forever at the edges of your meadow. and still, you answer. you leave him pressed flowers, little verses written in your softer hand, petals kissed with sweet little droplets of dewdrops.

you tell him of the world above, of the bumblebees buzzing drunkenly through your fields, of the way children run barefoot through the first green grass of spring. you tell him you think of him when you walk beneath the moon, and that you no longer mind when the shadows stretch too long near you. one night, you dare write only a single line, and it costs you every ounce of courage you have.

perhaps i would not wither in your dark, if i only had your hand to guide me through it.

you tuck it into the roots of the willow where his first letter appeared, and when you return at dawn, the parchment is gone. in its place is another letter, the wax seal cracked and slightly smeared as though pressed too quickly, as though he could not bear to wait.

do not tempt me, little goddess, for i am already undone. and if you step even one foot toward my realm, i will never let you go. not for spring, not for the sun, not for gods or men. you would sit at my side forever, with your fingers in my hair and my crown in your lap, and i would burn the world above just to keep you there with me forever.

the words make your chest ache with longing, with love. you fold the letter carefully, press it to your lips to soothe the constant ache. and though you know his vow is dangerous, perhaps even ruinous, you feel your pulse quicken with a treacherous truth; you want it; you want him.

the night he comes to you, the air is strange; thick, heavy, expectant, as though even the meadow itself knows something is about to change. you sit among the daisies and violets, your lap full of letters, his letters.

you have read them so many times the parchment is softened at the edges, the ink smudged where your fingers linger too long, stroking each word lovingly, full of longing and heartache. one letter of his in particular lies open in your hands, his writing almost obsessive.

if you were only mine, little goddess, i would never let you go. i would rather chain the sun itself in my halls than to ever lose you to it again.

your breath trembles, your chest aches; and then, your flowers shift, not from the wind, but in the shadows. he does not linger at the edges this time, no flicker between trees, no glimmer of pale hair quickly gone.

boldly, he steps forward. the meadow seems to bow around him, bending away from the darkness he carries, his cloak black as the void that sways behind him, his tall, lean frame cutting the night like a freshly sharpened blade. moonlight brushes his face, sharp and cold, glinting over the pale gleam of his silver hair, the burn of his single violet eye.

you should run, every instinct whispers it, to flee into the light, but you do not. instead, you rise, your skirts whispering over the grass, and you go to him, willingly. the letters, the gifts, the longing; they have led you here, to this, to him. "why now?" you whisper, breathless, though your feet carry you closer, closer. "why show yourself to me like this?"

his jaw clenches, the glowing sapphire in his empty eye socket glistening with something close to tenderness, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though even now he wars with himself. his voice, when it comes, is low and hoarse, trembling with restraint. "because i cannot endure it any longer… your words, your flowers; you. i have tried to remain at a distance, but you… you are undoing me, sweetest kore."

your name in his mouth steals the air from your lungs, making your heart skip a beat. you stop just before him, close enough to feel the cold that radiates from his body like mist from a cavern, close enough to see the way his eye devours you, as though memorizing every little detail, every single breath.

slowly, as though afraid you might vanish, he lifts a hand. it hovers at your cheek, shaking faintly with the effort not to touch. "you are light itself, my love," he murmurs, voice cracking slightly from anguish. "and i… i am nothing but shadow, pure darkness. if i take you now, i will never let you go." your heart races, your throat tight, but you lift your chin, daring. "then take me."

the words break him, nearly bringing him to his knees. his hand cups your face, cold and trembling, and the moment his skin touches yours, the meadow gasps; a thousand blossoms bursting open at once, fragrance thick and dizzying in the air. his other hand finds your waist, pulling you against him with a hunger he can no longer mask. and then, he kisses you.

the kiss is not gentle; it is not timid; it is a claiming, cold lips pressed to yours with desperate force, the taste of pomegranate and ash, the burn of something endless and unyielding. he kisses you like a man drowning, like you are the only breath he has ever taken.

you clutch at him, his cloak, his shoulders, his hair, threading your fingers into the pale silk of it, just as you once dared in secret. he groans against your mouth, the sound low, guttural, full of hunger, breaking through the mask of a cruel king and revealing only the lonely man beneath.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath ragged. "you are mine now," he whispers, fierce and reverent all at once. "say you are mine," he pleads, his voice wrecked. and though the night is thick with danger, though your heart pounds with both fear and want, you cannot stop yourself. "yes," you mewl, voice soft and breathy. "i am yours, aemond."

the shadows coil tighter around you both, as if sealing the sacred vow. and for the first time, the goddess of spring and the king of the underworld stand not as light and dark, but as something new, something inevitable.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the night after your kiss, nothing feels the same. the meadow hums differently, the flowers bow lower as if acknowledging the vow that now binds you to the god who rules over the dead. even the air tastes altered; less sweet, more sharp, tinged with the metallic tang of shadow.

you cannot stop touching your lips, cannot stop replaying the press of his mouth against yours, the weight of his large hands, the way he looked at you as though you had become the very axis of his world.

and then, he comes for you; not in silence this time, not in flickers of shadow. the earth itself shivers as he steps into your lively meadow, cloaked in majesty, no longer hiding the truth of who he is.

his crown gleams black as obsidian, his cloak ripples like the mouth of night itself. behind him, the shadows deepen, spilling like a river through the grass. "kore, my love," his voice thrums through your bones, a low, seductive purr. "come with me."

your breath catches, but you do not hesitate. you go to him, your small hand sliding into his, and the moment his fingers close around yours, the meadow wilts; blossoms fold upon themselves, grasses bow, petals fall like raindrops. it is as though the world itself mourns the loss of you. but you do not mourn; no, you follow.

the ground cracks beneath your feet, opening into a path of stone. the air grows cooler, heavier, humming with unseen voices. you descend, his hand guiding you steadily, firmly, as the light of your world fades behind you. and then, you see it; the underworld.

it is vast, endless, magnificent. caverns carved from black stone gleam faintly with veins of crystal; rivers of silver fire cut through the dark, their glow casting ghostly light on the halls that stretch into eternity. shadows move like courtiers, bowing low when they catch sight of you, whispering, rustling like leaves in a storm.

but their whispers are not for you; they are for him, their king. aemond leads you through them, his grip on your hand unyielding, as though afraid someone might steal you from him at any moment.

his face is unreadable, a mask of icy calm; but you feel the tension in him, the way the rough pad of his thumb brushes faintly over your skin, betraying a man who has never walked through his realm with anyone at his side.

at last, he brings you to a throne made of stone and iron, carved with blood-red roses whose thorns twist like poisonous daggers. he lowers himself onto it slowly, never releasing your hand. and then, with a gentle pull that steals your breath, he draws you into his lap, as though you were always meant to be there.

the court of shades stir in disbelief; their king, merciless and unyielding, with the goddess of spring nestled against him like a crown of blossoms. you feel their stares, but he does not. his eye is only for you, his beloved little goddess.

you lift a trembling hand, threading your fingers into his pale hair as you once dreamed. his body goes utterly rigid, then shudders, and he leans into your touch as though it is the only thing tethering him to existence. "my queen," he whispers, reverent, undone. "my beloved persephone," he purrs, bestowing you with a new name, a name fitting for a queen, his queen.

and though the shadows of his realm close in all around you, though the world above is lost from sight, you do not fear. for in his lap, with his hand gripping your waist and your fingers in his hair, you feel not claimed, nor conquered, but cherished.

some time later, you notice how the halls of the underworld breathe around you; stone carved from shadow, veined with faint light, whispering with the restless voices of lost souls. yet though it should feel suffocating, though the air is heavy with silence and the weight of eternity, you are not frightened, because his hand never leaves yours, not once.

aemond leads you from his throne, through corridors vast as cathedrals, their ceilings glittering faintly with ghost-crystals. the shades that drift through them bow deeply, but their gazes linger in disbelief. for the first time, their king does not walk alone.

at last, he stops before a set of tall doors. they open with a thought, and he guides you into chambers unlike anything you have seen. the walls are black stone, yes; but lined with shelves of books and tombs older than empires, with relics and artifacts carved from bone, with sweet-smelling flowers—your flowers—growing in pots of onyx as though he has been coaxing them here, waiting for you.

your breath stutters, doe eyes widening in disbelief and awe alike. "these are... mine?" his gaze flickers to the living blooms, then back to you. his voice comes low, almost defensive, lips forming into the smallest of pouts. "i tried to keep them alive, my love... though they never quite flourished the way they do in your hand. even so, i kept them."

your chest aches, unable to hide how deeply you are touched by his sweet, simple gesture; the god who rules the damned, nurturing fragile blossoms in secret for you, as though his only desire were to see you pleased. you turn to him, smiling softly, and his composure falters.

the great king of shadows looks suddenly uncertain, like a man stripped bare. his eye drops, his jaw clenches, as though bracing for rejection. so you step closer, placing your hand against his chest, over the cold beat of his heart. "they're so beautiful, aemond… thank you."

his breath leaves him all at once, shaky, as though your touch has undone centuries of restraint. he lifts his hand to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against him, as though willing you to feel the truth in his chest—that he loves you, and would move mount olympus itself merely to see you smile.

the night grows quiet, yet he does not touch you as a conqueror might. he does not demand, nor does he take. instead, he sits with you in his vast chamber and guides you to a chaise by the great hearth, so that you might sit beside him, and perhaps, allow yourself to be held by him.

later, he brings you to a bed carved of obsidian, draped with silks soft as flower petals. he does not lie beside you, not yet. instead, he sits at the edge, his head bowed, his fingers tangled in his pale hair. "i would give you the world above if you asked, my love," he murmurs. "but i cannot give you the sun; i cannot give you spring."

you rise, kneel before him, take his hand in yours. "you have already given me so much more, sweet aemond." his gaze snaps to you, raw, unguarded, trembling with a hunger not of flesh but of the soul. slowly, he lowers himself until his forehead rests against yours, breath shuddering with restraint.

the kiss he gives you then is nothing like the claiming in your meadow; it is tender, reverent, almost frightened. a man who has never known softness, tasting it for the first time. he lingers there, breathing you in, as though memorizing every heartbeat, every soft brush of your sweet, pillowy lips against his.

and when at last you lie down, he does not leave. he stretches beside you—stiff at first, as though unsure he belongs there—but relaxes when you curl into his side. his arm wraps around you, his body a cold shield against the darkness of his realm.

the king of the underworld does not sleep; but that night, with you snuggled in his arms, safe and warm and loved, his breath softens, and he dreams. and you, little goddess of spring, close your eyes in the realm of death, and feel, for the very first time, wholly alive.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the underworld was never meant to bloom; it was forged in silence, shaped in shadow, bound by stone and river. it was a kingdom of endings, souls adrift in endless twilight, bowed beneath the weight of their king's cold law. but then you came. at first, it is subtle; a curl of green sprouting from the cracks in obsidian tile where your feet have touched, the faintest shimmer of color clinging to the air when you laugh.

one morning, when you open the doors to his chamber, you find a vine climbing boldly up the black walls, its blossoms pale and luminous, as though drinking light from the darkness itself. the shades whisper, they stare as you pass, hushed awe threading through their voices. never have they seen such things, life defying death, roots digging stubbornly into stone, color staining shadow. and aemond... he watches you with a hunger deeper than any letter could hold.

he says nothing at first, but his sharp, piercing gaze never leaves you. you catch him standing in doorways at night, silent, violet eye gleaming in torchlight, drinking in the sight of you curled in his bed, your breath soft, your hair spilling across his sheets like ink. you feel him beside you when you wander around, his presence cold but constant, his hands sometimes brushing yours as though unable to help himself.

one evening, you catch him in the great hall, standing before a cluster of flowers that had sprung up where you once sat. his hand hovers above them, uncertain, almost reverent. "they should not grow here," he murmurs, as though speaking to himself. "nothing ever grows here."

you step to his side, slipping your fingers into his. "then perhaps they were just waiting." his eye snaps to yours, wide, raw, and for a moment the king of the dead looks like a boy startled by his first true taste of hope. from then on, he stops pretending. the gifts he leaves for you are no longer trinkets, they are shrines.

jewels set in silver bowls to hold your delicate blossoms, carved alcoves in the stone walls where he places each flower you've touched, guarded as though they are more precious than any crown. when you braid daisies into your hair, he sits silently at your side, stiff and unmoving, letting you tuck one into his pale strands; so out of place it makes the shades murmur louder, but he never removes it.

and each night, when you lie beside him, he pulls you closer. he kisses you not with hunger this time, but with something worse, something deeper; devotion, worship. as though every breath you give him is a miracle, as though he cannot believe you are real. yet his letters, now tucked into drawers and hidden beneath lush pillows, grow darker still. he writes them even though you are here, his need for you spilling into words he cannot speak aloud.

the underworld bends for you, my sweet. even its rivers sing your name, praising you. you should be afraid of this new power, but i am the one who fears it. because if you ever chose to leave, i would burn my kingdom to ash rather than let it survive without you.

and you wonder, when he looks at you like that, when the very stones form flowers beneath your touch, whether you are still the goddess of spring at all, or if you are becoming something else entirely. the queen of the dead.

the bed is vast, carved from obsidian, draped in silks black as midnight and faintly gleaming in the glow of silver fire from the braziers. you've lain here before, curled against him, his cold body a shield around yours. but tonight feels different; tonight, the air itself is heavier, trembling with something unsaid.

he sits at the edge, as always; too rigid, too still, as though terrified to break the spell of your presence. but when you place your hand upon his knee, he turns to you, and his eye is wild, his pupil blown with desire. "persephone," he rasps, your name thick in his throat. "do not look at me like that. if you do, i will not be able to stop myself." and you, soft, reckless little goddess that you are, only whisper, "then don't."

the words shatter him, leaving him nearly panting with the need to have you. he cups your face in his cold hands and pulls you into his mouth, sighing softly in pleasure as your lips connect with his. the kiss is not tentative this time, not a test. it is ruinous, desperate, consuming; his lips crashing into yours with the force of centuries of restraint breaking all at once. his tongue sweeps against yours, stroking, claiming, devouring, yet reverent in its hunger, as though he cannot believe you bless him with the taste of you at all.

you fall back into the silks, and he follows, his weight pressing you into the bed. his cloak spills around you both like the mouth of night swallowing light, but his hands tremble when they find your waist, your hips, your thighs. "order me to stop and i will at once," he pants against your skin, kissing down your delectable throat, his voice breaking. "tell me before i lose all reason, darling girl."

you arch beneath him, fingers buried in his pale hair, tugging at the roots until he groans, low and guttural and lustful. "i will never tell you to stop, my love," you croon, your voice sweet as spilled honey. that vow undoes him; he tears the silks from your body with trembling hands, reverence and violence clashing in every motion.

his mouth follows, tracing fire over your collarbones, your heaving breasts, down the curve of your soft belly. his kisses are desperate prayers, his tongue worshiping every inch of you, murmuring your name like a litany, over and over.

when his long, deft fingers slip between your thighs, you cry out, and his head bows lower, groaning against your flesh as if the sound itself is his undoing. he works your virgin cunt open, slowly, reverently, as though memorizing how your body yields to his touch. "mine," he whispers against you, over and over, his voice breaking into raw, endless hunger and awe. "mine, little goddess... all fucking mine."

and when he finally presses his hard, aching cock into you, his body trembling, his jaw clenched as if to restrain himself, you see him as he truly is, not the cold king, not the feared ruler of death, but a man, desperate and undone by love.

he moves within you as though he is praying, every deep thrust a sacred vow, every desperate kiss a confession. his forehead presses to yours, his eye burning into yours as though daring you to look away, to deny what this is. "say it," he groans, his voice shattering as he begs. "say you are mine, my love… please."

your nails dig into his shoulders, your body arching against his, every nerve aflame, every heartbeat colliding with his. "i-i… i am yours," you gasp, whining softly as he hits your sweet spot with the tip of his cock over and over, as though he were bullying your pleasure, coaxing it out to meet his own. "always, y-yours... a-aem—" you choke, babbling nonsensical words, your greedy cunt clenching tightly around his shaft, wet and needy.

the words rip a sound from him you've never heard; a sharp cry, half broken, half triumphant, as he shatters against you, as though your surrender has destroyed the last of his restraint. he holds you through it as you climax together, trembling, clutching you as though you might dissolve into mist if he lets go.

when it is over, when the dark is quiet but for your breaths mingling, he buries his face in your neck. his body is heavy against yours, warm and damp from his previous exertions, his arm wound so tightly around your waist you know he will never release you; not tonight, never.

"you are my spring, persephone," he murmurs, his voice raw, shaking from the intensity of his orgasm. "but you belong to my dark." and though the underworld trembles, though the stones themselves seem to bow, you only close your eyes and smile. for at last, you are his.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the underworld is changing. everywhere you walk, blossoms curl out of stone, vines twist up obsidian pillars, the rivers glimmer with faint color as if touched by spring. the shades whisper as you pass by, bowing their heads in deep respect to the queen who brought life to death.

but aemond's whispers are only for you. you wake in his bed, your body wrapped in cool, luscious silks, with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. he has not slept; you feel the rise and fall of his chest too quick, hear the faint rasp of his breath against your hair. when you turn, his violet eye is already on you, fierce and heavy with sleepless hunger.

"you're still here," he whispers, wonder cracking his voice. "every morning i expect you gone, a dream i've woken from." you cup his jaw, kiss him softly, and he groans; low, broken, like the simplest touch of yours unmakes him. without hesitation, he rolls you beneath him, his hair falling like a pale curtain around you, caging you in.

"you are mine, my sweet," he hums against your lips. "my little goddess, my spring, my persephone." his mouth travels to your throat, kissing feverishly, almost frantic. "say you'll never leave me." your fingers lace through his hair, tugging gently until he shudders against you, his cock hardening rapidly. "i'll never leave you, aemond… i swear it."

that vow destroys what composure he clings to. he kisses you again—slow, deep, desperate—his tongue tangling with yours as if he wishes to taste every breath you'll ever breathe. his hands trace your body with reverence, worshiping every curve, every soft place, as though he cannot believe you're real.

he undresses you carefully this time, not with the tearing urgency of the first night you made love, but with shaking patience, as though each piece of silk he removes is a ritual. he kisses each new inch of skin revealed; your collarbones, your breasts, the soft dip of your navel, murmuring soft praises and sweet nothings between every worshipful kiss. "so fucking beautiful… sweeter than all the flowers in the world above... my sweet, perfect little goddess."

when he lowers himself between your thighs, his eye gleams up at you; dark, starved, reverent. he takes his time, worshiping you with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until you are gasping, writhing, sobbing his name like a prayer. he holds your squirming hips steady, groaning into you every time you fall apart on his wicked tongue, drinking in your sweet cries like nectar.

when he finally returns to your lips, his mouth still tastes of you, sweet, heady, and terribly addictive. he kisses you through your trembling, murmuring against your lips, trying to soothe your tremors with his softly spoken voice, "f-fuck, you're mine, angel..."

and when he finally slides into you, slow and deep, he breaks. his forehead presses to yours, his eye closing tight, a choked sound of desperation falling from his throat. "you're so tight around me… you feel so soft, so ripe, so fucking good," he gasps, voice ragged. "feels like i was waiting centuries for you."

he moves with aching devotion, every thrust steady, reverent, his hand never leaving yours, your fingers intertwined with his. his lips trace your face, your hair, your throat, worshiping you with frantic desperation. "i'd tear the heavens apart for you; i'd burn olympus itself if they ever tried to take you away from me." his voice is raw, each word pressed into your skin. "you are my heart, my queen… my fucking ruin."

you moan his name, and he shudders, hips faltering, his control unraveling the more he continues to keep fucking you. he buries himself deeper, holding you close as if the world might fall apart if even an inch of space forms between your bodies.

he comes undone with a strangled groan, your name falling from his lips as you clench one last time around him, and then he collapses against you, trembling as though he’s been violently torn open. his kisses soften then, slow and languid, his body heavy but tender as he gathers you close, pressing your head beneath his chin.

in the stillness, you feel him trace lazy circles against your hip, his breath still uneven from the euphoria he just experienced. "stay with me forever, sweetling. be my spring, even in the dark." and as you lie in the arms of the king of the dead, surrounded by flowers blooming in black stone, you know you already are.

sometime later, the great hall goes silent. all the flowers you've coaxed from stone stand trembling, as if aware of the storm brewing at the threshold. the gods above have noticed; their messengers come cloaked in gold, voices sharp and cold, demanding your return to the world of sun and sky.

you stand at aemond's side, your hand folded in his. his throne looms ominously behind him, carved from the same obsidian as the bed where he worships you each night. he is calm on the surface, but you can feel his pulse where your fingers rest on his wrist; fast, violent, restrained like a caged beast. "she is ours," the envoy intones, voice like struck metal. "the goddess of spring belongs above, with her mother. return her at once, king of the dead."

the hall shudders with the weight of the words. aemond does not answer, his hand tightens on yours until your knuckles start to ache. then, his violet eye flicks to you—not a command, not even a plea—it's a question, a prayer disguised as desperation. you look up at him; he is so still, yet his jaw trembles, his lips pressed tight. and you know, you know he is one breath away from spilling blood, from starting war.

and then, as though from some ancient memory, a shape appears on the obsidian table before you; a chalice wrought of onyx and silver, filled with pomegranate seeds glistening like rubies. they gleam in the dim light, rich and red as freshly spilled blood.

you understand at once. if you eat them, you will belong to the underworld, you will never be free of it, you will never leave him. your heart thunders in your chest, loud and strong. the envoys' eyes widen; they know what it means; they know what you are about to do.

slowly, deliberately, you step away from them and toward the chalice. aemond's breath catches—a sharp, broken sound—and he reaches for you, but stops himself. he cannot force you, not for this. your hand hovers over the alluring seeds, the temptation too strong to resist.

he whispers, hoarse, "my love, you don't have to." you turn to him, and you have never seen him look like this—this cold king undone, violet eye wet with something akin to despair. "i want to," you say, voice breathless, tender.

and before anyone can stop you, you take the chalice in both hands. the seeds are cool, heavy, sticky with juice. you lift one to your lips, then another, then another, six in all, one for every vow you make in your heart as you swallow them. the sticky juice runs red down your fingers, and you can't help but lick it from your skin.

the hall erupts in gasps and murmurs, and aemond can't help but to stare as though watching the sun itself fall into his hands. the envoy takes a step back, startled, his golden mask paling. "she has bound herself," he whispers, frightened. "the goddess is his."

aemond moves before you can blink; he's at your side, his hands cupping your face, his mouth crashing onto yours. the taste of pomegranate is still heavy on your tongue when he kisses you, deep and hungry, trembling as if afraid you might vanish even now.

"you chose me," he breathes against your lips, voice breaking from the overwhelming emotion he feels for you. "fuck, you chose me." you press your forehead to his, smiling softly. "i belong here… with you." the hall is silent now, the envoys vanish, the air shimmering as olympus recedes, defeated.

aemond pulls you against him, his hands sliding down your sides, clutching you as though you're his heart made flesh. he kisses your hair, your temples, your mouth, murmuring between each one, "you're truly mine now… my queen, my eternal spring."

and as the pomegranate's sweetness lingers on your tongue, the underworld itself shifts. the stones pulse beneath your feet; the rivers shimmer with new color; the shades kneel as one. the goddess of spring is no longer a visitor, she is a queen—his queen—persephone.

the underworld knows before the heralds can even flee back to olympus. the air thickens, the silvery-black rivers glow faintly red, and a hush falls over every cavern and chamber as if the stones themselves are holding their breath.

aemond takes your hand and leads you from the hall, not toward his throne, but down a stairway carved deep into the heart of his kingdom. the steps descend into a vast cavern, lit by thousands of silver flames, and at the center waits an altar of obsidian, now veined with living green where your touch has already begun to transform it. here, in the belly of his realm, his power is absolute, yet his grip on you trembles.

"this is where oaths are sealed," he muses, his voice low and rough. "not with law, not with crowns, but with flesh and blood and will." his thumb traces the sticky red juice still clinging to your puffy lips. "you have bound yourself to me, but i..." he swallows hard, violet eye burning with intensity, with fierce devotion. "i would be bound to you."

the silks of his cloak spill around you both as he draws you to the altar. he does not place you upon it as a king with a prize; instead, he lowers himself to his knees before you, pressing his forehead to your belly. his long, flowing tresses brush your thighs, pale strands sticking to the pomegranate stain on your fingers.

"little goddess," he whispers against your skin, "spring of my dark, my beloved queen…. let me worship you, let me love you, let me crown you as mine." your hands find his hair, your fingers threading through the silky strands, tilting his face up. his eye is wild, desperate for your love. "rise," you say softly. "rise, my king."

he does, and the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, molten—not the kiss of a conqueror, but of a man offering his soul. his hands move over you as though learning you once again, palms rough and shaking with greed, worshipping every curve as he undresses you with patient, aching care.

the altar's stone is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that blooms wherever his lips press. every kiss is deliberate, slow, tracing the contours of you like a prayer wrought in flesh. he lingers at your throat, worshiping, memorizing, then drifts lower, lips grazing the swell of your breasts, the soft dip of your stomach, leaving trails of scorching fire in his wake.

each whisper against your skin is a benediction. "mine... my queen... my life..." he speaks as if invoking a spell, as if the words themselves might bind the world to you both. his hands are everywhere, palms rough and trembling, learning you anew with reverent hunger. every curve, every shiver, every gasp becomes sacred in his possessive touch.

you arch into him, not from just need, but from the exquisite knowledge that he is undone by you. his body moves with a rhythm older than time itself, slow, steady, unrelenting—not to consume, but to honor. the air around you hums with the pulse of something greater, a current of shadow and blossom, of longing and devotion, binding the two of you to this eternal night.

when he finally joins you, it is not a claim but a coronation. his body moves with yours as though to a rhythm older than death, slow and deep and endless, skin slapping loudly against wet skin. he cups your face, the rough pad of his thumb stroking your cheek as he thrusts into you, over and over, murmuring soft, hoarse, obsessive words that break between blissful gasps, "n-never thought... never dreamed... y-you'd choose me..."

you arch beneath him, fingers digging into his back, his name a litany on your lips. the silver flames flicker higher, shadows dancing across the cavern walls, sweet-smelling flowers bloom at the edges of the altar where your hands clutch the stone.

he presses his forehead to yours, his thrusts growing frantic, his restraint fraying. "you are everything to me, everything," he groans, panting softly against your kiss-swollen lips. "you are my spring, my ruin, my eternity..." you whisper back, "i am your queen, your wife… all yours, my king."

he shudders, an animalistic growl torn from his chest, fiercely primal and powerful, and comes apart with you, his body shaking, his mouth against your throat, kissing and sucking your pulse like a vow. when it is done, he does not move away; instead, he stays wrapped around you, his cold body soft and pliant now, his face buried against your neck as though hiding from the overwhelming swell of emotions he feels for you.

outside, the underworld shifts. the altar is no longer bare stone but veined with living green, blossoms spilling across it like an offering, the silver flames burning brighter. in the distance, you can hear the river sigh. aemond lifts his head at last, his eye heavy with exhaustion and awe. he cups your warm cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip affectionately. "you are no longer my guest, little goddess," he whispers, smirking. "you are my queen, my equal, my heart." and as you lie together on the altar, crowned by shadow and bloom, you know the world above has lost you, for you have always belonged to the dark, just as you now belong to him for eternity.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the realm no longer whispers about the girl from the meadow, it kneels. the underworld has never seen a queen like you—here, where once there was only black stone and silver flame, veins of green now wind along the walls, soft moss creeps between the tiles, blossoms open where your bare feet touch the floor. even the river lethe runs clearer, its surface reflecting flickers of color like dawn on water.

you sit beside aemond now, not at his feet but at his side. the throne, carved for him alone, has been split into two—obsidian twinned, your seat inlaid with living gold filigree curling like living vines. when the shades approach to plead their cases, they kneel before you both. when aemond passes judgment, his voice still rings like thunder, yet his hand rests lightly over yours, a quiet promise: we rule together.

and you are learning. at first, your power had frightened you. the first time you touched a wandering shade and flowers bloomed from its path, you snatched your hand back, heart hammering, suddenly startled and unsure. but aemond only caught your wrist and pressed a gentle kiss to your palm. "do not hide what you are, my love," he murmured. "you are spring, sweet girl, even here."

now you do not hide it. you move through the halls with your head high, speaking life into a place that has only ever known lonely, bitter endings. where aemond brings order, you bring mercy; where he closes doors, you open windows. the souls begin to soften under your gentle touch, even the darkest corridors glow faintly with light after you pass.

at night, when the petitions are done and the torches gutter low, you are no goddess on a throne. you are a woman curled in your husband's lap, his long fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare thigh. his hair smells of cedar and smoke; his lips taste faintly of mint leaves and pomegranate. he has grown quieter since you had bound yourself to him—not less dark, but deeper, as though your light has given his shadows somewhere to finally rest.

sometimes he catches you watching him while he writes, or sharpens one of his many blades, or gently arranges your blooms. his violet eye lifts, softening at once, and he crooks a finger for you. "come here, little goddess." and you do, always, happily climbing into his lap, your skirts spilling over his knees, your palms against his chest as you relax against him.

he holds you like that for many hours, as if your weight on him is the only thing that truly steadies him. he murmurs in high valyrian against your temple, words he will not translate but that sound like sweet devotions.

and when the hunger rises between you—slowly, inevitably—he is not the desperate king from your first nights. he is slower now, almost worshipful, sliding your gown from your shoulders, kissing each new inch of skin revealed as if in benediction. "you are my queen," he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice rough with awe, with love. "my spring in the dark, you're the other half of my heart."

his hands roam your womanly hips and back, his mouth tracing fire down your throat. you feel the power in him coiled tight but held in check; he moves slowly, letting you guide the rhythm, letting you decide how his shadows touch your light.

and when you finally join him, moving together in the quiet of your private chambers, it is not an act of possession but of creation. every little sigh you give him births another blossom on the walls; every cry of his name makes the silver flames burn ever so brighter as you continue riding him, bouncing up and down, up and down.

afterward, tangled in his arms, you rest your head over his heart. he strokes your hair, breathing you in, and murmurs, "one day, they will say my kingdom was death until you came. they will not call you a stolen girl, my love. they will call you what you truly are, the underworld's heart." in the distance, beyond the sealed golden gates, olympus remains silent. and so, while the world above waits for spring, here, in the realm of shadows, you and your king remake it in your own image.

❀ ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ—

the seasons changed differently now. the world above still followed its old rhythms—the thaw, the blossom, the warm breath of sunlight across the fields—but there was a new pulse beneath the earth, a second heart beating in its depths. spring did not vanish; it descended, and now, it reigns.

across meadows in the mortal realm, flowers grew wilder: poppies bright as blood, lilies soft as sighs, ivy twisting stronger than ever. the shepherds whispered that the blooms bowed toward the ground, leaning toward some unseen warmth beneath the soil. they did not know that the warmth had a name—you, little goddess of spring, wife of the king of the dead.

in the underworld, life moved with purpose. the souls knew peace where there had been only silence and wandering; gardens grew along the banks of the river styx—gardens of midnight blossoms, petals dark as wine and glowing faintly with your touch. and the shades who had forgotten color now stood among them, and remembered what it felt like to feel.

aemond would often walk with you there, no guards, no title. just the man who had once been a solitary god of stone and shadow, learning how to hold life gently in his hands. your fingers would trail through the blossoms, your footsteps leaving new growth in their wake.

his would follow, close behind, as though the idea of you drifting an arm's length away was still unbearable. sometimes, he would touch your waist, just barely... just enough to reassure himself: she is here, with me. he had once ruled with fear, but now, he ruled with you always by his side.

and the underworld adored its queen. the shades bowed their heads as you passed—not in terror, but in fierce devotion. spirits often came to you seeking comfort, and they found it; even the furies softened when you spoke, their merciless fire reduced to embers in your presence.

the dead had found their spring, but the most sacred place in the realm was not the throne hall, nor the river banks, nor the grove of night-blooming flowers; it was the private garden aemond had built for you, his little goddess of spring.

deep in the heart of the palace, beyond any corridor known to guards, behind doors carved with pomegranates and vines, there lay a sanctuary where shadow met bloom. the ceiling was open to a sky that did not exist—silver stars burning in a darkness eternal, glowing like distant lanterns.

there, he had planted every flower you had ever touched: daisies and violets from your first meadow, pale lilac blossoms from the altar where you became queen, roses thorned and fierce as your vow of eternal love. and it was there you would sit, in his lap, just as the old poets whispered: a goddess upon her rightful throne.

he would hold you as though you were made of flame and silk and holy things; one hand at your waist, the other toying absently with the ends of your hair. his voice was always low, rough, never quite steady—not when speaking to you, his sweet love.

sometimes he read to you, the words ancient and heavy, his breath warm against the sensitive shell of your ear, soft and teasing. sometimes you simply sat in silence, your cheek resting over his heart, snuggling together. and sometimes, when the world grew still, he would murmur, soft, reverent, confessional, "i thought i was born to rule alone, just as i thought my heart was formed by stone. and yet… here you are, spring rooted in death, bloom in my darkness, and i kneel gladly."

you would tilt your face up then, press a kiss to his jaw, feel his breath catch. and always, always, his hands would tighten as though anchoring himself to the one thing in existence he could not bear to ever lose. no god from above dared call you stolen now, just as no poet would speak of abduction. there were no chains here; only choice, only vow, only love rooted so deeply it had reshaped a kingdom.

the world above continued to bloom because of you, and the world below thrived because of you. and every night, when the silver stars gleamed over your secret garden, and aemond's arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you close in that quiet, steady way that said mine without a sound—you knew. you were not a flower plucked from the sun; you were a queen who chose her throne. and you were loved—darkly, deeply, eternally—by the king who once thought himself incapable of love at all.

—𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴄᴜʀɪᴏᴜꜱ, ʙʙꜱ .. >.< ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏ'ᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴏᴋ ᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ / ᴠ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴀʟ (ᴇxᴛʀᴇᴍᴇ) ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠ ɴᴇᴀʀ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ? .. ʟᴍᴋ ⸜̑⸝͂

yes!

no!

mine 2 click .. ෆ

Voting ended onNov 24, 2025

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › canon!aemond 𝑥 hightower!reader ꪆৎ 𓏲 ݂ ˖ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. sry if this drabble sucks.. ♡ i just wanted to post a lil somethin' for y'all.. enjoy, my sweet bbs! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⊹ cw: incest. forbidden love. themes of religion.

the night settles over oldtown like a velvet shroud, heavy with incense smoke and the distant toll of sept bells. you stand on the hightower's highest balcony, fingers curled around cold stone, watching the river gleam like a blade in the dark. below, the world hums with a holiness you've never been able to claim. above, the moon hangs pale and patient, a witness to every secret you've tried to bury. and behind you—always behind you—stands aemond.

you sense his arrival before any word escapes him—first the measured pull of his breath, then the faint rasp of his leathers shifting against itself, followed by the deliberate fall of a boot heel kissing the marble with a quiet, ominous click. the air seems to still in deference, as though the space itself bows to his presence. "cousin," he murmurs, the word drawn out in a low, velvety purr, a benediction curdled into something darker, almost bittersweet. his voice glides through the silence like a liturgy fractured at the altar, reverent and ruinous all at once.

you can feel it—his long, spidery fingers tracing the ends of your hair, slow and reverent, as though he's handling scripture. it steals your breath every time, the gentleness, the near-holy care with which he handles you, as if you were carved from something rarer than ivory, as if he fears breaking you yet hungers for the possibility all the same.

the song of your blood—your shared blood—thrums in your ears, a hymn rewritten in darker ink, forever stained and twisted. "you should not be here, aemond," you whisper shakily, though your body leans back into him of its own accord. you have always been devout in your rebellion where he is concerned, irritatingly so. his breath ghosts along the side of your throat, a taunt disguised as seduction. "and yet... here i am."

that's all it takes—the world collapsing into a single, searing point of awareness as his hand slides around your waist, deliberate, possessive, drawing you fully against the breadth of him. you feel the heat of his body even through the layered barrier of embroidered silk and worn leather, a heat so alive it makes the night itself feel colder, meaner, eager to steal what little warmth you might claim for yourself.

his grip settles with slow certainty, fingers splayed as though mapping territory, as though committing every contour of you to memory in case fate dares to pry you away from him. he holds you like a conqueror who has waited through endless winters for the land promised to him—like you are the one province he has bled for, prayed for, the single corner of the world he refuses to surrender to any king, any god, any destiny that would claim authority over him.

and the way your body answers—softening, yielding, betraying you with its quiet, trembling relief—only deepens the quiet vow in the way he pulls you closer still. "the realm… they speak of us," you say, though your soft-spoken voice trembles. "they say it is unnatural, cousin." a soft chuckle escapes him—quiet, cruel, protective.

"targaryens were forged on what others call unnatural, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he declares. his fingers lift your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. the single eye that watches you burns, violet and violent, a star collapsing into itself. "do you truly care so much for the opinions of sheep, dearest?" you don't, not when he looks at you like this—like he's already carved your name into the marrow of his desire.

but there's a weight in you, too—a knowledge of what it means to be a hightower daughter; bred for piety, polished like glass, meant to reflect virtue back at a world that rarely deserves it. you've lived your life in sunlit halls, reciting the scripture of the seven-pointed star, pretending your heart didn't wander toward shadows.

he knows this, of course. aemond sees you—sees all of you—in a way no one else dares. "you were born to be good, sweet cousin," he hums, the pad of his calloused thumb brushing over your lower lip. "yet you look at me as if sin were a crown." a tremor shivers through you, delicate but damning. his smile curves sharp, teasing, and full of amusement. "you think me wicked, my lady," he continues, "but you still come when i call."

"i-i… i shouldn't," you stammer meekly, nearly whining. "mmh… but you always do." he presses a delicate kiss to the place beneath your ear—a kiss that feels like a confession and a curse. the world tilts softly, your pulse fluttering wildly. the balcony, the river, the whole of oldtown fades until there is nothing left but the rhythm of his possessive touch and the terrible, aching truth of your longing.

your hands rise, hesitant, then certain, gripping the front of his doublet as you finally turn to face him. you feel the steady beat of his heart, fierce and unrepentant. his blood and yours—two lines twining through history like ancient serpents. "say it," he croons. "say you are mine, sweetling."

the words bloom inside you, dark and forbidden and undeniably true. you've known them since childhood, whispered among library stacks and moonlit corridors, growing sharper as the years passed and the space between you shrank. when you finally speak, your voice is soft as prayer. "i am yours, aemond."

aemond inhales—a sound almost pained, almost relieved—and his arms wrap fully around you, possessive and tender all at once. he holds you like he intends to carry you into fire and drag you back out again, like he believes you belong in the heart of his ruin. "good girl," he purrs, forehead resting against your temple as he bites back a small smirk. "then let the rest of the realm choke on its righteousness."

from the streets below rises the distant murmur of oldtown, unaware of the quiet sacrilege blooming on its highest balcony. the breeze tastes of salt and summer rot, of something ancient stirring. he kisses you then—slow, certain—a vow older than your houses, a promise steeped in shared lineage and shared hunger.

and as his lips claim yours, warm and insistent and dizzying, you realize something stark and shattering: in this city of saints and solemn prayers, you were always meant to be someone's sin. every polished hall, every whispered blessing had been a prelude, a quiet shaping of your desire, steering it toward transgression. and aemond targaryen—his dark, mismatched gaze, his commanding presence, the subtle obsessive hunger in his greedy touch—was always meant to be yours, the sin you could not resist, the storm you were destined to surrender to.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › hades!aemond 𝑥 persephone!reader ꣑ৎ 𓏲 ݂ ˖ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi, lil bbs.. ꒰ ´͈ ᵕ `͈𓏼 ྀིᥩ꒱❀ i'm sry this took forever for me to post, but i hope it was worth the wait.. ∩⑅∩ happy reading, sweet angels! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⟢ 𝗰𝘄: smut. lots of fluff. drama. i tweaked the bit abt the reader's mother, demeter. based heavily on greek mythology. aemond is lowkey emotionally constipated. happy ending. ꒰ ♡ ꒱ 𝘄𝗰: 11.5k.

—𝒷𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝒷𝑦 𝓅𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 & 𝒷𝑜𝑛𝑒 ⏾ ₊ ݁ ⊹

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the earth trembled awake when you first felt him. every year, the same cycle—the soil yawns open, the first green unfurls, and you, the goddess they call kore, breathe life back into a world gone gray in your absence. your bountiful touch ripens blossoms, your girlish laughter coaxes rivers from ice, and your very footsteps scatter fields with color. you are the balm and the promise of renewal, the very essence of new life and growth.

and yet… beneath all that light, something gnaws at you. for every blossom that blooms from your gentle hands, every seed that unfurls, there is a shadow waiting. you feel it in the hollow of your chest, in the ache that no garland of flowers can soothe. you are worshiped, adored, crowned in daisies and peonies alike, but none of them see the fragile, lonely girl beneath the goddess of spring.

it is in that restless longing that he finds you. at first, he is only a weight at the edge of your awareness, a distant flicker in the corners of your eyes when you lean down to tend to the daffodils in your beloved field of blossoms. he is the eerie silence between birdcalls, the chill that clings to your skin when the sun is at its warmest, and then, he steps forward.

the world stills, holding its breath. he is remarkably tall, carved from shadow, his presence an eclipse against your brilliance. his hair, long and pale as moonlight, falls like a curtain, veiling the sharp planes of his angular face. his single eye gleams with a glacial fire, unrelenting and unwavering, fixed upon you as though you are not merely the goddess of spring, but prey, or worse, destiny.

you should fear him, the nymphs warn as they whisper among themselves, frightened of his dark presence. all mortals fear him, and all gods, too. hades; or rather, aemond, they whisper—the silent, merciless king below. he who rules the endless night, the warden of the dead, the judge whose heart beats colder than obsidian stone.

but you do not dare to tremble; instead, you tilt your head like a newborn fawn, your doe eyes sparkling with curiosity. the hem of your soft, blush-colored gown brushes over the dewy grass as blossoms lean toward him, eager to discover who brings such darkness into this place filled with light, as if they too wish to brush their delicate petals against his shadow.

"why do you watch me?" you ask, voice soft and full of childlike wonder, though your heart hammers as if to break through your ribcage. his pale lips curve into a soft smirk, barely, hauntingly. "because no one else has ever dared to look back."

that is how it begins; not with the earth splitting open, nor with screams, thunder, or chains. it begins with a piercing gaze full of longing, with the faintest of smiles curling upon lips that rarely get the chance to. it begins with you standing in the warm sunlight, while he stands beneath the shade of a willow tree, and the space between you trembles with an unnameable feeling that you sense deep in the marrow of your bones.

days pass, perhaps weeks. you return to your blooms, your rituals, and your endless offerings of joy to the mortal world. yet, the shadow lingers—he lingers. at the edge of crystal-clear rivers and at the boundary between lush groves, you speak more often now. your voice is soft, sweet like the scent of your precious blooms, filled with innocent curiosity as you share quiet words slipped between your duties.

he never dares to interrupt you, but he listens most eagerly, like a man who has never before been trusted with such gentleness in all his existence. as more time passes, you gradually uncover a horrifying truth: beneath all the iron, frost, and death, there is a man who is desperately yearning for more. he carries the weight of an empire built on bones, ash, and sin, yet he has never experienced warmth or kindness.

one evening, as the horizon bleeds gold and violet, you find yourself seated on a stone, exhaustion weighing heavily on your bones. he appears, silent as always, but for the first time, you do not stand up. instead, you reach out to him, your small hand daringly moving against the high collar of his cloak, fingers threading into his long, pale hair. his breath catches in the back of his throat, utterly bewitched by your tenderness. almost stunned, his posture becomes unnaturally rigid from the gentle touch of your fingertips.

you notice the tremor that runs through him, how his shoulders stiffen as if every instinct urges him to pull away, to resist the urge to be touched by such a divine creature such as yourself. yet, he doesn't. he endures your touch like a man braving fire; rather, he would prefer to burn alive than to live without your gentleness.

then, he exhales sharply, as if he's experiencing the worst kind of agony. his large, calloused hand finds your wrist, not to push you away, but to anchor himself against the threat of your tenderness. in that moment, he is not hades, the king of the damned, nor the terror that is whispered in mortal prayers. he is but a simple man, experiencing love from a woman for the very first time, unable to resist the temptation that is simply you.

later, much later, you will climb into his lap as if it were your own personal throne, unafraid of his crown of iron and unshaken by the hollowness of his halls. you will run your fingers through his silky, silvery-white hair while his court of shadows whisper in disbelief, in awe of your gentle presence in such a damned place such as tartarus. you will teach him warmth, tenderness, love, and he will surrender the steel in his soul to you alone.

but not yet; for now, you only sit together in the hush of twilight in your field of blossoms, his head lowered in submission, your touch gentle, so very gentle, your heart thundering as you whisper, "you are not as frightening as they whisper about, aemond." and his answer is little more than a low rasp, a vow hidden in the tremble of his deep, baritone voice, "for you, my beloved... i never will be."

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the world above still hums with life, but since that twilight moment, you feel it differently. every bloom you coax into being, every bud that unfurls beneath your fingers, it all pales in comparison to the memory of his voice. for you, my beloved... i never will be.

the words haunt you. not like a curse, but like a secret song that only you have heard. you repeat them in the dark when you are alone among the trees, when the nightingale sings and the wind brushes your hair like a lover's caress.

and always, he is there. not close enough to touch, not bold enough to intrude, but you feel his presence at the border of your light. shadows linger longer when he comes, and your blossoms bend toward the dark as though testing if they, too, might grow there.

sometimes you catch the faint gleam of his pale hair between the trees, or the ghost of his profile, carved sharp and stern, watching, always watching. it should frighten you, it should send you running. but instead, you begin to search for him.

one dusk, when the sun drips molten into the horizon, you speak into the still air, as though to the silence itself. "why do you not step closer?" the hush deepens, the birds still, the earth waits, and then, his voice, low and quiet, like a stone rolling across deep water, "because i do not wish to ruin you, little goddess."

you shiver, heart fluttering wildly inside your chest. the answer is both confession and wound. he thinks himself corruption incarnate, yet within you, the goddess of spring, something unfurls—not fear, not revulsion, but a quiet, aching longing.

you rise, skirts brushing the soft grass, and cross into the shadow where he lingers. he is taller than you remembered, his cloak a tide of black swallowing the last of the day's gold. his single eye glows faint in the twilight, sharp as the edge of a blade.

"you cannot ruin me," you whisper, though your voice trembles. he leans closer, and you feel the chill of his breath. his hand lifts—almost, almost—to touch your cheek, but he stops short, fingers curling into a tight fist, as though the barest contact might unravel the fabric of worlds. "i can," he admits, so low you nearly do not catch it. "i would."

your throat tightens. yet instead of stepping back, you tilt your face up toward him. it is reckless, unholy perhaps, the goddess of spring standing in the embrace of death's sovereign, but your heart beats louder than reason. "then let me decide if i wish to be ruined."

the silence that follows is unbearable, suffocatingly so. you swear the meadow holds its breath with you. his jaw tightens, that single eye burning into yours with a hunger he cannot disguise. and then, he withdraws, black cloak snapping as he turns, vanishing into the dark as though he had never been.

you are left alone. and yet, not truly. because the moment he flees, the earth itself seems changed. blossoms bloom richer, more wilder. the air tastes sharper, sweet and metallic at once, like cherry wine spilt upon stone. the undercurrent of him remains, coiled tight around your ribs.

you press a trembling hand to your chest, right over your pounding heart. what is happening to you? you are the goddess of renewal, of warmth, of life itself. and yet, with every passing night, your roots stretch not only toward the sun, but into the shadows where he waits.

it's only a few days later when the gifts begin. the first is small, so small you nearly mistake it for a fallen stone among the violets at dawn. but when your hand brushes it aside, you find a ring of onyx, carved with the faintest of patterns: flames coiled like vines, wrapping endlessly around themselves. it is cold in your palm, impossibly heavy for such a simple band, and you know instantly it is not of the world above.

you wear it that day, hidden on a thin chain beneath your gown. none of the nymphs take notice, but when night falls, when you stand at the meadow's edge with your heart hammering, you feel him there, watching silently. the ring warms faintly against your skin, and you understand, it is from him.

the next offering is stranger; a single pomegranate, resting delicately on a patch of moss where no tree could have dropped it. its skin glistens like spilled blood beneath the sun, each ruby seed whispering danger and sweet, succulent temptation. you dare not bite into it, yet you cradle it to your chest, unable to leave it behind. when you tuck it into your basket among wildflowers, it looks almost natural… almost.

after that, the gifts appear more often. a black feather longer than your arm, its sheen catching faint green and violet when struck by the light—surely a relic from some ancient bird of the deep. a silver comb, engraved with serpents twining in endless knots. a cluster of ghostly flowers you have never seen, their petals translucent as glass, smelling faintly of ash and honey. each gift you receive is unlike anything the sunlit world has ever yielded, and every gift is for you. you begin to wait for them, wondering to yourself what he would gift you next.

morning dew barely dries before you are out in the meadow, skirts damp with grass as you comb through blossoms for his touch. sometimes the offerings are bold, placed where your eye cannot miss them. other times, they are hidden, tucked between roots or beneath leaves, so you must seek them out like treasured secrets shared only between you and him. and every time, you cannot help but to smile. a goddess of spring, caught in the net of the underworld's king.

one dusk, unable to help yourself, you whisper into the empty air, "why do you hide if you wish to court me?" the shadows shift. you cannot see him, but you know he hears you. the meadow holds its breath, waiting. then, his voice, a low murmur, dark silk drawn over polished steel, "because flowers are delicate things… and if i ever were to step too close, little goddess, you may wither."

you shake your head, though your cheeks flush hot. "or bloom." a pause; a silence that stretches like a bowstring, pulled taut and waiting to break. then, faint, like the brush of night wind over your skin, he replies, lips twitching, soft and amused by your stubbornness, "perhaps."

the next morning, a crown of obsidian roses waits upon your favorite stone. their thorns glint like mini daggers, yet the petals are velvet, impossibly soft, delicate to the touch. when you lift it, a strange warmth spreads through your chest, as if his hand were still there, offering it to you.

you do not tell the others. you do not confess what you now crave; the thrill of each new token, the silent devotion of the king they call merciless. for the world sees him as ruined, but for you... he is beginning to look like true love.

and so, as the moons pass, the gifts do not cease; with each one, you find yourself drawn further beneath his dark and watchful presence. it is no longer enough to simply find them. you linger over them, cradle them, cherish them, as though each trinket carries a fragment of him; a whisper of his hand, his thought, his gaze.

and then, one morning, as you lift an obsidian rose to your cheek, you realize something, something that nearly startles you—you have not given him anything in return. the thought unsettles you instantly, making your chest ache with guilt, with longing. for though you are the goddess of spring, you have been selfish, basking in his devotion, in his dangerous patience, without ever answering it.

you know what it costs him, to approach the light, to lay himself bare, to court you as though you were some delicate bride instead of a deity whose touch births life itself. you cannot remain silent forever. so you begin small, almost shy.

one evening, when the moon is high and silver, you pluck a daisy from your meadow; a humble bloom, white and bright and pure. its petals feel warm against your fingers, alive in a way his black roses never could be. you kneel at the edge of the meadow, the place where you always feel him most, and lay it carefully upon the earth.

then, while your heart flutters with nerves, you wait. the shadows stir, drawing your attention. you do not see him, but you know he is there. his presence presses against your skin, cold and consuming, yet softened by a strange tremor, hesitation, perhaps disbelief.

your voice comes softer than you intend, but steady. "for you." the silence that follows is unbearable. you imagine him reaching for it, imagine his long, pale fingers brushing against the fragile stem. you imagine him holding it as though it were the most foreign thing in the world, yet the most precious.

at last, you hear it; a breath, sharp and shaken, as though torn from a man who has not known tenderness in centuries. "little goddess…" his voice is low, hoarse, reverent. "you wound me." your heart stutters, suddenly unsure. "why?" he sighs, voice wrecked with emotion. "because i never believed you would touch the dark with your light."

you swallow, throat tight, and press your hand to the grass as though you could reach him through the soil. "perhaps i am not as delicate as you think." the air quivers, the night creatures still. you feel him drawing closer, not close enough to see, but close enough that your breath catches, close enough that your skin prickles with the ache of almost being touched.

and then, softer than a hushed secret, he murmurs, "then you will be the death of me, sweet girl." when morning comes, the daisy is gone. in its place rests a chalice wrought of onyx and bone, filled to the brim with pomegranate seeds glistening like polished rubies. a silent vow, a temptation, a promise that he has accepted your gift, and will never stop answering it.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the chalice of pomegranate seeds is only the beginning. you had offered him a daisy, simple and unassuming, a child of sunlight and soil. he returned it with something eternal, an artifact heavy with meaning, impossible to ignore. his message was clear, he does not deal in trifles, for every act of his is a vow, and every gesture is permanence. and yet, it is not the last gift you find.

a week later, as you wander your meadow at dawn, your eyes catch upon a strange bundle resting at the roots of a willow. at first, you think it is another trinket of shadow, perhaps an engraved bone or some rare jewel, but when you draw closer, your breath halts.

it is parchment; folded, sealed with black wax pressed by the mark of a crown. a letter… for you. your hands tremble as you break the seal, breath hitching. the ink is dark, the script sharp and elegant, each letter carved onto the page with care. it is not long; he does not waste words, but the weight of them nearly drives you to your knees.

little goddess, i do not know why i write, words have never served me, for they are too weak, too clumsy to cage what stirs in me when i see you. i cannot stop. i find myself restless when you are not near, and when you are, i am more restless still. you are a torment i would gladly endure for eternity. do not ask me to step into your light, for i cannot, but if you leave me your flowers, i swear to carry them like armor into my endless dark.

your heart hammers, unnaturally so. you press the letter to your chest, dizzy with the ache of it. his words are not flowery, they are not gentle, but they are his. and in their rawness, you glimpse a man unraveling, thread by thread, before you.

after that, the letters come more often. each one hidden in a different place among your blooms; under a cluster of violets, tucked between stones, pinned to the stem of a rose he has left for you. his hand never wavers, always precise, always deliberate. and though he is the lord of silence, on parchment, he speaks more beautifully than he ever dared aloud.

he writes of the weight of his realm, of the endless tide of souls he must shepherd, of the solitude that even gods cannot escape. he writes of how the sound of your laughter lingers in his ears long after he has left, how the memory of your hand in his hair still haunts him like the sweetest torture. he writes of want, not crude, not careless, but aching, reverent, dangerous in its sincerity.

and one night, as you lie awake with his letters scattered across your lap, you realize something—you want to answer him back. and so, you begin to write. your hand is less steady than his, your script less precise, but your words are full of warmth, of color, of the tenderness he has never known.

you write of the feel of the lush grass beneath your bare feet, of the thrill of finding each of his tokens, of the strange, impossible longing that grows each day in your chest. you write of how he does not frighten you. of how, when you think of him, the world feels fuller, not darker. when you are done, you leave the letter tucked into the hollow of a tree where you know he will find it. and as you walk away, your heart races with a mixture of fear and delight.

that night, when the meadow falls silent, you hear it. a low chuckle, soft and hoarse, echoing faintly through the shadows. not cruel, not cold. a laugh unpracticed, startled into being. your letter had reached him. and perhaps, just perhaps, you had given the lord of the underworld something he had never held before. hope.

sooner than later, the letters begin to change. at first, they were hesitant, as though even his hand feared betraying too much. his words circled you like a wolf in tall grass, curious, reverent, unwilling to pounce. but as days turn to weeks, the restraint frays. each parchment you unfold now is heavier, the ink pressed deeper, the words themselves edged with a fierce kind of hunger. he writes longer, too, spilling more of himself than a king of shadows should ever dare to.

little goddess, i thought you sunlight incarnate, meant only to dazzle and then vanish. but you linger, your words linger. your laughter, your flowers, your touch; they root themselves in me like the sharpest of thorns. i cannot pry them out, and if i could, i would not. i think you do not understand what you have done to me, sweet maiden. i walk among the endless halls of the dead, and still i hear you. your voice threads through the silence, taunting me to madness. your name burns on my tongue when i speak none other. i should loathe you for this endless torment, but i am far too lost. i am already yours, my beloved, though you have not asked it of me.

another time, the letter is much shorter, more frantic, as if torn from him before reason could interfere.

my beloved kore, they whisper your name even in my realm; spring's child, flower-girl, light incarnate. but they do not know you as i do. they do not know the warmth of your hand, or how your gentle smile devours a man whole. you will be mine, there is no doubt. i do not know how much longer i can keep from taking what i already claim in my heart.

your fingers tremble as you read it, seated in your meadow with daisies bowing around you. a shiver coils low in your spine, fear and exhilaration tangled together. he does not threaten, not directly, but the longing is sharp, undeniable, edged like a blade pressed close to skin. and yet, you cannot stop reading, you cannot stop wanting.

his gifts grow bolder, too. a necklace wrought of obsidian, set with a single pearl that gleams faintly red in moonlight. a silken ribbon black as midnight, long enough to wind twice around your throat. a dagger, its hilt carved with glittering roses and thorns, its edge gleaming so bright it could cut through the dawn itself.

he leaves these offerings without note, but you feel the words in them; his desire, his claim, his vow that he will not remain forever at the edges of your meadow. and still, you answer. you leave him pressed flowers, little verses written in your softer hand, petals kissed with sweet little droplets of dewdrops.

you tell him of the world above, of the bumblebees buzzing drunkenly through your fields, of the way children run barefoot through the first green grass of spring. you tell him you think of him when you walk beneath the moon, and that you no longer mind when the shadows stretch too long near you. one night, you dare write only a single line, and it costs you every ounce of courage you have.

perhaps i would not wither in your dark, if i only had your hand to guide me through it.

you tuck it into the roots of the willow where his first letter appeared, and when you return at dawn, the parchment is gone. in its place is another letter, the wax seal cracked and slightly smeared as though pressed too quickly, as though he could not bear to wait.

do not tempt me, little goddess, for i am already undone. and if you step even one foot toward my realm, i will never let you go. not for spring, not for the sun, not for gods or men. you would sit at my side forever, with your fingers in my hair and my crown in your lap, and i would burn the world above just to keep you there with me forever.

the words make your chest ache with longing, with love. you fold the letter carefully, press it to your lips to soothe the constant ache. and though you know his vow is dangerous, perhaps even ruinous, you feel your pulse quicken with a treacherous truth; you want it; you want him.

the night he comes to you, the air is strange; thick, heavy, expectant, as though even the meadow itself knows something is about to change. you sit among the daisies and violets, your lap full of letters, his letters.

you have read them so many times the parchment is softened at the edges, the ink smudged where your fingers linger too long, stroking each word lovingly, full of longing and heartache. one letter of his in particular lies open in your hands, his writing almost obsessive.

if you were only mine, little goddess, i would never let you go. i would rather chain the sun itself in my halls than to ever lose you to it again.

your breath trembles, your chest aches; and then, your flowers shift, not from the wind, but in the shadows. he does not linger at the edges this time, no flicker between trees, no glimmer of pale hair quickly gone.

boldly, he steps forward. the meadow seems to bow around him, bending away from the darkness he carries, his cloak black as the void that sways behind him, his tall, lean frame cutting the night like a freshly sharpened blade. moonlight brushes his face, sharp and cold, glinting over the pale gleam of his silver hair, the burn of his single violet eye.

you should run, every instinct whispers it, to flee into the light, but you do not. instead, you rise, your skirts whispering over the grass, and you go to him, willingly. the letters, the gifts, the longing; they have led you here, to this, to him. "why now?" you whisper, breathless, though your feet carry you closer, closer. "why show yourself to me like this?"

his jaw clenches, the glowing sapphire in his empty eye socket glistening with something close to tenderness, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though even now he wars with himself. his voice, when it comes, is low and hoarse, trembling with restraint. "because i cannot endure it any longer… your words, your flowers; you. i have tried to remain at a distance, but you… you are undoing me, sweetest kore."

your name in his mouth steals the air from your lungs, making your heart skip a beat. you stop just before him, close enough to feel the cold that radiates from his body like mist from a cavern, close enough to see the way his eye devours you, as though memorizing every little detail, every single breath.

slowly, as though afraid you might vanish, he lifts a hand. it hovers at your cheek, shaking faintly with the effort not to touch. "you are light itself, my love," he murmurs, voice cracking slightly from anguish. "and i… i am nothing but shadow, pure darkness. if i take you now, i will never let you go." your heart races, your throat tight, but you lift your chin, daring. "then take me."

the words break him, nearly bringing him to his knees. his hand cups your face, cold and trembling, and the moment his skin touches yours, the meadow gasps; a thousand blossoms bursting open at once, fragrance thick and dizzying in the air. his other hand finds your waist, pulling you against him with a hunger he can no longer mask. and then, he kisses you.

the kiss is not gentle; it is not timid; it is a claiming, cold lips pressed to yours with desperate force, the taste of pomegranate and ash, the burn of something endless and unyielding. he kisses you like a man drowning, like you are the only breath he has ever taken.

you clutch at him, his cloak, his shoulders, his hair, threading your fingers into the pale silk of it, just as you once dared in secret. he groans against your mouth, the sound low, guttural, full of hunger, breaking through the mask of a cruel king and revealing only the lonely man beneath.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath ragged. "you are mine now," he whispers, fierce and reverent all at once. "say you are mine," he pleads, his voice wrecked. and though the night is thick with danger, though your heart pounds with both fear and want, you cannot stop yourself. "yes," you mewl, voice soft and breathy. "i am yours, aemond."

the shadows coil tighter around you both, as if sealing the sacred vow. and for the first time, the goddess of spring and the king of the underworld stand not as light and dark, but as something new, something inevitable.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the night after your kiss, nothing feels the same. the meadow hums differently, the flowers bow lower as if acknowledging the vow that now binds you to the god who rules over the dead. even the air tastes altered; less sweet, more sharp, tinged with the metallic tang of shadow.

you cannot stop touching your lips, cannot stop replaying the press of his mouth against yours, the weight of his large hands, the way he looked at you as though you had become the very axis of his world.

and then, he comes for you; not in silence this time, not in flickers of shadow. the earth itself shivers as he steps into your lively meadow, cloaked in majesty, no longer hiding the truth of who he is.

his crown gleams black as obsidian, his cloak ripples like the mouth of night itself. behind him, the shadows deepen, spilling like a river through the grass. "kore, my love," his voice thrums through your bones, a low, seductive purr. "come with me."

your breath catches, but you do not hesitate. you go to him, your small hand sliding into his, and the moment his fingers close around yours, the meadow wilts; blossoms fold upon themselves, grasses bow, petals fall like raindrops. it is as though the world itself mourns the loss of you. but you do not mourn; no, you follow.

the ground cracks beneath your feet, opening into a path of stone. the air grows cooler, heavier, humming with unseen voices. you descend, his hand guiding you steadily, firmly, as the light of your world fades behind you. and then, you see it; the underworld.

it is vast, endless, magnificent. caverns carved from black stone gleam faintly with veins of crystal; rivers of silver fire cut through the dark, their glow casting ghostly light on the halls that stretch into eternity. shadows move like courtiers, bowing low when they catch sight of you, whispering, rustling like leaves in a storm.

but their whispers are not for you; they are for him, their king. aemond leads you through them, his grip on your hand unyielding, as though afraid someone might steal you from him at any moment.

his face is unreadable, a mask of icy calm; but you feel the tension in him, the way the rough pad of his thumb brushes faintly over your skin, betraying a man who has never walked through his realm with anyone at his side.

at last, he brings you to a throne made of stone and iron, carved with blood-red roses whose thorns twist like poisonous daggers. he lowers himself onto it slowly, never releasing your hand. and then, with a gentle pull that steals your breath, he draws you into his lap, as though you were always meant to be there.

the court of shades stir in disbelief; their king, merciless and unyielding, with the goddess of spring nestled against him like a crown of blossoms. you feel their stares, but he does not. his eye is only for you, his beloved little goddess.

you lift a trembling hand, threading your fingers into his pale hair as you once dreamed. his body goes utterly rigid, then shudders, and he leans into your touch as though it is the only thing tethering him to existence. "my queen," he whispers, reverent, undone. "my beloved persephone," he purrs, bestowing you with a new name, a name fitting for a queen, his queen.

and though the shadows of his realm close in all around you, though the world above is lost from sight, you do not fear. for in his lap, with his hand gripping your waist and your fingers in his hair, you feel not claimed, nor conquered, but cherished.

some time later, you notice how the halls of the underworld breathe around you; stone carved from shadow, veined with faint light, whispering with the restless voices of lost souls. yet though it should feel suffocating, though the air is heavy with silence and the weight of eternity, you are not frightened, because his hand never leaves yours, not once.

aemond leads you from his throne, through corridors vast as cathedrals, their ceilings glittering faintly with ghost-crystals. the shades that drift through them bow deeply, but their gazes linger in disbelief. for the first time, their king does not walk alone.

at last, he stops before a set of tall doors. they open with a thought, and he guides you into chambers unlike anything you have seen. the walls are black stone, yes; but lined with shelves of books and tombs older than empires, with relics and artifacts carved from bone, with sweet-smelling flowers—your flowers—growing in pots of onyx as though he has been coaxing them here, waiting for you.

your breath stutters, doe eyes widening in disbelief and awe alike. "these are... mine?" his gaze flickers to the living blooms, then back to you. his voice comes low, almost defensive, lips forming into the smallest of pouts. "i tried to keep them alive, my love... though they never quite flourished the way they do in your hand. even so, i kept them."

your chest aches, unable to hide how deeply you are touched by his sweet, simple gesture; the god who rules the damned, nurturing fragile blossoms in secret for you, as though his only desire were to see you pleased. you turn to him, smiling softly, and his composure falters.

the great king of shadows looks suddenly uncertain, like a man stripped bare. his eye drops, his jaw clenches, as though bracing for rejection. so you step closer, placing your hand against his chest, over the cold beat of his heart. "they're so beautiful, aemond… thank you."

his breath leaves him all at once, shaky, as though your touch has undone centuries of restraint. he lifts his hand to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against him, as though willing you to feel the truth in his chest—that he loves you, and would move mount olympus itself merely to see you smile.

the night grows quiet, yet he does not touch you as a conqueror might. he does not demand, nor does he take. instead, he sits with you in his vast chamber and guides you to a chaise by the great hearth, so that you might sit beside him, and perhaps, allow yourself to be held by him.

later, he brings you to a bed carved of obsidian, draped with silks soft as flower petals. he does not lie beside you, not yet. instead, he sits at the edge, his head bowed, his fingers tangled in his pale hair. "i would give you the world above if you asked, my love," he murmurs. "but i cannot give you the sun; i cannot give you spring."

you rise, kneel before him, take his hand in yours. "you have already given me so much more, sweet aemond." his gaze snaps to you, raw, unguarded, trembling with a hunger not of flesh but of the soul. slowly, he lowers himself until his forehead rests against yours, breath shuddering with restraint.

the kiss he gives you then is nothing like the claiming in your meadow; it is tender, reverent, almost frightened. a man who has never known softness, tasting it for the first time. he lingers there, breathing you in, as though memorizing every heartbeat, every soft brush of your sweet, pillowy lips against his.

and when at last you lie down, he does not leave. he stretches beside you—stiff at first, as though unsure he belongs there—but relaxes when you curl into his side. his arm wraps around you, his body a cold shield against the darkness of his realm.

the king of the underworld does not sleep; but that night, with you snuggled in his arms, safe and warm and loved, his breath softens, and he dreams. and you, little goddess of spring, close your eyes in the realm of death, and feel, for the very first time, wholly alive.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the underworld was never meant to bloom; it was forged in silence, shaped in shadow, bound by stone and river. it was a kingdom of endings, souls adrift in endless twilight, bowed beneath the weight of their king's cold law. but then you came. at first, it is subtle; a curl of green sprouting from the cracks in obsidian tile where your feet have touched, the faintest shimmer of color clinging to the air when you laugh.

one morning, when you open the doors to his chamber, you find a vine climbing boldly up the black walls, its blossoms pale and luminous, as though drinking light from the darkness itself. the shades whisper, they stare as you pass, hushed awe threading through their voices. never have they seen such things, life defying death, roots digging stubbornly into stone, color staining shadow. and aemond... he watches you with a hunger deeper than any letter could hold.

he says nothing at first, but his sharp, piercing gaze never leaves you. you catch him standing in doorways at night, silent, violet eye gleaming in torchlight, drinking in the sight of you curled in his bed, your breath soft, your hair spilling across his sheets like ink. you feel him beside you when you wander around, his presence cold but constant, his hands sometimes brushing yours as though unable to help himself.

one evening, you catch him in the great hall, standing before a cluster of flowers that had sprung up where you once sat. his hand hovers above them, uncertain, almost reverent. "they should not grow here," he murmurs, as though speaking to himself. "nothing ever grows here."

you step to his side, slipping your fingers into his. "then perhaps they were just waiting." his eye snaps to yours, wide, raw, and for a moment the king of the dead looks like a boy startled by his first true taste of hope. from then on, he stops pretending. the gifts he leaves for you are no longer trinkets, they are shrines.

jewels set in silver bowls to hold your delicate blossoms, carved alcoves in the stone walls where he places each flower you've touched, guarded as though they are more precious than any crown. when you braid daisies into your hair, he sits silently at your side, stiff and unmoving, letting you tuck one into his pale strands; so out of place it makes the shades murmur louder, but he never removes it.

and each night, when you lie beside him, he pulls you closer. he kisses you not with hunger this time, but with something worse, something deeper; devotion, worship. as though every breath you give him is a miracle, as though he cannot believe you are real. yet his letters, now tucked into drawers and hidden beneath lush pillows, grow darker still. he writes them even though you are here, his need for you spilling into words he cannot speak aloud.

the underworld bends for you, my sweet. even its rivers sing your name, praising you. you should be afraid of this new power, but i am the one who fears it. because if you ever chose to leave, i would burn my kingdom to ash rather than let it survive without you.

and you wonder, when he looks at you like that, when the very stones form flowers beneath your touch, whether you are still the goddess of spring at all, or if you are becoming something else entirely. the queen of the dead.

the bed is vast, carved from obsidian, draped in silks black as midnight and faintly gleaming in the glow of silver fire from the braziers. you've lain here before, curled against him, his cold body a shield around yours. but tonight feels different; tonight, the air itself is heavier, trembling with something unsaid.

he sits at the edge, as always; too rigid, too still, as though terrified to break the spell of your presence. but when you place your hand upon his knee, he turns to you, and his eye is wild, his pupil blown with desire. "persephone," he rasps, your name thick in his throat. "do not look at me like that. if you do, i will not be able to stop myself." and you, soft, reckless little goddess that you are, only whisper, "then don't."

the words shatter him, leaving him nearly panting with the need to have you. he cups your face in his cold hands and pulls you into his mouth, sighing softly in pleasure as your lips connect with his. the kiss is not tentative this time, not a test. it is ruinous, desperate, consuming; his lips crashing into yours with the force of centuries of restraint breaking all at once. his tongue sweeps against yours, stroking, claiming, devouring, yet reverent in its hunger, as though he cannot believe you bless him with the taste of you at all.

you fall back into the silks, and he follows, his weight pressing you into the bed. his cloak spills around you both like the mouth of night swallowing light, but his hands tremble when they find your waist, your hips, your thighs. "order me to stop and i will at once," he pants against your skin, kissing down your delectable throat, his voice breaking. "tell me before i lose all reason, darling girl."

you arch beneath him, fingers buried in his pale hair, tugging at the roots until he groans, low and guttural and lustful. "i will never tell you to stop, my love," you croon, your voice sweet as spilled honey. that vow undoes him; he tears the silks from your body with trembling hands, reverence and violence clashing in every motion.

his mouth follows, tracing fire over your collarbones, your heaving breasts, down the curve of your soft belly. his kisses are desperate prayers, his tongue worshiping every inch of you, murmuring your name like a litany, over and over.

when his long, deft fingers slip between your thighs, you cry out, and his head bows lower, groaning against your flesh as if the sound itself is his undoing. he works your virgin cunt open, slowly, reverently, as though memorizing how your body yields to his touch. "mine," he whispers against you, over and over, his voice breaking into raw, endless hunger and awe. "mine, little goddess... all fucking mine."

and when he finally presses his hard, aching cock into you, his body trembling, his jaw clenched as if to restrain himself, you see him as he truly is, not the cold king, not the feared ruler of death, but a man, desperate and undone by love.

he moves within you as though he is praying, every deep thrust a sacred vow, every desperate kiss a confession. his forehead presses to yours, his eye burning into yours as though daring you to look away, to deny what this is. "say it," he groans, his voice shattering as he begs. "say you are mine, my love… please."

your nails dig into his shoulders, your body arching against his, every nerve aflame, every heartbeat colliding with his. "i-i… i am yours," you gasp, whining softly as he hits your sweet spot with the tip of his cock over and over, as though he were bullying your pleasure, coaxing it out to meet his own. "always, y-yours... a-aem—" you choke, babbling nonsensical words, your greedy cunt clenching tightly around his shaft, wet and needy.

the words rip a sound from him you've never heard; a sharp cry, half broken, half triumphant, as he shatters against you, as though your surrender has destroyed the last of his restraint. he holds you through it as you climax together, trembling, clutching you as though you might dissolve into mist if he lets go.

when it is over, when the dark is quiet but for your breaths mingling, he buries his face in your neck. his body is heavy against yours, warm and damp from his previous exertions, his arm wound so tightly around your waist you know he will never release you; not tonight, never.

"you are my spring, persephone," he murmurs, his voice raw, shaking from the intensity of his orgasm. "but you belong to my dark." and though the underworld trembles, though the stones themselves seem to bow, you only close your eyes and smile. for at last, you are his.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the underworld is changing. everywhere you walk, blossoms curl out of stone, vines twist up obsidian pillars, the rivers glimmer with faint color as if touched by spring. the shades whisper as you pass by, bowing their heads in deep respect to the queen who brought life to death.

but aemond's whispers are only for you. you wake in his bed, your body wrapped in cool, luscious silks, with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. he has not slept; you feel the rise and fall of his chest too quick, hear the faint rasp of his breath against your hair. when you turn, his violet eye is already on you, fierce and heavy with sleepless hunger.

"you're still here," he whispers, wonder cracking his voice. "every morning i expect you gone, a dream i've woken from." you cup his jaw, kiss him softly, and he groans; low, broken, like the simplest touch of yours unmakes him. without hesitation, he rolls you beneath him, his hair falling like a pale curtain around you, caging you in.

"you are mine, my sweet," he hums against your lips. "my little goddess, my spring, my persephone." his mouth travels to your throat, kissing feverishly, almost frantic. "say you'll never leave me." your fingers lace through his hair, tugging gently until he shudders against you, his cock hardening rapidly. "i'll never leave you, aemond… i swear it."

that vow destroys what composure he clings to. he kisses you again—slow, deep, desperate—his tongue tangling with yours as if he wishes to taste every breath you'll ever breathe. his hands trace your body with reverence, worshiping every curve, every soft place, as though he cannot believe you're real.

he undresses you carefully this time, not with the tearing urgency of the first night you made love, but with shaking patience, as though each piece of silk he removes is a ritual. he kisses each new inch of skin revealed; your collarbones, your breasts, the soft dip of your navel, murmuring soft praises and sweet nothings between every worshipful kiss. "so fucking beautiful… sweeter than all the flowers in the world above... my sweet, perfect little goddess."

when he lowers himself between your thighs, his eye gleams up at you; dark, starved, reverent. he takes his time, worshiping you with his mouth, his tongue, his lips, until you are gasping, writhing, sobbing his name like a prayer. he holds your squirming hips steady, groaning into you every time you fall apart on his wicked tongue, drinking in your sweet cries like nectar.

when he finally returns to your lips, his mouth still tastes of you, sweet, heady, and terribly addictive. he kisses you through your trembling, murmuring against your lips, trying to soothe your tremors with his softly spoken voice, "f-fuck, you're mine, angel..."

and when he finally slides into you, slow and deep, he breaks. his forehead presses to yours, his eye closing tight, a choked sound of desperation falling from his throat. "you're so tight around me… you feel so soft, so ripe, so fucking good," he gasps, voice ragged. "feels like i was waiting centuries for you."

he moves with aching devotion, every thrust steady, reverent, his hand never leaving yours, your fingers intertwined with his. his lips trace your face, your hair, your throat, worshiping you with frantic desperation. "i'd tear the heavens apart for you; i'd burn olympus itself if they ever tried to take you away from me." his voice is raw, each word pressed into your skin. "you are my heart, my queen… my fucking ruin."

you moan his name, and he shudders, hips faltering, his control unraveling the more he continues to keep fucking you. he buries himself deeper, holding you close as if the world might fall apart if even an inch of space forms between your bodies.

he comes undone with a strangled groan, your name falling from his lips as you clench one last time around him, and then he collapses against you, trembling as though he’s been violently torn open. his kisses soften then, slow and languid, his body heavy but tender as he gathers you close, pressing your head beneath his chin.

in the stillness, you feel him trace lazy circles against your hip, his breath still uneven from the euphoria he just experienced. "stay with me forever, sweetling. be my spring, even in the dark." and as you lie in the arms of the king of the dead, surrounded by flowers blooming in black stone, you know you already are.

sometime later, the great hall goes silent. all the flowers you've coaxed from stone stand trembling, as if aware of the storm brewing at the threshold. the gods above have noticed; their messengers come cloaked in gold, voices sharp and cold, demanding your return to the world of sun and sky.

you stand at aemond's side, your hand folded in his. his throne looms ominously behind him, carved from the same obsidian as the bed where he worships you each night. he is calm on the surface, but you can feel his pulse where your fingers rest on his wrist; fast, violent, restrained like a caged beast. "she is ours," the envoy intones, voice like struck metal. "the goddess of spring belongs above, with her mother. return her at once, king of the dead."

the hall shudders with the weight of the words. aemond does not answer, his hand tightens on yours until your knuckles start to ache. then, his violet eye flicks to you—not a command, not even a plea—it's a question, a prayer disguised as desperation. you look up at him; he is so still, yet his jaw trembles, his lips pressed tight. and you know, you know he is one breath away from spilling blood, from starting war.

and then, as though from some ancient memory, a shape appears on the obsidian table before you; a chalice wrought of onyx and silver, filled with pomegranate seeds glistening like rubies. they gleam in the dim light, rich and red as freshly spilled blood.

you understand at once. if you eat them, you will belong to the underworld, you will never be free of it, you will never leave him. your heart thunders in your chest, loud and strong. the envoys' eyes widen; they know what it means; they know what you are about to do.

slowly, deliberately, you step away from them and toward the chalice. aemond's breath catches—a sharp, broken sound—and he reaches for you, but stops himself. he cannot force you, not for this. your hand hovers over the alluring seeds, the temptation too strong to resist.

he whispers, hoarse, "my love, you don't have to." you turn to him, and you have never seen him look like this—this cold king undone, violet eye wet with something akin to despair. "i want to," you say, voice breathless, tender.

and before anyone can stop you, you take the chalice in both hands. the seeds are cool, heavy, sticky with juice. you lift one to your lips, then another, then another, six in all, one for every vow you make in your heart as you swallow them. the sticky juice runs red down your fingers, and you can't help but lick it from your skin.

the hall erupts in gasps and murmurs, and aemond can't help but to stare as though watching the sun itself fall into his hands. the envoy takes a step back, startled, his golden mask paling. "she has bound herself," he whispers, frightened. "the goddess is his."

aemond moves before you can blink; he's at your side, his hands cupping your face, his mouth crashing onto yours. the taste of pomegranate is still heavy on your tongue when he kisses you, deep and hungry, trembling as if afraid you might vanish even now.

"you chose me," he breathes against your lips, voice breaking from the overwhelming emotion he feels for you. "fuck, you chose me." you press your forehead to his, smiling softly. "i belong here… with you." the hall is silent now, the envoys vanish, the air shimmering as olympus recedes, defeated.

aemond pulls you against him, his hands sliding down your sides, clutching you as though you're his heart made flesh. he kisses your hair, your temples, your mouth, murmuring between each one, "you're truly mine now… my queen, my eternal spring."

and as the pomegranate's sweetness lingers on your tongue, the underworld itself shifts. the stones pulse beneath your feet; the rivers shimmer with new color; the shades kneel as one. the goddess of spring is no longer a visitor, she is a queen—his queen—persephone.

the underworld knows before the heralds can even flee back to olympus. the air thickens, the silvery-black rivers glow faintly red, and a hush falls over every cavern and chamber as if the stones themselves are holding their breath.

aemond takes your hand and leads you from the hall, not toward his throne, but down a stairway carved deep into the heart of his kingdom. the steps descend into a vast cavern, lit by thousands of silver flames, and at the center waits an altar of obsidian, now veined with living green where your touch has already begun to transform it. here, in the belly of his realm, his power is absolute, yet his grip on you trembles.

"this is where oaths are sealed," he muses, his voice low and rough. "not with law, not with crowns, but with flesh and blood and will." his thumb traces the sticky red juice still clinging to your puffy lips. "you have bound yourself to me, but i..." he swallows hard, violet eye burning with intensity, with fierce devotion. "i would be bound to you."

the silks of his cloak spill around you both as he draws you to the altar. he does not place you upon it as a king with a prize; instead, he lowers himself to his knees before you, pressing his forehead to your belly. his long, flowing tresses brush your thighs, pale strands sticking to the pomegranate stain on your fingers.

"little goddess," he whispers against your skin, "spring of my dark, my beloved queen…. let me worship you, let me love you, let me crown you as mine." your hands find his hair, your fingers threading through the silky strands, tilting his face up. his eye is wild, desperate for your love. "rise," you say softly. "rise, my king."

he does, and the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, molten—not the kiss of a conqueror, but of a man offering his soul. his hands move over you as though learning you once again, palms rough and shaking with greed, worshipping every curve as he undresses you with patient, aching care.

the altar's stone is cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that blooms wherever his lips press. every kiss is deliberate, slow, tracing the contours of you like a prayer wrought in flesh. he lingers at your throat, worshiping, memorizing, then drifts lower, lips grazing the swell of your breasts, the soft dip of your stomach, leaving trails of scorching fire in his wake.

each whisper against your skin is a benediction. "mine... my queen... my life..." he speaks as if invoking a spell, as if the words themselves might bind the world to you both. his hands are everywhere, palms rough and trembling, learning you anew with reverent hunger. every curve, every shiver, every gasp becomes sacred in his possessive touch.

you arch into him, not from just need, but from the exquisite knowledge that he is undone by you. his body moves with a rhythm older than time itself, slow, steady, unrelenting—not to consume, but to honor. the air around you hums with the pulse of something greater, a current of shadow and blossom, of longing and devotion, binding the two of you to this eternal night.

when he finally joins you, it is not a claim but a coronation. his body moves with yours as though to a rhythm older than death, slow and deep and endless, skin slapping loudly against wet skin. he cups your face, the rough pad of his thumb stroking your cheek as he thrusts into you, over and over, murmuring soft, hoarse, obsessive words that break between blissful gasps, "n-never thought... never dreamed... y-you'd choose me..."

you arch beneath him, fingers digging into his back, his name a litany on your lips. the silver flames flicker higher, shadows dancing across the cavern walls, sweet-smelling flowers bloom at the edges of the altar where your hands clutch the stone.

he presses his forehead to yours, his thrusts growing frantic, his restraint fraying. "you are everything to me, everything," he groans, panting softly against your kiss-swollen lips. "you are my spring, my ruin, my eternity..." you whisper back, "i am your queen, your wife… all yours, my king."

he shudders, an animalistic growl torn from his chest, fiercely primal and powerful, and comes apart with you, his body shaking, his mouth against your throat, kissing and sucking your pulse like a vow. when it is done, he does not move away; instead, he stays wrapped around you, his cold body soft and pliant now, his face buried against your neck as though hiding from the overwhelming swell of emotions he feels for you.

outside, the underworld shifts. the altar is no longer bare stone but veined with living green, blossoms spilling across it like an offering, the silver flames burning brighter. in the distance, you can hear the river sigh. aemond lifts his head at last, his eye heavy with exhaustion and awe. he cups your warm cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip affectionately. "you are no longer my guest, little goddess," he whispers, smirking. "you are my queen, my equal, my heart." and as you lie together on the altar, crowned by shadow and bloom, you know the world above has lost you, for you have always belonged to the dark, just as you now belong to him for eternity.

☠︎︎ ❀ ☠︎︎

the realm no longer whispers about the girl from the meadow, it kneels. the underworld has never seen a queen like you—here, where once there was only black stone and silver flame, veins of green now wind along the walls, soft moss creeps between the tiles, blossoms open where your bare feet touch the floor. even the river lethe runs clearer, its surface reflecting flickers of color like dawn on water.

you sit beside aemond now, not at his feet but at his side. the throne, carved for him alone, has been split into two—obsidian twinned, your seat inlaid with living gold filigree curling like living vines. when the shades approach to plead their cases, they kneel before you both. when aemond passes judgment, his voice still rings like thunder, yet his hand rests lightly over yours, a quiet promise: we rule together.

and you are learning. at first, your power had frightened you. the first time you touched a wandering shade and flowers bloomed from its path, you snatched your hand back, heart hammering, suddenly startled and unsure. but aemond only caught your wrist and pressed a gentle kiss to your palm. "do not hide what you are, my love," he murmured. "you are spring, sweet girl, even here."

now you do not hide it. you move through the halls with your head high, speaking life into a place that has only ever known lonely, bitter endings. where aemond brings order, you bring mercy; where he closes doors, you open windows. the souls begin to soften under your gentle touch, even the darkest corridors glow faintly with light after you pass.

at night, when the petitions are done and the torches gutter low, you are no goddess on a throne. you are a woman curled in your husband's lap, his long fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare thigh. his hair smells of cedar and smoke; his lips taste faintly of mint leaves and pomegranate. he has grown quieter since you had bound yourself to him—not less dark, but deeper, as though your light has given his shadows somewhere to finally rest.

sometimes he catches you watching him while he writes, or sharpens one of his many blades, or gently arranges your blooms. his violet eye lifts, softening at once, and he crooks a finger for you. "come here, little goddess." and you do, always, happily climbing into his lap, your skirts spilling over his knees, your palms against his chest as you relax against him.

he holds you like that for many hours, as if your weight on him is the only thing that truly steadies him. he murmurs in high valyrian against your temple, words he will not translate but that sound like sweet devotions.

and when the hunger rises between you—slowly, inevitably—he is not the desperate king from your first nights. he is slower now, almost worshipful, sliding your gown from your shoulders, kissing each new inch of skin revealed as if in benediction. "you are my queen," he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice rough with awe, with love. "my spring in the dark, you're the other half of my heart."

his hands roam your womanly hips and back, his mouth tracing fire down your throat. you feel the power in him coiled tight but held in check; he moves slowly, letting you guide the rhythm, letting you decide how his shadows touch your light.

and when you finally join him, moving together in the quiet of your private chambers, it is not an act of possession but of creation. every little sigh you give him births another blossom on the walls; every cry of his name makes the silver flames burn ever so brighter as you continue riding him, bouncing up and down, up and down.

afterward, tangled in his arms, you rest your head over his heart. he strokes your hair, breathing you in, and murmurs, "one day, they will say my kingdom was death until you came. they will not call you a stolen girl, my love. they will call you what you truly are, the underworld's heart." in the distance, beyond the sealed golden gates, olympus remains silent. and so, while the world above waits for spring, here, in the realm of shadows, you and your king remake it in your own image.

❀ ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ—

the seasons changed differently now. the world above still followed its old rhythms—the thaw, the blossom, the warm breath of sunlight across the fields—but there was a new pulse beneath the earth, a second heart beating in its depths. spring did not vanish; it descended, and now, it reigns.

across meadows in the mortal realm, flowers grew wilder: poppies bright as blood, lilies soft as sighs, ivy twisting stronger than ever. the shepherds whispered that the blooms bowed toward the ground, leaning toward some unseen warmth beneath the soil. they did not know that the warmth had a name—you, little goddess of spring, wife of the king of the dead.

in the underworld, life moved with purpose. the souls knew peace where there had been only silence and wandering; gardens grew along the banks of the river styx—gardens of midnight blossoms, petals dark as wine and glowing faintly with your touch. and the shades who had forgotten color now stood among them, and remembered what it felt like to feel.

aemond would often walk with you there, no guards, no title. just the man who had once been a solitary god of stone and shadow, learning how to hold life gently in his hands. your fingers would trail through the blossoms, your footsteps leaving new growth in their wake.

his would follow, close behind, as though the idea of you drifting an arm's length away was still unbearable. sometimes, he would touch your waist, just barely... just enough to reassure himself: she is here, with me. he had once ruled with fear, but now, he ruled with you always by his side.

and the underworld adored its queen. the shades bowed their heads as you passed—not in terror, but in fierce devotion. spirits often came to you seeking comfort, and they found it; even the furies softened when you spoke, their merciless fire reduced to embers in your presence.

the dead had found their spring, but the most sacred place in the realm was not the throne hall, nor the river banks, nor the grove of night-blooming flowers; it was the private garden aemond had built for you, his little goddess of spring.

deep in the heart of the palace, beyond any corridor known to guards, behind doors carved with pomegranates and vines, there lay a sanctuary where shadow met bloom. the ceiling was open to a sky that did not exist—silver stars burning in a darkness eternal, glowing like distant lanterns.

there, he had planted every flower you had ever touched: daisies and violets from your first meadow, pale lilac blossoms from the altar where you became queen, roses thorned and fierce as your vow of eternal love. and it was there you would sit, in his lap, just as the old poets whispered: a goddess upon her rightful throne.

he would hold you as though you were made of flame and silk and holy things; one hand at your waist, the other toying absently with the ends of your hair. his voice was always low, rough, never quite steady—not when speaking to you, his sweet love.

sometimes he read to you, the words ancient and heavy, his breath warm against the sensitive shell of your ear, soft and teasing. sometimes you simply sat in silence, your cheek resting over his heart, snuggling together. and sometimes, when the world grew still, he would murmur, soft, reverent, confessional, "i thought i was born to rule alone, just as i thought my heart was formed by stone. and yet… here you are, spring rooted in death, bloom in my darkness, and i kneel gladly."

you would tilt your face up then, press a kiss to his jaw, feel his breath catch. and always, always, his hands would tighten as though anchoring himself to the one thing in existence he could not bear to ever lose. no god from above dared call you stolen now, just as no poet would speak of abduction. there were no chains here; only choice, only vow, only love rooted so deeply it had reshaped a kingdom.

the world above continued to bloom because of you, and the world below thrived because of you. and every night, when the silver stars gleamed over your secret garden, and aemond's arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you close in that quiet, steady way that said mine without a sound—you knew. you were not a flower plucked from the sun; you were a queen who chose her throne. and you were loved—darkly, deeply, eternally—by the king who once thought himself incapable of love at all.

—𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › ghost!aemond targaryen 𝑥 maid!reader ꪆৎ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. this lil oneshot is for day 4 of @aemondweek. enjoy, my sweet angels! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⟢ cw: angst. suicide mention. major character death.

ɪ. · ♰

harrenhal breathes at night. you learn this on your second week working there, when the torches gutter low and the wind sighs through the blackened stones like a dying man.

the other maids whisper that the place is cursed, burnt too many times, drowned in too many endless tragedies, steeped in blood that no prayer could ever cleanse. but to you, it feels less like a curse and more like…. sadness. a grief too old to name, still lingering in the corners. you do not fear it, at least… you think you don't.

you are small, quiet, and tender by nature. you hum quietly to yourself while you scrub the floors, smile politely at the guards, and offer prayers to the seven for all lost souls, especially the ones that are trapped in stone halls and empty chambers. you think kindness might reach even the dead, if you are gentle enough. but lately, someone has begun to return that kindness.

at first, it's subtle; a candle flame flickers brighter when you pass by, even though no draft should reach it. the laundry you left half-folded in the servants' quarters is folded when you return, and the ribbon you thought you'd lost appears on your pillow. when you walk alone down the long, darkened corridors, you sometimes feel a sudden warmth—brief and soft as a breathless sigh—brushing the back of your neck.

you tell yourself you're imagining things, that harrenhal has always managed to play cruel tricks on lonely girls. then one night, as the rain lashes against the high windows and thunder trembles through the stones, you wake to find the room heavy with presence. the air hums like a plucked string, and your candle, though long burned out, glows faintly blue.

and in the far corner—where shadow meets the ruined wall—you see him. tall, pale, draped in a ghost-light shimmer that outlines the hard planes of a face too beautiful and terrible for this world. a silver eye glows faintly, like moonlight through mist; the other is covered by a dark patch that seems to drink the light around it. his hair, long and pale as a comet's tail, stirs though there is no wind.

you cannot move. he does not speak, but something in your soul knows his name before your lips can shape it. prince aemond targaryen, rider of vhagar, kinslayer, ghost of the gods-forsaken lake below. but he does not look like a monster. no, not to you. his expression—when he does turn fully and looks upon you—is heartbreak itself.

when at last your voice returns, it is soft-spoken, barely a whisper. "are you real?" he tilts his head, and though no sound leaves his pale lips, his answer hums through your bones. i was.

you do not scream. instead, you rise slowly, the hem of your nightdress brushing the cold floor, and approach him with trembling, doe-like curiosity. his image wavers as you approach, like a reflection disturbed by ripples—but when your hand reaches out to him, you feel it; a chill that is not cruel, a cold that feels almost protective.

"i've seen you before," you murmur, voice soft and slightly breathless, realizing it even as you say it. "in my dreams."

the ghost's mouth curves faintly, sorrow carved into beauty. i have watched you, the voice in your mind admits, soft as fallen snow. you are kind—you tend to the wounded birds, you leave bread for the stray cats, and you speak to the walls as if they listen.

your throat tightens, your stomach twisting with nerves. "do they listen?"

i do.

from that night on, he never truly leaves you. you sense him everywhere—in the way the frost never touches your hands when you fetch water in the cold mornings, in how the candles burn longer when you pray, in the soft warmth that surrounds you when nightmares threaten. he does not haunt you as a specter might, with rattling chains or moans of rage. he simply exists near you, tethered by something older and deeper than reason.

when you walk the empty corridors, you whisper softly to him now, your invisible companion. "good evening, my lord," you say with a shy, almost secretive smile. "'tis a fair night for ghosts." sometimes you catch glimpses of him—reflected in a windowpane, standing at the edge of the courtyard in moonlight, watching you with devotion that borders on agony.

one night, you find yourself standing by the lake below the castle—the gods eye, vast and dark as night itself. the mist curls low, swallowing the reeds, and the air feels almost alive. you can feel him close. "why are you here?" you ask softly. "why do you stay?"

the voice that answers is a whisper of thunder. because i cannot leave you, little maid… your soul shines through this cursed place like dawn, and i have waited centuries for light such as yours….

your eyes fill with tears you do not understand, bottom lip wobbling. "you should rest," you tell him, your voice full of sorrow for this lonely soul. how can i? he murmurs, his deep, raspy voice echoing inside your mind, stepping closer until the chill of him grazes your skin. when the gods grant me a glimpse of the heavens each time you smile?

your heart aches—-for him, for the centuries he has spent alone, for the tenderness buried under all his ruin. you reach out again, and though your hand passes through his, you swear you feel a pulse—a flicker of life, stubborn and desperate to return.

from that moment, love grows like ivy—slowly, stubbornly, entwining life with death. you talk to him by the firelight, share stories of your childhood, whisper prayers for his peace. and sometimes, when you drift to sleep, you dream of him not as a ghost but as a man—whole, warm, real, holding you as though the world might end if he dares to let go.

in those dreams, his lips touch your forehead, reverent. one day, little maid, he vows, the gods will take pity… either i will live again, or you will cross the veil—and i will be waiting for you by the shore of the gods eye…

when you wake, the dawn glows faintly gold through the broken window. a single white lily rests on your pillow, still wet with little droplets of dew. and though the halls of harrenhal remain cold and haunted, you feel no fear… because somewhere between heaven and ruin, a prince's ghost keeps watch—his love for you burning quietly, a light in the endless dark.

ɪɪ. · ♰

the days grow longer, but harrenhal never warms. the sun might shine on the lake and scatter diamonds across its surface, but within those towering, twisted halls the air stays heavy with memory. yet even the stones seems gentler now, for wherever you walk, there's the quiet awareness of him—a presence lingering at your back like a hand just shy of touching.

you begin to speak to him more freely. when you rise before dawn to fetch water, you whisper a sweet good morning. when you sweep the hallways, you tell him about the latest gossip of the kitchens, your voice lilting with soft laughter. when you lie in bed, you whisper the things you dare not confess to any living soul—that you are lonely, that you dream of leaving, that you fear no one will remember your name when you're gone from the living.

and always, the air stirs in reply, soft as breath against the shell of your ear. i remember you, he says, sometimes in the hush between heartbeats. i will remember you for as long as the gods remember flame…

sometimes, you think you see him more clearly. in the reflection of a bucket of water, you catch his lean silhouette behind you, his silver hair glinting faintly like frost, the dark patch over one eye stark against pale, almost translucent skin.

once, when you walk through the great hall, a shadow passes beside you, and the faintest brush of cold grazes your fingertips—as if his hand reached for yours and couldn't quite manage to hold on.

the other servants start to notice you speaking softly to no one. they mutter when you pass, whispering of hauntings and madness, but you only smile. let them gossip. you know better, because the ghost that haunts you means you no harm.

still, he does not let you forget what he is. one evening, as you polish the silver in the great hall, a horrific storm breaks over the gods eye. lightning sears across the heavens, throwing the ruined towers into stark, skeletal light. the wind shrieks through the cracks of stones, and for a moment you swear you hear screaming—real, terrible screaming—from long ago.

you flinch, covering your ears. the air around you crackles with something fierce and ancient. then you see him, clearer than ever—standing in the center of the hall, tall and regal, drenched in ghost-light, his one eye blazing with cold fire.

the room bends around him, the air thick with power and sorrow and longing. startled, you drop the cloth. "aemond?" his voice comes not in your mind, but aloud this time, low and echoing, carrying centuries of torment. "i burned this place once. i killed and died and yet... i remain."

you approach carefully, your voice trembling. "you don't have to be angry anymore." then, he looks at you—really looks—and something in his fury softens. "you do not understand, sweet girl. the dead cannot forget what the living will not forgive." you reach for him, hands shaking and heart pounding. "then let me remember you kindly. if the world cannot forgive, then i will."

for a heartbeat, you think you see him smile. the storm outside falters. the candles flare, then steady. and suddenly, he is no longer distant, he is standing so close that his breathless cold seeps into your skin, yet it feels like warmth. his large hand hovers inches from your cheek, trembling in its ghostly half-form. "i should not linger near you," he murmurs. "you draw me back toward something i am not meant to ever feel again."

you lift your chin, doe eyes glistening with unshed tears. "and what is that?"

"hope." he says, looking down at you in awe, as though you've struck his non-beating heart back to life.

the word lingers between you like a fragile thread. from that night, something changes. he appears to you more often now—not just as a whisper, but as a figure half-formed from moonlight and shadow.

sometimes, when you pass a mirror, his reflection stands beside yours. when you sit by the fire, he kneels across from you, silent and ever so watchful. and one night, when the castle is still and the lake below glows with ghostly light, you dream again.

you are standing in a field that blooms beneath your feet, spring flowers pushing through rich, blackened soil. he is there, not as a ghost, but as a man—his skin warm, his hair gleaming like molten silver under the sun.

he reaches for you, and this time, when his hand finds yours, there is no cold, no distance, no death. only the steady thrum of his heart against your palm. "i have waited for you," he says softly. "through fire and ruin and centuries of silence."

when you wake, your pillow is wet with tears. a pale feather—fine and strange, tinged faintly silver—rests beside you. you hold it close, trembling, heart aching for something unknown.

the next morning, you go to the lake. the mists curl thick and white, hiding the horizon. you whisper his name into the fog, and the water shivers in answer.

aemond, aemond, aemond….

you feel him then—not beside you, but all around you. the trees sigh with his breath, the mist glows faintly with his presence. the air hums with devotion too deep for the living world to understand. "i'm not afraid," you say, voice breaking. "if i stay, will you stay with me?" the wind shifts, the faintest touch grazes your hair, a kiss of cold that feels like true love.

always.

and though the dead cannot weep, you think—just maybe—the ghost of prince aemond targaryen smiles. in harrenhal, where love has never known peace, your small, gentle soul becomes its first prayer in centuries. and somewhere between ruin and redemption, a ghost learns to hope again.

ɪɪɪ. · ♰

the moon hangs over harrenhal like a silver coin, suspended over the black mirror of the gods eye. the castle sleeps, though sleep feels too gentle a word for this place—it merely lies in uneasy silence, waiting for dawn that never truly warms its blackened stones.

you cannot sleep either. something inside you has begun to ache with a quiet, insistent pull—an ache that feels older than your own bones. you have lived with his ghost for many weeks now, long enough that the world of the living feels too dim beside the one you share with him. it begins when you hear your name being called—softly, as if the night itself exhales it, and then, the sweetest of endearments.

my love….

you rise, heart pounding, and wrap a thin cloak around your shoulders. the hallways are cold as you move through them, lit by the flicker of dying candles and torchlights. the air hums faintly, that strange, familiar warmth brushing the edge of your skin.

he is waiting for you at the great door that opens toward the lake. moonlight streams through him, painting him in hues of silver and shadow. his face looks more human than it ever has—his sharp beauty softened, his single eye sorrowful and bright.

"you called for me," you whisper, shy.

he inclines his head, the movement graceful, regal even in death. "you heard me."

"always," you breathe.

the air between you trembles. his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment it feels as though the entire world holds its breath. "i should not have kept you for so long, sweet girl," he murmurs, his brow scrunching slightly as though in pain. "you belong to life, to warmth, to days i can no longer touch."

but his voice breaks on the last word, and the agony in it twists something deep inside you. "i do not belong anywhere," you whisper back. "not since you found me."

aemond steps closer, his form flickers faintly, and for the first time, you see how weary he looks—how the centuries have hollowed him, leaving only the shape of longing behind. "if i were a man again..." he begins, but the words crumble before they're whole.

"then you would have kissed me by now," you finish, your voice trembling. the ghost of a smile flickers across his lips. "little one," he breathes, his expression full of fondness, but you can still see the pain that makes his eye glisten, "you tempt a soul already damned."

and then he does it, slowly, reverently. his hand rises, pale and almost solid, and cups your cheek. the cold of him seeps into your skin, but it feels right, like starlight rather than frost. you lean forward, closing the distance that should not be closed.

when his lips touch yours, the world disappears. it is not warmth you feel, but light. a rush of memories, not your own—flight through the skies on dragonback, the roar of fire, the crash of steel, the fall into water, the endless dark that followed. his entire life—his fury, his loneliness, his love—surges through you in a heartbeat.

you taste salt, and smoke, and sorrow. and beneath it all, his whispered thought, i have waited so long. when you pull away, your breath catches in the cold air. "you are still here," you murmur, silently relieved that he remains with you.

"for now," his voice trembles. "but the dawn drives me away. i am bound to the lake, to the moment of my death. and soon, soon… even this shadow will fade."

you stare past him toward the black water glimmering beneath the moon. the lake calls to you—not cruelly, but tenderly, as though it has been whispering your name for years and only now dares to speak aloud. "what if i came to you?" you ask, your voice small and nervous.

he stills. "no."

you huff, frowning. "i am not afraid, aemond."

he immediately shakes his head, the silver strands of his hair drifting like smoke. "no, you do not understand what you would be giving up, my love… life, breath, sunlight—"

"all things that mean little without you," you say, pleading, trying to make him understand that life without him by your side is not a life you wish to live.

for a moment, there is only silence between you, broken only by the soft lapping of water against the shore. then he reaches for you again, his long, cool fingers trembling as they ghost against your throat, gently, worshiping. "if you cross the veil, there is no returning," he warns, voice firm yet tender all at once.

"i do not wish to return."

he closes his eye, and a tear—bright as molten silver—slides down his pale cheek before vanishing into mist. "then let it be by your choice, not mine," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.

you walk together to the lake's edge. the wind has gone still, the world holding its breath. the water shimmers faintly, reflecting the stars as if it were a doorway to another sky. you take his hand—or rather, you place your hand where his would be—and smile softly. "i am ready."

he leans close, pressing his forehead to yours. his voice is low, broken. "then i will meet you in the depths, my heart…" you step into the lake, and the water is cold enough to steal your breath, yet it feels alive, pulsing with ancient magic.

the hem of your dress billows around you as you wade deeper—ankle, knee, waist, chest—until the moonlight above blurs. you take one last lungful of breath of the living world and let yourself fall.

the water closes over your head, and everything goes quiet—utterly, beautifully quiet. there is no pain, no fear. only a vast, weightless peace… and then, there is light.

you awaken on the lake's shore beneath a sky of soft silver dawn. the ruins of harrenhal stand in the distance, but they are whole again, radiant, no longer burned. flowers bloom where ash once lay, vibrant and beautiful, and the air hums with life that does not fade.

you stand barefoot in the grass, your white gown dry and gleaming with starlight. when you turn, he is there. not as a ghost, not as a shadow—but as aemond, whole, alive.

his skin warm, his hair shining like polished moonlight, his single violet eye alive and gleams with wonder. he looks at you as if seeing the sun for the first time. "you came," he whispers, stunned, his lips parting in awe of you. you smile, lighthearted. "i promised."

he reaches for you, and this time, his hands are solid, strong. when he pulls you into his arms, it feels like the world settling into its rightful shape. the lake gleams behind you, the sky bending low, and all the pain of both your lives melts away like morning mist.

he kisses you again and again, slowly, tenderly, as if to memorize the miracle of your being. each kiss tastes of moonlight, forgiveness, and true love. and when you pull apart, the horizon is no longer gray but gold, as if the gods themselves have opened the heavens to watch.

in this place beyond death, time ceases to wound. the castle stands unbroken, the fields bloom eternal. you and aemond walk its halls hand in hand, his laughter echoing softly against the stones that once mourned.

sometimes you still visit the water's edge. the living cannot see you, but sometimes, when the mist curls and the candles in the hall flicker, someone feels a warmth brush against them. a kindness, a whisper of something holy.

they say harrenhal is no longer cursed. they say it is watched over by two gentle spirits—one with silver hair and a sapphire eye, the other with soft hands and a heart too kind for this world. and in the quiet between life and legend, love reigns eternal.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

hmm.. ⸜̑⸝͂ i feel like kittenwife!reader would fit better & be more compatible with modern!aemond than bunwife!reader ฅᯠྀི ᯄฅ i dunno, i'm just thinkin' lots of thoughts rn abt sum au's ……… 💭

[aemnd-moved]

oooo y'all are gonna luv the lil drabble i just wrote about aemond & his lil kittenwife ⸜̑⸝͂

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › ghost!aemond targaryen 𝑥 maid!reader ꪆৎ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. this lil oneshot is for day 4 of @aemondweek. enjoy, my sweet angels! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⟢ cw: angst. suicide mention. major character death.

ɪ. · ♰

harrenhal breathes at night. you learn this on your second week working there, when the torches gutter low and the wind sighs through the blackened stones like a dying man.

the other maids whisper that the place is cursed, burnt too many times, drowned in too many endless tragedies, steeped in blood that no prayer could ever cleanse. but to you, it feels less like a curse and more like…. sadness. a grief too old to name, still lingering in the corners. you do not fear it, at least… you think you don't.

you are small, quiet, and tender by nature. you hum quietly to yourself while you scrub the floors, smile politely at the guards, and offer prayers to the seven for all lost souls, especially the ones that are trapped in stone halls and empty chambers. you think kindness might reach even the dead, if you are gentle enough. but lately, someone has begun to return that kindness.

at first, it's subtle; a candle flame flickers brighter when you pass by, even though no draft should reach it. the laundry you left half-folded in the servants' quarters is folded when you return, and the ribbon you thought you'd lost appears on your pillow. when you walk alone down the long, darkened corridors, you sometimes feel a sudden warmth—brief and soft as a breathless sigh—brushing the back of your neck.

you tell yourself you're imagining things, that harrenhal has always managed to play cruel tricks on lonely girls. then one night, as the rain lashes against the high windows and thunder trembles through the stones, you wake to find the room heavy with presence. the air hums like a plucked string, and your candle, though long burned out, glows faintly blue.

and in the far corner—where shadow meets the ruined wall—you see him. tall, pale, draped in a ghost-light shimmer that outlines the hard planes of a face too beautiful and terrible for this world. a silver eye glows faintly, like moonlight through mist; the other is covered by a dark patch that seems to drink the light around it. his hair, long and pale as a comet's tail, stirs though there is no wind.

you cannot move. he does not speak, but something in your soul knows his name before your lips can shape it. prince aemond targaryen, rider of vhagar, kinslayer, ghost of the gods-forsaken lake below. but he does not look like a monster. no, not to you. his expression—when he does turn fully and looks upon you—is heartbreak itself.

when at last your voice returns, it is soft-spoken, barely a whisper. "are you real?" he tilts his head, and though no sound leaves his pale lips, his answer hums through your bones. i was.

you do not scream. instead, you rise slowly, the hem of your nightdress brushing the cold floor, and approach him with trembling, doe-like curiosity. his image wavers as you approach, like a reflection disturbed by ripples—but when your hand reaches out to him, you feel it; a chill that is not cruel, a cold that feels almost protective.

"i've seen you before," you murmur, voice soft and slightly breathless, realizing it even as you say it. "in my dreams."

the ghost's mouth curves faintly, sorrow carved into beauty. i have watched you, the voice in your mind admits, soft as fallen snow. you are kind—you tend to the wounded birds, you leave bread for the stray cats, and you speak to the walls as if they listen.

your throat tightens, your stomach twisting with nerves. "do they listen?"

i do.

from that night on, he never truly leaves you. you sense him everywhere—in the way the frost never touches your hands when you fetch water in the cold mornings, in how the candles burn longer when you pray, in the soft warmth that surrounds you when nightmares threaten. he does not haunt you as a specter might, with rattling chains or moans of rage. he simply exists near you, tethered by something older and deeper than reason.

when you walk the empty corridors, you whisper softly to him now, your invisible companion. "good evening, my lord," you say with a shy, almost secretive smile. "'tis a fair night for ghosts." sometimes you catch glimpses of him—reflected in a windowpane, standing at the edge of the courtyard in moonlight, watching you with devotion that borders on agony.

one night, you find yourself standing by the lake below the castle—the gods eye, vast and dark as night itself. the mist curls low, swallowing the reeds, and the air feels almost alive. you can feel him close. "why are you here?" you ask softly. "why do you stay?"

the voice that answers is a whisper of thunder. because i cannot leave you, little maid… your soul shines through this cursed place like dawn, and i have waited centuries for light such as yours….

your eyes fill with tears you do not understand, bottom lip wobbling. "you should rest," you tell him, your voice full of sorrow for this lonely soul. how can i? he murmurs, his deep, raspy voice echoing inside your mind, stepping closer until the chill of him grazes your skin. when the gods grant me a glimpse of the heavens each time you smile?

your heart aches—-for him, for the centuries he has spent alone, for the tenderness buried under all his ruin. you reach out again, and though your hand passes through his, you swear you feel a pulse—a flicker of life, stubborn and desperate to return.

from that moment, love grows like ivy—slowly, stubbornly, entwining life with death. you talk to him by the firelight, share stories of your childhood, whisper prayers for his peace. and sometimes, when you drift to sleep, you dream of him not as a ghost but as a man—whole, warm, real, holding you as though the world might end if he dares to let go.

in those dreams, his lips touch your forehead, reverent. one day, little maid, he vows, the gods will take pity… either i will live again, or you will cross the veil—and i will be waiting for you by the shore of the gods eye…

when you wake, the dawn glows faintly gold through the broken window. a single white lily rests on your pillow, still wet with little droplets of dew. and though the halls of harrenhal remain cold and haunted, you feel no fear… because somewhere between heaven and ruin, a prince's ghost keeps watch—his love for you burning quietly, a light in the endless dark.

ɪɪ. · ♰

the days grow longer, but harrenhal never warms. the sun might shine on the lake and scatter diamonds across its surface, but within those towering, twisted halls the air stays heavy with memory. yet even the stones seems gentler now, for wherever you walk, there's the quiet awareness of him—a presence lingering at your back like a hand just shy of touching.

you begin to speak to him more freely. when you rise before dawn to fetch water, you whisper a sweet good morning. when you sweep the hallways, you tell him about the latest gossip of the kitchens, your voice lilting with soft laughter. when you lie in bed, you whisper the things you dare not confess to any living soul—that you are lonely, that you dream of leaving, that you fear no one will remember your name when you're gone from the living.

and always, the air stirs in reply, soft as breath against the shell of your ear. i remember you, he says, sometimes in the hush between heartbeats. i will remember you for as long as the gods remember flame…

sometimes, you think you see him more clearly. in the reflection of a bucket of water, you catch his lean silhouette behind you, his silver hair glinting faintly like frost, the dark patch over one eye stark against pale, almost translucent skin.

once, when you walk through the great hall, a shadow passes beside you, and the faintest brush of cold grazes your fingertips—as if his hand reached for yours and couldn't quite manage to hold on.

the other servants start to notice you speaking softly to no one. they mutter when you pass, whispering of hauntings and madness, but you only smile. let them gossip. you know better, because the ghost that haunts you means you no harm.

still, he does not let you forget what he is. one evening, as you polish the silver in the great hall, a horrific storm breaks over the gods eye. lightning sears across the heavens, throwing the ruined towers into stark, skeletal light. the wind shrieks through the cracks of stones, and for a moment you swear you hear screaming—real, terrible screaming—from long ago.

you flinch, covering your ears. the air around you crackles with something fierce and ancient. then you see him, clearer than ever—standing in the center of the hall, tall and regal, drenched in ghost-light, his one eye blazing with cold fire.

the room bends around him, the air thick with power and sorrow and longing. startled, you drop the cloth. "aemond?" his voice comes not in your mind, but aloud this time, low and echoing, carrying centuries of torment. "i burned this place once. i killed and died and yet... i remain."

you approach carefully, your voice trembling. "you don't have to be angry anymore." then, he looks at you—really looks—and something in his fury softens. "you do not understand, sweet girl. the dead cannot forget what the living will not forgive." you reach for him, hands shaking and heart pounding. "then let me remember you kindly. if the world cannot forgive, then i will."

for a heartbeat, you think you see him smile. the storm outside falters. the candles flare, then steady. and suddenly, he is no longer distant, he is standing so close that his breathless cold seeps into your skin, yet it feels like warmth. his large hand hovers inches from your cheek, trembling in its ghostly half-form. "i should not linger near you," he murmurs. "you draw me back toward something i am not meant to ever feel again."

you lift your chin, doe eyes glistening with unshed tears. "and what is that?"

"hope." he says, looking down at you in awe, as though you've struck his non-beating heart back to life.

the word lingers between you like a fragile thread. from that night, something changes. he appears to you more often now—not just as a whisper, but as a figure half-formed from moonlight and shadow.

sometimes, when you pass a mirror, his reflection stands beside yours. when you sit by the fire, he kneels across from you, silent and ever so watchful. and one night, when the castle is still and the lake below glows with ghostly light, you dream again.

you are standing in a field that blooms beneath your feet, spring flowers pushing through rich, blackened soil. he is there, not as a ghost, but as a man—his skin warm, his hair gleaming like molten silver under the sun.

he reaches for you, and this time, when his hand finds yours, there is no cold, no distance, no death. only the steady thrum of his heart against your palm. "i have waited for you," he says softly. "through fire and ruin and centuries of silence."

when you wake, your pillow is wet with tears. a pale feather—fine and strange, tinged faintly silver—rests beside you. you hold it close, trembling, heart aching for something unknown.

the next morning, you go to the lake. the mists curl thick and white, hiding the horizon. you whisper his name into the fog, and the water shivers in answer.

aemond, aemond, aemond….

you feel him then—not beside you, but all around you. the trees sigh with his breath, the mist glows faintly with his presence. the air hums with devotion too deep for the living world to understand. "i'm not afraid," you say, voice breaking. "if i stay, will you stay with me?" the wind shifts, the faintest touch grazes your hair, a kiss of cold that feels like true love.

always.

and though the dead cannot weep, you think—just maybe—the ghost of prince aemond targaryen smiles. in harrenhal, where love has never known peace, your small, gentle soul becomes its first prayer in centuries. and somewhere between ruin and redemption, a ghost learns to hope again.

ɪɪɪ. · ♰

the moon hangs over harrenhal like a silver coin, suspended over the black mirror of the gods eye. the castle sleeps, though sleep feels too gentle a word for this place—it merely lies in uneasy silence, waiting for dawn that never truly warms its blackened stones.

you cannot sleep either. something inside you has begun to ache with a quiet, insistent pull—an ache that feels older than your own bones. you have lived with his ghost for many weeks now, long enough that the world of the living feels too dim beside the one you share with him. it begins when you hear your name being called—softly, as if the night itself exhales it, and then, the sweetest of endearments.

my love….

you rise, heart pounding, and wrap a thin cloak around your shoulders. the hallways are cold as you move through them, lit by the flicker of dying candles and torchlights. the air hums faintly, that strange, familiar warmth brushing the edge of your skin.

he is waiting for you at the great door that opens toward the lake. moonlight streams through him, painting him in hues of silver and shadow. his face looks more human than it ever has—his sharp beauty softened, his single eye sorrowful and bright.

"you called for me," you whisper, shy.

he inclines his head, the movement graceful, regal even in death. "you heard me."

"always," you breathe.

the air between you trembles. his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment it feels as though the entire world holds its breath. "i should not have kept you for so long, sweet girl," he murmurs, his brow scrunching slightly as though in pain. "you belong to life, to warmth, to days i can no longer touch."

but his voice breaks on the last word, and the agony in it twists something deep inside you. "i do not belong anywhere," you whisper back. "not since you found me."

aemond steps closer, his form flickers faintly, and for the first time, you see how weary he looks—how the centuries have hollowed him, leaving only the shape of longing behind. "if i were a man again..." he begins, but the words crumble before they're whole.

"then you would have kissed me by now," you finish, your voice trembling. the ghost of a smile flickers across his lips. "little one," he breathes, his expression full of fondness, but you can still see the pain that makes his eye glisten, "you tempt a soul already damned."

and then he does it, slowly, reverently. his hand rises, pale and almost solid, and cups your cheek. the cold of him seeps into your skin, but it feels right, like starlight rather than frost. you lean forward, closing the distance that should not be closed.

when his lips touch yours, the world disappears. it is not warmth you feel, but light. a rush of memories, not your own—flight through the skies on dragonback, the roar of fire, the crash of steel, the fall into water, the endless dark that followed. his entire life—his fury, his loneliness, his love—surges through you in a heartbeat.

you taste salt, and smoke, and sorrow. and beneath it all, his whispered thought, i have waited so long. when you pull away, your breath catches in the cold air. "you are still here," you murmur, silently relieved that he remains with you.

"for now," his voice trembles. "but the dawn drives me away. i am bound to the lake, to the moment of my death. and soon, soon… even this shadow will fade."

you stare past him toward the black water glimmering beneath the moon. the lake calls to you—not cruelly, but tenderly, as though it has been whispering your name for years and only now dares to speak aloud. "what if i came to you?" you ask, your voice small and nervous.

he stills. "no."

you huff, frowning. "i am not afraid, aemond."

he immediately shakes his head, the silver strands of his hair drifting like smoke. "no, you do not understand what you would be giving up, my love… life, breath, sunlight—"

"all things that mean little without you," you say, pleading, trying to make him understand that life without him by your side is not a life you wish to live.

for a moment, there is only silence between you, broken only by the soft lapping of water against the shore. then he reaches for you again, his long, cool fingers trembling as they ghost against your throat, gently, worshiping. "if you cross the veil, there is no returning," he warns, voice firm yet tender all at once.

"i do not wish to return."

he closes his eye, and a tear—bright as molten silver—slides down his pale cheek before vanishing into mist. "then let it be by your choice, not mine," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly.

you walk together to the lake's edge. the wind has gone still, the world holding its breath. the water shimmers faintly, reflecting the stars as if it were a doorway to another sky. you take his hand—or rather, you place your hand where his would be—and smile softly. "i am ready."

he leans close, pressing his forehead to yours. his voice is low, broken. "then i will meet you in the depths, my heart…" you step into the lake, and the water is cold enough to steal your breath, yet it feels alive, pulsing with ancient magic.

the hem of your dress billows around you as you wade deeper—ankle, knee, waist, chest—until the moonlight above blurs. you take one last lungful of breath of the living world and let yourself fall.

the water closes over your head, and everything goes quiet—utterly, beautifully quiet. there is no pain, no fear. only a vast, weightless peace… and then, there is light.

you awaken on the lake's shore beneath a sky of soft silver dawn. the ruins of harrenhal stand in the distance, but they are whole again, radiant, no longer burned. flowers bloom where ash once lay, vibrant and beautiful, and the air hums with life that does not fade.

you stand barefoot in the grass, your white gown dry and gleaming with starlight. when you turn, he is there. not as a ghost, not as a shadow—but as aemond, whole, alive.

his skin warm, his hair shining like polished moonlight, his single violet eye alive and gleams with wonder. he looks at you as if seeing the sun for the first time. "you came," he whispers, stunned, his lips parting in awe of you. you smile, lighthearted. "i promised."

he reaches for you, and this time, his hands are solid, strong. when he pulls you into his arms, it feels like the world settling into its rightful shape. the lake gleams behind you, the sky bending low, and all the pain of both your lives melts away like morning mist.

he kisses you again and again, slowly, tenderly, as if to memorize the miracle of your being. each kiss tastes of moonlight, forgiveness, and true love. and when you pull apart, the horizon is no longer gray but gold, as if the gods themselves have opened the heavens to watch.

in this place beyond death, time ceases to wound. the castle stands unbroken, the fields bloom eternal. you and aemond walk its halls hand in hand, his laughter echoing softly against the stones that once mourned.

sometimes you still visit the water's edge. the living cannot see you, but sometimes, when the mist curls and the candles in the hall flicker, someone feels a warmth brush against them. a kindness, a whisper of something holy.

they say harrenhal is no longer cursed. they say it is watched over by two gentle spirits—one with silver hair and a sapphire eye, the other with soft hands and a heart too kind for this world. and in the quiet between life and legend, love reigns eternal.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

just a lil gentle reminder: this lil blog of mine will always be a safe space for anyone who stans team green & all team green characters, are anti hotd, & for anyone who supports aegon ii's (legitimate) claim to the iron throne.. ! ^-^ it's also a safe space for those who're anti tb, blackcels, & ryan condal + sara hess……sry not sry, i just love bein' a hater that prefers actual good storytelling! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › prince regent!aemond 𝑥 sister!wife!reader ꪆৎ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. this lil drabble is for day 2 of @aemondweek. enjoy, my sweet angels! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎

the city is alive with the sound of bells. they toll for victory, for vengeance, for the prince who has risen from the smoke of rook's rest draped in fire and triumph. the red keep hums with feverish energy—servants racing through the halls, green and golden banners unfurling from every tower, lords and ladies whispering like moths around flame.

but all that noise fades into something distant and dreamlike when you stand upon the balcony of maegor's holdfast, the dusk wind tugging at your gown, and see him—your brother, your beloved husband—riding through the gates.

aemond targaryen, prince regent of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm.

his armor is dark with soot and blood, his silver hair tangled by the wind. he dismounts from his horse with the steady grace of a man who has stared death in the face and found himself unscathed. the courtiers cry out his name, the city kneels, and your heart—traitorous, trembling thing—kneels too.

you do not remember walking to him. one moment you are on the balcony, the next you are in the great hall, among the noblemen and knights, the smell of fire and steel thick in the air. the chamber doors open, and there he stands, haloed by torchlight, the faint curl of a soft smirk on his lips when his eye finds you.

instantly, the hall goes silent. every lord and lady fades to shadow when he strides forward—his steps sure, silent, as if the stone itself knows to yield before him. his leather gloves are still blackened from battle, his jaw rough with soot and sweat, his violet eye a molten thing as it drags over you, devouring your womanly figure with a silent, rapid hunger.

when he reaches you, his gloved hand cups your cheek, and you feel the faint tremor beneath his touch—the pulse of life that still beats fiercely after the dance with death.

"she is dead, sister," he murmurs, voice low and steady as a blade drawn from its sheath. "the queen who never was. meleys still burns upon the field, and their banners fell before the presence of my flame."

you gasp, not from horror but from awe. the boy you once knew—quiet, cold, always watching from the shadows—now stands before you a man crowned by fire. "my love," you whisper, crooning, trembling. "my prince... my regent."

aemond's eye narrows with pleasure, a low purr rumbling in his chest. "say it again, wife."

"my prince regent," you say softly, voice full of love, devotion, and the greatest amount of deep, unwavering respect for your old brother. he hums, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through your bones. "and you're mine."

before you can speak again, his mouth finds yours—rough, consuming, desperate. the kiss tastes of ash and heat and something almost divine. his hands slip to your waist, dragging you against his chest as the court watches in reverent silence, as though witnessing a coronation of flesh.

when he breaks the kiss after a long moment, his breath is ragged. "come along, sweetling. i would have you before the realm steals even a glance." he leads you through winding corridors, past guards who lower their heads, past courtiers who pretend not to look. his grip never loosens from your hand until the heavy doors of your shared chamber close behind you with a thunderous echo, sealing you both inside.

then, at last, silence. he stands still for a long moment—a warrior carved from smoke and fury. the firelight flickers over him, glinting off the silver of his hair and the red-stained steel of his breastplate. you step closer, unfastening the silver clasps, your fingers gentle where the battle has left its mark.

when the armor falls away, he exhales, the breath of a man shedding his crown for a moment of peace with his sweet, doting wife. his hands find your face again, warm and calloused, the rough pads of his thumbs stroking your cheeks with something like reverence.

"i thought of you," he says softly, his voice hoarse. "when the dragonfire rose around me, when i faced her, it was your face i saw in the flames, sweet sister."

your lips part, words caught in your throat. "oh, aemond... you're my heart, my dragon—" he shakes his head, silencing you with a kiss to your brow. "you prayed for me."

"every night," you confess, and he smiles—small, dangerous, but tender all the same. "then it seems your gods have listened to your sweet prayers, wife."

he kisses you again—slower this time, deeper, until the world narrows to the warmth of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue against yours, and the soft press of his battle-hardened body against yours. his hands roam lower, over the curve of your waist, down your hips, until he lifts you with ease and carries you to the bed.

"you are half my crown," he murmurs as he gently lays you down. "the world will bow to me, but you, my sweet wife—you shall have me undone."

his voice is velvet and fire, his gaze burns hotter than vhagar's flame as he undresses you piece by piece, reverent and possessive all at once. you shiver under his touch—not from fear, but from the quiet worship in every movement, the soft murmur of valyrian endearments that spill from your husband's lips like prayer.

when he finally joins you, sinking deeply into your needy cunt, the world seems to stop spinning. his skin is warm against yours, his breath uneven as he feels you squeeze and clench around him, his control slipping with every breathy sigh that escapes your kiss-swollen lips.

he moves with purpose—each thrust steady, claiming, as though marking you as his just as he marked the skies above rook's rest with vhagar's fire. his lips find your throat, your shoulder, your jaw, whispering fragments of love and hunger and fierce devotion.

"ñuha dōna hāedar… ñuha jorrāelagon…. ñuha ābrazȳrys," he groans against your lips, humming with satisfaction as you squeal softly into his mouth as he starts thrusting faster, harder, making the bed tremble beneath your intertwined bodies. (my sweet sister, my love, my wife.)

you cling to him tightly, nails pressing crescents into his back, breath catching on his name. the rhythm builds—the sound of wet skin slapping against skin, of breathy gasps, of whispered devotion rising like flames from a burning torch.

when he finally stills, his seed spilling deep into your womb, his head bows against your shoulder, and his breath comes rough and ragged. you can feel the tremor of his heartbeat against your chest—fierce, wild, alive—as you both come undone by each other.

afterward, he does not move away. no, he stays pressed against you, his arm wrapping around you snugly, holding you close as though you might vanish if he loosens his grip just an inch. outside, the bells continue to ring, proclaiming your husband's victory to the world.

inside, his voice is low, meant for you alone. "all the realm may bow," he whispers, his lips against your ear, "but only you may see me without the fire." you turn to face him, delicate fingers brushing over the pink scar that runs deeply across his cheek and through his eyelid—a mark of vengeance and survival, a reminder of the boy he was once and the man he has become.

"i do see you, aemond," you murmur. "not just the dragon… but the man beneath." and for the first time since the battle, his expression softens—the cold steel of his eye gentled by something fragile and human. he presses a final kiss to your lips, slow and aching. "you are my peace, my heart," he says quietly. "my truest conquest."

the night continues to stretch on, while the city sings his name in both fear and praise. but within the red keep, in the quiet of your shared chamber, the prince regent surrenders his crown to the only realm that truly rules him—the warmth of his sweet wife's arms.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

https://www.tumblr.com/aemnd/796725404893364224

you should write a drabble about this idk 👀

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 2:43am.

when aemond targaryen's mind is troubled, the whole of the red keep feels it—like a pressure before a storm, heavy and waiting to break. he moves through corridors with that lethal calm, pale and cold, silence wound tight around him as though even his rage were disciplined.

tonight, it's aegon. again. his brother's words had been sharp, mocking, full of wine and arrogance. aemond's knuckles had gone white around the hilt of his sword, his restraint paper-thin. and yet, instead of drawing steel, instead of lashing out, he draws breath. he leaves. he goes to you—his beloved wife.

when he enters your chambers, he doesn't speak. the door closes behind him with a soft click, and the tension in him hums like a drawn bowstring. you can feel it even before he looks at you—the weight of his brilliant mind, the way it clings to him like a second skin. he stands for a moment, just watching you, violet eye burning, before he murmurs, low and rough, "get on the bed, wife."

there is no impatience in his tone, no anger directed at you. it is a command born from hunger—one that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with need. you obey, heart fluttering as you climb onto the soft furs, lying back as his boots hit the floor one by one.

he comes to you like a man starved. his hands, always so precise, find your soft thighs with reverence, calloused thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin as though to soothe the tremor that passes through you. but you know—it's not you who needs calming; it's him.

when he lowers himself between your legs, there is a quiet sigh, a release of tension like the first exhale after battle. the first drag of his tongue is deliberate, slow, tracing up the length of you until the tip of his nose presses against the soft skin of your mound. his breath is hot, his lips—devotional.

you try to speak his name, but he hushes you with a glance. "let me think," he whispers, voice dark silk. "let me forget." and gods, he does. he buries his face in you like a man seeking absolution, hands gripping your hips to anchor himself. his tongue moves with a kind of wicked desperation, the sharp edges of his mind dissolving into the rhythm of your breath, the sound of your breathy gasps and soft, needy mewls.

every time you writhe beneath him, every time your fingers clutch the silky strands of his silver hair, another knot inside him loosens. the fury that had been coiled behind his ribs melts into you, into the taste of you, into the way you tremble and moan his name like a forbidden prayer.

he devours you until thought itself becomes meaningless—until there is only the slick heat of your womanly body and the soft, broken sounds you make. until aegon, the court, the endless weight of duty all fade to nothing but this—the steady pulse of your heartbeat beneath his hands.

when you come undone, it's not a sound he makes you give; it's a kind of peace. his lips slow, his breath steadies against your feverish skin, and he lingers—tasting, breathing, grounding himself in the sweet scent of your cunt. when he finally lifts his head, his mouth glistens, his single eye calmer, softer.

he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then to your belly, then up your sternum, until his forehead rests against yours. the storm in him is gone, replaced by something warm, reverent, tamed. he exhales your name like a vow. "better," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "you quiet the noise, always." and when he pulls you into his arms, it feels less like aftermath and more like worship—aemond targaryen, conqueror of all but his sweet wife's peace.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › canon!aemond 𝑥 pregnant!wife!reader ꪆৎ

𓈒 ݁ ⊹ 𓂃 ݂ 𝒷𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑑 ⸜̑⸝͂ ۟ ׅ 𓏲

your reflection catches you off guard once again. the soft curve of your body, once willowy, now swollen with life, meets your gaze in the polished silver of the mirror. your hand skims over the swell of your belly, the tender stretch of your skin, and instead of awe, a pang of sorrow coils deep inside you.

seven months—seven long months of carrying the twins that aemond planted in your womb—and though you know the cause is holy, natural, inevitable, you cannot shake the way your heart wilts at the sight of your changing figure. the thought is as poisonous as it is persistent: what if he no longer finds me beautiful? what if i am ruined beyond desire?

when the chamber door opens, you nearly flinch. he slips into your marital chambers like shadow and fire, tall frame clad in black, silver hair falling loose about his shoulders. his single eye finds you instantly, sharp as a blade yet softened in its light when it rests upon you, his beloved.

aemond has always looked at you as though you are the first thing he has ever wanted, and the last thing he will ever allow himself to lose. "ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he murmurs, the high valyrian endearment—my beloved—falling like velvet from his lips. he crosses the room, and his hand brushes your arm before you can turn away. "what troubles you?"

your throat tightens. you want to lie, to say nothing, but the words slip from you before you can stop them. "i-i feel... large. ugly. like i am only going to keep growing, until there is nothing left of me that you would recognize."

his silence stings, and you can't bear to meet his gaze. but then, his hands—large, calloused, certain—come to rest upon your swollen belly, thumbs stroking reverently over the curve that shelters his children. you dare to look up at him, and what you see there steals your breath.

there is no disgust, no pity; only hunger and awe. "you speak madness, sweet one," aemond says at last, voice low and fierce, as though he means to duel the very shadows in your mind. "you think i could not love you like this? gods, you carry my blood, my heirs. you are the vessel of my legacy, and yet you would call yourself ugly?" his lips twist in deep displeasure, and his eye blazes as he leans closer, forehead resting against yours. "never. i would set fire to the world before i ever let you believe such falsehoods."

a soft whimper escapes you, fragile, uncertain, and he answers it with a kiss—slow, possessive, a vow sealed upon your lips. his hands cradle you, pulling you against him, though your belly presses firmly between you both. he does not seem to notice, or rather, he delights in it, one palm flattening protectively across your bump.

"you grow more radiant with every moon's turn," he whispers against your skin, his lips moving from your mouth to your temple, to your cheek. "there is nothing more beautiful to me than what you are now. my sweet wife, my love, and the mother of my children."

tears slip down your cheeks, hot and foolish, but he catches them with the rough pad of his thumb, shaking his head as though he cannot stand to see you doubt yourself. "do you not see, dōna ābrazȳrys?" he presses, fierce and desperate all at once. "you will never be too much. not for me. not in this life, nor in the next."

your hands clutch at him then, clinging to his tunic, as if anchoring yourself to the truth he pours into you. aemond only holds you tighter, pressing your body—round, imperfect, precious—against his. his voice drops, softer now, but no less certain. "you are mine, sweet girl. in every shape and every season, i would not want you any other way."

his words linger in the quiet chamber like incense, heady and unshakable, and still, you cannot help the tremor that runs through you when his lips begin their slow pilgrimage across your skin. from your cheek to your jaw, the hollow of your throat, the curve of your collarbone—aemond worships as though each part of you is a relic carved for his devotion alone.

you whisper his name, small and unsure, and it only fuels him. that eye of his darkens, gleaming with a hunger that is not easily sated. "ñuha jorrāelagon," he answers, voice low, thick with reverence. "let me remind you who you are to me."

he lowers himself, tall frame folding as though bowing before his queen. one hand remains firm at the base of your spine, the other slides over the round swell of your belly with the tenderness of a vow renewed. he presses a kiss there—slow, reverent—then another, and another, until you are shivering with the pure intimacy of it.

"you call yourself ugly," he murmurs against the silk of your gown, his lips brushing the tautness of your skin, "yet i find i cannot get enough of you. every curve… and every change." he lifts his gaze, catching yours with a heat that steals the air from your lungs. "i want to touch you, to taste you. i want to take all of you into my hands until there is no doubt left in your mind."

your shyness rises, but so too does the ache he has awoken inside you. "aemond..." you mewl weakly, and his name cracks like a prayer. he rises in one fluid motion, mouth claiming yours again, but this time the kiss is not tender—it is consuming. his tongue teases past your lips, coaxing yours, his hand tilting your chin up as though demanding you yield to the depth of his longing. you do, sighing into him, the warmth of his body pressing you back toward the bed.

your knees meet the edge of the mattress, and he lowers you gently, as though you are spun glass. yet his gentleness is undercut by the intensity with which his hands roam you, stroking the swell of your breasts, the soft fullness of your hips, the stretch of your pillowy thighs. his every touch is a claim, a refutation of your doubts.

"do you feel it, ñuha prūmia?" he whispers hoarsely, lips dragging over the curve of your jaw. "how i hunger for you? how i cannot keep from you, swollen or slim, for you are mine, and i will have you in every shape the gods see fit to give?"

when his hand slips beneath the hem of your gown, fingers finding the heat between your thighs, you gasp, hips arching instinctively into his touch. he groans low in his throat, forehead pressing to yours, as though the very sound of your pleasure unravels him. "seven months, and still i crave you as i did on our wedding night," he growls softly. "more, even. because now you carry my blood, and it drives me near to madness."

his fingers tease, coax, demand—until you are trembling, clutching at his shoulders, your breaths coming quick and shallow. he drinks in every little sound you make, as though it is the only thing that can quench him. "say it," he urges, lips brushing your ear. "say you believe me, say you know how i worship you."

the plea falls from your lips before you even think to restrain it. "p-please, aemond… i-i need you…" your voice trembles, breathless and wanting, and the sound makes him shudder as though struck, his cock fully hardened and pressing up against the leather of his breeches.

he does not make you wait. in one smooth motion, he strips away the barrier of your gown, baring your body to his ravenous gaze. his eye drinks in every curve, every swell—your bare breasts heavy and aching, the gentle stretch of your belly, the soft fullness of your thighs—and he looks at you as though you are not mortal, but divine.

"mother of my children," he murmurs, reverent as prayer, wicked as sin. his hand trails over your belly, lingering, then drifts lower, parting your thighs with careful insistence. "my beloved wife, my goddess."

you tremble beneath him as he sheds his own clothing quickly, pale skin gleaming in the candlelight, his lean form all hard planes and hunger. when he settles over you, braced on his forearms so as not to press too heavily upon you, the heat of him sears against your thighs. your body clenches with want, cunt soaked and dripping with the sweet nectar of your arousal.

his lips claim yours again, slower now, deliberate, the kind of kiss that leaves you weak, trembling, undone. his hand cups your cheek as though to anchor you in the storm of his devotion. "look at me, wife," he whispers, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe the command against your lips. his eye burns into yours. "do not look away, my love. see how much i love you."

and then, without further warning, he pushes inside. the stretch is deep, consuming, pulling a breathy gasp from your throat as your body yields around him. his jaw tightens, a guttural groan breaking from his chest, yet his hands are gentle, stroking your hips, your belly, coaxing you through the sensation. "so fucking perfect," he rasps, forehead pressed against yours. "you were made to take me, swollen with my seed, carrying my blood."

each thrust is measured, reverent, his control ironclad though you can feel the tremor of restraint in him. he will not dare to risk you, will not hurt you, even as his hunger claws at the edges of his composure. instead, he pours it into you through his words, his touch, the endless litany of devotion whispered against your skin.

"do you feel it? how your body calls to mine? how i was forged for this, for you?" his lips brush your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth with each ragged breath. "there is nothing i crave more than you, like this—swollen, wet, and needy for me."

your hands clutch at him, pulling him closer, needing him as deeply as he needs you. the rhythm builds, slow and relentless, until pleasure coils within you, sharp and unbearable. he feels it, senses it in the flutter of your body, the tightening of your thighs, and he urges you on with a hoarse whisper. "let go, sweetling. give yourself to me, let me see you undone."

when you finally shatter, it is with a cry muffled against his lips, your body trembling around him. he follows soon after, burying himself to the hilt, his release spilling deep within you as his groan breaks into your mouth.

for a long moment, there is nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the slick warmth of your bodies pressed together, the candlelight flickering over skin and sweat. he holds you through it all, refusing to pull away, his hand once again covering the swell of your belly as though claiming you, your children, your future, all in one gesture.

"you will never be too much," he whispers fiercely, kissing your tears away. "not for me. not now, not ever. you are mine, ñuha jorrāeliarzy… always."

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

⸌̑⸍͂ mdni, 18+ › hades!aemond 𝑥 persephone!reader 𝜗᭪ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hihi.. ♡ would y'all like for me to post the longer version of this story .. ? ₊ ݁ ❀ ݂ ۟

⸌̑⸍͂ …the earth trembled awake when you first felt him. every year, the same cycle—the soil yawns open, the first shoots of green unfurl, and you, the goddess they call kore, breathe life back into a world that had grown gray in your absence. your bountiful touch ripens blossoms, your girlish laughter coaxes rivers from ice, your very footsteps scatter fields with color. you are the balm and the promise of renewal, the very essence of growth and vitality.

and yet….. beneath all that light, something gnaws at you. for every blossom that blooms, every seed that unfurls, there is a shadow waiting. you feel it in the hollow of your chest, in the ache that no garland of flowers can soothe. you are worshiped, adored, crowned in daisies and peonies alike—but none of them see the fragile, lonely girl beneath the goddess of spring.

it is in that restless longing that he finds you. at first, he is only a weight at the edge of your awareness, a distant flicker in the corners of your eyes when you lean down to tend to the daffodils in your beloved field of blossoms. he is the eerie silence between birdcalls, the chill that clings to your skin when the sun is at its warmest, and then—he steps forward.

the world stills, holding its breath. he is remarkably tall, carved from shadow, his presence an eclipse against your brilliance. his hair, long and pale as moonlight, falls like a curtain, veiling the sharp planes of his angular face. his single eye gleams with a glacial fire, unrelenting and unwavering, fixed upon you as though you are not merely the goddess of spring—but prey, or worse—destiny.

you should fear him, the nymphs whisper amongst themselves, frightened of his dark presence. all mortals fear him, and all gods, too. hades—aemond, they whisper, the silent, merciless king below. he who rules the endless night, the warden of the dead, the judge whose heart beats colder than obsidian stone.

but you do not dare to tremble; instead, you tilt your head like a baby fawn, your doe eyes sparkling with curiosity. the hem of your soft, blush-colored gown brushes over the dewy grass as blossoms lean toward him, eager to discover who brings such darkness into this place filled with light, as if they too wish to brush their delicate petals against his shadow.

"why do you watch me?" you ask softly, voice full of childlike curiosity, though your heart hammers as if to break through your ribcage. his pale lips curve—barely, hauntingly. "because no one else has ever dared to look back."

that is how it begins. not with the earth splitting open, nor with screams, thunder, or chains. it begins with a piercing gaze full of longing, with the faintest of smiles curling upon lips that rarely get the chance to. it begins with you standing in the warm sunlight, while he stands beneath the shade of a willow tree, and the space between you trembles with an unnameable feeling that you sense deep in your bones.

days pass, perhaps weeks. you return to your blooms, your rituals, and your endless offerings of joy to the mortal world. yet, the shadow lingers—he lingers. at the edge of crystal-clear rivers and at the boundary between lush groves, you speak more often now. your voice is soft and sweet, filled with innocent curiosity as you share quiet words slipped between your duties. he never dares to interrupt you, but he listens most eagerly, like a man who has never before been trusted with such gentleness in all his existence.

as more time passes, you gradually uncover a horrifying truth—beneath all the iron, frost, and death lies a man who is desperately yearning for more. he carries the weight of an empire built on bones, ash, and sin, yet he has never experienced warmth or kindness.

one evening, as the horizon bleeds gold and violet, you find yourself seated on a stone, exhaustion weighing heavily on your bones. he appears, silent as always, but for the first time, you do not stand up. instead, you reach out to him, your small hand daringly moving against the high collar of his cloak, fingers threading into his pale hair. his breath catches in the back of his throat, utterly bewitched by your tenderness. almost stunned, his posture becomes rigid from the gentle touch of your fingertips.

you notice the tremor that runs through him, how his shoulders stiffen as if every instinct urges him to pull away, to resist the urge to be touched by such a divine creature such as yourself. yet, he doesn't. he endures your touch like a man braving fire; rather, he would prefer to burn alive than to live without your gentleness.

then, he exhales sharply, as if he's experiencing the worst kind of agony. his large, calloused hand finds your wrist, not to push you away, but to anchor himself against the threat of your tenderness. in that moment, he is not hades, the king of the damned, nor the terror that is whispered in mortal prayers. he is but a simple man, experiencing love from a woman for the very first time—unable to resist the temptation that is simply you.

later—much later—you will climb into his lap as if it were your own personal throne, unafraid of his crown of iron and unshaken by the hollowness of his halls. you will run your fingers through his silky, silvery-white hair while his court of shadows whispers in disbelief, in awe of your gentle presence in such a damned place such as erebus. you will teach him warmth, tenderness, love, and he will surrender the steel in his soul to you alone.

but not yet. for now, you only sit together in the hush of twilight in your beloved field of blossoms, his head lowered in submission, your touch gentle, so very gentle, your heart thundering as you whisper, "you are not so frightening, aemond." and his answer is little more than a low rasp, a vow hidden in the tremble of his deep, baritone voice, "for you, my beloved... i never will be." ……

⸜̑⸝͂ — cont,

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

⸌̑⸍͂ mdni, 18+ › hades!aemond 𝑥 persephone!reader 𝜗᭪ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hihi.. ♡ would y'all like for me to post the longer version of this story .. ? ₊ ݁ ❀ ݂ ۟

⸜̑⸝͂

…the earth trembled awake when you first felt him. every year, the same cycle—the soil yawns open, the first shoots of green unfurl, and you, the goddess they call kore, breathe life back into a world that had grown gray in your absence. your touch ripens blossoms, your laughter coaxes rivers from ice, your very footsteps scatter fields with color. you are the balm and the promise of renewal, of growth and vitality.

and yet….. beneath all that light, something gnaws at you. for every blossom that blooms, every seed that unfurls, there is a shadow waiting. you feel it in the hollow of your chest, in the ache that no garland of flowers can soothe. you are worshiped, adored, crowned in daisies and peonies alike—but none of them see the fragile girl beneath the goddess.

it is in that restless longing that he finds you. at first, he is only a weight at the edge of your awareness, a distant flicker in the corners of your eyes when you lean down to tend to the daffodils in your beloved field of blossoms. he is the eerie silence between birdcalls, the chill that clings to your skin when the sun is at its warmest, and then—he steps forward.

the world stills, holding its breath. he is remarkably tall, carved from shadow, his presence an eclipse against your brilliance. his hair, pale as moonlight, falls like a curtain, veiling the sharp planes of his angular face. his single eye gleams with a glacial fire, unrelenting and unwavering, fixed upon you as though you are not merely a goddess of spring—but prey, or worse—destiny.

you should fear him, they all say. all mortals do, and all gods, too. hades—aemond, they whisper, the silent, merciless king below. he who rules the endless dark, the warden of the dead, the judge whose heart beats colder than obsidian stone.

but you do not tremble; instead, you tilt your head, the hem of your soft gown brushing over the meadow grass as blossoms lean toward him, curious, as if they too wish to brush their delicate petals against his shadow. "why do you watch me?" you ask softly, curiously, though your heart hammers as if to break through your ribs. his pale lips curve—barely, hauntingly. "because no one has ever dared to look back."

that is how it begins. not with the earth splitting open, nor with screams, thunder, or chains. it begins with a piercing gaze, with the faintest of smiles curling upon lips that rarely smile. it begins with you standing in the warm sunlight, him standing in the dark shade, and the space between you trembling with something you cannot yet name.

days pass, perhaps weeks. you return to your blooms, your rituals, and your endless offerings of joy to the mortal world. yet, the shadow lingers—he lingers. at the edge of rivers, at the boundary between groves. you speak more often now, your voice soft and sweet, filled with innocent curiosity, sharing quiet words slipped between your duties. he never dares to interrupt you, but he listens most eagerly, like a man who has never before been trusted with gentleness.

and slowly, you learn the truth—that beneath the iron and the frost, there is a man aching for more. a man who carries an empire of bones and ash upon his back, but has never once been held with warmth.

one evening, as the horizon bleeds gold and violet, you find yourself seated on a stone, exhaustion weighing heavily on your bones. he comes, silent as always, but for the first time, you do not rise. instead, you reach for him, a small hand daringly moving against the high collar of his cloak, fingers threading into his pale hair. his breath catches in his throat, utterly stunned by your sweet gentleness, his posture becoming rigid from your careful touch.

you notice the tremor that runs through him, how his shoulders stiffen as if every instinct urges him to pull away. yet, he doesn't. he endures your touch like a man enduring fire. then, he exhales sharply, as if he's experiencing the worst kind of agony. his large, calloused hand finds your wrist, not to push you away, but to anchor himself against the threat of your tenderness.

in that moment, he is not hades, the king of the damned, nor the terror that is whispered in mortal prayers. he is but a simple man, experiencing love from a woman for the very first time—utterly enchanted and unable to resist you.

later—much later—you will climb into his lap as if it were your own personal throne, unafraid of his crown of iron and unshaken by the hollowness of his halls. you will run your fingers through his hair while his court of shadows whispers in disbelief. you will teach him warmth and love, and he will surrender the steel in his soul to you alone.

but not yet. for now, you only sit together in the hush of twilight, his head lowered, your touch gentle, your heart thundering as you whisper, "you are not so frightening, aemond." and his answer is little more than a low rasp, a vow hidden in the tremble of his deep, baritone voice, "for you, my beloved... i never will be." ……

⸜̑⸝͂ — cont,

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

𝑑𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑦. ⸌̑⸍͂

[aemnd-moved]

﹙ ⸜̑⸝͂ ﹚ 𝑠.𝑟. · 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝗳!ghost 𝑥 𝗯𝗶𝗺𝗯𝗼!reader ♡ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hii ! this is my 1st time eva writing for ghost, pls be kind ♡ cw: mdni, 18+ pwp 𝓈!her pronouns afab reader slight choking pet names bdsm undertones possessiveness jealous!ghost a lil degradation daddy kink ꣑ৎ

⸌̑⸍͂ you never even saw the man coming. it was just a casual drink at the bar—a wink, a flirty comment about your glossy pink lips, a brush of his hand along your bare shoulder that lasted a little too long... but simon riley always sees everything.

from across the room, under the shadow of his hood, he was already seething because you were his, only his, his girl. he moves like a storm through the dancing crowd, black shirt tight across his broad chest, combat boots thudding against the sticky wooden floors. the man barely gets a second word out before simon's already behind you, one gloved hand wrapping around your waist, the other curling possessively at your throat as he pulls you back against him.

"didn't know she was spoken for," the guy mutters, shrinking under simon's death glare. "she's not," simon growls, voice low and venom-laced. "she's mine."

the man vanishes fast, clearly knowing better than to argue with a soldier like your tall, scary boyfriend. but you—soft and dizzy in your tiny pink dress, a little too giggly from your second fruity cocktail—you look up at him all doe-eyed and innocent with confusion. "si... baby, it wasn't even—"

"don't," he cuts you off sharply, dragging you away, deeper into the back hall of the club, where it's dark and no one will hear, where no one will hear you scream. "don't pretend you didn't like the attention."

your breath catches as he shoves you against the wall, towering over you. your false lashes flutter, lips parting like a question, but you can't speak—not with his fingers already tangled in your hair, the other hand gripping your thigh and dragging it up around his hip. "you want eyes on you, love?" he growls, teeth scraping along your jaw, voice thick with heat. "fine," he purrs, "but they'll only see how ruined you are for me after i make you come."

you gasp as he presses closer, hard and unforgiving, his thigh between yours. your skin burns where his large, calloused hand tugs down the thin straps of your dress, exposing lace and soft curves. one hand fists in the flimsy fabric, tugging it lower, lower, "mine," he hisses, voice like gravel, grinding against your heat, hips rolling, cruel and desperate, unbothered if anyone can see you in this compromising position with your man. "say it."

"yours," you mewl, already breathless. "i-i'm yours, simon." he groans, deep and guttural, like he's been starving for this—for you. his sweet, perfect baby, his little princess—his, his, his.

the club bathroom is grimy, dimly lit, and locked behind a heavy metal door he kicked shut with his boot. you don't even care, you can barely think, can barely catch your breath. he's already got you bent over the sink, cheek pressed to the dirty mirror, eyes wide and glossy with lust as his massive body looms behind you like a stormcloud about to break.

your dress is bunched at your waist, and your tiny thong is torn clean off with one sharp tug of his glove almost meanly, as though he's letting you know he's still pissed off about the guy from earlier. you feel the snap of lace, the sting of it, and then the air hits your slick heat. "oh my god—simon—"

"don't fucking speak unless it's to say who you belong to, slut." his hand is on the back of your neck, holding you there like he owns you—because he does. the mirror fogs with your ragged breathing, your lip caught between your teeth, trying not to sob with how badly you need him, feeling your pussy throb from the emptiness.

you hear the belt, the zipper. the soft grunt as he finally frees himself—hard, thick, hot against your bare skin. he doesn't even ask, already aware that you're dripping for him like a wanton whore. "you wanted eyes on you, huh, princess?" he snarls, voice low and brutal against your ear as he runs the blunt head of his hardened cock through your slick folds. "little fuckin' dress, giggling like a dumb whore, showing off what's mine," he tuts, raising a massive hand to slap your pert little ass, watching as your asscheeks jiggle which causes him to snort in amusement as you whine in childlike protest.

you squirm, whimpering pleadingly, legs trembling as you continue whining like a needy little thing just begging for cock. "i didn't mean—i-i just—i'm s-sorry, daddy—"

without another word, he slams into you brutally, punishingly. you cry out, manicured nails scraping uselessly against the sink, feeling him fill you so deep you swear you black out for a second. there's no mercy, no buildup, just punishing, possessive thrusts—his body crashing into yours over and over as the sink rattles and the mirror fogs up from the heat of your breath.

"too late to act shy now, sweetheart," he snarls, grabbing your hips in a bruising grip as he ruts into your greedy cunt. "you want attention? i'll give you something to scream about," he promises, continuing to pound into you like he's making a point, like he's a fucking animal in heat, like every thrust is a warning to any other male who so much as breathes in your direction.

his gloved hand snakes around your throat, applying the slightest amount of pressure as he drags your face up to the mirror. "look at yourself," he huffs, chuckling mockingly at how fucked-out you look, all dumb with drool dribbling down your chin like some cock-drunk pornstar. "look at how pretty you look stuffed full of me, sweetheart."

your mascara is ruined, your sparkly lipgloss is smudged across your cheek and some is on the mirror. and fuck, he's right, there's drool on your chin and stars bursting behind your dilated eyes, but you love it. you love how rough he is, how jealous, how fucking obsessed he is over you. "say it again," he pants, violent thrusts becoming erratic, sweat dripping down the side of his neck. "say you're mine."

"i'm yours," you sob, nearly hyperventilating from each bullying thrust against your sweet spot. "yours, si-simon, only yours, daddy—!"

simon growls—low, animalistic—and you feel him twitch inside you, hips slamming hard as he buries himself to the hilt and spills into you, thick and hot and so deep it's like he's trying to brand your womb from the inside out. he stays there, cock pulsating inside of you which triggers you to reach your own orgasm, chest heaving against your back, breathing through clenched teeth.

then he leans in, kissing the back of your neck sweetly, voice rasping into your ear, "good girl. now, let's get you home, princess," he coos with mock tenderness, patting your hip gently as he slowly pulls out of your dripping cunt, being careful not to hurt you. "i'm nowhere near fuckin' done with you yet."

⸜̑⸝͂ — fin

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

﹙ ⸜̑⸝͂ ﹚𝑎.𝑡. · 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝗳!aemond 𝑥 𝗯𝗶𝗺𝗯𝗼!reader ♡ ᐣ cw: mdni, 18+ pwp 𝓈!her pronouns afab reader choking pet names oral (f!receiving) a lil anal degradation bdsm undertones mean but in love!aemond daddy kink ꣑ৎ

—hi !!! ♡ idk what to title this cause it's literally just porn with v lil plot… might delete it later… happy reading, loves ૮ ྀིっ˔ ◟ ྀིა

⸜̑⸝͂

you tilted your head, lashes fluttering, pink gloss shimmering under the soft glow of your bedroom lights. "i bet you could keep me in a chokehold and fuck me stupid at the same time, daddy," you cooed, voice dipped in saccharine seduction. your knuckles pressed teasingly under aemond's sharp chin, a bratty smile curling your lips—the smile he could never say no to, the one that always ended with you breathless and ruined and stuffed full of cock.

he'd lasted only an hour after that. now, your cheek's mashed into the mattress, hair a tangled halo, mascara smudged like bruises beneath your eyes. one arm is pinned beneath your chest, the other trapped uselessly between his sculpted body and yours. he's buried so deep inside you that the stretch feels permanent—his cock splitting you open like you were made for this, for him.

and aemond—your sweet aemond—is fucking you with a singleminded intensity that makes the bed creak in protest. he doesn't pull out far, just enough to build the rhythm before his hips snap forward again, pelvis crashing into your ass like he's trying to brand himself into your body.

but he hasn't let go. no, not fully. even when he's balls deep, this reckless, there's still a thread of restraint—because he's holding you in a chokehold, bicep flexed around your throat in a way that makes the room shimmer. not crushing, just enough to leave you dizzy. enough to keep you floating on that warm, sparkling edge between pain and pleasure, between consciousness and sweet, dripping surrender.

you moan loudly around the curve of his bicep, biting down softly. you can taste the salt of his sweat, trace the map of veins with your tongue. it's the only tether you have to this plane of existence. that and the way his cock keeps punching into your sweet spot like he owns it. "fuck—sorry, princess," aemond pants, breath breaking. his long silver hair sticks to his back, lean muscles glistening in the low light. "you're okay, right, baby? you know you can tap out anytime… y-you—you always can."

but you can only whimper, your pussy clenching down on him in answer—tight, wet, insatiable. aemond growls low in his throat. because you don't want out, you want more. "should've stopped," he mutters, voice almost gone. his words are a ghost of guilt, but his hips never slow down from his relentless pounding into your needy cunt. "shouldn't be doing this to you."

but he is—gods, he is.

and you're taking it all like the greedy, dumb little princess you are—gasping and writhing as he fucks you through another shattering orgasm. your slippery walls spasm around him, your vision tunneling into blinding white bliss. you can barely breathe, air thinning and nerves crackling, brain turning into pink, sparkly goo.

aemond bites down against your shoulder, possessive and desperate, as if marking you might ground him. "fucking hell, baby—your pussy's trying to kill me," he snarls, fucking you harder, deeper, chasing the quake of your climax like a man drowning in warm honey. but he's not doing it for himself—no, he's doing this all for you. to wring every drop of agonizing pleasure from your body until you're limp and whimpering and so far gone you forget your name—except for the one word your lips remember how to form, over and over again: his.

aemond, aemond, aemond.

your ruin, your savior, your favorite sin. your body twitches under him, fucked dumb and flushed pink all over, drool clinging to your puffy lips and your mascara streaked in rivers down your cheeks. but you're still moaning deliriously, still clenching like you need more—like his cock is the only thing keeping your soul tethered to the earth.

aemond stays buried inside you for a long moment, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his temple to the slope of your back. his bicep loosens around your neck, just enough to let some air back into your lungs. "you okay, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice thick, his words brushing across your ear like smoke. "still with me?"

you nod—or try to. it's more of a small, pathetic mewl. your lashes flutter open, and he catches the fucked-out haze in your doe eyes. that glossy, blissed, mind-melted look that makes something in him snap. "oh, baby," he breathes, voice teasing, a low chuckle curling in his throat. "you liked that, didn't you?"

you mumble something that might be yes, might be more, but aemond doesn't need the translation. your soaked pussy's still milking him like you're begging for another round. "such a filthy little slut for me," he teases, not unkindly. his voice is thick with lust and dark with something else—possessive, protective, absolutely unhinged. "you think i don't see what you're doing? teasing me, tempting me... acting like my dumb little baby doesn't know what that pretty smile does to me."

he drags his cock out of you slowly, torturously—until just the flushed, leaking tip sits inside your fluttering hole, slightly gaping from his ruthless rutting. the stretch makes you keen, your hips wiggling back against him, trying to chase the fullness. "mmph… daddy," you whine, hiccuping softly as your cunt throbs for more, more, more.

"i know, baby," he croons mockingly. "you want it so bad, don't you? poor little thing," he tuts, flipping you over with a firm grip under your thighs, manhandling you like a pathetic ragdoll. your back hits the mattress, tits bouncing from the force, and aemond doesn't wait—he shoves your knees to your chest, bending you in half, splitting you open like a ripe fruit in summer. "gotta see this messy little pussy when i ruin it again," he growls, eyes dark and hungry as he glances down. "fuck, you're making such a mess, sweetheart..."

your slick coats the insides of your thighs, glistening in the low light, smeared between your puffy folds. his cock, thick and glistening with your cum, drags over your swollen clit—just enough pressure to make your legs tremble. then, without warning, he slams back into you.

you shriek.

not out of pain—but the pleasure is almost too cruel. your little toes curl from the violent intensity of being so fucking full, causing your eyes to roll back. he's even deeper in this position, hitting everything. and the sound? filthy, wet, unholy. your manicured fingers claw at his shoulders, nails dragging down his back as he pounds into you, brutal and unrelenting.

"you like being my dumb little toy?" he grits out between brutal thrusts, fucking you deep and fast and without mercy. "all that pink and glitter and gloss just to look pretty while i fuck your brains out?" you nod, dumb and desperate, tears beading at your long lashes. "say it," he growls, increasing the pace of his thrusts like he's trying to punish you, but all it does is make you cry harder, wailing and babbling daddy, daddy, daddy.

"i-i l-like it," you babble dumbly. "love being your dumb little baby, daddy—f-fuck, please—don't stop, don't stop—"

"oh, i won't," he snarls, sweat flying off his hair, silver strands plastered to his neck. "not until you're crying for real." and then—he spits on your pussy, watches as it drips down where you're stretched obscenely around him with a mean glint in his dilated eye, watching you shiver and shake for him.

"good girl," he growls, leaning down, hand gripping your throat again as he fucks into you harder. "take it, take all of me. this pussy's mine, yeah?" he says, practically taunting you. you're not even sure what you're saying anymore, just a babbling stream of "yes," and "fuck," and "please" until you're sobbing through another orgasm—writhing, shaking, body too overwhelmed to process anything but the white-hot explosion of endless bliss.

aemond doesn't let up, he fucks you through it, until you're spasming around him, until you can't even speak. and then—with a deep, animalistic groan, low and desperate—he finally cums. hot, thick spurts deep inside your cunt, hips jerking as he spills himself in you, moaning through gritted teeth as if he's been holding it back for days.

he collapses on top of you for a moment, lips brushing your shoulder, breath hot and ragged. then, after a long silence, he lifts his head, smirks down at you, sweat-slick and trembling. "you're gonna feel me for days, baby." and you giggle, breathless, dazed and dreamy and perfectly glowing, fingers reaching up to tug at his hair to pull him down for a sweet, messy kiss.

"worth it."

⸜̑⸝͂

you don't even remember falling asleep—just the soothing glide of his large, calloused hands after round two, the ghost of his lips on your temple, the warm weight of his body curling around yours like a velvet snare. but the bliss is short-lived, because now, you're waking up to the blunt, greedy press of his cock already sliding back inside you.

no warning, no words. just the overwhelming stretch, the slip, the heat of him as he slides into your raw, tender cunt like it's the easiest thing in the world, like you weren't already dripping with his cum from the last time, your pussy still fluttering from the wreckage he left behind. "ae-aemond?" your voice cracks, all sugary sweet and innocent confusion, thick with sleep.

"mmh," he hums low against your shoulder. "couldn't help myself, baby. woke up and felt how warm you still were... how wet..." he lets out a ragged exhale, biting your earlobe. "still so open for me, like your little pussy is just begging to get filled up again."

and gods—he's right.

you're already soaking. your body betraying you, welcoming him back with desperate, squelching need as he starts thrusting—slow at first, deep enough to make you gasp, roll your hips back instinctively, needy even after everything he's given you. "you're disgusting," he laughs, though his voice is laced with affection, lips dragging down your neck. "you're the nastiest little thing i've ever touched."

he grabs your leg and throws it over his hip, splitting you open wider from the side. your face buries in the pillow as he slams back into you, this time even filthier, even more crueler—and your body loves it. you're whining like a toy in his hands, helpless and wrecked and soaked in your own mess. then—his hand slides down. not to your clit. no, no, no. he drags his spit-slick fingers lower, circling your tiny asshole.

you jolt, squealing. "ae-aemond—!"

"shhh, baby," he murmurs, kissing the hinge of your jaw. "you can take it, i know you can. you're my perfect little doll, right? wanna be filled in every hole, don't you?" he mocks. your head spins. you shouldn't want this, you should say no, but all you do is moan like a wanton whore, eyes wide and glassy, ass pressing back eagerly into his hand like a good little girl.

he spits again—directly on your puckered hole—and rubs it in slowly, meanly, teasing you with his deft fingers while his cock keeps driving into your poor, aching pussy. "you're gonna let me stuff both your holes tonight, yeah?" he whispers, voice like crushed velvet. "gonna make this pretty little body mine." and then—he presses his thumb in. you gasp, high and helpless and completely wrecked. it doesn't hurt, not really—he's slow, so achingly slow—but it burns a little. your back arches as your cunt clenches hard, dripping wet, overstimulated and messy. "that's it, baby. fuck—look at you, taking it like a perfect little cumdump."

you can barely breathe, his cock driving into your pussy, his thumb buried in your ass, his lips pressed to your ear murmuring filth like scripture. you start crying. not from pain—from the overbearing pleasure that's causing electricity to shoot throughout your nerves. tears spill freely now, mascara ruined beyond saving, mouth open in a silent scream as he keeps thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. it's too much, your nerves are on fire, your body so sensitive that every movement feels like lightning across your skin.

"you're gonna cum again, aren't you?" he pants, voice nearly broken with want. "gonna fucking cream all over my cock while i've got my thumb up your ass—jesus, baby—look at you, such a nasty little thing."

and you do—you cum harder than you thought was humanly possible. you go utterly rigid, then collapse, sobbing hysterically into the pillow as you gush around him, your body convulsing, clenching around both his cock and his thumb like you're trying to fuse them to your bones. aemond loses it. he slams in deep—one last brutal thrust—and unloads inside you again, groaning brokenly as he fills you for the third time tonight, making your womb ache with how much cum sloshes around inside you.

when it's over, you're a puddle of what feels like melted flesh. you can't speak, you can't move. you just breathe, shallow and wet, as he kisses your temple, breathless and dazed. "good girl," he whispers, gently slipping out, his cum leaking from your cunt in thick, messy strings. "my good, dirty, perfect girl."

you're limp, boneless, pinned in a halo of sweat and tangled sheets, twitching from the aftershocks. your thighs are trembling, your pussy dribbling down onto the mattress in sticky, shiny trails. you barely register the movement—his large hands on your waist, lifting your hips, repositioning you until you're kneeling, cheek still pressed to the bed, ass up and open like a pretty little offering.

you whimper softly. "t-too much," you breathe, whining meekly, voice like melted cotton candy. "aemond….. daddy, c-can't..." he chuckles. low. dangerous. full of hunger that hasn't been fed nearly enough. "you can," he murmurs, trailing his mouth down your spine. "you will."

his hands slide over the swell of your ass, thumbs parting your plump cheeks, exposing the wreckage he's left behind. your pussy is red, swollen, stretched—dripping with his cum. it's obscene, a portrait of desecrated devotion. and he fucking groans. "look at this mess," he whispers, leaning down. his breath fans across your slit, hot and reverent. "god, you're dripping all over your pink silk sheets, sweetheart."

then, his tongue slides between your slick, puffy folds. slowly, readily, like he's savoring the sweet flavor of your cunt and his cum mixed together, lapping it up like it's nectar from the gods. your whole body jerks, high-pitched little mewls spilling from your throat. "aem—oh my gods—!" you can barely finish the sentence before his tongue's already circling your clit. firm, focused, filthy. he moans into you like he's starved—grabbing your jiggly asscheeks, spreading you wider for his own enjoyment, burying his face in your pussy until it's slick and wet and lewd.

"you taste so fucking sweet, baby," he growls into your core, voice muffled by your cunt. "like sweet peaches and sin… gonna eat you till you can't walk." and he does. he tongues you open, licking up every drop of his cum, every drop of yours, dragging his tongue over your slit again and again until your thighs shake and your arms give out beneath you. your upper body collapses onto the bed, but your ass remains high in the air—held there only by his iron grip as he devours you from behind like a man possessed by an incubus.

when he slides two fingers inside you and keeps sucking your clit, you scream like a girl getting murdered in a horror film. the orgasm rips through you like lightning. your legs kick, your back arches, and your pussy gushes again like a nasty whore—flooding his tongue, coating his lips, but he doesn't stop. he keeps eating, moaning like your cunt is a drug he's overdosing on.

"please," you sob, nails clawing at the sheets. "please, aemond, i—f-fuck, i-i can't—i'll die—" he chuckles darkly, licking a slow stripe from your hole to your clit. "then die pretty, baby."

⸜̑⸝͂

afterwards, your body is still trembling, nerves fried and slick with the remnants of all three rounds—aemond's cum, your wetness, and sweat mingling like sin and sugar on your flushed skin. you're facedown, cheek buried in the sheets, mouth slack, lashes sticky with tears and fluttering like you're caught between sleep and surrender.

and then, his voice—low, coaxing, reverent. "hey, baby," he murmurs, a soft croon, breath warm against your ear. "you still with me, princess?" you hum something soft, sweet. a meek little whimper threaded with comfort, bliss. your limbs are jelly, but you're still there, cradled in the divine afterglow, in the safety of his touch.

aemond presses a long, tender kiss to your shoulder. "good girl," he whispers against your skin, the words a balm. "did so good for me tonight." his hands glide down your back—no longer rough or commanding, but gentle, soothing. he grabs a soft towel from the side table, already damp with warm water, and carefully begins to wipe you down between your sore thighs, along your sensitive folds that feel a bit too raw. and gods, he's so tender it makes your eyes sting again—but this time, it's from emotion, from love.

he takes his time, murmuring little praises as he goes. "so beautiful when you cum like that... so perfect wrapped around me..." and when he's done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs into bed beside you, manhandling your limp body as he pulls you into his arms. you melt into his chest instantly, head tucked beneath his chin, thigh thrown over his hip. he kisses your temple, then your jaw, then your nose, and finally, your lips.

messy, breathless, slow. his mouth finds yours with aching care—like he's kissing something delicate, like he's scared to break you. his lips are still slick with your taste, his tongue lazy as it glides against yours, not urgent or ravenous this time—just... sweet. your fingers curl into his moonlit strands, still damp at the nape of his neck. you whimper into his mouth, and he drinks it in like it's the only sound he's ever wanted to hear. "need anything, sweetheart?" he breathes against your lips. "water? snack? a hot bath?"

"mmm... no, just you," you sigh, soft and dreamy-eyed. "wanna stay right here with you, daddy..." he chuckles softly, nudging your nose with his. "good, because i'm not letting you go… ever." he keeps kissing you with slow, wet, decadent kisses, like he's tasting every syllable you never say aloud. his palm rests over your belly, thumb drawing lazy circles, anchoring you to him. his other hand cradles the back of your head, fingertips threading through your hair. "love you," he whispers eventually, forehead pressed to yours in an intimate gesture.

and when you whisper it back, breathless and sleepy, he hums, completely content with his little angel in his arms. "i'm gonna marry you one day, baby," he murmurs, like a promise carved into bone. "gonna make you my wife. my sweet, perfect little wife." and then his lips find yours again—soft, unhurried, reverent—because you're all his now, and he'll spend forever making sure you never forget it.

⸜̑⸝͂ — fin

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[aemnd-moved]

ewan mitchell & arnas fedaravičius back together. ⸌̑⸍͂